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diff --git a/7988-8.txt b/7988-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..59af042 --- /dev/null +++ b/7988-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9375 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Thousand and One Afternoons in Chicago +by Ben Hecht + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: A Thousand and One Afternoons in Chicago + +Author: Ben Hecht + +Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7988] +[This file was first posted on June 10, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, A THOUSAND AND ONE AFTERNOONS IN CHICAGO *** + + + + +E-text prepared by Eric Eldred, Clare Elliott, Charles Franks, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +A THOUSAND AND ONE AFTERNOONS IN CHICAGO + +by + +Ben Hecht + + + + + + + +Preface + + +It was a day in the spring of 1921. Dismal shadows, really Hechtian +shadows, filled the editorial "coop" in _The Chicago Daily News_ +building. Outside the rain was slanting down in the way that Hecht's own +rain always slants. In walked Hecht. He had been divorced from our staff +for some weeks, and had married an overdressed, blatant creature called +Publicity. Well, and how did he like Publicity? The answer was written in +his sullen eyes; it was written on his furrowed brow, and in the savage +way he stabbed the costly furniture with his cane. The alliance with +Publicity was an unhappy one. Good pay? Oh yes, preposterous pay. +Luncheons with prominent persons? Limitless luncheons. Easy work, short +hours, plenteous taxis, hustling associates, glittering results. But--but +he couldn't stand it, that was all. He just unaccountably, illogically, +and damnably couldn't stand it. If he had to attend another luncheon and +eat sweet-breads and peach melba and listen to some orator pronounce a +speech he, Hecht, had written, and hear some Magnate outline a campaign +which he, Hecht, had invented ... and that wasn't all, either.... +Gentlemen, he just couldn't stand it. + +Well, the old job was open. + +Ben shuddered. It wasn't the old job that he was thinking about. He had a +new idea. Something different. Maybe impossible. + +And here followed specifications for "One Thousand and One Afternoons." +The title, I believe, came later, along with details like the salary. Hang +the salary! I doubt if Ben even heard the figure that was named. He merely +said "Uh-huh!" and proceeded to embellish his dream--his dream of a +department more brilliant, more artistic, truer (I think he said truer), +broader and better than anything in the American press; a literary +thriller, a knock-out ... and so on. + +So much for the mercenary spirit in which "One Thousand and One +Afternoons" was conceived. + +A week or so later Ben came in again, bringing actual manuscript for eight +or ten stories. He was haggard but very happy. It was clear that he had +sat up nights with those stories. He thumbed them over as though he hated +to let them go. They were the first fruits of his Big Idea--the idea that +just under the edge of the news as commonly understood, the news often +flatly and unimaginatively told, lay life; that in this urban life there +dwelt the stuff of literature, not hidden in remote places, either, but +walking the downtown streets, peering from the windows of sky scrapers, +sunning itself in parks and boulevards. He was going to be its +interpreter. His was to be the lens throwing city life into new colors, +his the microscope revealing its contortions in life and death. It was no +newspaper dream at all, in fact. It was an artist's dream. And it had +begun to come true. Here were the stories.... Hoped I'd like 'em. + +"One Thousand and One Afternoons" were launched in June, 1921. They were +presented to the public as journalism extraordinary; journalism that +invaded the realm of literature, where in large part, journalism really +dwells. They went out backed by confidence in the genius of Ben Hecht. +This, if you please, took place three months before the publication of +"Erik Dorn," when not a few critics "discovered" Hecht. It is not too much +to say that the first full release of Hecht's literary powers was in "One +Thousand and One Afternoons." The sketches themselves reveal his creative +delight in them; they ring with the happiness of a spirit at last free to +tell what it feels; they teem with thought and impressions long treasured; +they are a recital of songs echoing the voices of Ben's own city and +performed with a virtuosity granted to him alone. They announced to a +Chicago audience which only half understood them the arrival of a prodigy +whose precise significance is still unmeasured. + +"Erik Dorn" was published. "Gargoyles" took form. Hecht wrote a play in +eight days. He experimented with a long manuscript to be begun and +finished within eighteen hours. "One Thousand and One Afternoons" +continued to pour out of him. His letter-box became too small for his +mail. He was bombarded with eulogies, complaints, arguments, "tips," and +solicitations. His clipping bureau rained upon him violent reviews of +"Dorn." His publishers submerged him with appeals for manuscript. +Syndicates wired him, with "name your own terms." New York editors tried +to steal him. He continued to write "One Thousand and One Afternoons." He +became weary, nervous and bilious; he spent four days in bed, and gave up +tobacco. Nothing stopped "One Thousand and One Afternoons." One a day, one +a day! Did the flesh fail, and topics give out, and the typewriter became +an enemy? No matter. The venturesome undertaking of writing good newspaper +sketches, one per diem, had to be carried out. We wondered how he did it. +We saw him in moods when he almost surrendered, when the strain of +juggling with novels, plays and with contracts, revises, adblurbs, +sketches, nearly finished "One Thousand and One Afternoon." But a year +went by, and through all that year there had not been an issue of _The +Chicago Daily News_ without a Ben Hecht sketch. And still the +manuscripts dropped down regularly on the editor's desk. Comedies, +dialogues, homilies, one-act tragedies, storiettes, sepia panels, +word-etchings, satires, tone-poems, fugues, bourrees,--something different +every day. Rarely anything hopelessly out of key. Stories seemingly born +out of nothing, and written--to judge by the typing--in ten minutes, but +in reality, as a rule, based upon actual incident, developed by a period +of soaking in the peculiar chemicals of Ben's nature, and written with +much sophistication in the choice of words. There were dramatic studies +often intensely subjective, lit with the moods of Ben himself, not of the +things dramatized. There were self-revelations characteristically frank +and provokingly debonaire. There was comment upon everything under the +sun; assaults upon all the idols of antiquity, of mediaevalism, of +neo-boobism. There were raw chunks of philosophy, delivered with gusto and +sometimes with inaccuracy. There were subtle jabs at well-established +Babbitry. And besides, of the thousand and one Hechts visible in the +sketches, there were several that appear rarely, if at all, in his novels: +The whimsical Hecht, sailing jocosely on the surface of life; the witty +Hecht, flinging out novel word-combinations, slang and snappy endings; +Hecht the child-lover and animal-lover, with a special tenderness for +dogs; Hecht the sympathetic, betraying his pity for the aged, the +forgotten, the forlorn. In the novels he is one of his selves, in the +sketches he is many of them. Perhaps this is why he officially spoke +slightingly of them at times, why he walked in some days, flung down a +manuscript, and said: "Here's a rotten story." Yet it must be that he +found pleasure in playing the whole scale, in hopping from the G-string to +the E-, in surprising his public each day with a new whim or a recently +discovered broken image. I suspect, anyhow, that he delighted in making +his editor stare and fumble in the Dictionary of Taboos. + +Ben will deny most of this. He denies everything. It doesn't matter. It +doesn't even matter much, Ben, that your typing was sometimes so blind or +that your spelling was occasionally atrocious, or that it took three +proof-readers and a Library of Universal Knowledge to check up your +historical allusions. + + * * * * * + +The preface is proving horribly inadequate. It is not at all what Ben +wants. It does not seem possible to support his theory that "One Thousand +and One Afternoons," springing from a literary passion so authentic and +continuing so long with a fervor and variety unmatched in newspaper +writing, are hack-work, done for a meal ticket. They must have had the +momentum of a strictly artistic inspiration and gained further momentum +from the need of expression, from pride in the subtle use of words, from +an ardent interest in the city and its human types. Yes, they are +newspaper work; they are the writings of a reporter emancipated from the +assignment book and the copy-desk; a reporter gone to the heaven of +reporters, where they write what they jolly well please and get it printed +too! But the sketches are also literature of which I think Ben cannot be +altogether ashamed; else why does he print them in a book, and how could +Mr. Rosse be moved to make the striking designs with which the book is +embellished? Quite enough has been said. The author, the newspaper editor, +the proof-readers and revisers have done their utmost with "One Thousand +and One Afternoons." The prefacer confesses failure. It is the turn of the +reader. He may welcome the sketches in book form; he may turn scornfully +from them and leave them to moulder in the stock-room of Messrs. +Covici-McGee. To paraphrase an old comic opera lyric: + + "You never can tell about a reader; + Perhaps that's why we think them all so nice. + You never find two alike at any one time + And you never find one alike twice. + You're never very certain that they read you, + And you're often very certain that they don't. + Though an author fancy still that he has the strongest will + It's the reader has the strongest won't." + +Yet I think that the book will succeed. It may succeed so far that Mr. +Hecht will hear some brazen idiots remarking: "I like it better than +'Dorn' or 'Gargoyles'." Yes, just that ruinous thing may happen. But if it +does Ben cannot blame his editor. + +HENRY JUSTIN SMITH. + +Chicago, July 1, 1922 + + + +CONTENTS + +A Self-Made Man + +An Iowa Humoresque + +An Old Audience Speaks + +Clocks and Owl Cars + +Confessions + +Coral, Amber and Jade + +Coeur De Lion and The Soup and Fish + +Dapper Pete and The Sucker Play + +Dead Warrior + +Don Quixote and His Last Windmill + +"Fa'n Ta Mig!" + +Fanny + +Fantastic Lollypops + +Fog Patterns + +Grass Figures + +Ill-Humoresque + +Jazz Band Impressions + +Letters + +Meditation in E Minor + +Michigan Avenue + +Mishkin's Minyon + +Mottka + +Mr. Winkelberg + +Mrs. Rodjezke's Last Job + +Mrs. Sardotopolis' Evening Off + +Night Diary + +Nirvana + +Notes For A Tragedy + +On A Day Like This + +Ornaments + +Pandora's Box + +Pitzela's Son + +Queen Bess Feast + +Ripples + +Satraps At Play + +Schopenhauer's Son + +Sergt. Kuzick's Waterloo + +Sociable Gamblers + +Ten-Cent Wedding Rings + +The Auctioneer's Wife + +The Dagger Venus + +The Exile + +The Great Traveler The Indestructible Masterpiece + +The Lake + +The Little Fop + +The Man From Yesterday + +The Man Hunt + +The Man With A Question + +The Mother + +The Pig + +The Snob + +The Soul of Sing Lee + +The Sybarite + +The Tattooer + +The Thing In The Dark + +The Watch Fixer + +The Way Home + +Thumbnail Lotharios + +Thumbs Up and Down + +To Bert Williams + +Vagabondia + +Waterfront Fancies + +Where The "Blues" Sound + +World Conquerors + + + +FANNY + + +Why did Fanny do this? The judge would like to know. The judge would like +to help her. The judge says: "Now, Fanny, tell me all about it." + +All about it, all about it! Fanny's stoical face stares at the floor. If +Fanny had words. But Fanny has no words. Something heavy in her heart, +something vague and heavy in her thought--these are all that Fanny has. + +Let the policewoman's records show. Three years ago Fanny came to Chicago +from a place called Plano. Red-cheeked and black-haired, vivid-eyed and +like an ear of ripe corn dropped in the middle of State and Madison +streets, Fanny came to the city. + +Ah, the lonely city, with its crowds and its lonely lights. The lonely +buildings busy with a thousand lonelinesses. People laughing and hurrying +along, people eager-eyed for something; summer parks and streets white +with snow, the city moon like a distant window, pretty gewgaws in the +stores--these are a part of Fanny's story. + +The judge wants to know. Fanny's eyes look up. A dog takes a kick like +this, with eyes like this, large, dumb and brimming with pathos. The dog's +master is a mysterious and inexplicable dispenser of joys and sorrows. His +caresses and his beatings are alike mysterious; their reasons seldom to be +discerned, never fully understood. + +Sometimes in this court where the sinners are haled, where "poised and +prim and particular, society stately sits," his honor has a moment of +confusion. Eyes lift themselves to him, eyes dumb and brimming with +pathos. Eyes stare out of sordid faces, evil faces, wasted faces and say +something not admissible as evidence. Eyes say: "I don't know, I don't +know. What is it all about?" + +These are not to be confused with the eyes that plead shrewdly for mercy, +with eyes that feign dramatic naïvetés and offer themselves like primping +little penitents to his honor. His honor knows them fairly well. And +understands them. They are eyes still bargaining with life. + +But Fanny's eyes. Yes, the judge would like to know. A vagueness comes +into his precise mind. He half-hears the familiar accusation that the +policeman drones, a terribly matter-of-fact drone. + +Another raid on a suspected flat. Routine, routine. Evil has its eternal +root in the cities. A tireless Satan, bored with the monotony of his rôle; +a tireless Justice, bored with the routine of tears and pleadings, lies +and guilt. + +There is no story in all this. Once his honor, walking home from a +banquet, looked up and noticed the stars. Meaningless, immutable stars. +There was nothing to be seen by looking at them. They were mysteries to be +dismissed. Like the mystery of Fanny's eyes. Meaningless, immutable eyes. +They do not bargain. Yet the world stares out of them. The face looks +dumbly up at a judge. + +No defense. The policeman's drone has ended and Fanny says nothing. This +is difficult. Because his honor knows suddenly there is a defense. A +monstrous defense. Since there are always two sides to everything. Yes, +what is the other side? His honor would like to know. Tell it, Fanny. +About the crowds, streets, buildings, lights, about the whirligig of +loneliness, about the humpty-dumpty clutter of longings. And then explain +about the summer parks and the white snow and the moon window in the sky. +Throw in a poignantly ironical dissertation on life, on its uncharted +aimlessness, and speak like Sherwood Anderson about the desires that stir +in the heart. Speak like Remy de Gourmont and Dostoevsky and Stevie Crane, +like Schopenhauer and Dreiser and Isaiah; speak like all the great +questioners whose tongues have wagged and whose hearts have burned with +questions. His honor will listen bewilderedly and, perhaps, only perhaps, +understand for a moment the dumb pathos of your eyes. + +As it is, you were found, as the copper who reads the newspapers puts it, +in a suspected flat. A violation of section 2012 of the City Code. Thirty +days in the Bastile, Fanny. Unless his honor is feeling good. + +These eyes lifted to him will ask him questions on his way home from a +banquet some night. + +"How old are you?" + +"Twenty." + +"Make it twenty-two," his honor smiles. "And you have nothing to say? +About how you happened to get into this sort of thing? You look like a +good girl. Although looks are often deceiving." + +"I went there with him," says Fanny. And she points to a beetle-browed +citizen with an unshaven face. A quaint Don Juan, indeed. + +"Ever see him before?" + +A shake of the head. Plain case. And yet his honor hesitates. His honor +feels something expand in his breast. Perhaps he would like to rise and +holding forth his hand utter a famous plagiarism--"Go and sin no more." He +chews a pen and sighs, instead. + +"I'll give you another chance," he says. "The next time it'll be jail. +Keep this in mind. If you're brought in again, no excuses will go. Call +the next case." + +Now one can follow Fanny. She walks out of the courtroom. The street +swallows her. Nobody in the crowds knows what has happened. Fanny is +anybody now. Still, one may follow. Perhaps something will reveal itself, +something will add an illuminating touch to the incident of the courtroom. + +There is only this. Fanny pauses in front of a drug-store window. The +crowds clutter by. Fanny stands looking, without interest, into the +window. There is a little mirror inside. The city tumbles by. The city is +interested in something vastly complicated. + +Staring into the little mirror, Fanny sighs and--powders her nose. + + + +THE AUCTIONEER'S WIFE + + +An auctioneer must have a compelling manner. He must be gabby and +stentorian, witheringly sarcastic and plaintively cajoling. He must be +able to detect the faintest symptoms of avarice and desire in the blink of +an eyelid, in the tilt of a head. Behind his sing-song of patter as he +knocks down a piece of useless bric-a-brac he must be able to remain cool, +remain calculating, remain like a hawk prepared to pounce upon his prey. +Passion for him must be no more than a mask; anger, sorrow, despair, +ecstasy no more than the devices of salesmanship. + +But more than all this, an auctioneer must know the magic password into +the heart of the professional or amateur collector. He must know the +glittering phrases that are the keys to their hobbies. The words that +bring a gleam to the eye of the Oriental rug collector. The words that +fire the china collector. The stamp collector. The period furniture +collector. The tapestry enthusiast. The first edition fan. And so on. + +"Ladies and gentlemen, I desire your expert attention for a moment. I have +here a curious little thing of exquisite workmanship said to be from the +famous collection of Count Valentine of Florence. This delicately molded, +beautifully painted candelabra has illuminated the feasts of the old +Florentines, twinkled amid the gay, courtly rioting of a time that is no +more. Before the bidding for this priceless souvenir is opened I desire, +ladies and gentlemen, to state briefly----" + + * * * * * + +Nathan Ludlow is an auctioneer who knows all the things an auctioneer must +know. His eye is piercing. His tongue can roll and rattle for twelve hours +at a stretch. His voice is the voice of the tempter, myriad-toned and +irresistible. + +It was evening. An auspicious evening. It was the evening of Mr. Ludlow's +divorce. And Mr. Ludlow sat in his room at the Morrison Hotel, a decanter +of juniper juice at his elbow. And while he sat he talked. The subjects +varied. There were tales of Ming vases and Satsuma bargains, of porcelains +and rugs. And finally Mr. Ludlow arrived at the subject of audiences. And +from this subject he progressed with the aid of the juniper juice to the +subject of wives. And from the subject of wives he stepped casually into +the sad story of his life. + +"I'll tell you," said Mr. Ludlow. "Tonight I'm a free man. Judge Pam gave +me, or gave her, rather, the divorce. I guess he did well. Maybe she was +entitled to it. Desertion and cruelty were the charges. But they don't +mean anything. The chief complaint she had against me was that I was an +auctioneer." + +Mr. Ludlow sighed and ran his long, artist's fingers over his eagle +features and brushed back a Byronic lock of hair from his forehead. + +"It was four years ago we met," he resumed, "in the Wabash Avenue place. I +noticed her when the bidding on a rocking chair started. A pretty girl. +And as is often the case among women who attend auctions--a bug, a fan, a +fish. You know, the kind that stiffen up when they get excited. The kind +that hang on your words and breathe hard while you cut loose with the +patter, and lose their heads when you swing into the going-going-gone +finale. + +"Well, she didn't get the rocking chair. But she was game and came back on +a Chinese rug. I began to notice her considerably. My words seemed to have +an unusual effect on her. Then I could see that she was not only the kind +of fish that lose their heads at auctions, but the terrible kind that +believe everything the auctioneer says. You know, they believe that the +Oriental rugs really came from the harem of the caliph and that the +antique bed really was the one in which DuBarry slept and that the +Elizabethan tablecloth really was an Elizabethan tablecloth. They are kind +of goofily romantic and they fall hard for everything and they spend their +last penny on a lot of truck, you know. Not bad stuff and probably a good +deal more useful and lasting than the originals would have been." + + * * * * * + +Mr. Ludlow smiled a bit apologetically. "I'm not confessing anything you +don't know, I hope," he said. "Well, to go on about the missus. I knew I +had her from that first day. I wasn't vitally interested, but when she +returned six days in succession it got kind of flattering. And the way she +looked at me and listened to me when I pulled my stuff--say, I could have +knocked down a bouquet of paper roses for the original wreath worn by +Venus, I felt so good. That's how I began to think that she was an +inspiration to me and how I figured that if I could have somebody like her +around I'd soon have them all pocketed as auctioneers. + +"I forget just how it was we met, but we did. And I swear, the way she +flattered me would have been enough to turn the head of a guy ten times +smarter than me and forty times as old. So we got married. That's skipping +a lot. But, you know, what's it all amount to, the courting and the things +you say and do before you get married? So we got married and then the fun +started. + +"At first I could hardly believe what the drift of it was. But I hope to +die if she wasn't sincere in her ideas about me as an auctioneer. I didn't +get it, as I say, and that's where I made my big mistake. I let her come +to the auctions and told her not to bid. But when I'd start my patter on +some useless piece of 5-and l0-cent store bric-a-brac and give it an +identity and hint at Count Rudolph's collection and so on, she was off +like a two-year-old down a morning track. + +"I didn't know how to fix it or how to head her out of it. For a month I +didn't have the heart to disillusion her. I let her buy. Damn it, I never +saw such an absolute boob as she was. She'd pick out the most worthless +junk I was knocking down and go mad over it and buy it with my good money. +It got so that I realized I was slipping. I'd get a promise from her that +she wouldn't come into the auction, but I never could be sure. And if I +felt like cutting loose on some piece of junk and knocking it down with a +lot of flourishes I knew sure as fate that the missus would be there and +that she would be the fish that caught fire first and most and that I'd be +selling the thing to myself. + +"Well, after the first two months of my married life I realized that I'd +have to talk turkey to the missus. She was costing me my last nickel at +these auctions and the better auctioneer I was the more money I lost, on +account of her being so susceptible to my line of stuff. It sounds funny, +but it's a fact. So I told her. I made a clean breast. I told her what a +liar I was and how all the stuff I pulled from the auction stand was the +bunk and how she was a boob for falling for it. And so on and so on. Say, +I sold myself to her as the world's greatest, all around, low down, +hideous liar that ever walked in shoe leather. And that's how it started. +This divorce today is kind of an anti-climax. We ain't had much to do with +each other ever since that confession." + +Mr. Ludlow stared sorrowfully into the remains of a glass of juniper +juice. + +"I'll never marry again," he moaned. "I ain't the kind that makes a good +husband. A good husband is a man who is just an ordinary liar. And me? +Well, I'm an auctioneer." + + + +FOG PATTERNS + + +The fog tiptoes into the streets. It walks like a great cat through the +air and slowly devours the city. + +The office buildings vanish, leaving behind thin pencil lines and smoke +blurs. The pavements become isolated, low-roofed corridors. Overhead the +electric signs whisper enigmatically and the window lights dissolve. + +The fog thickens till the city disappears. High up, where the mists thin +into a dark, sulphurous glow, roof bubbles float. The great cat's work is +done. It stands balancing itself on the heads of people and arches its +back against the vanished buildings. + + * * * * * + +I walk along thinking about the way the streets look and arranging +adjectives in my mind. In the heavy mist people appear detached. They no +longer seem to belong to a pursuit in common. Usually the busy part of the +city is like the exposed mechanism of some monstrous clock. And people +scurry about losing themselves in cogs and springs and levers. + +But now the monstrous clock is almost hidden. The stores and offices and +factories that form the mechanism of this clock are buried behind the fog. +The cat has eaten them up. Hidden within the mist the cogs still turn and +the springs unwind. But for the moment they seem non-existent. And the +people drifting hurriedly by in the fog seem as if they were not going and +coming from stores, offices and factories. As if they were solitaries +hunting something in the labyrinths of the fog. + +Yes, we are all lost and wandering in the thick mists. We have no +destinations. The city is without outlines. And the drift of figures is a +meaningless thing. Figures that are going nowhere and coming from nowhere. +A swarm of supernumeraries who are not in the play. Who saunter, dash, +scurry, hesitate in search of a part in the play. + +This is a curious illusion. I stop and listen to music. Overhead a piano +is playing and a voice singing. A song-boosting shop above Monroe and +State streets. A ballad of the cheap cabarets. Yet, because it is music, +it has a mystery in it. + +The fog pictures grow charming. There is an idea in them now. People are +detached little decorations etched upon a mist. The cat has eaten up the +monstrous clock and people have rid themselves of their routine, which was +to tumble and scurry among its cogs and levers. They are done with life, +with buying and selling and with the perpetual errand. And they have +become a swarm of little ornaments. Men and women denuded of the city. +Their outlines posture quaintly in the mist. Their little faces say, "The +clock is gone. There is nothing any more to make us alive. So we have +become our unconnected selves." + + * * * * * + +Beside me in the fog a man stands next to a tall paper rack. I remember +that this is the rack where the out-of-town papers are on sale. The papers +are rolled up and thrust like rows of little white dolls in the rack. I +wonder that this should be a newspaper stand. It looks like almost +anything else in the fog. + +A pretty girl emerges from the background of fog. She talks to the man +next to the rack. + +"Have you a Des Moines newspaper?" she asks. + +The man is very businesslike. He fishes out a newspaper and sells it. At +the sight of its headlines the girl's eyes light up. It is as if she had +met a very close friend. She will walk along feeling comforted now. +Chicago is a stranger. Its fog-hidden buildings and streets are strangers +and its crowds criss-crossing everywhere are worse than strangers. But now +she has Des Moines under her arm. Des Moines is a companion that will make +the fog seem less lonely. Later she will sit down in a hotel room and read +of what has happened in Des Moines buildings and Des Moines streets. These +will seem like real happenings, whereas the happenings that the Chicago +papers print seem like unrealities. + +This is Dearborn Street now. Dark and cozy. People are no longer +decorations but intimate friends. When it is light and one can see the +cogs of the monstrous clock go round and the springs unwind one thinks of +people as a part of this mechanism. And so people grow vague in one's mind +and unhuman or only half-human. + +But now that the mechanism is gone, people stand out with an insistent +humanness. People sitting on lunch-counter stools, leaning over coffee +cups. People standing behind store counters. People buying cigars and +people walking in and out of office buildings. They are very friendly. +Their tired faces smile, or at least look somewhat amused and interested. +They are interested in the fog and in the fact that one cannot see three +feet ahead. And their faces say to each other, "Here we are, all alike. +The city is only a make-believe. It can go away but we still remain. We +are much more important than the big buildings." + + * * * * * + +I hear an odd tapping sound on the pavement. It is faint but growing +nearer. In another moment a man tapping on the pavement with a cane +passes. A blind man. And I think of a plot for a fiction story. If a +terrible murder were committed in a marvelous fog that hid everything the +chief of police would summon a blind man. And the blind man could track +the murderer down in the fog because he alone would be able to move in the +thick, obliterating mists. And so the blind man, with his cane tapping, +tapping over the pavements and able by long practice to move without +sight, would slowly close in on the murderer hemmed in by darkness. + +A newsboy cries from the depth of nowhere: "Paper here. Trains crash in +fog. Paper." + + * * * * * + +A friend and I sat in an office. He has been dictating letters, but he +stops and stares out of the window. His eyes grow speculative. He says: + +"Wouldn't it be odd if it were always like this? I think I'd like it +better, wouldn't you? But I suppose they'd invent lights able to penetrate +mist and the town would be as garish as ever in a few years. But I like +the fog because it slows things up. Things are too damn fast to suit me. I +like 'em slow. Like they used to be a century ago." + +We talk and my friend becomes reminiscent on the subject of stage coaches +and prairie schooners and the days before there were railroads, +telephones, electricity and crowds. He has never known such a time, but +from what he has read and imagined about it--yes, it would be better. + + * * * * * + +When I come out it is mid-afternoon. The fog has gone. The city has popped +back and sprawls triumphantly into space. For a moment it seems as if the +city had sprung up in an hour. Then its sturdy walls and business windows +begin to mock at the memory of the fog in my mind. "Fogs do not devour +us," they say. "We are the ones who do the devouring. We devour fogs and +people and days." Marvelous buildings. + +Overhead the sky floats like a gray and white balloon, as if it were a toy +belonging to the city. + + + +DON QUIXOTE AND HIS LAST WINDMILL + + +Sherwood Anderson, the writer, and I were eating lunch in the back room of +a saloon. Against the opposite wall sat a red-faced little man with an +elaborate mustache and a bald head and a happy grin. He sat alone at a +tilted round table and played with a plate of soup. + +"Say, that old boy over there is trying to wigwag me," said Anderson. "He +keeps winking and making signs. Do you know him?" + +I looked and said no. The waiter appeared with a box of cigars. + +"Mr. Sklarz presents his compliments," said the waiter, smiling. + +"Who's Sklarz?" Anderson asked, helping himself to a cigar. The waiter +indicated the red-faced little man. "Him," he whispered. + +We continued our meal. Both of us watched Mr. Sklarz casually. He seemed +to have lost interest in his soup. He sat beaming happily at the walls, a +contagious elation about him. We smiled and nodded our thanks for the +cigars. Whereupon after a short lapse, the waiter appeared again. + +"What'll you have to drink, gentlemen?" the waiter inquired. + +"Nothing," said Anderson, knowing I was broke. The waiter raised his +continental eyebrows understandingly. + +"Mr. Sklarz invites you, gentlemen, to drink his health--at his expense." + +"Two glasses," Anderson ordered. They were brought. We raised them in +silent toast to the little red-faced man. He arose and bowed as we drank. + +"We'll probably have him on our hands now for an hour," Anderson frowned. +I feared the same. But Mr. Sklarz reseated himself and, with many head +bowings in our direction, returned to his soup. + +"What do you make of our magnanimous friend?" I asked. Anderson shrugged +his shoulders. + +"He's probably celebrating something," he said. "A queer old boy, isn't +he?" + + * * * * * + +The waiter appeared a third time. + +"What'll it be, gentlemen?" he inquired, smiling. "Mr. Sklarz is buying +for the house." + +For the house. There were some fifteen men eating in the place. Then our +friend, despite his unassuming appearance, was evidently a creature of +wealth! Well, this was growing interesting. We ordered wine again. + +"Ask Mr. Sklarz if he will favor us by joining us at our table for this +drink," I told the waiter. The message was delivered. Mr. Sklarz arose and +bowed, but sat down again. Anderson and I beckoned in pantomime. Mr. +Sklarz arose once more, bowed and hesitated. Then he came over. + +As he approached a veritable carnival spirit seemed to deepen around us. +The face of this little man with the elaborate black mustache was violent +with suppressed good will and mirth. He beamed, bowed, shook hands and sat +down. We drank one another's health and, as politely as we could, pressed +him to tell us the cause for his celebration and good spirits. He began to +talk. + +He was a Russian Jew. His name was Sklarz. He had been in the Russian army +years ago. In Persia. From a mountain in Persia you could see three great +countries. In Turkey he had fought with baggy-trousered soldiers and at +night joined them when they played their flutes outside the coffee-houses +and sang songs about women and war. Then he had come to America and opened +a box factory. He was very prosperous and the factory in which he made +boxes grew too small. + +So what did he do but take a walk one day to look for a larger factory. +And he found a beautiful building just as he wanted. But the building was +too beautiful to use for a factory. It should be used for something much +nicer. So what did he do then but decide to open a dance-hall, a +magnificent dance-hall, where young men and women of refined, fun-loving +temperaments could come to dance and have fun. + + * * * * * + +"When does this dance-hall open?" Anderson asked. Ah, in a little while. +There were fittings to buy and put up first. But he would send us special +invitations to the opening. In the meantime would we drink his health +again? Mr. Sklarz chuckled. The amazing thing was that he wasn't drunk. He +was sober. + +"So you're celebrating," I said. Yes, he was celebrating. He laughed and +leaned over the table toward us. His eyes danced and his elaborate +mustache made a grotesque halo for his smile. He didn't want to intrude on +us with his story, but in Persia and Turkey and the Urals he had found +life very nice. And here in Chicago he had found life also very nice. Life +was very nice wherever you went. And Anderson quoted, rather imperfectly, +I thought: + + Oh, but life went gayly, gayly + In the house of Idah Dally; + There were always throats to sing + Down the river bank with spring. + +Mr. Sklarz beamed. + +"Yes, yes," he said, "down the river benk mit spring." And he stood up and +bowed and summoned the waiter. "See vat all the gentlemen vant," he +ordered, "and give them vat they vant mit my compliments." He laughed, or, +rather, chuckled. "I must be going. Excuse me," he exclaimed with a quick +little bow. "I have other places to call on. Good-by. Remember me--Sam +Sklarz. Be good--and don't forget Sam Sklarz when there are throats to +zing down the river benk mit spring." + +We watched him walk out. His shoulders seemed to dance, his short legs +moved with a sprightly lift. + +"A queer old boy," said Anderson. We talked about him for a half hour and +then left the place. + + * * * * * + +Anderson called me up the next morning to ask if I had read about it in +the paper. I told him I had. A clipping on the desk in front of me ran: + +"Sam Sklarz, 46 years old and owner of a box factory on the West Side, +committed suicide early this morning by jumping into the drainage canal. +Financial reverses are believed to have caused him to end his life. +According to friends he was on the verge of bankruptcy. His liabilities +were $8,000. Yesterday morning Sklarz cashed a check for $700, which +represented the remains of his bank account, and disappeared. It is +believed that he used the money to pay a few personal debts and then +wandered around in a daze until the end. He left no word of explanation +behind." + + + +THE MAN HUNT + + +They were hunting him. Squads of coppers with rifles, detectives, stool +pigeons were hunting him. And the people who had read the story in the +newspapers and looked at his picture, they too, were hunting him. + +Tommy O'Connor looked out of the smeared window of the room in which he +sat and stared at the snow. A drift of snow across the roofs. A scribble +of snow over the pavement. + +There were automobiles racing through the streets loaded with armed men. +There were crowds looking for a telltale face in their own midst. Guards, +deputies, coppers were surrounding houses and peering into alleys, raiding +saloons, ringing doorbells. The whole city was on his heels. The city was +like a pack of dogs sniffing wildly for his trail. And when they found it +they would come whooping toward him for a leap at his throat. + +Well, here he was--waiting. It was snowing outside. There was no noise in +the street. A man was passing. One of the pack? No. Just a man. The man +looked up. Tommy O'Connor took his face slowly away from the window. He +had a gun in his pocket and his hand was holding it. But the man was +walking away. Huh! If the guy knew that Lucky Tommy O'Connor was watching +him from a window he'd walk a little faster. If the guy knew that Lucky +O'Connor, who had busted his way out of jail and was being hunted by a +million people with guns, was sitting up here behind the window, he'd +throw a fit. But he didn't know. He was like the walls and the windows and +the snow outside--quiet and peaceful. + +"Nice boy," grinned Tommy O'Connor. Then he began to fidget. He ought to +go out and buy a paper. See what was doing. See what became of Mac and the +rest of the boys. Maybe they'd all been nabbed. But they couldn't do him +harm. On account nobody knew where he was. No pal. No dame. Nobody knew he +was sitting here in the room looking at the snow and just thinking. The +papers were probably full of cock-and-bull stories about his racing across +the country and hiding in haystacks and behind barns. Kid stuff. Maybe he +should ought to of left town. But it felt better in town. Some rube was +always sure to pick out a stranger beating it down a empty road. And there +was no place to hide. Long, empty stretches, where anybody could see you +for a mile. + +Better in town. Lots of walls, alleys, roofs. Lots of things like that. No +hare-and-hounds effect like in the country. But the papers were probably +full of a lot of bunk. He'd take a walk later and buy a few. Better sit +still now. There was nothing harder to find than a man sitting still. + + * * * * * + +Tommy O'Connor yawned. Not much sleep the night before. Well, he'd sleep +tonight. Worrying wasn't going to help matters. What if they did come? Let +them come. Fill up the street and begin their damn shooting. They didn't +think Lucky Tommy was sucker enough to let them march him up on a scaffold +and break his neck on the end of a rope. Fat chance. Not him. That sort of +stuff happened to other guys, not to Lucky Tommy. + +Snowing outside. And quiet. Everybody at work. Funny about that. Tommy +O'Connor was the only free man in the city. There was nobody felt like him +right now--nobody. Where would he be exactly this time a week from now? If +he could only look ahead and see himself at four o'clock next Monday +afternoon. But he was free now. No breaking his neck on the end of a rope. +If worst came to worst--if worst came to worst--O'Connor's fingers took a +grip on the gun in his pocket. They were hunting him. Up and down the +streets everywhere. Racing around in taxis, with rifles sticking out of +the windows. Well, why didn't they come into this street? All they had to +do was figure out: Here's the street Tommy O'Connor is hiding in. And that +looks like the house. And then somebody would yell out: "There he is! +Behind that window! That's him!" Why didn't this happen? + + * * * * * + +Christmas, maybe, he'd call on the folks. No. Rube stuff. A million +coppers would be watching the house. But he might drop them a letter. Too +bad he didn't have any paper, or he might write a lot of letters. To the +chief of police and all the head hunters. Some more rube stuff, that. They +could tell by the postmark what part of the city he was hiding in and +they'd be on him with a whoop. + +Funny how he had landed in this room. No plans, no place in particular to +head for. That was the best way. Like he'd figured it out and it turned +out perfect. Grab the first auto and ride like hell and keep on changing +autos and riding around and around in the streets and crawling deeper into +the city until the trail was all twisted and he was buried. But he ought +to shave his mustache off. Hell. What for? If they came whooping into the +street they'd find him, mustache or no mustache. But what if he wanted to +buy some papers? + +It was getting darker now. The snow was letting up. Just dribbling. Better +if it would snow a lot. Then he could sit and have something to +watch--snow falling on the street and turning things white. That was on +account of his headache he was thinking that way. Eats might help, but he +wasn't hungry. Scared? No. Just waiting. Hunters winding in and out like +the snow that was falling. People were funny. They got a big thrill out of +hunting a live man who was free in the streets. + +He'd be walking some day. Strolling around the streets free as any of +them. Maybe not in town. Some other town. Take a walk down State Street. +Drop in at a movie. Kid stuff. Walk over to Mac's saloon and kind of +casually say "Hello, fellows." And walk out again. God, they'd never hang +him. If the worst came to the worst--if the worst came to the worst--but +they'd never hang him. + + * * * * * + +Dark now. But the guys hunting him weren't going to sleep. Lights were +going on in the windows. Better light up the room. People might notice a +dark window. But a lighted one would look all right. It was not snowing +any more. Just cold. + +Well, he'd go out in a while. Stretch his legs and buy the papers and give +them a reading. And then take a walk. Just walk around and take in the +streets and see if there was anybody he knew. No. Rube stuff, that. Better +stick where he was. + +Lucky Tommy walked around in the room. The drawn window blind held his +eye. Wagons were passing. What for? Yes, and there was a noise. Like +people coming. Turn out the light, then. He'd take a look. + +Tommy O'Connor peeled back the blind carefully. Dark. Lights in windows. +Some guys on the corner. Hunting him? Sure. And they were coming his way. +Straight down the street. They were looking up. What for? A gun crept out +of Tommy O'Connor's pocket. He pressed himself carefully against the wall. +He waited. The minutes grew long. But this was the hunt closing in. They +were coming. Black figures of men floating casually down the street. All +right--let them come. + +Lucky Tommy O'Connor's eyes stared rigidly out of the smeared window at a +vague flurry of figures that seemed to be coming, coming his way. + + + +MR. WINKELBERG + + +There was never a man as irritating as Winkelberg. He was an encyclopedia +of misfortune. Everything which can happen to a man had happened to him. +He had lost his family, his money and his health. He was, in short, a man +completely broken--tall, thin, with a cadaverous face, out of which shone +two huge, lusterless eyes. He walked with an angular crawl that reminded +one of the emaciated flies one sees at the beginning of winter dragging +themselves perversely along as if struggling across an illimitable expanse +of flypaper. + +It was one of Winkelberg's worst habits to appear at unexpected moments. +But perhaps any appearances poor Winkelberg might have made would have had +this irritating quality of unexpectedness. One was never looking forward +to Winkelberg, and thus the sight of his wan, determined smile, his +lusterless eyes and his tenacious crawl was invariably an uncomfortable +surprise. + + * * * * * + +I will be frank. It was Winkelberg's misfortune which first attracted me. +I listened to his story avidly. He talked in slow words and there was +intelligence in the man. He was able to perceive himself not only as a +pain-racked, starving human, but he glimpsed with his large, tired eyes +his relation to things outside himself. I remember he said, and without +emotion: "There is nobody to blame. Not even myself. And if I cannot blame +myself how can I blame the world? The city is like that. I am no good. I +am done. Something worn out and useless. People try to take care of the +useless ones and they would like to. There are institutions. I was kicked +out of two of them. They said I was a faker. Somehow I don't appeal to +charitably inclined people." + +Later I understood why. It was because of the man's smile--a feeble, +tenacious grimace that seemed to be offering a sardonic reproof. It could +never have been mistaken for a courageous smile. The secret of its +aggravating quality was this: In it Winkelberg accused himself of his +uselessness, his feebleness, his poverty. It was as if he were regarding +himself continually through the annoyed eyes of others and addressing +himself with the words of others: "You, Winkelberg, get out of here. +You're a nuisance. You make me uncomfortable because you're poor and +diseased and full of gloom. Get out. I don't want you around. Why the +devil don't you die?" + +And the aggravating thing was that people looked at Winkelberg's smile as +into a mirror. They saw in it a reflection of their own attitude toward +the man. They felt that Winkelberg understood what they thought of him. +And they didn't like that. They didn't like to feel that Winkelberg was +aware that deep inside their minds they were always asking: "Why doesn't +this Winkelberg die and have it over with?" Because that made them out as +cruel, heartless people, not much different in their attitude toward their +fellow men from predatory animals in their attitude toward fellow +predatory animals. And somehow, although they really felt that way toward +Winkelberg, they preferred not to believe it. But Winkelberg's smile was a +mirror which would not let them escape this truth. And eventually +Winkelberg's smile became for them one of those curious mirrors which +exaggerate images grotesquely. Charitably inclined people, as well as all +other kinds of inclined people, prefer their Winkelbergs more egoistic. +They prefer that unfortunate ones be engrossed in their misfortunes and +not go around wearing sardonic, philosophical smiles. + + * * * * * + +Winkelberg dragged along for a year. He was past fifty. Each time I saw +him I was certain I would never see him again. I was certain he would +die--drop dead while crawling across his flypaper. But he would appear. I +would pretend to be vastly busy. He would sit and wait. He never asked +alms. I would have been relieved if he had. Instead he sat and smiled, and +his smile said: "You are afraid I am going to ask you for money. Don't +worry. I won't ask you for money. I won't bother you at all. Yes, I agree +with you, I ought to be dead. It would be better for everybody." + +We would talk little. He would throw out a hint now and then that perhaps +I could use some of his misfortunes for material. For instance, the time +his two children had been burned to death. Or the time he had fallen off +the street car while in a sick daze and injured his spine for life, and +how he had settled with the street car company for $500 and how he had +been robbed on the way to the bank with the money two weeks later. + +I refused consistently this offer of "material." This offended Winkelberg. +He would shake his head and then he would nod his head understandingly and +his smile would say: + +"Yes, yes. I understand. You don't want to get involved with me. Because +you don't want me to have any more claims on your sympathy than I've got. +I'm sorry." + +Toward the end Winkelberg's visits grew more frequent. And he became +suddenly garrulous. He wished to discuss things. The city. The various +institutions. Politics. Art. This phase of Winkelberg was the most +unbearable. He was willing to admit himself a social outcast. He was +reconciled to the fact that he would starve to death and that everybody +who had ever seen him would feel it had been a good thing that he had +finally died. But this final plea came from him. He wanted nothing except +to talk and hear words in order to relieve the loneliness of his days. He +would like abstract discussions that had nothing to do with Winkelberg and +the Winkelberg misfortunes. His smile now said: "I am useless, worn out +and better off dead. But never mind me. My mind is still alive. It still +thinks. I wish it didn't. I wish it crawled around like my body. But +seeing that it does, talk to me as if it were a mind belonging to somebody +else and not to the insufferable Winkelberg." + +I grew suspicious finally. I began to think there was something vitally +spurious about this whole Winkelberg business. And I said to myself: "The +man's a downright fake. If anybody were as pathetic and impossible and +useless as this Winkelberg is he would shoot himself. Winkelberg doesn't +shoot himself. So he becomes illogical. Unreal." + + * * * * * + +A woman I know belongs to the type that becomes charitable around +Christmas time. She makes a glowing pretense of aiding the poor. As a +matter of fact, she really does aid them, although she regards the poor as +a sort of social and spiritual asset. They afford her the double +opportunity of appearing in the eyes of her neighbors as a magnanimous +soul and of doing something which reflects great credit upon her +character. But, anyway, she "does good," and we'll let it go at that. + +I told this woman about Winkelberg. I became poignant and moving on the +subject of Winkelberg's misfortunes, his trials, sufferings and, above +all, his Spartan stoicism. It pleased me to do this. I felt that I was +making some amends and that the thing reflected credit upon my character. + +So she went to the room on the South Side where Winkelberg sleeps. And +they told her there that Winkelberg was dead. He had died last week. She +was upset when she told me about it. She had come too late. She might have +saved him. + +It was a curious thing--but when she told me that Winkelberg was dead I +felt combatively that it was untrue. And now since I know certainly that +Winkelberg is dead and buried I have developed a curious state of mind. I +look up from my desk every once in a while expecting to see him. In the +streets I sometimes find myself actually thinking: "I'll bump into him +when I turn the corner." + +I have managed to discover the secret of this feeling. It is Winkelberg's +smile. Winkelberg's smile was the interpretation of the world's attitude +toward him, including my own. And thus whenever his name comes to mind his +smile appears as if it were the thought in my head. And in Winkelberg's +smile I hear myself saying: "He is better off dead." + + + +A SELF-MADE MAN + + +"Over there," said Judge Sabath, "is a man who has been a juror in +criminal cases at least a dozen times." + +His honor pointed to a short, thin man with a derby on the back of his +head and a startling mustache, concealing almost half of his wizened face. +The man was sitting a bit childishly on a window ledge in the hall of the +Criminal Court building swinging his legs and chewing rhythmically on a +plug of tobacco. + +"They let him go this morning while picking a jury for a robbery case +before me," said the judge. "He tried to stay on, but neither side wanted +him. You might get a story out of him. I think he's broken-hearted." + + * * * * * + +The short, thin man with the derby, swinging his legs from the window +ledge said his name was Martin. + +"That's true," he said, "what the judge said. I been a juror fourteen +times. I was on five murders and four big robberies and then I was on five +different assorted kinds of crimes." + +"How do you like being a juror, Mr. Martin?" + +"Well, sir, I like it a lot. I can say that out of the fourteen times I +been a juror I never lost a case." + +Mr. Martin aimed at the new cuspidor--and missed. + +"There's some jurors as loses nearly every case they're on. They give in +first crack. But take the Whitely murder trial I was on. That was as near +as I ever come to losing a case. But I managed to hang the jury and the +verdict was one of disagreement. Whitely was innocent. Anybody could have +told that with half an eye." + +"How long have you been serving on juries, Mr. Martin?" + +"Going nigh on twenty-three years. I had my first case when I was a young +man. It was a minor case--a robbery. I won that despite my youth and +inexperience. In those days the cases were much harder than now on account +of the lawyers. The old-fashioned lawyer was the talkingest kind of a +nuisance I ever had to deal with. He always reminded me of somebody +talking at a mark for two dollars a week. + +"I don't refer to the orators. I mean the ones who talk during the case +itself and who slow things up generally by bothering the witnesses to +death with a lot of unnecessary questions. Although the orators are pretty +bad, too. There's many a lawyer who has lost out with me on account of the +way he made faces in the windup. One of my rules as a juror, a successful +one, I might say, is, 'Always mistrust a lawyer who talks too fancy.'" + + * * * * * + +"Judge Sabath just said that they let you go in his court this morning." + +"H'm," snorted Mr. Martin. "That was the lawyer. He's mad at me because he +lost a case two years ago that I was on. I won it and he holds a grudge. +That's like some lawyers. They don't like the man who licks them. + +"But you were asking about the qualifications of an all-around juryman. +I'll give 'em to you. First and foremost you want a man of wide experience +in human nature. I spend most of my time in the courts when I ain't +serving as juror studyin' human nature. You might say that all human +nature is the same. But it's my experience that some is more so than +others. + +"Well, when you know human nature the next step is to figure out about +lawyers. Lawyers as a whole is the hardest nut the juror has to crack. To +begin with, they're deceivin', and if you let them they'll take advantage +of your credulity. There's Mr. Erbstein, for instance, the criminal +lawyer. He's a pretty smart one, but I won a case from him only four years +ago and he's never forgiven me. I was juror in a manslaughter trial he was +trying to run. He thought himself pretty foxy, but when it came to a +showdown I put it all over him. There was a guy who was foreman of the +jury that time who said I had it all over Mr. Erbstein as an argufier and +that my arguments made his look like ten cents. I won easily on five +ballots and Mr. Erbstein has never forgave me. + + * * * * * + +"But I'll go on about the qualifications. First of all, I never read +newspapers. Never. No juror should ought to know anything about anything +that's going on. I found that out in my youth when I first started in. The +first question they ask you is, 'What have you heard about this case and +what have you read or said about it?' That's the first one. Well, the +right answer is 'nothing.' + +"If you can say nothing and prove you're right they'll gobble you up as a +juror. For that reason I avoid all newspapers, and right now I don't know +what big crimes or cases have been committed at all. I have a clean, +unprejudiced mind and I keep it that way. + +"Nextly," said Mr. Martin, trying a new sight on the cuspidor, "I don't +belong to any lodges whatsoever. They're a handicap. Because if the +defendant is a Mason and you are a Elk he would rather have a brother +Mason be juror than a strange Elk. So I don't belong to any of them and I +don't go to church. I also have no convictions whatsoever about politics +and have no favorites of any kind in the matter of authors or statesmen or +anything. What I try to do is to keep my mind clean and unprejudiced on +all subjects." + +"Why do you like serving as a juror?" + +Mr. Martin stared. + +"Why?" he repeated. "Because it's every man's duty, naturally. And +besides," he went on, narrowing his eyes into shrewd slits, "I've just +been luckier than most people. Most people only get called a few times +during their life. But I get called regularly every year and sometimes +twice a year and sometimes four and five times a year for service. Of +course, I ain't boasting, but the city has recognized my merits, no doubt, +as a juror, knowing all the cases I've won, and it perhaps shows a little +partiality to me for that reason. But I feel that I have earned it and I +would like nothing said about it or any scandal started." + +"What do you think of this Taylor death mystery in Los Angeles, Mr. +Martin?" + +"Ha, ha," said Mr. Martin, "there you're tryin' to catch me. You thought +you could put that over on me without my seein' through it, didn't you? +That's just the way the lawyers try to trap me when I'm sittin' on one of +my cases. I ain't ever heard of this Taylor death mystery, not reading the +papers, you see." + +"That's too bad, Mr. Martin. It's quite a story." Mr. Martin sighed and +slipped from the window ledge, shaking down his wrinkled, high-water +pants. + +"Yes," he sighed, a sudden wistfulness coming into his rheumy eyes. +"Things have been pretty slow around here. Chicago used to be the place +for a juror--none better. But I been thinkin' of going west. Not that I +heard anything, mind you, about any of these cases." Mr. Martin glowered +virtuously. "I never read the papers, sir, and have no prejudices +whatsoever. + +"But I've just been feelin' lately that there are wider opportunities in +the west for a man of my experience and record than are left around here." + + + +TO BERT WILLIAMS + + +"Well," said Mr. Bert Williams, in his best "Under the Bamboo Tree" +dialect, "If you like mah singin' and actin' so much, how come, you bein' +a writer, you don't write somethin' about youah convictions on this +subjeck? Oh! It's not youah depahtment! Hm! Tha's jes' mah luck. I was +always the mos' unluckiest puhson who ever trifled with misfohtune. Not +his depahtment! Tha'--tha's jes' it. I never seems to fall jes' exactly in +the ri-right depahtment. + +"May I ask, without meanin' to be puhsonal, jes' what is your depahtment? +Murder! Oh, you is the one who writes about murders and murderuhs foh the +paper! Nothin' else? Is tha' so? Jes' murders and murderuhs and--and +things like tha'? Well, tha' jes' shows how deceivin' looks is, fo' when +you came in heah I says to mahself, I says, 'this gen'le-man is a critic +of the drama.' And when I sees you have on a pair o' gloves I added +quickly to mahself, 'Yes, suh, chances are he is not only a critic of the +drama, but likewise even possuhbly a musical critic.' Yes, suh, all mah +life I have had the desire to be interviewed by a musical critic, but no +matter how hard I sing or how frequently, no musical critic has yet taken +cognizance o' me. No, suh, I get no cognizance whatsoever. + +"Not meanin' to disparage you, suh, or your valuable depahtment. Foh if +you is in charge o' the murder and murderuh's depahtment o' yo' paper +possuhbly some time you may refer to me lightly between stabbin's or +shootin's in such wise as to say, foh instance, 'the doomed man was +listenin' to Mr. Williams' latest song on the phonograph when he received +the bullet wound. Death was instantaneous, the doomed man dyin' with a +smile on his lips. Mr. Williams' singin' makes death easy--an' desirable.' + +"What, suh? You is! Sam, fetch the gen'leman some o' the firewater, the +non-company brand, Sam. All right, say when. Aw, shucks, that ain't enough +to wet a cat's whiskers. Say when again. There, tha's better. Here, Sam. +You got to help drink this. It's important. The gen'leman says if I will +wait a little while, jes' a little while, he is goin' to alter his +depahtment on the newspaper. Wasn't that it? Oh, I see. In the magazine. +Very well. Here's to what you says about me some day in the magazine. An' +when you writes it don't forget to mention somewhere along in it how when +I was playin' in San Francisco and Sarah Bernhardt was playin' there, and +this was years ago, don' forget to mention along with what you write about +mah singin' and actin' that I come to mah dressing room one evenin', in +Frisco, and there's the hugest box o' flowers you ever saw with mah name +on it. An' I open it up and, boy! There plain as the nose on your face is +a card among the flowers readin', 'to a fellow artist, from Sarah +Bernhardt.' And--whilst we are, so to speak, on the subjeck--you can put +in likewise what Eleanora Duse said o' me. You know who she is, I suppose, +the very most superlative genius o' the stage, suh. Yes, suh, the very +most. An' she says o' me when she went back to Italy, how I was the best +artist on the American stage. + +"Artist! Tha' always makes Sam laugh, don't it, Sam, when he heahs me +refuhed to as artist. An'--have another beaker o' firewater, suh. It's +strictly non-company brand. An' here's how again to tha' day you speak of +when you write this article about me. An', boy, make it soon, 'cause this +life, this sinful theat'ical life, is killin' me fast. But I'll try an' +wait. Here's howdy." + + * * * * * + +He didn't wait. And today a lazy, crooked grin and a dolorous-eyed black +face drift among the shades in the Valhalla where the Great Actors sit +reading their press notices to one another. The Great Actors who have died +since the day of Euripides--they sit around in their favorite make-ups in +the Valhalla reserved for all good and glorious Thespians. + +A company of ladies and gentlemen that would make Mr. Belasco's heart stop +beating! The Booths and Barretts from antiquity down, the Mrs. Siddonses +and Pattis, the Cyranos, Hamlets, buffoons and heroes. All of them in +their favorite make-ups, in their favorite cap and bells, their favorite +swords, their favorite doublet and hose--all of them sit around in the +special Valhalla of the Great Actors reading their press notices to one +another and listening to the hosannas of such critics as have managed to +pry into the anterior heaven. + +And today Bert Williams makes his entrance. Yes, suh, it took that long to +find just the right make-up. To get just the right kind of ill-fitting +white gloves and floppy shoes and nondescript pants. But it's an important +entrance. The lazy crooked grin is a bit nervous. The dolorous eyes peer +sadly through the opening door of this new theater. + +Lawdy, man, this is got a Broadway first night backed off the boards. +Rejane, Caruso, Coquelin, Garrick and a thousand others sittin' against +the towering walls, sittin' with their eyes on the huge door within' to +see who's a-comin' in now. + +All right, professor, jes' a little music. Nothin' much. Anything kind o' +sad and fidgetylike. Tha's it, that-a-boy. There's no use worryin'--much. +'Member what Duse said as I was the greatest artist, an 'member how Sarah +Bernhardt sent me roses in Frisco an' says, 'To a fellow artist'? Yes, +suh, they can't do mo' than walk out on me. An' ah's been walked out on +befo'. + +All right, professor. Tha's it. Now I'll stick my hand inside the door and +wiggle mah fingers kind o' slow like. Jes' like that. An' I'll come on +slow. Nothin' to worry about--much. + + * * * * * + +A wrinkled white-gloved hand moving slowly inside the door of the +Valhalla. Sad, fidgety music. Silence in the great hall. This is another +one coming on--another entrance. A lazy, crooked grin and a dolorous-eyed +black face. Floppy shoes and woebegone pants. + +Bravo, Mr. Williams! The great hall rings with hand-clapping. The great +hall begins to fill with chuckles. There it is--the same curious grin, the +lugubrious apology of a grin, the weary, pessimistic child of a grin. + +The Great Actors, eager-eyed and silent, sit back on their thrones. The +door of the Valhalla of Great Actors swings slowly shut. No Flo Ziegfeld +lighting this time, but a great shoot of sunshine for a "garden." And the +music different, easier to sing to, somehow. Music of harps and flutes. +And a deep voice rises. + +Yes, I would have liked to have been there in the Valhalla of the Great +Actors, when Bert Williams came shuffling through the towering doors and +stood singing his entrance song to the silent, eager-eyed throng of +Rejanes, Barretts and Coquelins-- + + Ah ain't ever done nothin' to nobody, + Ah ain't ever got nothin' from nobody--no time, nohow. + Ah ain't ever goin' t' do nothin' for nobody-- + Till somebody-- + + + +MICHIGAN AVENUE + + +This is a deplorable street, a luxurious couch of a street in which the +afternoon lolls like a gaudy sybarite. Overhead the sky stretches itself +like a holiday awning. The sun lays harlequin stripes across the building +faces. The smoke plumes from the I. C. engines scribble gray, white and +lavender fantasies against the shining air. + +A deplorable street--a cement and plate glass Circe. We walk--a long +procession of us. It is curious to note how we adjust ourselves to +backgrounds. In other streets we are hurried, flurried, worried. We summon +portentous frowns to our faces. Our arms swinging at our sides proclaim, +"Make way, make way! We are launched upon activities vital to the +commonwealth!" + +But here--the sun bursts a shower of little golden balloons from the high +windows. The green of a park makes a cool salaam to the beetle-topped +traffic of automobiles. Rubber tires roll down the wide avenue and make a +sound like the drawn-out striking of a match. Marble columns, fountains, +incompleted architectural elegancies, two sculptured lions and the +baffling effulgence of a cinder-veiled museum offer themselves like +pensively anonymous guests. And we walk like Pierrots and Pierrettes, like +John Drews and Jack Barrymores and Leo Ditrichsteins; like Nazimovas, +Patricia Collinges and Messalinas on parole. + + * * * * * + +I have squandered an afternoon seduced from labors by this Pied Piper of a +street. And not only I but everybody I ever knew or heard of was in this +street, strutting up and down as if there were no vital projects demanding +their attention, as if life were not a stern and productive routine. And +where was the Rotary Club? Not a sign of the Rotary Club. One billboard +would have saved me; the admonitions that "work is man's duty to his +nation," that my country needed me as much in peace as in war, would have +scattered the insidious spell of this street and sent me back to the +typewriter with at least a story of some waiter in a loop beanery who was +once a reigning prince of Patagonia. + +But there was no sign, no billboard to inspire me with a sense of duty. So +we strutted--the long procession of us--a masquerade of leisure and +complacency. Here was a street in which a shave and a haircut, a shine and +a clean collar exhilarated a man with a feeling of power and virtue. As if +there were nothing else to the day than to decorate himself for the +amusement of others. + +There were beggars in the street but they only add by way of contrast to +the effulgence of our procession. And, besides, are they beggars? Augustus +Caesar attired himself in beggar's clothes one day each year and asked +alms in the highways of Rome. + + * * * * * + +I begin to notice something. An expression in our faces as we drift by the +fastidious ballyhoos of the shop windows. We are waiting for +something--actors walking up and down in the wings waiting for their cues +to go on. This is intelligible. This magician of a street has created the +illusion in our heads that there are adventure and romance around us. + +Fauns, Pierrots, Launcelots, Leanders--we walk, expectantly waiting for +our scenes to materialize. Here the little steno in the green tarn is Laïs +of Corinth, the dowager alighting from the electric is Zenobia. Illusions +dress the entire procession. Semiramis, Leda, and tailored nymphs; dryad +eyes gleam from powder-white masks. Or, if the classics bore you, Watteau +and the rococo pertness of the Grand Monarch. And there are Gothic noses, +Moorish eyebrows, Byzantine slippers. Take your pick, walk up and down and +wait for your cue. + +There are two lives that people lead. One is the real life of business, +mating, plans, bankruptcies and gas bills. The other is an unreal life--a +life of secret grandeurs which compensate for the monotony of the days. +Sitting at our desks, hanging on to straps in the street cars, waiting for +the dentist, eating in silence in our homes--we give ourselves to these +secret grandeurs. Day-dreams in which we figure as heroes and Napoleons +and Don Juans, in which we triumph sensationally over the stupidities and +arrogances of our enemies--we think them out detail by detail. Sometimes +we like to be alone because we have a particularly thrilling incident to +tell ourselves, and when our friends say good-by we sigh with relief and +wrap ourselves with a shiver of delight in the mantles of imagination. And +we live for a charming hour through a fascinating fiction in which things +are as they should be and we startle the world with our superiorities. + + * * * * * + +This street, I begin to understand, is consecrated to the unrealities so +precious to us. We come here and for a little while allow our dreams to +peer timorously at life. In the streets west of here we are what we +are--browbeaten, weary-eyed, terribly optimistic units of the boobilariat. +Our secret characterizations we hide desperately from the frowns of +windows and the squeal of "L" trains. + +But here in this Circe of streets the sun warms us, the sky and the spaces +of shining air lure us and we step furtively out of ourselves. And give us +ten minutes. Observe--a street of heroes and heroines. Actors all. Great +and irresistible egoists. Do we want riches? Then we have only to raise +our finger. Slaves will attend with sesterces and dinars. A street of +joyous Caligulas and Neros, with here and there a Ghengis Khan, an Attila. + +The high buildings waver like gray and golden ferns in the sun. The sky +stretches itself in a holiday awning over our heads. A breeze coming from +the lake brings an odorous spice into our noses. Adventure and romance! +Yes--and observe how unnecessary are plots. Here in this Circe of streets +are all the plots. All the great triumphs, assassinations, amorous +conquests of history unravel themselves within a distance of five blocks. +The great moments of the world live themselves over again in a silent +make-believe. + +Here is one who has just swum the Hellespont, one who has subdued +Cleopatra; here one whose eyes are just launching a thousand ships. What a +street! + +The afternoon wanes. Our procession turns toward home. For a few minutes +the elation of our make-believes in the Avenue lingers. But the "L" trains +crowd up, the street cars crowd up. It is difficult to remain a Caesar or +a Don Quixote. So we withdraw and our faces become alike as turtle backs. + +And see, the afternoon has been squandered. There were things which should +have been done. I blush indignantly at the memory of my thoughts during +the shining hours in the Avenue. For I spent the valuable moments +conversing with the devil. I imagined him coming for me and for two hours +I elaborated a dialogue between him and myself in which I gave him my +immortal soul and he in turn promised to write all the stories, novels and +plays I wanted. All I would have to do was furnish the paper and leave it +in a certain place and call for it the next morning and it would be +completed--anything I asked for, a story, novel or play; a poem, a +world-shattering manifesto--anything. + +Alas, I am still in possession of my immortal soul! + + + +COEUR DE LION AND THE SOUP AND FISH + + For they're hangin' Danny Deever-- + +The voice of Capt. MacVeigh of the British army rose defiantly in the +North La Salle Street hall bedroom. The herculean captain, attired in a +tattered bathrobe, underwear, socks and one slipper, patted the bottom of +the iron with his finger and then carefully applied it to a trouser leg +stretched on an ironing board in front of him. + +Again the voice: + + For they're hangin' Danny Deever; + You can hear the death march play, + And they're ta ta ta da + They're taking him away, + Ta da ta ta-- + +The captain was on the rocks. _Sic transit gloria mundi_. Or how +saith the poet, "The lion and the lizard keep the courts where Jamshid +gloried and drank deep." Bust, was the captain. "Dying, Egypt, dying, ebbs +the crimson life blood fast." Flatter than a hoecake was the captain. + +"Farewell, my bluebell, farewell to thee," sang the captain as the iron +crept cautiously over the great trouser leg of his Gargantuan full-dress +suit. African mines blown up. Two inheritances shot. A last remittance +blah. Rent bills, club bills, grocery bills, tailor bills, gambling bills. +"Ho, Britons never will be slaves," sang the intrepid captain. Fought the +bloody Boers, fought the Irawadi, fought the bloody Huns, and what was it +Lady B. said at the dinner in his honor only two years ago? Ah, yes, +here's to our British Tartarin, Capt. MacVeagh. But who the devil was +Tartarin? + +Never mind. "There's a long, long trail a-windin' and ta da ta ta ta tum," +sang Capt. MacVeagh and he took up the other trouser leg. Egad, what a +life! Not a sou markee left. Not a thin copper, not a farthing! "Strike me +blind, me wife's confined and I'm a blooming father," sang Capt. MacVeagh, +"For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the death march play----" + + * * * * * + +This was the last phalanx. This thing on the ironing board was Horatius at +the bridge holding in check the hordes of false Tarquin. Everything gone +but this. Not even a pair of pants or a smoking coat. Not a blooming thing +left but this--a full-dress suit beginning to shine a bit in the rear. + +"The shades of night were falling fast when through an Alpine village +passed"--egad, what a primitive existence. Like an Irunti in the +Australian bush. Telling time by the sun. It must be approachin' six, +thought the captain as his voice trailed off. + +Beautiful thought. "Mabel, little Mabel, with her face against the pane, +sits beside the window, looking at the rain." That was Capt. MacVeagh of +the British army, prisoner in a La Salle Street hall bedroom. No clothes +to wear, nothing but the soup and fish. So he must sit and wait till +evening came, till a gentleman could put on his best bib and tucker, and +then--_allons!_ Freshly shaved, pink jowled, swinging his ebony +stick, his pumps gleaming with a new coat of vaseline, off for the British +Officers' Club! + +All day long the herculean captain sulked in his tent--an Achilles with a +sliver in his heel. But come evening, come the gentle shades of darkness, +and presto! Like a lily of the field, who spun not nor toiled; like a +knight of the boulevards, this servant of the king leaped forth in all his +glory. The landlady was beginning to lose her awe of the dress suit, the +booming barytone and the large aristocratic pink face of her mysterious +boarder. And she was pressing for back rent. But the club was still +tolerant. + +"A soldier o' the legion lay dyin' in Algiers," chanted the captain, and +with his shoulders back he strode into the wide world. A meal at the club, +and gadzooks but his stomach was in arms! Not a bite since the last club +meal. God bless the club! + +"Get a job?" repeated the captain to one of the members, "I would but the +devil take it, how can a man go around asking for a job in a dress suit? +And I'm so rotten big that none of my friends can loan me a suit. And my +credit is gone with at least twelve different tailors. I'm sort o' taboo +as a borrower. Barry, old top, if you will chase the blighter after +another highball, I'll drink your excellent health." + +"There's a job if you want it that you can do in your dress suit," said +his friend Barry. "If you don't mind night work." + +"Not at all," growled Capt. MacVeagh. + +"Well," said the friend, "there's a circus in town and they want a man to +drive the chariot in the chariot race. It's only a little circus. And +there's only three chariots in the race. You get $10 for driving and $25 a +night if you win the race. And they give you a bloomin' toga to put on +over your suit, you know, and a ribbon to tie around your head. And there +you are." + +"Righto !" cried the captain, "and where is this rendezvous of skill and +daring? I'm off. I'll drive that chariot out of breath." + +Capt. MacVeagh got the job. Capt. MacVeagh won the first race. Clad in a +flapping toga, a ribbon round his forehead, the hero of the British army +went Berserker on the home stretch and, lashing his four ponies into a +panic, came gloriously down the last lap, two lengths ahead and +twenty-five marvelous coins of the realm to the good. + +That night at the club Capt. MacVeagh stood treat. British wassail and +what not. The twenty-five dollars melted pleasantly and the captain fell +off in a happy doze as rosy fingered Aurora touched the city roof-tops. + +But, alas, the wages of sin! For the captain was not so good when he +mounted his chariot the second night. A beehive buzzed in his head and +huge, globular disturbances seemed to fill the air. And, standing +waveringly on his feet as the giddy chariot bounced down the track, the +captain let forth a sudden yell and sailed off into space. The chariot +ponies and hero of the British army had gone crashing into the side lines. + + * * * * * + +"When they brought him to the hospital in the ambulance," explained the +captain's friend, "they had taken the toga off him, of course, and the old +boy was in his dress clothes. This kind o' knocked their eyes out, so what +do they do but give him the most expensive suite in the place and the +prettiest nurse and the star surgeon. And they mend and feed him up for +two weeks. We all called on him and brought him a few flowers. The lad was +surely in clover. + +"The hospital authorities had nothing to go on but this dress suit as +evidence. And when the nurse asked him what he wanted done with the suit, +saying it was a bit torn from the accident, MacVeagh waves his hand and +answers, 'Oh, throw the blasted thing out of the window or give it to the +janitor.' And she did. I always thought it quite a story." + +"But how did it end? What became of the captain when they found out he +couldn't pay his bill and all that? And where's he now?" + +"You'll have to end the thing to suit yourself," said the captain's +friend. "All I know is that after almost forgetting about MacVeagh I got a +letter from him from London yesterday. A rather mysterious letter on Lady +Somebody's stationery. It read something like this: 'The paths of glory +lead but to the grave. Thanks for the flowers. And three cheers, me lad, +for the British Empire.'" + + + +THE SYBARITE + + +They had been poor all their lives. The neighbors said: "It's a wonder how +the Sikoras get along." + +They lived in a rear flat. Four rooms that were dark and three children +that were noisy. The three children used Wabansia Avenue as a playground. +Dodging wagons and trucks was a diversion which played havoc with their +shoes, but increased their skill in dodging wagons and trucks. + +The neighbors said: "Old man Sikora is pretty sick. It's a wonder where +they'll get money to pay the doctor." + +Then old man Sikora, who wasn't so old (but poverty and hard work with a +pick give a man an aged look), was taken to the county hospital. The +Sikora children continued to dodge wagons and trucks and Mrs. Sikora went +out three days a week to do washing. And the milkman and the grocer came +around regularly and explained to Mrs. Sikora that they, too, had to live +and she must pay her bills. + +Then the neighbors said: "Did you hear about it? Old man Sikora died last +night in the hospital. What will poor Mrs. Sikora do now? They ain't got a +thing." + +And old man Sikora was brought home because his widow insisted upon it. +The neighbors came in and looked at the body and wept with Mrs. Sikora, +and the children sat around after school and looked uncomfortably at the +walls. And some one asked: "How you going to bury him, Mrs. Sikora?" + +"Oh," said Mrs. Sikora, "I'm going to have a good funeral." + + * * * * * + +There was an insurance policy for $500. The Sikoras had kept it up, +scraping together the $10 premiums when the time came. Mrs. Sikora took +the policy to the husband of a woman whose washing she had done. The +husband was in the real estate business. + +"I need money to bury my man," she said. "He died last night in the +hospital." + +She was red-eyed and dressed in black and the real estate man said: "What +do you want?" + +When Mrs. Sikora explained he gave her $400 for the policy and she went to +an undertaker. Her eyes were still red with crying. They stared at the +luxurious fittings of the undertaker's parlors. There were magnificent +palms in magnificent jardinières, and plush chairs and large, inviting +sofas and an imposing mahogany desk and a cuspidor of shining brass. Mrs. +Sikora felt thrilled at the sight of these luxuries. + +Then the undertaker came in and she explained to him. + +The neighbors said: "Are you going to Mr. Sikora's funeral? It's going to +be a big funeral. I got invited yesterday." + +Wabansia Avenue was alive with automobiles. Innumerable relatives of Mr. +and Mrs. Sikora arrived in automobiles, their faces staring with surprise +out of the limousine windows as if they were seeing the world from a new +angle. There were also neighbors. These were dressed even more +impressively than the relatives. But everybody, neighbors and relatives, +had on their Sunday clothes. And the unlucky ones who hadn't been invited +leaned out of the windows of Wabansia Avenue and looked enviously at the +entourage. + +There was a band--fifteen pieces. And there was one open automobile filled +with flowers, filled to overflowing. The band stopped in front of the +Sikora flat, or rather in front of the building, for the Sikora flat was +in the rear and Mrs. Sikora didn't want the band to stop in the alley. +Then the envious ones leaning out of the windows couldn't see the band and +that would be a drawback. + +The band played, great, sad songs. The cornets and trombones sent a muted +shiver through the street. The band stopped playing and the people leaning +out of the windows sighed. Ah, it was a nice funeral! + +Inside the Sikora house four men stood up beside the handsome black coffin +and sang. Mrs. Sikora in a voluminous black veil listened with tears +running from her face. Never had she heard such beautiful singing +before--all in time and all the notes sweet and inspiring. She wept some +more and solicitous arms raised her to her feet. Solicitous arms guided +her out of the flower-filled room as six men lifted the black coffin and +carried it into the street. + + * * * * * + +Slowly the automobiles rolled away. And behind the open car heaped with +flowers rode Mrs. Sikora. The dolorous music of the band filled her with a +gentle ecstasy. The flower scents drifted to her and when her eyes glanced +furtively out of the back window of the limousine she could see the +procession reaching for almost a half block. All black limousines filled +with faces staring in surprise at the street. + +And in front of the flower car in an ornamental hearse rode Mr. Sikora. +The wheels of the hearse were heavily tired. They made no sound and the +chauffeur was careful that his precious burden should not be joggled. + +Slowly through the loop the procession picked its way. Crowds of people +paused to stare back at the staring ones in the automobiles and to listen +to the--fine music that rose above the clamor of the "L" trains and the +street cars and the trucks. + +The sun lay over the cemetery. The handsome black coffin went out of +sight. The fifteen musicians began to play once more and Mrs. Sikora, +weeping anew, allowed solicitous arms to help her back into the limousine +and with a sigh she leaned back and closed her eyes and let herself weep +while the music played, while the limousine rolled smoothly along. It was +like a dream, a strange thing imagined or read about somewhere. + + * * * * * + +The neighbors sniffed indignantly. "Did you hear about Mrs. Sikora?" they +said. These were the same ones who had leaned enviously out of the +Wabansia Avenue windows. + +"She spent all her insurance money on a crazy funeral," the neighbors +said, "and did you hear about it? The Juvenile Court is going to take her +children away because she can't support them. The officer was out to see +her yesterday and she's got no money to pay her bills. She spent the whole +money--it was something like $2,000--on the funeral. Huh!" + +Mrs. Sikora, weeping, explained to the Juvenile Court officer. + +"My man died," she said, "and--and I spent the money for the funeral. It +was not for myself, but for him I spent the money." + +It will turn out all right, some day. And in the meantime Mrs. Sikora, +when she is washing clothes for someone, will be able when her back aches +too much to remember the day she rode in the black limousine and the band +played and the air was filled with the smell of flowers. + + + +DAPPER PETE AND THE SUCKER PLAY + + +Dapper Pete Handley, the veteran con man, shook hands all around with his +old friends in the detective bureau and followed his captors into the +basement. Another pinch for Dapper Pete; another jam to pry out of. The +cell door closed and Pete composed his lean, gambler's face, eyed his +manicured nails and with a sigh sat down on the wooden cell bench to wait +for his lawyer. + +"Whether I'm guilty of this or not," said Dapper Pete, "it goes to show +what a sucker a guy is--even a smart guy. This ain't no sermon against a +life of crime I'm pulling, mind you. I'm too old to do that and my sense +of humor is workin' too good. I'm only sayin' what a sucker a guy +is--sometimes. Take me." + +Dapper Pete registered mock woe. + +"Not that I'm guilty, mind you, or anything like that. But on general +principles I usually keep out of the way of the coppers. Especially when +there's been a misunderstanding concerning some deal or other. Well, how I +happen to be here just goes to show what a sucker a guy is--even me." + + * * * * * + +Pressed for the key to his self-accusation, Dapper Pete continued: + +"I come straight here from Grand Island, Neb. I had a deal on in Grand +Island and worked it for a couple of months. And after I finished there +was trouble and I left. I knew there would be warrants and commotion, the +deal having flopped and a lot of prominent citizens feeling as if they had +been bilked. You know how them get-rich-quick investors are. If they don't +make 3,000 per cent profit over night they raise a squawk right away. And +wanna arrest you. + +"So I lit out and came to Chicago and when I got here some friends of mine +tipped me off that there was considerable hunt for me. Well, I figured +that the Nebraska coppers had let out a big holler and I thought it best +to lay kind of low and keep out of trouble. That was only last week, you +see. + +"So I get the bright idea. Layin' around town with nothin' to do but keep +out of sight ain't the cinch it sounds. You get so sick and tired of your +own company that you're almost ready to throw your arms around the first +harness bull you meet. + +"But," smiled Dapper Pete, "I restrained myself." + +There was time out while Pete discussed the irresponsibility, cruelty and +selfishness of policemen in general. After which he continued with his +original narrative: + +"It was like this," he said. "I made up my mind that I would take in a few +of the points of interest in the city I ain't ever got around to. Being a +Chicagoan, like most Chicagoans I ain't ever seen any of our natural +wonders at all. So first day out I figured that the place no copper would +ever look for me would be like the Field Museum and in the zoo and on the +beach and like that. + +"So, first of all, I join a rubberneck crowd in one of the carryalls with +a megaphone guy in charge. And I ride around all day. I got kind of +nervous owing to the many coppers we kept passing and exchanging +courtesies with. But I stuck all day, knowing that no sleuth was going +looking for Dapper Pete on a rubberneck wagon. + +"Well, then I spent three days in the Field Museum, eyeing the exhibits. +Can you beat it? I walk around and walk around rubbering at mummies and +bones and--well, I ain't kiddin', but they was among the three most +interesting days I ever put in. And I felt pretty good, too, knowin' that +no copper would be thinking of Dapper Pete as being in the museums. + +"Then after that I went to the zoo and, rubbered at the animals and birds. +And I sat in the park and watched comical ball games and golf games and +the like. And then I went on some of those boats that run between no place +and nowhere--you get on at a pier and ride for a half hour and get off at +a pier and have to call a taxi in order to find your way back to anywhere. +You get me? + +"I'm tellin' you all this," said Dapper Pete cautiously, "with no +reference to the charges involved and for which I am pinched and +incarcerated for, see? But I thought you might make a story out of the way +a guy like me with all my experience dogin' coppers can play himself for a +sucker. + +"Well, pretty soon I pretty near run out of rube spots to take in. And +then I think suddenly of the observation towers like on the Masonic Temple +and the Wrigley Building. I headed for them right away, figuring to take a +sandwich or so along and spend the day leisurely giving the city the once +over from my eerie perch. + +"And when I come home that night and told my friends about it they was all +excited. They all agreed that I had made the discovery of the age and all +claimed to feel sorry they wasn't hiding out from the coppers, just for +the sake of bein' able to lay low on top of a loop building. It does sound +pretty good, even now. + +"I was on my fifth day and was just walking in on the Masonic Temple +observation platform when things began to happen. You know how the city +looks from high up. Like a lot of toys crawling around. And it's nice and +cool and on the whole as good a place to lay low in as you want. And +there's always kind of comical company, see? Rubes on their honeymoon and +sightseers and old maids and finicky old parties afraid of fallin' off, +and gals and their Johns lookin' for some quiet place to spoon." + + * * * * * + +Dapper Pete sighed in memory. + +"I am sitting there nibbling a sandwich," he went on, "when a hick comes +along and looks at me." + +"'Hello, pardner,' he says. 'How's the gas mine business?' + +"And I look at him and pretend I don't savvy at all. But this terrible +looking rube grins and walks up to me, so help me God, and pulls back his +lapel and shows me the big star. + +"'You better come along peaceabul,' he says. 'I know you, Pete Handley,' +just like that. So I get up and follow this hick down the elevator and he +turns me over to a cop on State Street and I am given the ride to the +hoosegow. Can you beat it?" + +"But who was the party with the star and why the pinch?" I asked Dapper +Pete. That gentleman screwed his lean, gambler's face into a ludicrous +frown. + +"Him," he sighed, "that was Jim Sloan, constable from Grand Island, Neb. +And they sent him here about two weeks ago to find me. See? And all this +rube does is ride around in rubberneck wagons and take in the museums and +parks, having no idee where I was. He figured merely on enjoyin' himself +at Nebraska's expense. + +"And he was just on the observation tower lookin' over the city in his +rube way when I have to walk into him. Yes, sir, Pete Handley, and there +ain't no slicker guy in the country, walkin' like a prize sucker right +into the arms of a Grand Island, Neb., constable. It all goes to show," +sighed Dapper Pete, "what a small world it is after all." + + + +WATERFRONT FANCIES + + +Man's capacity for faith is infinite. He is able to believe with passion +in things invisible. He can achieve a fantastic confidence in the +Unknowable. Here he sits on the breakwater near the Municipal Pier, a +fishpole in his hand, staring patiently into the agate-colored water. He +can see nothing. The lake is enormous. It contains thousands of square +miles of water. + +And yet this man is possessed of an unshakable faith that by some +mysterious legerdemain of chance a fish, with ten thousand square miles of +water to swim in safely, will seek out the little minnow less than an inch +in length which he has lowered beside the breakwater. And so, the victim +of preposterous conviction, he sits and eyes the tip of his fishpole with +unflagging hope. + +It is warm. The sun spreads a brightly colored but uncomfortable woolen +blanket over their heads. A tepid breeze, reminiscent of cinders, whirl +idly over the warm cement. Strung along the pier are a hundred figures, +all in identical postures. They sit in defiance of all logic, all +mathematics. For it is easy to calculate that if there are a half million +fish in Lake Michigan and each fish displaces less than five cubic inches +of water there would be only two and a half million cubic inches of fish +altogether lost in an expanse containing at least eight hundred billion +cubic inches of water. Therefore, the chance of one fish being at any one +particular spot are one in four hundred thousand. In other words, the odds +against each of these strangely patient men watching the ends of their +fishpoles--the odds against their catching a fish--are four hundred +thousand to one. + + * * * * * + +It is therefore somewhat amazing to stand and watch what happens along the +sunny breakwater. Every three minutes one of the poles jerks out of the +water with a wriggling prize on the hook. + +"How are they coming?" we ask. + +"Oh, so, so," answers one of the fishermen and points mutely to a string +of several dozen perch floating under his feet in the water. + +Thus does man, by virtue of his faith, rise above the science of +mathematics and the barriers of logic. Thus is his fantastic belief in +things unseen and easily disproved vindicated. He catches fish where by +the law of probabilities there should be no fish. With the whole lake +stretching mockingly before him he sits consumed with a preposterous, a +fanatical faith in the little half-inch minnow dangling at the end of his +line. + +The hours pass. The sun grows hotter. The piles of stone and steel along +the lake front seem to waver. From the distant streets come faint noises. +On a hot day the city is as appealing as a half-cooled cinder patch. Poor +devils in factories, poor devils in stores, in offices. One must sigh +thinking of them. Life is even vaster than the lake in which these +fishermen fish. And happiness is mathematically elusive as the fish for +which the fishermen wait. And yet-- + +An old man with a battered face. A young man with a battered face. Silent, +stoical, battered-looking men with fishpoles. A hundred, two hundred, they +sit staring into the water of the lake as if they were looking for +something. For fish? Incredible. One does not sit like this watching for +something to become visible. Why? Because then there would be an air of +suspense about the watcher. He would grow nervous after an hour, when the +thing remained still invisible, and finally he would fall into hysterics +and unquestionably shriek. + +And these men grow calmer. Then what are they looking at, hour after hour, +under the hot sun? Nothing. They are letting the rhythm of water and sky +lull them into a sleep--a surcease from living. This is a very poetical +thing for a hundred battered-looking men to attempt. Yet life may be as +intimidating to honest, unimaginative ones as to their self-styled +superiors. + +There are many types fishing. But all of them look soiled. Idlers, +workers, unhappy ones--they come to forget, to let the agate eye of the +lake stare them into a few hours of oblivion. + +But there is something else. Long ago men hunted and fished to keep alive. +They fought with animals and sat with empty stomachs staring at the water, +not in quest of Nirvanas but of fish. So now, after ages and ages have +passed, there is left a vague memory of this in the minds of these +fishermen. This memory makes them still feel a certain thrill in the +business of pursuit. Even as they sit, stoical and inanimate, forgetful of +unpaid bills, unfinished and never-to-be-finished plans--there comes this +curious thrill. A mouth tugs at the little minnow. The pole jerks +electrically in the hand. Something alive is on the hook. And the +fisherman for an instant recovers his past. He is Ab, fighting with an +evening meal off the coast of Wales, two glacial periods ago. His body +quivers, his muscles set, his eyes flash. + +Zip! The line leaps out of the water. Another monster of the deep, whose +conquest is necessary for the survival of the race of man, has been +overcome. There he hangs, writhing on a hook! There he swings toward his +triumphant foe, and the hand of the fisherman on the municipal breakwater, +trembling with mysterious elation, closes about the wet, firm body of an +outraged perch. + + * * * * * + +A make-believe hunt that now bears the name of sport. Yes, but not always. +Here is one with a red, battered face and a curiously practical air about +him. He is putting his fish in a basket and counting them. Two dozen +perch. + +"Want to sell them?" + +He shakes his head. + +"What are you going to do with them?" + +He looks up and grins slowly. Then he points to his lips with his fingers +and makes signs. This means he is dumb. He places his hand over his +stomach and grins again. He is going to eat them. It is time to go home +and do this, so he puts up his fishpole and packs his primitive +paraphernalia--a tin can, a rusty spike, a bamboo pole. + +Here is one, then, who, in the heart of the steel forest called +civilization, still seeks out long forgotten ways of keeping life in his +body. He hunts for fish. + +The sun slides down the sky. The fishermen begin to pack up. They walk +with their heads down and bent forward like number 7s. They raise their +eyes occasionally to the piles of stone and steel that mark the city +front. Back to their troubles and their cinder patch, but--and this is a +curious fact--their eyes gleam with hope and curiosity. + + + +THE SNOB + + +We happen to be on the same street car. A drizzle softens the windows. She +sits with her pasty face and her dull, little eyes looking out at the +dripping street. Her cotton suit curls at the lapels. The ends of her +shoes curl like a pair of burlesque Oriental slippers. She holds her hands +in her lap. Red, thick fingers that whisper tiredly, "We have worked," lie +in her lap. + +A slavey on her day off. There is no mistaking this. Nineteen or twenty +years old, homely as a mud fence; ungraceful, doltish, she sits staring +out of the window and her eyes blink at the rain. A peasant from +southeastern Europe, a field hand who fell into the steerage of a +transatlantic liner and fell out again. Now she has a day off and she goes +riding into the country on a street car. + +She will get off and slosh with her heavy feet through wet grass. She will +walk down the muddied roads and drink in the odor of fields and trees once +more. These are romantic conjectures. The car jolts along. It is going +west. The rain continues. It runs diagonal dots across the window. + +Everybody out. This is the end of the line. I have gone farther than +necessary. But there is the slavey. We have been talking. At least I +talked. She listened, her doltish face opening its mouth, her little eyes +blinking. She has pimples, her skin is muddied. A distressful-looking +creature. Yet there is something. This is her day off--a day free from +the sweat of labor--and she goes on a street car into the country. So it +would seem that under this blinking, frowzy exterior desire spreads its +wings. She has memories, this blousy one. She has dreams. + +The drizzle flies softly through the air. The city has disappeared. We +walk down an incongruous stretch of pavement. It leads toward a forest or +what looks like a forest. There are no houses. The sky asserts itself. I +look up, but the shambling one whose clothes become active under water +keeps her eyes to the pavement. This is disillusioning! "Here, slavey, is +the sky," I think; "it becomes romantic for the moment because to you it +is the symbol of lost dreams, or happy hours in fields. To me it is +nothing but a sky. I have no interest in skies. But I am looking at it for +you and enjoying it through your romantic eyes." + +But her romantic eyes are oblivious. They consult the rain-washed pavement +before her and nothing else. Very well, there are other and nicer skies in +her heart that she contemplates. This is an inferior sky overhead. We walk +on. + +You see, I have been wrong. It is not green fields that lured the heavy +feet of this slavey. She is not a peasant Cinderella. Grief, yes, hidden +sorrow, has led her here. This is a cemetery. + +It rains over the cemetery. There is silence. The white stones glisten. +They stand like beggars asking alms of the winding paths. And this blousy +one has come to be close to one of the white stones. Under one of them +lies somebody whose image still lives in her heart. + +She will kneel in the wet grass and her pasty little face will blink its +dull eyes over a grave. Like a little clown in her curling cotton suit, +her lumpy shoes, her idiotic hat, she will offer her tears to the pitiless +silence of trees, wind, rain and white stones. + +"Do you like them there?" She asks. She points to a cluster of fancy +headstones. + +"Do you?" I ask. + +She smiles. + +"Oh yes," she says. And she stops. She is admiring the tombstones. We walk +on. + +It is incredible. This blousy one, this dull-eyed one has come to the +cemetery on her day off--to admire the tombstones. Ah, here is drama of a +poignant kind. Let us pray God there is nothing pathologic here and that +this is an idyl of despair, that the lumpish little slavey sits on the +rain-washed bench dreaming of fine tombstones as a flapper might dream of +fine dresses. + +Yes, at last we are on the track. We talk. These are very pretty, she +says. Life is dull. The days are drab. The place where she works is like +an oven. There is nothing pretty to look at--even in mirrors there is +nothing cool and pretty. Clothes grow lumpy when she puts them on. Boys +giggle and call names when she goes out. And so, outcast, she comes here +to the cemetery to dream of a day when something cool and pretty will +belong to her. A headstone, perhaps a stately one with a figure above it. +It will stand over her. She will be dead then and unable to enjoy it. But +now she is alive. Now she can think of how pretty the stone will look and +thus enjoy it in advance. This, after all, is the technique of all dreams. + +We grow confidential. I have asked what sort she likes best, what sort it +pleases her most to think about as standing over her grave when she dies. +And she has pointed some out. It rains. The trees shake water and the wind +hurries past the white stones. + +"I will tell you something," she says. "Here, look at this." From one of +her curled pockets she removes a piece of paper. It is crumpled. I open it +and read: + +"In Case of Accident please notify Misses Burbley,--Sheridan Road, and +have body removed to Home of Parents who are residants of Corliss +Wisconsin where they have resided for twenty Years and the diseased is a +only Daughter named Clara. Age nineteen and educated in Corliss public +Schools where she Graduated as a girl but came to Chicago in serch of +employment and in case of accident funeral was held from Home of the +Parents, many Frends attending and please Omit flours...." + +"I got lot of them writ out," said Clara, blinking. "You wanna read more? +Why I write them out? Oh, because, you can't tell, maybe you get run over +and in accident and how they going to know who you are or what to do with +the diseased if they don't find something?" + +Her thick red hands grew excited. She produced further obituaries. From +her pocketbook, from her bosom, from her pockets and one from under her +hat. I read them. They were all alike, couched in vaguely bombastic terms. +We sat in the rain and I thought: + +"Alas, Clara is a bounder. A snob. She writes her own obituaries. Alive +she can think of herself only as Clara, the slavey at whom the boys giggle +and call names. But dead, she is the 'deseased'--the stately corpse +commanding unprecedented attention. The prospect stirs a certain +snobbishness in her. And she sits and writes her death notices out--using +language she tries to remember from reading the funeral accounts of rich +and powerful people." + +Clara, her hat awry, her doltish body sagging in the rain--shuffled down +the dirt road once more. Her outing is over. Cinderella returns to the +ashes of life. + + + +THE WAY HOME + + +He shuffles around in front of the Clinton Street employment agency. The +signs say: "Pick men wanted, section hands wanted, farm laborers wanted." + +A Mexican stands woodenly against the window front. His eyes are open but +asleep. He has the air of one come from a far country who lives upon +memories. + +There are others--roughly dressed exiles. Their eyes occasionally study +the signs, deciphering with difficulty the crudely chalked words on the +bulletin boards. Slav, Swede, Pole, Italian, Greek--they read in a +language foreign to them that men are wanted on the farms in the Dakotas, +in the lumber camps, on the roadbeds in Montana. Hard-handed men with +dull, seamed faces and glittering eyes--the spike-haired proletaire from a +dozen lands looking for jobs. + +But this one who shuffles about in a tattered mackinaw, huge baggy +trousers frayed at the feet, this one whose giant's body swings loosely +back and forth under the signs, is a more curious exile. His Mexican +brother leaning woodenly against the window has a slow dream in his eyes. +Life is simple to his thought. It was hard for him in Mexico. And +adventure and avarice sent him northward in quest of easier ways and more +numerous comforts. Now he hunts a job on a chilly spring morning. When the +proper job is chalked up on the bulletin board he will go in and ask for +it. He stands and waits and thinks how happy he was in the country he +abandoned and what a fool he was to leave the white dust of its roads, its +hills and blazing suns. And some day, he thinks, he will go back, although +there is nothing to go back for. Yet it is pleasant to stand and dream of +a place one has known and whither one may return. + +But this one who shuffles, this giant in a tattered mackinaw who slouches +along under the bulletin signs asking for section hands and laborers, +there is no dream of remembered places in his eyes. Dull, blue eyes that +peer bewilderedly out of a powerful and empty face. The forehead is +puckered as if in thought. The heavy jaws protrude with a hint of ferocity +in their set. There is a reddish cast to his hair and face and the backs +of his great hands, hanging limply almost to his knees, are covered with +red hair. + +The nose of this shuffling one is larger than the noses in the city +streets. His fingers are larger, his neck is larger. There is a curious +earthy look to this shuffling one seldom to be seen about men in streets. +He is a huge creature with great thighs and Laocoön sinews and he towers a +head above his brothers in front of the employment office. He is of a +different mold from the men in the street. Strength ripples under his +tattered mackinaw and his stiff looking hands could break the heads of two +men against each other like eggshells while they rained puny blows on his +dull face. + +And yet of all the men moving about on the pavement in front of the +Clinton Street bulletin boards it is this shuffling one who is the most +impotent seeming. His figure is the most helpless. It slouches as under a +final defeat. His eyes are the dullest. + +He stops at the corner and stands waiting, his head lowered, his shoulders +hunched in and he looks like a man weighed down by a harness. + + * * * * * + +A curious exile from whose blood has vanished all memory of the country to +which he belongs. A faraway land, ages beyond the sun-warmed roads of +which his Mexican brother dreams as he stands under the bulletin boards. A +land which the ingenuity of the world has left forever behind. This is a +land that once reached over all the seas. + +For it was like this that men once looked in an age before the myths of +the Persians and Hindus began to fertilize the animal soul of the race. In +the forests north of the earliest cities of Greece, along the wild coasts +tapering from the Tatar lands to the peninsula of the Basques, men like +this shuffling one once ranged alone and in tribes. Huge, powerful men +whose foreheads sloped back and whose jaws sloped forward and whose stiff +hands reached an inch nearer their knees than today. + +This giant in the tattered mackinaw is an exile from this land and there +is no dream of it left in his blood. The body of his fathers has returned +to him. Their long, loose arms, their thick muscles and heavy pounding +veins are his, but their voices are buried too deep to rise again in him. +The mutterings of warrior councils, the shouts of terrible hunts are lost +somewhere in him and he shuffles along, his sloping forehead in a pucker +of thought as if he were trying to remember. But no memories come. Instead +a bewilderment. The swarming streets bewilder him. The towering buildings, +the noises of traffic and people dull his eyes and bring his shoulders +together like the shoulders of some helpless captive. + + * * * * * + +He returns to the employment office and raises his eyes to the bulletin +boards. He reads slowly, his large lips moving as they form words. In +another day or another week he will be riding somewhere, his dull eyes +gazing out of the train window. They will call him Ole or Pat or Jim in +some camp in the Dakotas or along some roadbed in Montana. He will stand +with a puny pick handle in his huge hands and his arms will rise and fall +mechanically as he hews away along a deserted track. And his forehead will +still be puckered in a frown of bewilderment. The thing held in his fists +will seem like a strange toy. + +"Farm laborers in Kansas," says the bulletin board as the clerk with his +piece of chalk re-enters the office. The Mexican slowly removes himself +from the window and the contemplation of memories. Kansas lies to the +south and to the south is the way home. He goes in and talks to the man +behind the long desk. + +An hour later the clerk and his piece of chalk emerge. The exiles are +still mooching around on the pavement and the shuffling one stands on the +curb staring dully at the street under him. + +"Section hands, Alberta, Canada, transportation," says the new bulletin. +There is no stir among the exiles. This is to the north. It is still cold +in the north. But the shuffling one has turned. His eyes again trace the +crudely chalked letters of the bulletin board. His lips move as he tells +himself what is written. + +And then as if unconsciously he moves toward the door. Alberta is to the +north and the voices that lie buried deep under the giant's mackinaw +whisper darkly that to the north--to the north is the way home. + + + +THE PIG + + +"Sofie Popapovitch versus Anton Popapovitch," cries the clerk. A number of +broken-hearted matrons awaiting their turn before the bar of justice in +the Domestic Relations Court find time to giggle at the name Popapovitch. + +"Silence," cries the clerk. Very well, silence. Anton steps out. What's +the matter with Anton? An indignant face, its chin raised, its eyes +marching defiantly to the bar of justice. Sofie too, but weeping. And a +lawyer, Sofie's lawyer. + +Well, what's up? Why should the Popapovitches take up valuable time. Think +of the taxpayers supporting this court and two Popapovitches marching up +to have an argument on the taxpayers' money. Well, that's civilization. + +Ah, ah! It appears that Anton, the rogue, went to a grand ball and raffle +given by his lodge. What's wrong with that? Why must Sofie weep over that? +Women are incredible. He went to the grand ball with his wife, as a man +should. A very fine citizen, Anton. He belongs to a lodge that gives grand +balls and he takes his wife. + +Go on, says the judge, what happened? What's the complaint? Time is +precious. Let's have it in a nutshell. + +This is a good idea. People spend a frightful lot of unnecessary time +weeping and mumbling in the courts. Mrs. Popapovitch will please stop +weeping and get down to brass tacks. Very well, the complaint is, your +honor, that Mr. Popapovitch got drunk at the grand ball. But that wasn't +the end of it. There's some more. A paragraph of tears and then, your +honor, listen to this: Mr. Popapovitch not only got drunk but he took a +chance on the raffle which cost one dollar and he won. + +But what did he win! Oh, oh! He won a pig. A live pig. That was the prize. +A small, live pig with a ribbon round its neck. And, says Mrs. Popapovitch +(there's humor in a long foreign-sounding name because it conjures up +visions of bewildered, flat-faced people and bewildered, flat-faced people +are always humorous), and, says she, they had been married ten years. +Happily married. She washed, scrubbed, tended house. There were no +children. Well, what of that? Lots of people had no children. + +Anyway, Anton worked, brought home his pay envelope O.K. And then he wins +this pig. And what does he do? He takes it home. He won't leave it +anywhere. + +"What!" he says, "I leave this pig anywhere? Are you crazy? It's my pig. I +win him. I take him home with me." + +And then? Well, it's midnight, your honor. And Anton carries the pig +upstairs into the flat. But there's no place to put him. Where can one put +a pig in a flat, your honor? No place. The pig don't like to stand on +carpets. And what pig likes to sleep on hard wood floors? A pig's a pig. +And what's good for a pig? Aha! a pig pen. + +So, your honor, Anton puts him in the bathtub. And he starts down stairs +with a basket and all night long he keeps bringing up basketfuls of dirt +dug up from the alley. Dirt, cinders, more dirt. And he puts it in the +bathtub. And what does the pig do? He squeals, grunts and wants to go +home. He fights to get out of the bathtub. There's such a noise nobody can +sleep. But Anton says, "Nice little pig. I fix you up fine. Nice little +pig." + +And so he fills the bathtub up with dirt. Then he turns on the water. And +what does he say? He says, "Now, little pig, we have fine mud for you. +Nice fine mud." Yes, your honor, a whole bathtub full of mud. And when the +pig sees this he gets happy and lies down and goes to sleep. And Anton +sits in the bathroom and looks at the pig all night and says, "See. He's +asleep. It's like home for him." + +But the next day Anton must go to work. All right, he'll go to work. But +first, understand everybody, he don't want this pig touched. The pig stays +in the bathtub and he must be there when he comes home. + +All right. The pig stays in the bathtub, your honor. Anton wants it. +Tomorrow the pig will be killed and that'll be an end for the pig. + +Anton comes home and he goes in the bathroom and he sits and looks at the +pig and complains the mud is dried up and why don't somebody take care of +his pig. His damn pig. He brings up more dirt and makes more mud. And the +pig tries to climb out and throws mud all over the bathroom. + +That's one day. And then there's another day. And finally a third day. +Will Anton let anybody kill his pig? Aha! He'll break somebody's neck if +he does. But, your honor, Mrs. Popapovitch killed the pig. A terrible +thing, isn't it, to kill a pig that keeps squealing in the bathtub and +splashing mud all day? + +But what does Anton do when he comes home and finds his pig killed? My +God! He hits her, your honor. He hits her on the head. His own wife whom +he loves and lives with for ten years. He throws her down and hollers, +"You killed my little pig! You good for nothing. I'll show you." + +What a disgrace for the neighbors! Lucky there are no children, your +honor. Married ten years but no children. And it's lucky now. Because the +disgrace would have been worse. The neighbors come. They pull him away +from his wife. Her eye is black and blue. Her nose is bleeding. That's +all, your honor. + +A very bad case for Anton Popapovitch. A decidedly bad case. Step forward, +Anton Popapovitch, and explain it, if you can. Did you beat her up? Did +you do this thing? And are you ashamed and willing to apologize and kiss +and make up? + +Anton, step forward and tell his honor. But be careful. Mrs. Popapovitch +has a lawyer and it will go bad with you if you don't talk carefully. + +All right. Here's Anton. He nods and keeps on nodding. What is this? +What's he nodding about? Did this happen as your wife says, Anton? Anton +blows out his cheeks and rubs his workingman's hand over his mouth. To +think that you should beat your wife who has always been good to you, +Anton. Who has cooked and been true to you! And there are no children to +worry you. Not one. And you beat her. Bah, is that a man? Don't you love +your wife? Yes. All right, then why did you do it? + +Anton looks up surprised. "Because," says Anton, still surprised, "like +she say. She kill my pig. You hear yourself, your honor. She say she kill +him. And I put him in the bathtub and give him mud. And she kill him." + +But is that a reason to beat your wife and nearly kill her? It is, says +Anton. Well, then, why? Tell the judge, why you were so fond of this pig, +Anton. + +Ah, yes, Anton Popapovitch, tell the judge why you loved this little pig +so much and made a home for him with mud in the bathtub. Why you dreamed +of him as you stood working in the factory? Why you ran home to him and +fed him and sat and looked at him and whispered "Nice little pig?" Why? + +God knows. But Anton Popapovitch can't explain it. It must remain one of +the mysteries of our city, your honor. Call the next case. Put Anton +Popapovitch on parole. Perhaps it was because..., well, the matter is +ended. Anton Popapovitch sighs and looks with accusing eyes at his wife +Sofie, with accusing eyes that hint at evidence unheard. + + + +THE LITTLE FOP + + +This little caricature of a fop, loitering in the hotel lobby, enthralled +by his own fastidiousness, gazing furtively at the glisten of his newly +manicured nails and shuddering with awe at the memory of the puckered +white silk lining inside his Prince of Wales derby--I've watched him for +more than a month now. Here he comes, his pointed button shoes, his +razor-edged trousers, his natty tan overcoat with its high waist band and +its amazing lapels that stick up over his shoulders like the ears of a +jackass, here he comes embroidered and scented and looking like a cross +between a soft-shoe dancer and a somnambulist. And here he takes his +position, holding his gloves in his hand, his Prince of Wales derby jammed +down on his patent-leather hair. + +Observe him. This is a pose. He is living up to a fashion illustration in +one of the magazines. Or perhaps he is duplicating an attitude of some one +studied in a Michigan Avenue club entrance. His right arm is crooked as if +he were about to place his hand over his heart and bow. His left arm hangs +with a slight curve at his side. His feet should be together, but they +shift nervously. His head is turned to the left and slightly raised--like +a movie actor posing for a cigarette advertisement. + +And there he stands, a dead ringer for one of the waxen dummies to be seen +in a Halsted Street Men's Snappy Furnishings Store. + + * * * * * + +I've watched him for a month, off and on. And his face still says nothing. +His eyes are curiously emotionless. They appear suddenly in his face. He +is undersized. His nose, despite the recent massage and powder, has a +slight oleaginous gleam to it. The cheek bones are a bit high, the mouth a +trifle wide and the chin slightly bulbous. As he blinks about him with his +small, almost Mongolian eyes he looks like some honest little immigrant +from Bohemia or Poland whom a malignant sorcerer has changed into a +caricature fashion plate. This is, indeed, the legend of Cinderella and +the fairy godmother with an ending of pathos. + +Yet, though his face says nothing, there is a provoking air to this little +fop. His studied inanimation, his crudely self-conscious pose, his dull, +little, peasant eyes staring at the faces that drift by in the +lobby--these ask for translation. Why is he here? What does he want? Why +does he come every evening and stand and watch the little hotel parade? +Ah, one never sees him in the dining room or on the dance floor. One never +meets him between the acts in the theater lobby. And one never sees him +talking to anybody. He is always alone. People pass him with a curious +glance and think to themselves, "Ah, a young man about town! What a shame +to dissipate like that!" They sometimes notice the masterly way in which +he sizes up a fur-coated "chicken" stalking thin-leggedly through the +lobby and think to themselves: "The scoundrel! He's the kind of creature +that makes a big city dangerous. A carefully combed and scented vulture +waiting to swoop down from the side lines." + +Evening after evening between 6 o'clock and midnight he drifts in and out +of the lobby, up and down Randolph Street and takes up his position at +various points of vantage where crowds pass, where women pass. I've +watched him. No one ever talks to him. There are no salutations. He is +unknown and worse. For the women, the rouged and ornamental ones, know him +a bit too well. They know the carefully counted nickels in his trousers +pocket, the transfers he is saving for the three-cent rebate that may come +some day, the various newspaper coupons through which he hopes to make a +killing. + +All this they know and through a sixth sense, a curious instinct of sex +divination, they know the necktie counter or information desk behind which +he works during the day, the stuffy bedroom to which he will go home to +sleep, the vacuity of his mind and gaudy emptiness of his spirit. They +know all this and pass him up with never a smile. Yes, even the manicure +girls in the barber shop give him the out-and-out sneer and the hat-check +girls and even the floor girls--the chambermaids--all of whom he has tried +to date up--they all respond with an identical raspberry to his +invitations. + +But he asks for translation--this determined little caricature of the +hotel lobby. A little peasant masquerading as a dazzled moth around the +bright lights. Not entirely. There is something else. There is something +of a great dream behind the ridiculous pathos of this over-dressed little +fool. There is something in him that desires expression, that will never +achieve expression, and that will always leave him just such an absurd +little clown of a fop. + + * * * * * + +When the manicure girls read this they will snort. Because they know him +too well. "Of all the half-witted dumbbells I ever saw in my life," they +will say, "he wins the cement earmuffs. Nobody home, honest to Gawd, he's +nothin' but a nasty little fourflusher. We know him and his kind." + +Fortunately I don't know him as well as the manicure girls do, so there is +room for this speculation as I watch him in the evening now and then. I +see him standing under the blaze of lobby lights, in the thick of passing +fur coats and dinner jackets, in the midst of laughter, escorts, +intrigues, actors, famous names. + +He stands perfectly still, with his right arm crooked as if he were going +to place his hand over his heart and bow, with his left arm slightly +curved at his side. Grace. This is a pose denoting grace. He got it +somewhere from an illustration. And he holds it. Here is life. The real +stuff. The real thing. Lights and laughter. Glories, coiffures, swell +dames, great actors, guys loaded with coin. His little Mongolian eyes +blink through his amusing aplomb. Here are gilded pillars and marbled +walls, great rugs and marvelous furniture. Here music is playing somewhere +and people are eating off gold-edged dishes. + + * * * * * + +And now you will smile at me, not him. Because watching him of evenings, +on and off, a curious notion takes hold of my thoughts. I have noticed the +race oddities of his face, the Mongolian eyes, the Slavic cheek bones, the +Italian hair. A mixed breed, this little fop. Mixed through a dozen +centuries. Fathers and mothers that came from a hundred parts of the +earth. But down the centuries they had one thing in common. Servitude. The +Carlovingian courts, the courts of the De Medici, the Valois, and long +before that, the great houses that lay around the Roman hills. Dragged +from their villages, east, west, north and south, they flitted in the +trappings of servitude through the vast halls of tyrants, barons, Caesars, +sybarites, debauchees. They were the torchbearers, the caitiffs, the +varlets, the bathkeepers, the inanimate figures whose faces watched from +the shadows the great orgies of Tiberius, the bacchanals of satraps, +kings, captains and squires. + +And here their little great-great-grandson stands as they stood, the ghost +of their servitude in his sluggish blood. He is content with his role of +watcher as his people were content. These slightly grotesque trappings of +his are a disguise. He wishes to disguise the fact that he is of the +torchbearers, the varlets, the bathkeepers who produced him. So he +imitates servilely what he fancies to be the distinguishing marks of his +betters--their clothes, their manners, their aplomb. This accomplished, he +is content to yield himself to the mysterious impulses and dreams that +move silently through him. + +And so he takes his position beside his people--the mixed breeds dragged +from their scattered villages--so he stands as they stood through the +centuries, their faces watching from the shadows the gorgeousness and +tumult of the great aristocrats. + + + +MOTTKA + + +Since most of the great minds that have weighed the subject have arrived +at the opinion that between poverty and crime there is an inevitable +affinity, the suspicion with which the eye of Policeman Billings rested +upon Mottka, the vender of roasted chestnuts, reflected creditably upon +that good officer's grasp of the higher philosophies. + +Policeman Billings, sworn to uphold the law and assist in the protection +of property, viewed the complications and mysteries of the social system +with a simple and penetrating logic. The rich are not dangerous, reasoned +Policeman Billings, because they have what they want. But the poor who +have not what they want are, despite paradox and precedent, always to be +watched closely. A raggedly dressed man walking in a dark, lonely street +may be honesty itself. Yet rags, even when worn for virtue's sake, are a +dubious assurance of virtue. They are always ominous to one sworn to +protect property and uphold the law. + +There is a maxim by Chateaubriand, or perhaps it was Stendhal--maxims have +a way of leaving home--which claims that the equilibrium of society rests +upon the acquiescence of its oppressed and unfortunate. + + * * * * * + +In passing the battered chestnut roaster of the unfortunate Mottka, +Policeman Billings was aware in his own way of the foregoing elements of +social philosophy. Mottka had chosen for his little shop an old soapbox +which a wastrel providence had deposited in the alley on Twenty-second +Street, a few feet west of State Street. Here Mottka sat, nursing the fire +of his chestnut roaster with odd bits of refuse which seldom reached the +dignity of coal or even wood. + +He was an old man and the world had used him poorly. He was, in fact, one +of those upon whom the equilibrium of the social system rests. He was +unfortunate, oppressed and acquiescent. Arriving early in the forenoon he +set up his shop, lighted his fire and took his place on the soapbox. When +the lights began to wink out along this highway of evil ghosts Mottka was +still to be seen hunched over his chestnut roaster and waiting. + +Policeman Billings strolling over his beat was wont to observe Mottka. +There were many things demanding the philosophical attention of Policeman +Billings. Not so long ago the neighborhood which he policed had been +renowned to the four corners of the earth as the rendezvous of more +temptations than even St. Anthony enumerated in his interesting brochure +on the subject. And Policeman Billings felt the presence of much of this +evil lingering in the brick walls, broken windows and sagging pavements of +the district. + +It was after a number of days on the beat that Policeman Billings began to +take Mottka seriously. There was something curious about the chestnut +vender, and the eye of the good officer grew narrow with suspicion. "This +man," reasoned Policeman Billings, "makes pretense of being a vender of +roasted chestnuts. He sits all day in the alley between two saloons. I +have never noticed him sell any chestnuts. And come to think of it, I have +never seen more than a half-dozen chestnuts on his roasting pan. I begin +to suspect that this old man is a fraud and that his roasting chestnuts is +a blind. He is very likely a lookout for some bootlegger gang or criminal +mob. And I will keep an eye on him." + + * * * * * + +Mottka remained unaware of Policeman Billing's attention. He continued to +sit hunched over his roaster, nursing the little fire under it as best he +could--and waiting. But finally Policeman Billings called himself to his +attention in no uncertain way. + +"What's your name?" asked the good officer, stopping before the chestnut +vender. + +"Mottka," answered Mottka. + +"And what are you doing here?" asked Policeman Billings, frowning. + +"I roast chestnuts and sell them," said Mottka. + +"Hm!" said Policeman Billings, "you do, eh? Well, we'll see about that. +Come along." + +Mottka rose without question. One does not ask questions of an officer of +the law. Mottka stood up and put the fire out and put the handful of +chestnuts in his pocket and picked up his roaster and followed the +officer. A half-hour later Mottka stood before the sergeant in the +Twenty-second street station. + +"What's the trouble?" asked the sergeant. + +And Policeman Billings explained. + +"He claims to be selling chestnuts and roasting them. But I never see him +sell any, much less do I see him roasting any. He's got about a dozen +chestnuts altogether and I think he may bear looking into." + +"What about it, Mottka?" asked the sergeant. + +Mottka shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and smiled deprecatingly. + +"Nothing," he said, "I got a chestnut roaster I got from a friend on the +West Side. And I try to make business. I got a license." + +"But the officer says you never roast any chestnuts and he thinks you're a +fake." + +"Yes, yes," smiled Mottka; "I don't have so many chestnuts. I can't afford +only a little bit at a time. Some time I buy a basket of chestnuts." + +"Where do you live, Mottka?" + +"Oh, on the West Side. On the West Side." + +"And what did you do before you roasted chestnuts?" + +"Me? Oh, I was in a business. Yes, in a business. And it failed. So I got +the chestnut roaster. I got a license." + +"It seems to me I've seen you before, Mottka." + +"Yes, yes. A policeman bring me here before when I was on Wabash Avenue +with my chestnuts." + +"What did he bring you in for?" + +"Oh, because he thinks I am a crook, because I don't have enough chestnuts +to sell. He says I am a lookout for crooks and he brings me in." + +Mottka laughed softly and shrugged his shoulders. + +"I am no crook. Only I am too poor to buy more chestnuts." + +Policeman Billings frowned, but not at Mottka. + +"Here," said the good officer, and he handed Mottka a dollar. Three other +upholders of the law were present and they too handed Mottka money. + +"Go and buy yourself some chestnuts, Mottka," said the sergeant, "so the +officers won't be runnin' you in on suspicion of bein' a criminal." + +Now Mottka's chestnut roaster in the alley off State Street is full of +chestnuts. A bright fire burns under the pan and Mottka sits watching the +chestnuts brown and peel as they roast. And if you were to ask him about +things he would say: + +"Tell something? What is there to tell? Nothing." + + + +"FA'N TA MIG!" + + +Avast and belay there! Take in the topgallants, wind up the mizzenmast and +reef the cleets! This is Tobias Wooden-Leg plowing his way through a high +sea in Grand Avenue. + +Aye, what a night, what a night! The devil astride the jib boom, his tail +lashing in the wind. "Pokker!" says Tobias, "fa'n ta mig. Hold tight and +here we go!" + +The boys in the Elite poolroom stand grinning in the doorway. Old Norske +Tobias is on a tear again, his red face shining with the memory of +Stavanger storms, his beard bristling like a north cat's back. An Odin in +caricature. + +They watch him pass. Drunker than a fiddler's wench. Drunker than a +bootlegger's pal. Drunk as the devil himself and roaring at the top of his +voice: "Belay, there! Hold tight and here we go!" Poor Tobias Wooden-Leg, +the years keep plucking out his hairs and twisting his fingers into +talons. Seventy years have squeezed him. And they have brought him piety +and wisdom. They have taught him virtue and holiness. + +But the wind suddenly rises and comes blowing out of Stavanger again. The +great sea suddenly lifts under his one good leg. And Tobias with his +Bibles and his prayer books struggles in the dark of his Grand Avenue +bedroom. The devil comes and sits on his window sill, a devil with long +locks and bronze wings beside his ears and a three-pronged pitchfork in +his hand. + +"Ho, ho!" cries this one on the window sill. "What are you doing here, +Tobias? With the north wind blowing and the gray seas standing on their +heads? Grown old, Tobias, eh? Sitting in a corner and mumbling over +litanies." + +And it has always been like that since he came to Grand Avenue ten years +ago. It has always turned out that Tobias takes off his white shirt and +puts on his sailor's black sweater and fastens on his old wooden leg and +follows the one on the window sill. + + * * * * * + +Avast and belay! The night is still young and a sailor man's abroad. The +sergeant going off duty at the Chicago Avenue station passes and winks and +calls: "Hello, Tobias. Pretty rough tonight." + +"Fa'n ta mig!" roars Tobias. "Hold tight." And he steers for Clark Street. +And now the one on the window sill is gone and the storm grows quiet. And +poor Tobias Wooden-Leg, the venerable and pious, who has won the grace of +God through a terrific fight, finds himself again lost and strayed. + +Of what good were the prayers and the night after night readings in the +old sea captain's Bible stolen forty years ago? Of what good the promises +and tears of repentance, when this thing that seemed to rise out of +forgotten seas could come and jump up on his window sill and bewitch him +as if he were a heedless boy? When it could sit laughing at him until in +its laugh he heard the sounds of old winds roaring and old seas standing +on their heads, and he put on his black sweater--the moth-eaten badge of +his sinfulness--and he put on his wooden leg and lifted out the handful of +money from under the corner of the carpet? + +What good were the prayers if they couldn't keep him pious? Yes, that was +it. And here the habitués along North Clark Street grin. For Tobias +Wooden-Leg is coming down the pavement, his head hanging low, his beard no +longer bristling and his soul on a hunt for a new God. A strong God. A +powerful and commanding God, stronger than the long-locked, bronze-winged +one of the window sill. + +They grin because this is an old story. Tobias is an old character. Once +every two or three months for ten years Tobias has come like this with his +head lowered searching for a new and powerful God that would keep him +pious and that would kill the devil that seemed never to die inside his +old Norske soul. + +So he had taken them all--a jumble of gods, a patchwork of religions. +Every soapbox apostle in the district had at one time converted him. Holy +Roller, Methodist, Jumper, Yogi, Swami, Zionite--he had bowed his head +before their and a dozen other varied gods. And the missions in the +district had come to know him as "the convert." He had been faithful to +each of the creeds as long as he remained sober and as long as he sat in +his room of nights reading in his Bible. + +But come a storm out of Stavanger, come a whistling under the eaves and a +thumping of wind on the window pane and Tobias was off again. "He is not a +good God!" Tobias would cry in his new "repentance." "His religion is too +weak. The devil is stronger than Him. I want a stronger religion. Pagh, I +want somebody big enough to kill this fanden inside me." + +The crowd around the soapbox evangelist is rather slight. The night is +cold. The wind bites and the street has a dismal air. The evangelist +stands around the corner from the old book store in whose windows +thousands of musty volumes are piled like the bones of hermits. The man +who owns this curious book store is a sun-worshipper. And the evangelist +on the soapbox is a friend of his. + +The slight crowd listens. Peace comes from the sun. The sun is the source +of light and of health. It is the eye of God. Terrible by day and watching +by night. It is the fire of life. The slight crowd grins and the +evangelist, his mind bubbling with a cabalistic jargon remembered out of +musty books, tries to explain something that seems vivid in his heart but +vague to his tongue. + +They will drop away soon because the night is cold and the evangelist a +bit too nutty for serious attention. But here comes Tobias Wooden-Leg and +some of the listeners grin and nudge one another. Tobias, with his voice +hoarse and his blue eyes shining with wrath--wrath at himself and wrath at +the God who had abandoned him, unable to cope with the one on the window +sill. + +Tobias listens. Terrible by day and ever watchful by night. The King of +Kings, the Great Majesty and secret symbol of the absolute. Tobias drinks +in the jargon of the soapbox man and then shouts: "I'll join, I'll join! I +want a strong God!" + + * * * * * + +So now Tobias Wooden-Leg is a sun-worshipper. The boys in the Elite +poolroom will tell you all about it. How he walks the street at dawn with +his head raised and bows every seven steps. And how in the evening he is +to be seen standing at his window bowing to the sun going down. And how he +has been around saying: "Well, I have found the big God at last. No more +monkey business for me. Listen to what it says in the book about him." And +how he will quote from the sea captain's Bible stolen forty years ago. + +But the boys also say: "Just wait." + +And they wink, meaning that another storm will blow up out of Stavanger in +Norway and old Tobias will come plowing down the street again howling that +fa'n ta mig the devil has him and that old Thor leaped on his window sill +and tossed the all-powerful sun out of the sky with his hammer. + + + +FANTASTIC LOLLYPOPS + + +They will never start. No, they will never start. In another two minutes +Mr. Prokofieff will go mad. They should have started at eleven. It is now +ten minutes after eleven. And they have not yet started. Ah, Mr. +Prokofieff has gone mad. + +But Mr. Prokofieff is a modernist; so nobody pays much attention. +Musicians are all mad. And a modernist musician, du lieber Gott! A Russian +modernist musician! + +The medieval face of Mr. Boris Anisfeld pops over the rows of empty seats. +It is very likely that Mr. Anisfeld will also go mad. For Mr. Anisfeld is, +in a way, a collaborator of Mr. Prokofieff. It is the full dress rehearsal +of "The Love for Three Oranges." Mr. Prokofieff wrote the words and music. +Mr. Anisfeld painted the scenery. + +"Mees Garden weel be hear in a meenute," the medieval face of Boris +whispers into the Muscovite ears of Serge. + + * * * * * + +Eleven-fifteen, and Miss Garden has arrived. She is armed, having brought +along her heaviest shillalah. Mr. Prokofieff is on his feet. He takes off +his coat. The medieval face of Mr. Anisfeld vanishes. Tap, tap, on the +conductor's stand. Lights out. A fanfare from the orchestra's right. + +Last rehearsal for the world premier of a modernist opera! One winter +morning years ago the music critics of Paris sat and laughed themselves +green in the face over the incomprehensible banalities of an impossible +modernist opera called "Tannhäuser." And who will say that critics have +lost their sense of humor. There will unquestionably be laughter before +this morning is over. + + * * * * * + +Music like this has never come from the orchestra pit of the Auditorium. +Strange combinations of sounds that seem to come from street pianos, New +Year's eve horns, harmonicas and old-fashioned musical beer steins that +play when you lift them up. Mr. Prokofieff waves his shirt-sleeved arms +and the sounds increase. + +There is nothing difficult about this music--that is, unless you are +unfortunate enough to be a music critic. But to the untutored ear there is +a charming capriciousness about the sounds from the orchestra. Cadenzas +pirouette in the treble. Largos toboggan in the bass. It sounds like the +picture of a crazy Christmas tree drawn by a happy child. Which is a most +peculiar way for music to sound. + +But, attention! The curtain is up. Bottle greens and fantastic reds. Here +is a scene as if the music Mr. Prokofieff were waving out of the orchestra +had come to life. Lines that look like the music sounds. Colors that +embrace one another in tender dissonances. Yes, like that. + +And here, galubcheck (I think it's galubcheck), are the actors. What is it +all about? Ah, Mr. Prokofieff knows and Boris knows and maybe the actors +know. But all it is necessary for us to know is that music and color and a +quaint, almost gargoylian, caprice are tumbling around in front of our +eyes and ears. + +And there is M. Jacques Coini. He will not participate in the world +premier. Except in spirit. Now M. Coini is present in the flesh. He wears +a business suit, spats of tan and a gray fedora. M. Coini is the stage +director. He instructs the actors how to act. He tells the choruses where +to chorus and what to do with their hands, masks, feet, voices, eyes and +noses. + +The hobgoblin extravaganza Mr. Prokofieff wrote unfolds itself with +rapidity. Theater habitués eavesdropping on the rehearsal mumble in the +half-dark that there was never anything like this seen on earth or in +heaven. Mr. Anisfeld's scenery explodes like a succession of medieval +skyrockets. A phantasmagoria of sound, color and action crowds the +startled proscenium. For there is no question but that the proscenium, +with the names of Verdi, Bach, Haydn and Beethoven chiseled on it, is +considerably startled. + +Through this business of skyrockets and crescendos and hobgoblins M. Coini +stands out like a lighthouse in a cubist storm. However bewildering the +plot, however humpty-dumpty the music, M. Coini is intelligible drama. His +brisk little figure in its pressed pants, spats and fedora, bounces around +amid the apoplectic disturbances like some busybody Alice in an operatic +Wonderland. + +The opus mounts. The music mounts. Singers attired as singers were never +attired before crawl on, bounce on, tumble on. And M. Coini, as +undisturbed as a traffic cop or a loop pigeon, commands his stage. He +tells the singers where to stand while they sing, and when they don't sing +to suit him he sings himself. He leads the chorus on and tells it where to +dance, and when they don't dance to suit him he dances himself. He moves +the scenery himself. He fights with Mr. Prokofieff while the music +splashes and roars around him. He fights with Boris. He fights with +electricians and wigmakers. + + * * * * * + +It is admirable. M. Coini, in his tan spats and gray fedora, is more +fantastic than the entire cast of devils and Christmas trees and +lollypops, who seem to be the leading actors in the play. Mr. Prokofieff +and Miss Garden have made a mistake. They should have let M. Coini play +"The Love for Three Oranges" all by himself. They should have let him be +the dream-towers and the weird chorus, the enchantress and the melancholy +prince. M. Coini is the greatest opera I have ever seen. All he needed was +M. Prokofieff's music and the superbly childish visions of the medieval +Boris for a background. + +The music leaps into a gaudy balloon and sails away in marvelous zigzags, +way over the heads of the hobgoblins on the stage and the music critics +off the stage. Miss Garden beckons with her shillalah. Mr. Prokofieff +arrives panting at her side. He bows, kisses the back of her hand and +stands at attention. Also the medieval face of Mr. Anisfeld drifts gently +through the gloom and joins the two. + +The first act of "The Oranges" is over. Two critics exchanging opinions +glower at Mr. Prokofieff. One says: "What a shame! What a shame! Nobody +will understand it." The other agrees. But perhaps they only mean that +music critics will fail to understand it and that untutored ones like +ourselves will find in the hurdy-gurdy rhythms and contortions of Mr. +Prokofieff and Mr. Anisfeld a strange delight. As if some one had given us +a musical lollypop to suck and rub in our hair. + + * * * * * + +I have an interview with Mr. Prokofieff to add. The interview came first +and doesn't sit well at the end of these notes. Because Mr. Prokofieff, +sighing a bit nervously in expectation of the world's premier, said: "I am +a classicist. I derive from the classical composers." + +This may be true, but the critics will question it. Instead of quoting Mr. +Prokofieff at this time, it may be more apropos merely to say that I would +rather see and listen to his opera than to the entire repertoire of the +company put together. This is not criticism, but a prejudice in favor of +fantastic lolly-pops. + + + +NOTES FOR A TRAGEDY + + +Jan Pedlowski came home yesterday and found that his wife had run away. +There was supper on the table. And under the soup plate was a letter +addressed to Jan. It read, in Polish: + +"I am sick and tired. You keep on nagging me all the time and I can't +stand it any more. You will be better off without me. + +"Paula." + +Jan ate his supper and then put his hat and coat on and went over to see +the sergeant at the West Chicago Avenue police station. The sergeant +appeared to be busy, so Jan waited. Then he stepped forward and said: + +"My wife has run away. I want to catch her." + +The sergeant was lacking in sympathy. He told Jan to go home and wait and +that the missus would probably come back. And that if she didn't he could +get a divorce. + +"I don't want a divorce," said Jan. "I want to catch her." + + * * * * * + +But Jan went home. It was no use running around looking for her and losing +sleep. And, besides, he had to be in court tomorrow. The landlord had left +a notice that the Pedlowskis must get out of their flat because they +didn't pay their rent. + +Before coming home Jan had arranged with the foreman at the plating works +for two hours off, to be taken out of his pay. He could come to work at +seven and work until half-past nine, then go to court and be back, maybe, +by half-past eleven. + +So Jan went to bed. He put the letter his wife had left in his coat +pocket, because he had a vague idea it might be evidence. He might show it +to somebody and maybe it would help. + +It was snowing when Jan left the plating works in the morning to come to +court. He arrived at the City Hall and wandered around, confused by the +crowd of people pouring in and out of the elevators. But it was growing +late and he only had two hours off. So Jan made inquiries. Where was the +court where he should go? + +"Judge Barasa on the eighth floor," said the starter. Jan went there. + +A lot of people were in the court room. Jan sat down among them and looked +like them--blank, uninterested, as if waiting for a train in the railroad +station. + +One thing worried Jan. The two hours off. If they didn't call him he'd be +late and the foreman would be mad. He might lose his job, and jobs were +hard to get. It took five weeks to get this one. It would take longer now. + +But they called Jan Pedlowski and he came forward to where the judge sat. +At first Jan had felt confused and frightened. He had worried about coming +to court and standing before the judge. Now it seemed all right. Everybody +was nice and businesslike. A lawyer said: + +"There's almost two months' rent due now. Eighteen dollars for the +November rent and $27.50 for December." + +"Can you pay the rent?" the judge asked of Jan. + +Jan looked and blinked and tried to think of something to say. He could +only think of "My wife Paula ran away last night. Here, she wrote this +letter left me on the table when I come home last night." + +"I see," said the judge. "But what about the rent? If I give you until +January 10, do you think you can pay it?" + +"I don't know," said Jan, rubbing his eyes. "I got job now, but they going +to layoff after new year. If I have job I pay it all. I can pay $10 now." + +"Have you got it with you," asked the judge. + +"Yes," said Jan. "I was going to buy Christmas present for Paula, but she +ran away." + + * * * * * + +Jan handed over the $10 and listened to the judge explain that he would be +allowed to stay where he was until January 10 and have till then to pay +his rent. When this was over he walked out, putting his hat on too soon, +so that the bailiff cried: "Hats off in the courtroom." Jan grabbed his +hat and grew red. + +Now he had almost a full hour and a half before going to the factory. It +had taken less time than he thought. Jan started to walk. It was cold and +the streets were slippery. He walked along with his hands in the frayed +pockets of his overcoat and his breath congealing over his walrus +mustache. + +His eyes were set and his face serious. Jan's thoughts were simple. +Rent--Paula--jobs. Christmas, perhaps, too. But he walked along like +anybody else in the loop. + + * * * * * + +Jan wandered as far as Quincy and La Salle streets. Here he stopped and +looked around. It was beginning to snow heavier now. He stood still like a +man waiting. And having nothing to do he took the letter his wife had left +under the soup plate and read it again. + +When Jan had folded the letter up and started to walk once more his eyes +suddenly lighted up. He turned and started to run and as he ran he cried: +"Paula, Paula!" Some of the crowd moving on paused and looked at a stocky +man with a heavy mustache running across the street and shouting a woman's +name. + +The cabs were thick at the moment and it was hard running across. But Jan +kept on, his overcoat flapping behind him and his short legs jumping up +and down as he moved. A young woman with a cheap fur around her neck had +stopped. There were others who paused to watch Jan. But this young woman +was one of the few who didn't smile. + +She waited as if puzzled for a moment and then started to lose herself in +the crowd. She walked swiftly ahead, her eyes anxiously on the corner. And +in the meantime Jan came galumphing toward the curbing still crying: +"Paula, Paula!" At the curbing, however, Jan came to a full stop. His toe +had caught the cement and he shot forward, landing on his hands and chin. + +A crowd gathered around Jan and some one helped him to his feet. His chin +was bleeding and his hands were scraped from hitting the cold pavement. He +made no sign, however, of injury, but stood blinking in the direction the +young woman with the cheap fur had gone. + +A policeman arrived and inquired sympathetically what was wrong. Jan +brushed himself mechanically as the policeman spoke. Then he answered: +"Nothing, I fell down." The policeman went away and Jan turned back to +catch a Milwaukee Avenue street car. + +He stood on the corner waiting and fingering his bruised chin. He seemed +to be getting impatient as the car failed to appear. Finally he thrust his +hand inside his pocket and drew out the letter again. He held it without +reading for an instant and then tore it up. + +When the car came Jan was still tearing up the letter, his thick fingers +trying vainly to divide it into tinier bits. + + + +CORAL, AMBER AND JADE + + +There are no gold and scarlet lanterns bobbing like fat little oriental +Pierrots over this street. No firecracker colors daub its sad walls. Walk +the whole length and not a dragon or a thumbnail balcony or a pigtail will +you see. + +Instead, a very efficient, very conservative Chinatown and a colony of +very efficient and very matter-of-fact Chinamen who have gradually taken +possession of a small district around Twenty-second Street and Wentworth +Avenue. A rather famous district in its way, where once the city's +tenderloin put forth its red shadows. + +But now as you walk, the night stares evilly out of wooden ruins. +Stretches of sagging, empty buildings, whose windows and doors seem to +have been chewed away, an intimidating silence, a graveyard of crumbling +little houses--these remain. And you see Venus, grown old and toothless, +snoozing amid the debris of another day. + +Then the Chinamen begin. Lights twinkle. Clean-looking interiors and +carefully washed store windows. Roofs have been hammered back in place, +stairways nailed together again. The sagging walls and lopsided cottages +have taken a new lease on life. Another of the innumerable little business +districts that dot the city has fought its way into evidence. + +There are few oddities. Through the glass of the store fronts you see +curiously immobile groups, men seated in chairs, smoking long pipes and +waiting in silence. Strange fruits, foods, herbs, cloths, trinkets, lie on +the orderly shelves around them. The floors look scrubbed and there is an +absence of litter. It is all very efficient and very natural except for +the immobility of the men in the chairs and the silence that seems to have +descended on them. + + * * * * * + +A Chinese silence. And if you linger in the neighborhood you begin to feel +that this is more Chinese than the gaudy dragons and the firecracker daubs +and the bobbing paper lanterns of fiction. + +This night I am looking for Billy Lee. No. 2209 Wentworth Avenue, says Mr. +Lee's card. We are to talk over some matters, one of which has already +been made public, others of which may never be. + +He sits in his inner office, attired like a very efficient American +business man, does Mr. Lee. We say hello and start the talk. In the rooms +outside the inner office are a dozen Chinese. But there is no sound. They +are sitting in chairs or standing up. All smoking. All silent. A sense of +strange preoccupation lies over the place. Yet one feels that the twelve +silent men are preoccupied with nothing except, possibly, the fact that +they are Chinese. + +Mr. Lee himself is none too garrulous. We have been talking for several +minutes when he becomes totally silent and after a long pause hands me a +cablegram. The cablegram reads: "Hongkong--Ying Yan: Bandits captured Foo +Wing and wife. Send $5,000 immediately. Signed: Taichow." + + * * * * * + +"I just received this," says Mr. Lee. "Ying Yan is my father. Foo Wing is +my brother. His American name is Andrew Lee. He went to Hongkong ten +months ago and was married. This is terrible. I am worried to death." + +Mr. Lee appears to sink into a studious calm. His eyes regard the +cablegram stolidly. He remarks at length: "Bad news. This is very bad +news." + +From outside comes a sudden singsong of Chinese. One of the twelve men has +said something. He finishes. Silence resumes. There seems to be no answer. +Mr. Lee puts the cablegram back in his pocket and some one knocks on the +door. + +"Come in," says Mr. Lee. A Chinese youth enters. He carries a bundle. + +"Meet Mr. Tang," says Billy Lee. We shake hands and Mr. Tang begins +talking in Chinese. Mr. Lee listens, nods his head and then holds out his +hand for the bundle. + +"This is a very interesting event," says Mr. Lee in English. "Mr. Tang is +just over from the Orient. He comes from north of China, from Wu Chang, +where the revolution started, you know. He has with him a very interesting +matter." + +Mr. Lee unwraps the bundle. He removes a long necklace made of curiously +carved wooden beads, large balls of jade and pendants of silk and +semi-precious stones. + +Next he removes a second necklace somewhat longer than the first. It is +made of marvelously matched amber beads, balls of jade and pendants of +coral. + +"A very interesting matter," says Mr. Lee. "Mr. Tang is son of a formerly +very wealthy and high-born mandarin family. But his family has lost +everything and Mr. Tang is here seeking an education in modern business. +He has left of his family's wealth only these two things here. They are +necklaces such as only mandarins could wear when they appeared before the +emperor in court in the old days. + +"You see these have three pendants, so they show the mandarin was a +gentleman of the third class under the emperor. They have been in Mr. +Tang's family's possession for generations. You will notice this one of +carved beads is made of beads which are formed from the pits of the +Chinese olive. There are two hundred beads and on each is carved some +figure or scene which in all represent the history of China." + + * * * * * + +Mr. Lee holds the two necklaces in his hand. Mr. Tang stands by silently. +His eyes gaze at the beads. + +"Your father wore them at court?" inquires Mr. Lee in the manner of a +host. + +Mr. Tang nods his head slowly and adds a word in Chinese. + +"He says his family wore them for generations," explains Mr. Lee. "Now the +family is vanished and all that is left are these insignia of their +nobility. And Mr. Tang wishes me to dispose of them for him so he may have +money to go to school." + +Mr. Lee and Mr. Tang are then both silent. Mr. Lee slips one of the +necklaces over his head. It hangs down over his American coat and American +silk shirt in a rather incongruous way. But there seems to be nothing +incongruous in the matter for Lee and Tang. Billy Lee with the necklace +around his neck, the three mandarin pendants against his belt, looks at +Mr. Tang and Mr. Tang bows and leaves. + +Our matters have been fully discussed and I follow a half-hour later. +There are still twelve men in the room. They stand and sit and smoke. None +speaks. I notice in the group the immobile figure of Mr. Tang. He is +smoking an American cigarette--one of the twelve silently preoccupied +residents of Chinatown who have gathered in Billy Lee's place to wait for +something. + + + +MEDITATION IN E MINOR + + +Well, well, well. The lady pianist will now oblige with something very +refined. When in the name of 750,000 gods of reason will I ever learn +enough to stay at home and go to bed instead of searching kittenishly for +diversion in neighborhood movie and vaudeville houses? + +No. Wrong. The lady is not a pianist. She is merely an accompanist. She is +going to accompany something on cares? They are no more than the ripples +which one's ego a face! Two hundred and eighty-five years old, if a day. + +Aha! His nobs. A fiddler. "Silver Threads Among the Gold," and something +fancy from the opera. And all dressed up in his wedding suit. The white +tie is a bit soiled and the white vest longs mutely for the laundryman. +And if he's going to wear a dress suit, if he insists upon wearing a dress +suit, why doesn't he press his pants? + +But how did a man with a face like this ever happen to think he could +fiddle? An English nobleman. Or maybe a Swedish nobleman. Hm! A very +interesting face. A little bit touched with flabbiness. And somewhat +soiled, intangibly soiled. Like an English nobleman or a Swedish nobleman +who has stayed up all night drinking. + +And he holds his fiddle in an odd way. Like what? Well, like a fiddler. +Like a marvelous fiddler. It hangs limply from his hand as if it were +nonexistent. Kreisler holds his fiddle like that. A close-cropped blond +mustache and the beginnings of a paunch. Nevertheless a very refined +gentleman, a baron somewhat the worse for a night of bourbon. + +The idiotic orchestra, the idiotic orchestra! Did anybody ever hear such +an idiotic orchestra? Three violins, one cello, one cornet, one flute and +a drum all out of tune, all out of time. The prelude. And his nobs grins. +Poor fellow. But who taught him how to hold a fiddle like that? + +We're off. An E minor chord from our friend at the piano. Hm, something +classical. Ho, ho! Viotti. Well, well, here's a howdeedo. His nobs is +going to play the concerto. Good-by, good luck and God bless him. If I was +in bed, if I was in bed, I wouldn't have to listen to a refined gentleman +with his swell pants unpressed murdering poor Viotti. A swell gentleman +with his eyes carefully made up. I didn't notice his eyes before. All set, +Paganini. Your turn. Let's go. + +Ah, that was a note! Well, well, well, his nobs can play. Hm! A cadenza in +double stops! And the E minor scale in harmonics! Listen to the baron in +the dirty white vest. The man's a violinist. Observe--calisthenics on the +G string and in the second position. A very difficult position and easily +faked. And when did Heifetz ever take a run like that? Up, down and the +fingers hammering like thoroughbreds on a fast track. Pizzicato with the +left hand and obbligato glissando! + +Hoopla! The fellow's showing off! And it isn't a Drdla souvenir or a +vaudeville Brahms arrangement. But twenty years of practice. Yes, sir, +there are twenty years and eight hours a day, every day for twenty years, +in these acrobatics. There are twenty years, twenty years, behind this +technique. And well-spent years. + +But tell me, Cyril, for whom is our baron showing off--for whom? Our baron +with the soiled tie and the made-up eyes, fiddling coldly, elaborately for +a handful of annoyed flappers, amused shoe clerks and bored home lovers +sitting stolidly in the dark, waiting stolidly and defiantly to be +diverted? + +Bravo! Five of us applaud. No, six. A gentleman in an upper box applauds +with some degree of violence. And there is the orchestra leader--a +dark-skinned, black-eyed, curly-headed youth, nodding and smiling. + +Next on the program? Ah, a ballad. A thing the cabaret ladies sing, "Do +You Think of Me?" A faint smile on our baron's face. But the fiddle leaps +into position as if for another cold, elaborate attack. It takes twenty +years, twenty well-spent years to learn to hold a bow like that. Firmly, +casually, indifferently as one holds a pencil between one's fingers. + +Admission 33 cents, including war tax. But this is worth--well, it is what +the novelists call an illuminating experience. This gentleman of music +whose fingers have for twenty years absorbed the souls of Beethoven and +Sarasate, Liszt and Moussorgski, this aristocrat of the catgut is +posturing sardonically before the three bored fates. He is pouring twenty +years, twenty well-spent years, into a tawdry little ballad. Ah, how our +baron's fiddle sings! And the darkened faces in front hum to themselves: +"When you're flirt-ing with another, do you ever think--of--me." + +Yes, my tired-faced baron, there's a question. Do you? We, out front, all +have our little underworlds in which we live sometimes while music plays +and beautiful things come to our eyes. And yours? This tin-pan alley +ballad throbbing liquidly from the strings of your fiddle--"When you're +flirt-ing with another do you ever think--of--me?" Of the twenty years, +the twenty well-spent years? Of the soul that your fingers captured? Of +the dream that took form in your firm wrist? + +And now the chorus once more. In double stops. In harmonics. With +arpeggios thrown in. And once more, largo. Sure and full. Sobbing organ +notes, whimpering grace notes. Superb, baron! And done with a half smile +at the darkened faces out front. The tired faces that blinked stolidly at +Viotti. A smile at the orchestra leader who stands with his mouth open +waiting as if the song were still in the air. + +Applause. All of us this time. More applause. Say this guy can fiddle, he +can. Come on, baron, another tune. The tired faces yammer for another +ditty. "Träumerei." All right, let her go, Paganini. And after that the +"Missouri Waltz." + + * * * * * + +I will stay for the next show. I will stay for the three shows. And each +time this magnifico will come out and make music. But better than that. I +will go back stage and talk with him. I will ask him: "How does it happen, +sir, that a man who can fiddle like you, a man who could play a duet with +Kreisler--how does it happen you're fiddling in a neighborhood movie and +vaudeville house?" + +And he will unfold a story. Yes, there's a story there. Something happened +to this nobleman of the soiled white vest and the marvelous fingers. There +was an occurrence in this man's life which would make a good climax for a +second act. + +No, that would spoil the picture. To find out, to learn the clumsy +mechanism behind this charming spectacle would take away. Better like +this. The lady at the piano. Ah, indeed, the lady at the piano, a very +elderly lady with a thin nose and hair that was once extremely beautiful, +perhaps she had something to do with it? The orchestra pounds and scrapes +away. And the movie jumps around and the heroine weeps, but somebody saves +her. "Where there is no faith there cannot be true love," confesses the +hero, folding her in his well-pressed arms. And that's that. + +Now our friend, the baron, again. No, better to leave. He has left his +smile in the wings this time. He is very serious or perhaps very tired. +Two times tonight to play. Too much--too much. + +My hat, and I will walk out on his nobs. And, anyway, Huneker wrote the +story long ago. About a piano player in Coney Island that he called--what +was it? Oh, yes, "A Chopin of the Gutter." + + + +TEN-CENT WEDDING RINGS + + +A gloomy day and the loop streets grimace behind a mist. The electric +signs are lighted. The buildings open like great fans in the half dark. + +The streets invite a mood of melodrama. Windows glint evilly. Doorways +grin with rows of electric teeth. This, _Jonnerrvetter_! is the Great +City of the old-time ten-twenty-thirty thrillers. The devourer of +innocence, the strumpet of stone. + +I walk along humming a bar of villainous music, the "skeeter scale" that +the orchestra used to turn turn turn taaaa-tum in the old Alhambra as the +two dockwallopers and the leering Chinaman were climbing in through little +Mabel's hall bedroom window to abduct her. + +Those were happy days for the drama, when a scoundrel was a scoundrel and +wore a silk hat to prove it, and a hero was a two-fisted man, as anybody +could tell by a glance at his marcelled hair and his open-at-the-throat +shirt. + +Tum tum tum tum taaaa-tum. Pizzicato pianissimo, says the direction on the +score. So we are all set for a melodrama. Here is the Great City +back-drop. Here are the grim-faced crowds shuffling by under the jaundice +glare of electric signs. And Christmas is coming. A vague gray snow +trickles out of the gloom. + +A proper time for melodrama. All we need is a plot. Come, come now--a plot +alive with villains and weeping maidens. Halto! The window of the 5--and +10-cent store! a tumble of gewgaws and candies and kitchen utensils. +Christmas tree tinsel and salted peanuts, jazz music and mittens. + +The curtain is up. Egad, what a masterly scene. A kitchen Coney Island. A +puzzle picture of isles, signs, smells, noises. Cinderella wandering +wistfully in the glass-bead section looking for a fairy godmother. + +A clinking obbligato by the cash registers. The poor are buying gifts. +This garish froth of merchandise is the back ground of their luxuries. +This noisy puzzle-picture store is their horn of plenty. A sad thought and +we'll dismiss it. What we want is plot. + +Perhaps the jazz-song booster singing out of the side of his mouth with +tired eyes leering at the crowd of girls: "Won't You Let Me Love You If I +Promise to Be Good?" And "Love Me, Turtle Dove." And "Lovin' Looie." And +"The Lovin' Blues." + +All lovin'. Jazz songs, ballads, sad, silly, boobish nut songs--all about +love me--love me. All about stars and kisses, moonlight and "she took my +man away." There are telephones all over the walls and the song booster's +voice pops out over the salted-peanut section, over the safety-pin and +brassware section. A tinny, nasal voice with a whine and a hoarseness +almost hiding the words. + +The cash registers clink, clink. "Are you waited on, madam? Five cents a +package, madam." The crowds, tired eyed, shabbily dressed, bundle-laden, +young, old--the crowds shuffle up and down, staring at gewgaws, and the +love-me love songs follow them around. Follow them to the loose-bead +counter where Madge with her Japanese puffs of hair, her wad of gum and +her black shirtwaist that she keeps straightening out continually by +drawing up her bosom and pressing down on her hips with her hands--where +Madge holds forth. + +Tum tum tum tum taaaa-tum--halto! Here is our plot. Outside the pizzicato +of the crowds, the Great City, shining, dragon-eyed, through the mist--the +City That Has No Heart. And here under our nose, twinkling up at our eyes, +a huge tray full of 10-cent wedding rings. End of Act One. + +Act Two, now--Madge, the sharp-tongued, weary-eyed young woman behind the +counter. Love-me love songs in her ear and people unraveling, faces +unraveling before her. Who buys these wedding rings, Madge? And did you +ever notice anything odd about your customers? And why do you suppose they +buy ten-cent wedding rings, Madge? + +"Just a moment," says Madge. "What is it, miss? A ring? What kind? Oh, +yes. Ten cents. Gold or platinum just the same. Yes." + +Two giggling girls move off. And Madge, chewing gently on her wad of gum +and smoothing her huge hair puffs out with the coyly stiffened palms of +her hands, talks. + +"Sure, I get you. About the wedding rings. Sure, that's easy. We sell +about twenty or thirty of them every day. Oh, mostly to kids--girls and +boys. Sometimes an old Johnny comes in with a moth-eaten fur collar and +blows a dime for a wedding ring. But mostly girls. + +"I sometimes take a second look at them. They usually giggle when they ask +for the ring. And they usually pretend it's for somebody as a joke they're +buying it. Or sometimes they walk around the counter for a half hour and +get me nervous as a cat. 'Cause I know what they want and they can't get +their gall up to come and ask for it. But finally they make the break and +come up and pick out a ring without saying a word and hand over ten cents. + +"There was one girl no more than sixteen just this morning. She come here +all full of pep and kidded about things and said wasn't them platinum +wedding rings just too grand for words, and so on. Then she said she +wanted a half-dozen of them, and was there a discount when bought in such +quantity? I started wrapping them up when I looked at her and she was +crying. And she dropped her sixty cents on the counter and said: 'Never +mind, never mind. I don't want them. I can't wear them. They'll only make +it worse.'" + +A middle-aged-looking man interrupts. "What is it, sir?" asks Madge. +"Anything in rings? What kind?" "Oh, just plain rings," says the man with +a great show of indifference, while his eyes ferret among the trinkets on +the counter. And then, very calmly: "Oh, these will do, I guess." Two +wedding rings, and he spent twenty cents. Madge follows him with her eyes. +"That's it," she whispers, "usually the men buy two. One for themselves +and one for the girl. Or if it's the girl that's buying them it's one for +herself and one for her girl chum who's going with her and the two fellas +on the party. Say, take it from me, these rings don't ever hear no wedding +marches." + + * * * * * + +Back into the gloomy street again. A plot in our head, but who's the +villain and who's the heroine and the hero? An easy answer to that. The +crowd here--sad faced, tired-walking, bundle-laden. The crowd continually +dissolving amid street cars and autos is the villain. + +A crowd of shoppers buying slippers for uncle and shawls for mother and +mufflers for brother and some bars of soap for the bathroom. Buying +everything and anything that fill the fan-shaped buildings with their +glinting windows. Buying carpet sweepers and window curtains and linoleum. + +Pizzicato, pianissimo, professor--little-girl gigglers and hard-faced dock +wallopers and slick-haired lounge lizards and broken-hearted ones--twenty +a day they sidle up to Madge's counter, where the love me, love me songs +razz the heavy air, and shoot a dime for a wedding ring. + + + +WHERE THE "BLUES" SOUND + + + "That St. Louis woman + Wid her diahmond rings, + Pulls mah man 'round + By her apron strings--" + +A voice screeches above the boom and hurrah of the black and white 35th +Street cabaret. The round tables rock. Waiters careen. Balanced trays +float at crazy angles through the tobacco smoke. Hats flash. Firecracker +voices explode. A guffaw dances across a smear of faces. Congo gleams, +college boy pallors, the smiles of black and white men and women +interlace. A spotlight shoots its long hypotenuse upon the floor. In its +drifting oval the entertainer, her shoulders back, her elbows out, her +fists clenched and her body twisting into slow patterns, bawls in a +terrifying soprano-- + + "If it waren't foh her powdah + And her stohe bought hair. + The man Ah love + Would not have gone nowhere--" + +Listen for the tom-tom behind the hurrah. Watch for the torches of Kypris +and Corinth behind the glare of the tungstens. This is the immemorial +bacchanal lurching through the kaleidoscope of the centuries. Pan with a +bootlegger's grin and a checked suit. Dionysius with a saxophone to his +lips. And the dance of Paphos called now the shimmie. + +Listen and watch and through the tumult, rising like a strange incense +from the smear of bodies, tables and waiters, will come the curious thing +that is never contained in the vice reports. The gleam of the devil +himself--the echo of some mystic cymbal note. + +Later the music will let out a tinny blaze of sound. Men and women will +press together and a pack of bodies will sway on the dance floor. The +tungstens will go out and the spotlight will throw colors--green, purple, +lavender, blue, violet--and as the scene grows darker and the colors +revolve a howl will fill the place. But on the dance floor a silence will +fasten itself over the swaying bodies and there will be only the sound of +feet pushing. The silence of a ritual--faces stiffened, eyes rolling--a +rigid embrace of men and women creeping cunningly among the revolving +colors and the whiplike rhythms of the jazz band. + + * * * * * + +"Lost souls," says the vice reports, and the vice reports speak with a +calm and knowing voice. Women whose bodies and faces are like shells of +evil; vicious seeming men with a rasp in their laughter. These are among +those present. Aphrodite is a blousy wench in the 35th and State streets +neighborhood. And her votaries, although they offer an impressive +ensemble, are a sorry lot taken face by face. + +Izzy, who is an old timer, sits at a table and takes it in. Izzy's eyes +and ears have learned to pick details in a bedlam. He can talk softly and +listen easily through the height of the cabaret racket. The scene hits +Izzy as water hits a duck's back. + +"Well," he says, "it's a good night tonight. The slummers are out in full +force rubberin' at each other. Well, this is a funny world, take it from +me. Me? Huh, I come here every night or so to have a little drink and look +'em over for a while. Ain't nothing to see but a lot o' molls and a lot of +sucker guys. Them? Say, they never learn no better. Tough guys ain't no +different from soft guys, see? They all fall for the dames just as hard +and just as worse. There's many a good guy in this place that's been gave +a tumble by them, see? + +"There, I got an idee he'd blow in tonight. He ain't missed a Saturday +night for months. And he usu'lly makes it four or five times a week. That +guy over there wit' the mop o' gray hair. Yeah, that's him. Well, he's the +professor. I spotted him in the district a year or so ago. He had a dame +wit' him who I know, see? A terrible broad. Say, maybe you've heard of +him. His name is Weintraub. I picked it up from the dame he's goin' wit', +see? He ought to be in your line. He was a reg'lar music professor before +he come down. The leader of a swell orchestra somewhere in the east or in +Europe, I guess. The dame don't know for sure, but she told me he was some +baby on music. + +"Well, that's him there, see? He comes in like this and sits down near the +band. Look at him. Do you make him? The way he's movin' his hands? See, +he's leadin' the band. Sure"--Izzy laughed mirthlessly--"that's what the +guy's doin'. Nuts, see? Daffy. He comes in here like that and I always +watch him. He sits still and when the music starts up he begins wit' his +hands. Ain't he the berries? + +"Now keep your eye on him. You'll see somethin' pretty quick. He's alone +tonight. I guess the dame has shook him for the evenin'. Look, he's still +conductin'. Ain't he rich? But he's got a good face, you might say. Class, +eh? You'd know he was a musician. + +"I tell you I begin to watch him the first time I saw him. And from the +beginnin' he's always conductin' when the band starts in. The dame is +usu'lly wit' him and she don't like it. She tries to stop him, but he +don't see her for sour apples. He keeps right on like now, beatin' time +wit' his hands. Look, the poor nut's growin' excited. Daffy. Can you beat +it? There he goes. See? That's on account of Jerry. Jerry's the black one +on the end wit' the saxophone. Ha, Jerry always does it. + +"I told Jerry about this guy and Jerry tried it on him the first night. He +pulled a sour one, you know, blew a mean one through the horn and his nobs +nearly fell out of his seat. Like now. See, he's through. He won't conduct +the band any more tonight. He's sore. No sir, he won't conduct such a lot +of no-good boilermakers like Jerry. Can you beat it?" + + * * * * * + +Izzy's eyes follow a stoop-shouldered gray-haired man from one of the +tables. A thin-faced man with bloodshot eyes. He walks as if he were half +asleep. The crowd swallows him and Izzy laughs again without mirth. + +"He's done for the night. That's low down of Jerry. But Jerry says it gets +his goat to see this daffy guy comin' in here night after night and +leadin' the band from the table. So the smoke blows that sour note every +time his nobs gets started on his conductin' and it always knocks his nobs +for a gool. He never stays another minute, but lights out right away. + +"Look, there's his dame. The one wit' the green hat, sittin' wit' the guy +with the cheaters over there. Yeah, that's her. I don't know why she ain't +wit' him tonight. Prob'ly a lovers' quarrel." And Izzy grinned. "She's a +tough one, take it from me. I don't know how she hooked the professor, but +she did. She used to be swelled up about him. And once she got him a job +in Buxbaum's old place, she told me, to work in the orchestra. But his +nobs kicked. Said he'd cut his throat before playin' in a roughneck +orchestra and who did she think he was to do such a thing? He says to her: +I'm Weintraub--Weintraub, d'ye understand?' And he hauls off and wallops +her one and she guve up tryin' to get him a job. It makes her sore to +watch him sittin' around like tonight and conductin' the orchestra. She +says it ain't because he's daffy, but on account of his bein' stuck up." + +The woman with the green hat had left her table. Izzy's shrewd eyes picked +her out again--this time standing against a far wall talking to the +professor, and the professor was rubbing his forehead and saying "No, no," +with his hands. + +And now the entertainer was singing again: + + "Got de St. Louis Blues, jes' as blue as Ah can be, + Dat man has a heart like a rock ca-ast in de sea, + Or else he would not have gone so far away from me." + + + +VAGABONDIA + + +Here they come. Five merry travelers in a snorting, dust-caked automobile. +Wanderers, egad! Bowling rakishly across the country. Dusters and goggles +and sunburn. Prairie nights have sung to them. Little towns have grinned +at them. Mountains, valleys, forests and stars have danced across their +windshield. + +The newspaper man stood watching them haul up to the Adams Street curb. +His heart was tired of tall buildings and the endless grimace of windows. +Here was a chariot out of another world. Motor vagabonds. Scooting into a +city with a swagger to their dust-caked wheels. And scooting out again. + +The newspaper man thought, "The world isn't buried yet. There's still a +restlessness left. Things change from triremes to motor boats, from +Rosinante to automobiles. But adventure merely mounts a new seat and goes +on. Dick Hovey sang it once: + + "I am fevered with the sunset, + I am fretful with the bay, + For the wander thirst is on me + And my soul is in Cathay." + +The five merry travelers crawled out and stretched themselves. They doffed +their goggles and slipped off their linen dusters and changed forthwith +from a group of flying gnomes into five tired-looking citizens of +California. Two middle aged women. Two middle-aged men and a son. + +One of the men said, "Well, we'll lay up here for awhile, I got a blister +on my hand from the wheel." + +One of the women answered, "I must buy some hairpins, Martin." + +The newspaper man said to himself, "What ho! I'll give them a ring. Why +not? A story of the modern wanderlust. Anyway, they're not averse to +publicity seeing they've got two 'coast to coast' pennants on the back of +their machine. What they've seen. Why they've journeyed. A tirade against +the monotony of business. And I'll stick in one of Hovey's stanzas, the +one that goes: + + "There's a schooner in the offing + With her topsails shot with fire. + And my heart has gone aboard her + For the Islands of Desire." + +"You can say," said the spokesman of the wanderers, "that this is Martin +S. Stevers and party. I am Mr. Stevers of the Stevers Linseed Oil Company +in San Francisco. Here's my card." + +"Thanks," said the newspaper man, taking the card. + +"And now," spake on the spokesman of the wanderers, "what can I do for +you?" + +Newspaper men are perhaps the only creatures who as a type never learn how +to ask questions. An embarrassment caused by the stupidity of the gabby +great whom they interrogate daily puts a crimp into their tongues. Their +questions wince in anticipation of the banalities they are doomed to +elicit. Their curiosity collapses under the shadow of the inevitable, +impending bromide. + +Thus the newspaper man, wearily certain that regardless of what he asks or +how he asks it, he will hear for answers only the clumsy asininities +behind which the personalities, leaders and sacred white cows pompously +attitudinize, gets so that he mumbles a bit incoherently. + +But here was a different case. Here were merry travelers with memories of +wind-swept valleys and star-capped mountains to chatter on. So the +newspaper man unearthed his vocabulary, tilted his hat a trifle and smiled +invitingly. + +"Well," said he to the spokesman of the wanderers, "The kind of story I'd +like to get would be a story about five people wandering across the +country. You know. Hills, sunsets, trees and how those things drive away +the monotony that fills up the hearts of city folk. What you enjoyed on +the trip and the advantages of a rover over a swivel-chair statistician." + +An eloquence was beginning to skip around on the newspaper man's tongue. +His heart, weary of tall buildings and the endless grimace of city +windows, began to warm under the visions his phrases aroused. + +Then he paused. One of the women had interrupted. "Go on Martin, you can +tell him all that. And don't forget about the lovely hotel breakfast room +in Des Moines." + +Martin, however, hesitated. He was a heavy-set, large-faced man with +expansive features almost devoid of expression. Suddenly his face lighted +up. His hands jumped together and he rubbed their palms enthusiastically. + +"I see," he said with profundity. "I see." + +"Yes," breathed the newspaper man. + +"Well," said Mr. Stevers, "the first thing I'd like to tell you, young +man, is about the car. You won't believe this, but we've been making +twenty miles on a gallon, that is, averaging twenty miles on each and +every gallon, sir, since we left San Francisco. Pretty good, eh?" + +On a piece of scratch paper the newspaper man obediently wrote, "twenty +miles, gallon." + +"And then," went on the spokesman for the wanderers, "Our speed, eh? You'd +like to know that? Well, without stretching the thing at all, and you can +verify it from any of my party, we've averaged twenty-six miles an hour +all the time out. I tell you the old boat had to travel some to do that." + +'"Twenty-six miles," scribbled the newspaper man, adding after it, "The +man's an idiot." + +Mr. Stevers, unmindful, loosened up. The price of gasoline. The price of +breakfasts. The condition of the roads. How long a stretch they had been +able to do without a halt. How many hours a day he himself had stuck at +the wheel. When he had finished the newspaper man bowed and walked +abruptly away. + + * * * * * + +The newspaper man's thoughts form a conclusion. + +"It's true, then," he thought, "the world's becoming as stupid as it +looks. People are drying up inside with facts, figures, dollar signs. This +man and his party would have got as much out of their cross-country trip +if they'd all been blindfolded and shot through a tunnel two thousand feet +under the ground. Man is like an audience and he has walked out on mystery +and adventure. The show kind of tired him. And got his goat. It would have +been a good yarn otherwise, the motor vagabonds. I'd have ended with +Hovey's verse: + + "I must forth again tomorrow, + With the sunset I must be + Hull down on the trail of rapture + In the wonder of the sea." + +Mumbling the lines to himself, the newspaper man strode on through the +crowded loop with a sudden swagger in his eyes. + + + +NIRVANA + + +The newspaper man felt a bit pensive. He sat in his bedroom frowning at +his typewriter. About eight years ago he had decided to write a novel. Not +that he had anything particular in his mind to write about. But the city +was such a razzle-dazzle of dreams, tragedies, fantasies; such a crazy +monotone of streets and windows that it filled the newspaper man's thought +from day to day with an irritating blur. + +And for eight years or so the newspaper man had been fumbling around +trying to get it down on paper. But no novel had grown out of the blur in +his head. + + * * * * * + +The newspaper man put on his last year's straw hat and went into the +street, taking his pensiveness with him. Warm. Rows of arc lights. A +shifting crowd. There are some streets that draw aimless feet. The blazing +store fronts, clothes shops, candy shops, drug-stores, Victrola shops, +movie theatres invite with the promise of a saturnalia in suspense. + +At Wilson Avenue and Sheridan Road the newspaper man paused. Here the +loneliness he had felt in his bedroom seemed to grow more acute. Not only +his own aimlessness, but the aimlessness of the staring, smiling crowd +afflicted him. + +Then out of the babble of faces he heard his name called. A rouged young +flapper, high heeled, short skirted and a jaunty green hat. One of the +impudent little swaggering boulevard promenaders who talk like simpletons +and dance like Salomes, who laugh like parrots and ogle like Pierettes. +The birdlike strut of her silkened legs, the brazen lure of her stenciled +child face, the lithe grimace of her adolescent body under the stiff +coloring of her clothes were a part of the blur in the newspaper man's +mind. + +She was one of the things he fumbled for on the typewriter--one of the +city products born of the tinpan bacchanal of the cabarets. A sort of +frontispiece for an Irving Berlin ballad. The caricature of savagery that +danced to the caricature of music from the jazz bands. The newspaper man +smiled. Looking at her he understood her. But she would not fit into the +typewritten phrases. + +"Wilson Avenue," he thought, as he walked beside her chatter. "The wise, +brazen little virgins who shimmy and toddle, but never pay the fiddler. +She's it. Selling her ankles for a glass of pop and her eyes for a fox +trot. Unhuman little piece. A cross between a macaw and a marionette." + + * * * * * + +Thus, the newspaper man thinking and the flapper flapping, they came +together to a cabaret in the neighborhood. The orchestra filled the place +with confetti of sound. Laughter, shouts, a leap of voices, blazing +lights, perspiring waiters, faces and hats thrusting vivid stencils +through the uncoiling tinsel of tobacco smoke. + +On the dance floor bodies hugging, toddling, shimmying; faces fastened +together; eyes glassy with incongruous ecstasies. + +The newspaper man ordered two drinks of moonshine and let the scene blur +before him like a colored picture puzzle out of focus. Above the music he +heard the childishly strident voice of the flapper: + +"Where you been hiding yourself? I thought you and I were cookies. Well, +that's the way with you Johns. But there's enough to go around, you can +bet. Say boy! I met the classiest John the other evening in front of the +Hopper. Did he have class, boy! You know there are some of these fancy +Johns who look like they were the class. But are they? Ask me. Nix. And +don't I give them the berries, quick? Say, I don't let any John get moldy +on me. Soon as I see they're heading for a dumb time I say 'razzberry.' +And off your little sugar toddles." + +"How old are you?" inquired the newspaper man abstractedly. + +"Eighteen, nosey. Why the insult? I got a new job yesterday with the +telephone company. That makes my sixth job this year. Tell me that ain't +going good? One of the Johns I met in front of the Edgewater steered me to +it. He turned out kind of moldy, and say! he was dumb. But I played along +and got the job. + +"Say, I bet you never noticed my swell kicks." The flapper thrust forth +her legs and twirled her feet. "Classy, eh? They go with the lid pretty +nice. Say, you're kind of dumb yourself. You've got moldy since I saw you +last." + +"How'd you remember my name?" inquired the newspaper man. + +"Oh, there are some Johns who tip over the oil can right from the start. +And you never forget them. Nobody could forget you, handsome. Never no +more, never. What do you say to another shot of hootch? The stuff's +getting rottener and rottener, don't you think? Come on, swallow. Here's +how. Oh, ain't we got fun!" + + * * * * * + +The orchestra paused. It resumed. The crowd thickened. Shouts, laughter, +swaying bodies. A tinkle of glassware, snort of trombones, whang of +banjos. The newspaper man looked on and listened through a film. + +The brazen patter of his young friend rippled on. A growing gamin +coarseness in her talk with a nervous, restless twitter underneath. Her +dark child eyes, perverse under their touch of black paint, swung eagerly +through the crowd. Her talk of Johns, of dumb times and moldy times, of +classy times and classy memories varied only slightly. She liked dancing +and amusement parks. Automobile riding not so good. And besides you had to +be careful. There were some Johns who thought it cute to play caveman. +Yes, she'd had a lot of close times, but they wouldn't get her. Never, no, +never no more. Anyway, not while there was music and dancing and a +whoop-de-da-da in the amusement parks. + +The newspaper man, listening, thought, "An infant gone mad with her dolls. +Or no, vice has lost its humanness. She's the symbol of new sin--the +unhuman, passionless whirligig of baby girls and baby boys through the +cabarets." + + * * * * * + +They came back from a dance and continued to sit. The din was still +mounting. Entertainers fighting against the racket. Music fighting against +the racket. Bored men and women finally achieving a bedlam and forgetting +themselves in the artifice of confusion. + +The newspaper man looking at his young friend saw her taking it in. There +was something he had been trying to fathom about her during her breathless +chattering. She talked, danced, whirled, laughed, let loose giggling +cries. And yet her eyes, the part that the rouge pot or the bead stick +couldn't reach, seemed to grow deader and deader. + +The jazz band let out the crash of a new melody. The voices of the crowd +rose in an "ah-ah-ah." Waiters were shoving fresh tables into the place, +squeezing fresh arrivals around them. + +The flapper had paused in her breathless rigmarole of Johns and memories. +Leaning forward suddenly she cried into the newspaper man's ear above the +racket: + +"Say this is a dumb place." + +The newspaper man smiled. + +"Ain't it, though?" she went on. There was a pause and then the breathless +voice sighed. She spoke. + +"Gee!"--with a laugh that still seemed breathless--"gee, but it's lonely +here!" + + + +THE INDESTRUCTIBLE MASTERPIECE + + +"You come with me to the Art Institute today," said Max Kramm. "My friend +Broun has an exhibition. You know Broun? Ah, I think he is today the +greatest living artist. No, we will walk. It is only four or five blocks. +And I tell you a story." + +A story from Max Kramm is worth attention even though it is hot and though +the Boul Mich pavement feels like a stove griddle through the leather of +one's shoes. For the Dante-faced Max, in addition to being one of the +leading piano professors of the country, the billiard champion of the +Chicago Athletic Club and the most erudite porcelain connoisseur in Harper +Avenue, is one of the survivors of the race of raconteurs that flourished +in the time of nickel cigars and the free lunch. + +"I have eight more lessons to administer today," sighed Max with a parting +glower at the premises of the Chicago Musical College, "But when my old +friend Broun has an exhibition I go." + + * * * * * + +"It was when we lived together in a studio in North Avenue," said Max. "Jo +Davidson, Walter Goldbeck and the bunch, we all roomed together in the +same neighborhood and we were poor, I can tell you. But young. And that +makes up for a lot of things. + +"Broun and I, we room together in a little attic where I have a piano and +he paints. Even in those days we all knew Frank Broun would be a great +painter if he didn't starve to death first. And the chances looked even. + +"Well, there was Schneider, of course. You never heard of him, I'll bet +you. No, he don't paint. And he don't sing and he don't play the piano. He +was somebody much more important than such things. Schneider was the +proprietor of a beer saloon in North Avenue. Where is he now, I wonder? +Well, in those days he saved our life twice a day regularly. + +"Broun and I we keep alive for one whole year on Schneider's free lunch. +Herring, pickles, rye bread, pepper beef, boiled ham, onions, pretzels, +roast beef and a big jar full of fine cheese. And, I forgot, a jar full of +olives and a dish of crackers. Oh, there was food fit for a king in +Schneider's. You buy one glass beer, for five cents, and then you eat till +you bust--for nothing. + +"You can't imagine what that meant to us in those days. Broun and I, we +sometimes have so much as ten cents a day between us and on this we must +live. So at noon we both go into Schneider's. Broun says, 'You want a +drink, Max? I say, 'No, Frank.' Then I engage Schneider in talk while +Broun makes away with a meal. Then Broun does the talking and it is my +turn. + +"Well, it got so that the good Schneider finally points out to us one day. +'Max,' he says, 'and Frank, I tell you something. You boys owe me three +dollars and you come in here and eat all your meals and you don't even pay +for the one glass beer you buy any more. I am sorry, but your credit is +exhausted.' + +"So you can imagine what Broun and I feel when we get home. No more +Schneider's, no more food, and eventually we see ourselves both starving +to death. + +"'Max' says Broun, 'I have an idea.' And he did. + +"Like all great ideas, it was simple. Broun figures that what we need to +do is to convince Schneider we have wonderful prospects and so Schneider +will give us back our credit. So Broun sits down that day and all day and +most of the night he paints. I think it was the last canvas he had in the +studio, too. And a big one. You know all of Broun's landscapes are big. + +"Well, he paints and paints, and when he is finished we take the picture +to Schneider, the two of us carrying it. I tell Schneider that it is one +of the old masters which we just received from Berlin from my father's +studio. Then Broun says that Schneider must keep it in his place. It is +too valuable to hang in our attic. Schneider looks at the picture and, it +being so big, he half believes it. + +"Then Broun and I go to the bank and draw out our $10 which we have saved +up for a rainy day. And we go down town and get the picture insured for +$2,000. You can imagine Schneider. We bring the insurance gink out there +and when he gives us the policy and we show it to Schneider--well, our +credit is re-established. Herring, rye bread, roast beef, pickles and +cheese once more. We eat. + +"Schneider is more proud of that picture than a peacock. And every day we +drop in to see if it is all right and Broun always goes behind the bar and +dusts it off a little and draws himself another drink. There is never any +question any more of our credit. Don't we own a picture insured for +$2,000? The good Schneider is glad to have such affluent customers, you +can believe me. + + * * * * * + +"Well, things go on like this for some months. Then I am coming home one +night with Broun and the fire engines pass us. So Frank and I we go to the +fire. + +"It is Schneider's beer saloon. We see it a block off. Frank turns pale +and he holds my arm and he whispers, 'Max, the picture! It is burning up!' + +"I look at Broun and I suppose I tremble a little myself. Who wouldn't? +Two thousand dollars! 'Max,' says Broun, 'We go around the world together. +And I saw a suit today and a cane I must have.' + +"But we couldn't talk. We walk slowly to the beer saloon. We walk already +like plutocrats, arm in arm, and our faces with a faraway look. We are +spending the two thousand, you can imagine. + +"The saloon is burning fine. Everything is going up in smoke. Broun and I, +we hold on to each other. We see Jo Davidson running to the fire and we +nod at him politely. Money makes a big difference, you know. + +"And then we hear a cry. I recognize Schneider and I see him break loose +from the crowd. He runs back into the burning saloon, a fireman after him. +Broun and I, we stand and watch. He is probably gone after one of his +kids. But I count the kids who are all in the street and they are all +there. + +"Then Schneider comes out and the fireman, too. And they are carrying +something. Broun falls against the delicatessen store window and groans. +And I close my eyes. Yes, it is the picture. + +"Schneider sees us and comes rushing. He is half burned up. But the +picture is not touched. He and the fireman hand us the picture. As for me, +I turn away and I lose command of the English language. + +"'You boys trusted me,' says Schneider, 'and I remembered just in time. I +remembered your picture. I may not be an artist, but I don't let a +masterpiece burn up. Not in my saloon. So I save it. It is the only thing +I save out of the whole saloon.' And he wrings Broun's hand, and I say, +'thanks.' That night, all night long, I played Beethoven. The Ninth +Symphony is good for feelings such as mine and Broun's." + + * * * * * + +It is cooler in the Art Institute and Max, smiling in memory of other +days, looks at the Broun exhibition. + +"I could finish the story by telling you excitedly that this landscape +here is the picture Schneider saved," he went on, pointing to one of the +large canvases. "But no. It wouldn't be the truth. I have the picture +home. It is not yet worth $2,000, but in a few years more, who knows? +Maybe I have cause to thank Schneider yet." + + +SATRAPS AT PLAY + + +The elfin-faced danseuse puts it over. Her voice sounds like a run-down +fifteen-cent harmonica. But that doesn't matter. Not at two a.m. in an +all-night cabaret. You don't need a voice to knock us out of our seats. +You need something else--pep. + +"I wanna be--in Tennuhsee," the elfin-faced one squeaks. And the ladies of +the chorus grin vacuously and kick their pink tights. One, two, kick! One, +two, kick! I wanna be--in Tennuhsee. One, two, kick! The third one on the +other side looks all right. No, too fat. There's one. The one at the end. +Pretty, ain't she? Who? You mean the one with the long nose? No, +whatsamatter with you? The one with the eyes. See. She's bending over now. +Some kid. + +Two a.m. outside. Dark streets. Sleepy chauffeurs dreaming of $10 tips. +All-night Greek restaurants. Twenty-second Street has gone to bed. But we +sit in the warm cabaret, devilishly proud of ourselves. We're a part of +the gang that stays awake when the stars are out. + +And the elfin-faced one cuts loose. Attaboy, girlie! Legs shooting through +the tobacco smoke. Eyes like drunken birds. A banjo body playing jazz +capers on the air. It ain't art. But who the devil wants art? What we want +are conniption fits. This is the way the soul of Franz Liszt looked when +he was writing music. Mumba Jumba had a dream that looked like this one +night when the jungle moon arched its back and spat at his black linen +face. + +All right. Three a.m. Bring out the lions and the Christians now. The +master of ceremonies is a fat man with little, ineffectual hands and a +voice that bows and genuflects and throws itself politely worshipful at +our feet. + +Amateur night, says the voice, and some ladies and gentlemen will seek to +entertain us with a few specialties for our amusement. And will the ladies +and gentlemen of the audience applaud according to the merit of each +performer? For the one who gets the most applause, he or she will win the +grand first prize of fifty bones. + +Attaboy! Will we applaud? Say, bring 'em out I Bring 'em out! Ah, here she +is. A pale, trembling little morsel with frightened eyes and a worn blue +serge skirt. The floor is slippery. "Miss Waghwoughblngsz," says the +voice, "will sing for your entertainment." + +A terrified little squeak. A Mae Marsh grimace of courage. Good! Say, +she's great! Look at her try to swing her body. And her arms have lost +their joints. And she's forgotten the words. Poor little tyke. Throw her +something. Pennies. While she's singing. See who can hit her. + +So we throw her pennies and nickels and dimes. They land on her head and +one takes her on the nose. And her voice dies away like a baby bird +falling out of a nest. And she stands still--jerking her mouth and the +pennies falling all around her. And a cynical-looking youth bounces out +and picks them up. Bravo! She tried to bow and slipped. Another round of +applause for that. All right, take her away. What did she sing? What was +the song that mumbled itself through the laughter and the rain of pennies? + + * * * * * + +Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Sghsgbrszsg will endeavor to entertain you with +a ballad for your amusement. That's fine. After three a.m. outside. Cold +and dark. But nothing cold or dark about us. We're just getting started. +Bring 'em out. Bring out the ballad singer. + +Ah, there's a lad for you. His shoes all shined and a clean collar on and +his face carefully shaved at home. But his hands wouldn't wash clean. The +shop grime lingers on his hands and in his broken nails. But his eyes are +blue and he's going to sing. The boys at the shop know his songs. The noon +hour knows them. + +But his voice sounds different here under the beating tungstens. It +quavers. Something about Ireland. A little bit of heaven. He can't sing. +If he was in his shirt sleeves and the collar was off and his face didn't +hurt from the dull safety razor blade--it would sound better. But--pennies +for him. Hit the singing boy in the eye and win the hand-painted cazaza. + +"A little bit of heaven called Ireland," is what he's singing. And the +noises start. The pennies and nickels rain. Finis! Not so good. He sang it +all the way through and his voice grew better and better. Take him away. +We didn't like the way his eyes blazed back at us when the pennies fell. +Not so good. Not so good. + +Here she is. Little Bertha, the Sewing Machine Girl. In the flesh. And +walking across the slippery dance floor with her French heeled patent +leathers wiggling under her. Bertha's the doodles. This is the way she +stood at the piano at Sadie's party. This is the way she smiled at the +errand boys and counter jumpers at Sadie's party. This is the way she +bowed and this is the song she sang to them that they applauded so much. + +And this is too good to be true. Bravo six times. Dimes and quarters and a +majestic half dollar that takes Bertha on the ear. Bravo eleven times. +Bertha stands smirking and moving her shoulders and singing in a piping +little shop-girl voice. Encore, _cherie!_ Encore! And it goes to +Bertha's head. The applause and laughter, the lights and the pounding of +the pennies falling out of heaven around her feet--these are too much for +Bertha. She ends. Her arms make a gesture, a weak little gesture as if she +were embracing one of the errand boys in a vestibule, saying good-night. A +vague radiance comes over Bertha's face. Bravo twenty-nine times. The +grand prize of fifty bones is hers. Wait and see if it ain't. + +More lions and more Christians. Bring 'em out. The sad-looking boy with +the harmonica. He forgets the tune all the time and we laugh and hit him +with pennies. The clerk with the shock of black hair who does an Apache +dance, and does it well. Too well. And the female impersonator who does a +can-can female dance very well. Much too well. + +Nobody wants them. We want Bertha, the Sewing Machine Girl. There was a +thrill to her. The way she looked when the applause grew loud. The way her +girl arms reached out toward something. As if we at the tables rolling +around in our seats and laughing our heads off and all dressed up and +guzzling sandwiches and ginger ale, as if we were something at a rainbow +end. + +Bring her on again. Line 'em up. Now we'll applaud the one we liked the +best. For his nobs who gargled the Irish ballad, two bravos. If he hadn't +got mad at us. Or if he'd got madder and spat a little more behind the +music that came from him. But he didn't. The first gal who died on the +floor. Whose heart collapsed. Whose eyes went blank with terror. Nine +bravos for her. There was a thrill to her. Bravos for the rest of them, +too. But Bertha wins the hand-painted cazaza. Fifty bucks for Bertha. Here +you are, Bertha. You win. + +Look, she's crying. That's all right, li'l girl. That's all right. Don't +cry. We just gave you the prize because you gave us a thrill. That's fair +enough. Because of all the geniuses who performed for our amusement and +whom we bombarded with pennies you were the only one who threw out your +arms and your eyes to us as if we were rainbow's end. + + + +MRS. SARDOTOPOLIS' EVENING OFF + + +Mrs. Sardotopolis hurried along without looking into the store window. She +was carrying her baby home from the doctor's office. The doctor said, +"Hurry on. Get him home and don't buy him any ice cream on the way." Mrs. +Sardotopolis lived in a place above a candy, book and notion store at 608 +South Halsted street. + +It was late afternoon. Greeks, Jews, Russians, Italians, Czechs, were busy +in the street. They sat outside their stores in old chairs, hovered +protectingly over the outdoor knick-knack counters, walked lazily in +search of iced drinks or stood with their noses close together arguing. + +The store windows glittered with crude colors and careless peasants' +clothes. It was at such times as this, hurrying home from a doctor's +office or a grocery store, that Mrs. Sardotopolis enjoyed herself. Her +little eyes would take in the gleaming arrays of tin pans, calico +remnants, picture books, hair combs and things like that with which the +merchants of Halsted Street fill their windows. + +But this time Mrs. Sardotopolis had seven blocks to go to her home and +there was no time for looking at things. Despite the heat she had +carefully wrapped the baby in her arms in a shawl. + + * * * * * + +When Mrs. Sardotopolis got home there would be eight other children to +take care of. But that was a simple matter. None of them was sick. When +the eight children weren't sick they tumbled, shrieked and squealed in the +dark hallway or in the street. Anywhere. Mrs. Sardotopolis only listened +with half an ear. As long as they made noise they were healthy. So from +day to day she listened not for their noise but to hear if any of them +grew quiet. + +Joe had grown quiet. Joe was the baby, a year and a half, and quite a +citizen. After several days Mrs. Sardotopolis couldn't stand Joe's quiet +any more. His skin, too, made her feel sad. His skin was hot and dry. So +she had hurried off to the doctor. + +There was hardly time in her day for such an errand. Now she must get home +quickly. Mr. Sardotopolis and his three brothers would be home before it +got dark. In the kitchen in the big pot she had left three chickens +cooking. + + * * * * * + +A gypsy leaned out of a doorway. She was dressed in many red, blue and +yellow petticoats and waists. Beads hung from her neck and her withered +arms were alive with copper bracelets. + +"Tell your fortune, missus," she called. + +Mrs. Sardotopolis hurried by with no more than a look. Some day she would +let the gypsy tell her fortune. It cost only twenty-five cents. But now +there was no time. Too much to do. Her arms--heavy, tireless arms that +knew how to work for fifteen hours each day--clung to the bundle Joe made +in his shawl. + +But the doctor was a fool. What harm could ice cream do? When anybody was +sick ice cream could make them well. So Mrs. Sardotopolis lifted Joe up +and turned her eyes toward an ice cream stand. She stopped. If Joe said, +"Wanna," she would buy him some. But Joe didn't seem to know what she was +offering, although usually he was quite a citizen. So she said aloud, +"Wanna ice cream, Joe?" + +To this Joe made no answer except to let his head fall back. Mrs. +Sardotopolis grew frightened and walked fast. + +As she came near her home Mrs. Sardotopolis was leaning over the bundle in +her arms, crying, "Joe! Joe! Do you hear, Joe?" + +The streets swarmed with the early evening crowds of men and women going +home. In the cars the people stood packed as if they were sardines. + +A few feet from her door beside the candy and notion store Mrs. +Sardotopolis stopped. Her heavy face had grown white. She raised the +bundle closer to her eyes and looked at it. + +"Joe!" she repeated. "What's a matter, Joe?" + +The bundle was silent. So Mrs. Sardotopolis pinched it. Then she stared at +the closed eyes. Then she seized the bundle and crushed it desperately in +her heavy arms, against her heavy bosom. + +"Joe!" she repeated. "What's a matter, Joe?" + +The glazier sitting in front of his glassware store stood up and blinked. + +"Whatsamatter?" he asked. + +Mrs. Sardotopolis didn't answer, but stood in front of her house, holding +the bundle in her arms and repeating its name. A small crowd gathered. She +addressed herself to several women of her race. + +"I knew, before it come," she said. "He didn't want no ice cream." + +Mrs. Sardotopolis walked upstairs and laid the bundle down on the table. +It lay without moving and Mrs. Sardotopolis stood over it without moving. +Then she sat down in a chair beside it and began to cry. + + * * * * * + +When Mr. Sardotopolis and his three brothers came home from driving the +wagon they found her still crying. + +"Joe is dead," she said. + +The other children were all properly noisy. Mr. Sardotopolis said, "I will +call my sisters and mother." He went over, looked at the child that lay +dead on the table and stroked its head. + +The sisters and mothers arrived. They took charge of the big pot with the +three chickens in it, of the eight squalling little ones and of the silent +bundle on the table. There were four sisters. As it grew dark Mrs. +Sardotopolis found that she was sitting alone in a corner of the room. She +felt tired. There was no use hugging the baby any more. Joe was dead. In a +few days he would be buried. Tears. Yes, particularly since in a few +months he would have had a smaller brother. Now Mrs. Sardotopolis was +frightened. Joe was the first to die. + +She walked out of the house, down the dark hallway into the street. "It +will do her good," said her mother-in-law, who watched her. + +In the street there was nothing to do. There were no errands to make. She +could just walk. People were just walking. Young people arm in arm. It was +a summer night in Halsted Street. Mrs. Sardotopolis walked until her eyes +grew clearer. She took a deep breath and looked about her nervously. There +was a gypsy leaning out of the doorway. Mrs. Sardotopolis stared at her. + +"Tell your fortune, missus," called the gypsy. + +Mrs. Sardotopolis nodded and entered the hallway. Her head felt dizzy. But +there was nothing to do until tomorrow, when they buried Joe. With a +curious thrill under her heavy bosom, Mrs. Sardotopolis held out her +work-coarsened palm to the gypsy. + + + +THE GREAT TRAVELER + + +Alexander Ginkel has been around the world. A week ago he came to Chicago +and, after looking around for a few days, located in one of the less +expensive hotels and started to work as a porter in a well-known +department store downtown. + +A friend said, "There's a man living in my hotel who should make a good +story. He's been around the world. Worked in England, Bulgaria, Russia, +Siberia, China and everywhere. Was cook on a tramp steamer in the south +seas. A remarkable fellow, really." + +In this way I came to call on Ginkel. I found him after work in his room. +He was a short man, over 30, and looked uninteresting. I told him that we +should be able to get some sort of story out of his travels and +experiences. He nodded. + +"Yes," he said, "I've been all around the world." + +Then he became silent and looked at me hopefully. + +I explained, "People like to read about travelers. They sit at home +themselves and wonder what it would be like to travel. You probably had a +lot of experiences that would give people a vicarious thrill. I understand +you were a cook on a tramp steamer in the south seas." + +"Oh, yes," said Ginkel, "I've been all over. I've been around the world." + + * * * * * + +We lighted pipes and Ginkel removed a book from a drawer in the dresser. +He opened it and I saw it was a book of photographs--mostly pictures taken +with a small camera. + +"Here are some things you could use," he said. "You wanna look at them." + +We went through the pictures together. + +"This one here," said Ginkel, "is me in Vladivostok. It was taken on the +corner there." + +The photograph showed Ginkel dressed just as he was in the hotel room, +standing near a lamp post on a street corner. There was visible a part of +a store window. + +"This one is interesting," said Ginkel, warming up. "It was taken in the +archipelago. You know where. I forget the name of the town. But it was in +the south seas." + +We both studied it for a space. It showed Ginkel standing underneath +something that looked like a palm tree. But the tree was slightly out of +focus. So were Ginkel's feet. + +"It is interesting," said Ginkel, "But it ain't such a good picture. The +lower part is kind of blurred, you notice." + +We looked through the album in silence for a while. Then Ginkel suddenly +remembered something. + +"Oh, I almost forgot," he said. "There's one I think you'll like. It was +taken in Calcutta. You know where. Here it is." + +He pointed proudly toward the end of the book. We studied it through the +tobacco smoke. It was a photograph of Ginkel dressed in the same clothes +as before and standing under a store awning. + +"There was a good light on this," said Ginkel, "and you see how plain it +comes out." + +Then we continued without comment to study other photographs. There were +at least several hundred. They were all of Ginkel. Most of them were +blurred and showed odds and ends of backgrounds out of focus, such as +trees, street cars, buildings, telephone poles. There was one that finally +aroused Ginkel to comment: + +"This would have been a good one, but it got light struck," he said. "It +was taken in Bagdad." + + * * * * * + +When we had exhausted the album Ginkel felt more at ease. He offered me +some tobacco from his pouch. I resumed the original line of questioning. + +"Did you have any unusual adventures during your travels or did you get +any ideas that we could fix up for a story," I asked. + +"Well," said Ginkel, "I was always a camera bug, you know. I guess that's +what gave me the bug for travelling. To take pictures, you know. I got a +lot more than these, but I ain't mounted them yet." + +"Are they like the ones in the book." + +"Not quite so good, most of them," Ginkel answered. "They were taken when +I hadn't had much experience." + +"You must have been in Russia while the revolution was going on, weren't +you?" + +"Oh, yes. I got one there." He opened the book again. "Here," he said. +"This was in Moscow. I was in Moscow when this was taken." + +It was another picture of Ginkel slightly out of focus and standing +against a store front. I asked him suddenly who had taken all the +pictures. + +"Oh, that was easy," he said. "I can always find somebody to do that. I +take a picture of them first and then they take one of me. I always give +them the one I take of them and keep the one they take of me." + +"Did you see any of the revolution, Ginkel?" + +"A lot of monkey business," said Ginkel. "I seen some of it. Not much." + +The last thing I said was, "You must have come in for a lot of sights. We +might fix up a story about that if you could give me a line on them." And +the last thing Ginkel said was: + +"Oh, yes, I've been around the world." + + + +THUMBS UP AND DOWN + + +Later the art jury will sit on them. The art jury will discuss tone and +modelling, rhythm and chiaroscuro and perspective. And in the light of +these discussions and decisions the art jury will sort out the +masterpieces that are to be hung in the Chicago artists' exhibition and +the masterpieces that are not to be hung. + +Right now, however, Louis and Mike are unwrapping them. Every day between +nine and five Louis and Mike assemble in the basement of the Art +Institute. The masterpieces arrive by the bushel, the truckload, the +basketful. Louis unwraps them. Mike stacks them up. Louis then calls off +their names and the names of geniuses responsible for them. Mike writes +this vital information down in a book. + + * * * * * + +Art is a contagious business. Perfectly normal and marvelously +wholesome-minded people are as likely to succumb to it as anybody else. It +is significant that the Purity League meeting in the city a few weeks ago +discussed the dangers which lay in exposing even decent, law-abiding +people to art, any kind of art. + +The insidious influence of art cannot, as a matter of fact, be +exaggerated. I personally know of a number of very fine and highly +respected citizens who have been lured away from their very business by +art. + +However, this is no place to sound the alarm. I will some day talk on the +subject before the Rotary Club. To return to Louis and Mike. After Mike +writes the vital information down in a book Louis carts the canvas over to +a truck and it is ready for the jury room. + +When they started on the job Louis and Mike were frankly indifferent. They +might just as well have been unwrapping herring cases. And they were +exceedingly efficient. They unwrapped them and catalogued them as fast as +they came. + +In three days, however, the workmanlike morale with which Louis and Mike +started on the job has been undermined. They have grown more leisurely. +They no longer bundle the pictures around like herring cases. Instead they +look at them, try them this way and that way until they find out which way +is right side up. Then they pass judgment. + +Louis unwraps them. I was standing by in the basement with Bert Elliott, +who has submitted a modernistic picture of Michigan Avenue, the Wrigley +Building and the sky, called "Up, Straight and Across." + +"'The Home of the Muskrat,'" Louis called. Mike wrote it down. "Wanna look +at it, Mike?" + +"Yeah, let's see." Time out for critical inspection. "Say, this guy never +saw a muskrat house. That ain't the way." + +"'Isle of Dreams,'" called Louis. "Hm! You can't tell which is right side +up. I guess it goes like this." + +"No. The other," said Mike. "Try it on its side. There, I told you so. +'Isle of Dreams.' I don't see no isle." + +"Here's a cuckoo," called Louis, suddenly. "'Mist.'" + +"What?" + +"'Mist,' it says, only 'Mist,' Mike. I'll say he missed. It ain't no +picture at all. That's a swell idee. Draw a picture in a fog and have the +fog so heavy you can't see nothing, then you don't have to put any picture +in. Can you beat it?" + +"Go on. Try another." + +"All right. Here's one. 'The Faithful Friend.' Now there's what I call a +picture. I knowed a guy who owned a dog that looked just like this. A +setter or something." + +"Go on. That ain't a setter. It's a spaniel." + +"You're cuckoo, Mike. Tell me it's a spaniel! Let's put it up ahead. It's +probably one of the prize winners. Here's a daffy one. 'At Play.' What's +at play? I don't see nothin' at play. Take a look, Mike." + +"It's a sea picture. There's the sea, the gray part." + +"You're nuts. Hennessey has a sea picture over the bar with some gals on +the rocks. You know the one I mean. And if this is a sea picture I'm a +orang-outang." + +"Well, Louis, it's probably a different sea. Can you imagine anybody +sending a thing like that in? It ain't hardly worth the work of unwrapping +it. Hurry up, Louis, we're way behind." + +"Well, take this, then. 'Children of the Ice.' Hm, I don't see no kids. I +suppose this stuff here is the ice. But where's the kids?" + +"He probably means the birds over there, Louis." + +"If he means the birds why don't he say birds instead of children? Why +don't he say 'birds of the ice'? What's the sense of saying 'children of +the ice' when he means birds?" + +"Go on, Louis. Don't argue with me. Hurry up." + +"Here's some photographs." + +"Them ain't photographs, you nut. They're portraits." + +"Well, they look almost as good as photographs. 'My Favorite Pupil.' It's +pretty good, Mike. See, there's the violin. He's a violin pupil. You can +tell. Got it?" + +"Yeah. Bring on the next." + + * * * * * + +A silence came over Louis. He stood for several minutes staring at +something. + +"Hurry up," called Mike. "It's getting late." + +"This is a mistake," called Louis. "Here's one that's a mistake." + +"How come, Louis?" + +"Well, look at it. You can see for yourself. The guy made a mistake." + +"What does it read on the back? Hurry, we can't waste no more time." + +"It reads 'Up, Down and Across' or something. It's a mistake though." +Louis remained eyeing the canvas raptly. "It ain't finished, Mike. We +ought to send it back." + +"Let's see, Louis." Time out for critical inspection. "You're right. It is +a mistake. 'Up, Down and Across,' you said. Well, we'll let it ride. It's +not our fault. What's the name of the guy?" + +"Bert Elliott," called Louis. A laugh followed. Louis turned to me and my +friend. + +"You see this?" he said. "I get it now. That's the Wrigley Building over +there. What do you know about that?" + +Louis seized his sides and doubled up. Mr. Elliott, beside me, cleared his +throat and glanced apprehensively at his canvas. + +"I'll say it's the first one he laughed at," said Mr. Elliott, pensively. +"He didn't laugh at any of the others. Look, he's still looking at it. +That's longer than he looked at any of the others." + +"All right, Louis," from Mike. "Come on." + +"Ho, ho," Louis went on, "I'd like to see this guy Elliott. Anybody who +would draw a picture like that. Hold your horses, Mike, here's another. +'The Faun." What's a faun, Mike? I guess he means fern. It looks like a +fern." + +"It does that, Louis. But we'll have to let it go as a faun. It's probably +a foreign word. Most of these artists are foreigners, anyway." + +Mr. Elliott and I left, Mr. Elliott remarking on the way down the +Institute steps, "Ho, hum." + + + +ORNAMENTS + + +Ornaments change, and perhaps not for the best. The scherzo architecture +of Villon's Paris, the gabled caprice of Shakespeare's London, the Rip Van +Winkle jauntiness of a vanished New York, these are ghosts that wander +among the skyscrapers and dynamo beltings of modernity. + +One by one the charming blunders of the past have been set to rights. +Highways are no longer the casual folderols of adventure, but the +reposeful and efficient arteries of traffic. The roofs of the town are no +longer a rumble of idiotic hats cocked at a devil-may-care angle. Windows +no longer wink lopsidedly at one another. Doorways and chimneys, railings +and lanterns have changed. Cobblestones and dirt have vanished, at least +officially. + +Towns once were like improvised little melodramas. Men once wore their +backgrounds as they wore their clothes--to fit their moods. A cap and +feather, a gable and a latticed window for romance. A glove and rapier, a +turret and a postern gate for adventure. And for our immemorial friend +Routine a humpty-dumpty jumble of alleys, feather pens, cobblestones, +echoing stairways and bouncing milk carts. + + * * * * * + +These things have all been properly corrected. Today the city frowns from +one end to the other like a highly efficient and insanely practical +platitude. Mood has given way to mode. An essential evolution, alas! +D'Artagnan wore his Paris as a cloak. And perhaps Mr. Insull wears his +Chicago as a shirt front. But most of us have parted company with the +town. It is a background designed and marvelously executed for our +conveniences. The great metronomes of the loop with their million windows, +the deft crisscross of streets, the utilitarian miracles of plumbing, +doorways, heating systems and passenger carriers--these are monuments to +our collective sanity. + +But if one is insane, if one has inherited one's grandfather's +characteristics as idler, loafer, lounger, dreamer, lover or picaroon, +what then? Eh, one stays at home and tells it to the typewriter or, more +likely, one gets run down, chewed up and bespattered while darting across +State Street in quest of an invigorating vanilla phosphate. + + * * * * * + +Nevertheless--there's a word that speaks innate optimism, nevertheless, +there are things which do not change as logically as do ornaments. Men and +women, for instance. And although the town wears its mask of deplorable +sanity and though Sunnyside Avenue seems suavely reminiscent of Von +Bissing's troops goose-stepping through Belgium--there are men and women. + +One naturally inquires, where? Quite so, where are there men and women in +the city? One sees crowds. But men and women are lost. One observes crowds +answering the advertisements. The advertisements say, come here, go there. +And one sees men and women devotedly bent upon rewarding the advertisers. + +Again, nevertheless, there are other observations to make. There are the +taxicabs. Here in the taxicabs one may still observe men and women. +Villon's Paris, Shakespeare's London and vanished New York, these are +crowded into the taxicabs. In the taxicabs men and women still wear the +furtive, illogical, questing, mysterious devil-may-care, wasterel +adventure masks of their grandfathers' yesterdays. + + * * * * * + +What ho! A devilishly involved argument, that, when the taxicab owners +plume themselves upon being the last word in the matter of deplorable +efficiency, the ultimate gasp in the business of convenience! +Nevertheless, although Mr. Hertz points with proper scorn to the sedan +chair, the palanquin, the ox cart and the Ringling Brothers' racing +chariots, we sweep a three-dollar fedora across the ground, raise our +eyebrows and smile mysteriously to ourselves. + +For on the days when our insanities grow somewhat persistent there is a +solace in the spectacle of taxicabs that none of the advertisements of Mr. +Hertz or his; contemporaries can take away. For odds bodkins! gaze you +through the little windows of these taxicabs. Pretty gals leaning forward +eager-eyed, lips parted, with an air of piquing rendezvous to the parasols +clutched in their dainty hands. Plump, heavy-jowled dandies reclining like +tailored paladins in the leather cushions. Keen-eyed youths surrounded +with heaps of bags and cases on a carefully linened quest. Nervous old +women, mysteriously ragged creatures, rakish silk hats, bundles of +children with staring fingers, strangely mustachioed and ribald-necked +gentry. + + * * * * * + +A goodly company. A teasing procession for the eye and the thought. The +cabs shoot by, caracoling through the orderly lines of traffic; zigzags of +yellow, green, blue, lavender, black and white snorting along with a fine +disdain. They speak of destinations reminiscent of the postern gate and +the latticed window; of the waiting barque and the glowing tavern. + +Of the crowds on the pavements; of the crowds in the passenger cars, +elevators, lobbies, one wonders little where they are going. Answering +advertisements, forsooth. Vertebrate brothers of the codfish. But these +others! Ah, one stands on the curb with the vanilla phosphate playing +havoc with one's blood and wonders a hatful. + +These sybarites of the taxis are going somewhere. Make no doubt of that. +These insanely assorted creatures bouncing on the leather cushions are +launched upon mysterious and important enterprises. And these bold-looking +jehus, black eyed, hard mouthed--a fetching tribe! A cross between +Acroceraunian bandits and Samaritans. One may stare at a taxi scooting by +and think with no incongruity of Carlyle's "Night of Spurs"--with Louis +and his harried Antoinette flying the guillotine. And of other things +which our inefficient memory prevents us from jotting down at this moment. +But of other things. + +Journalism is incomplete without its moral or at least its overtones of +morals. And we come to that now as an honest reporter should. Our moral is +very simple. Any good platitudinarian will already have forestalled it. It +is that the goodly company riding about in these taxicabs upon which we +have been speculating are none other than these codfish of the pavements. +The same, messieurs. A fact which gives us hope; briefly, hope for the +fact that the world is not as sane as it looks and that, despite all the +fine strivings of construction engineers, plumbers, advertisers and the +like, men and women still preserve the quaint spirit of disorder and +melodrama which once lived in the ornaments of the town. + + + +THE WATCH FIXER + + +The wooden counter in front of Gustave is littered with tiny pieces of +spring, tiny keys, almost invisible screws and odd-looking tools. Gustave +himself is a large man with ponderous eyebrows and a thick nose. He stands +behind his counter in the North Wells Street repair shop looking much too +large for the store itself and grotesquely out of proportion with the +springs, keys, screws and miniature tools before him. + +Attached to Gustave's right eye is a microscope. It is fastened on by aid +of straps round his large head. When he works he moves the instrument over +his eye and when he rests he raises it so that it sticks out of his +eyebrow. + +Gustave is a watchmaker. When he was young he made watches of curious +design. But for years he has had to content himself with repairing +watches. Incased in his old-fashioned leather apron that hangs from his +shoulders, the venerable and somewhat Gargantuan Gustave stands most of +the day peering into the tiny mechanisms of watches brought into the old +furniture shop. Gustave's partner is responsible for the furniture end of +the business. As Gustave grows older he seems to lose interest in things +that do not pertain to the delicate intricacies of watches. + + * * * * * + +I had a watch that was being fixed. Gustave said it would be ready in a +half-hour. He slipped the microscope over his eye and, bending in his +heavy round-shouldered way above the small watch, began to pry with his +thick fingers. A pair of tiny pincers, a fragile-looking screwdriver and a +set of things that looked like dolls' tools occupied him. + +We talked, Gustave answering and evading questions and offering comments +as he worked. + +"Not zo hard ven you ged used to it," he said. "Und I am used to it. +Vatches are my friends. I like to look into dem und make dem go. Yes, I +have been vorking on vatches for a long time. Years und years. + +"No, I vas vunce in the manufagturing business. Long ago. It vas ven I vas +married und had children. I come over from the old country den und I start +in. Preddy soon ve had money to spare. Ve came oud here to Chicago und got +a house. A very nice house. + +"My vife was a danzer in the old country. Maybe you have heard of her. But +never mind. I had dis vatch factory over here by the river. Dat vas thirty +years ago. Und we had a barn und horses. + +"But you know how it is! Vat you have today you don't have tomorrow. Not +so? My vife first. The nice house und the children vasn't enough for her. +She must danze also. I vas younger und my head vas harder den. Und I said, +'No.' Alzo she vent avay. Yes, she vent avay. Und der vas two kids. My +youngest a girl und my oldest a boy." + +The microscope fastened itself closely to the inanimate springs and keys +and screws. Gustave's thick fingers reached for a pair of baby pincers. +And he continued now without the aid of questions in a low, gutteral +voice: + +"Vell, business got bad und I gave up the factory. Und I starded in +someding else. Den my youngest she died. Yes, dat's how it goes. First vun +ding und den anoder ding. Und preddy soon you have nodings. + +"I tried to find my vife, but she vas hiding from me. Perhaps I vas hard +headed in dem days. Ven you are young you are like dat. Now id is +diff'rend. She iss dead und I am alive. Und if she had been my vife righd +along she vould still be dead now. Alzo vat matter does it make? + +"Dat vas maybe tventy years ago or maybe more. Maybe tventy-five years +ago. Dings got all mixed up and my businesses got vorse und vorse. Und den +my son ran avay und wrides me he become a sailor. So I vas alone." + +"Dis vatch," sighed Gustave, "is very hard to figx. It iss an old vatch +und not much good to begin vit. But I figx him. Vat vas ve talking aboud? +Oh, my business. Yes, yes. It goes like dat. I don't hear from my vife und +I don't hear from my son. Und my liddle vun iss dead. Und so I lose my +fine house und the horses und everyding. + +"Preddy soon I got no job even und preddy soon I am almost a bum. I hang +around saloons und drink beer und do noding but spend a little money I +pick up now un den by doing liddle jobs. Ah, now I have it. It vas de +liddle spring. See? Zo. Most of dese vatches iss no good vatsoever. Dey +make vatches diff'rend now as dey used to. Chust vun minute or two more +und I have him figxed so he don'd break no more for a vile. Und vat vas we +talking aboud? + +"Ah, yes. Aboud how I drink beer und vas a bum. Dat's how it goes. Ven you +are young you have less sense den ven you are old. Und I used to go around +thinking I vould commit suicide. Yes, at night ven I vas all alone I used +to think like dat. Everyding vas so oopside down und so inside oud. Vat's +de use of living und vy go on drinking beer und becoming a vorse und +bigger bum? + +"Yes, it goes like dat. Ven I vas rich und happy und had my factory und my +vife und children und horses und fine house I used to think vat a fine +place the vorld vas und how simple it vas to be happy. Und den ven +everyding vent avay I vas chust as big a fool und I used to think how +terrible the vorld vas und how unhappiness vas all you could get. + + * * * * * + +"Yes, ten years ago, it vas. I started in again. I started in on vatches +again. I got a job figxing vatches und a friend says he vould give me a +chance. Und here I am. Still figxing vatches. Dey are my friends. Inside +dey are all broken. Dey have liddle tings wrong vid dem und are inside oud +und oopside down und I figx dem. + +"I don' know vy, but figxing vatches made a new man from me. I don' think +no more aboud my troubles und how oopside down and impozzible everyding +is. But I look all de time into vatches und make dem go again. Yes, it iss +like you say, a delicate business, und my fingers iss getting old for it, +maybe. But I like dese liddle tools und all dese liddle things aboud a +vatch I like to look at und hold und figx up. + +"Because it iss so simple. Ezpecially ven you get acquainted vid how dey +run und vy dey stop. Und der are zo many busted vatches. Zo nice outside +und zo busted inside. I can'd explain maybe how it iss. But it iss like +dat. Ven I hold de busted vatches under the micgrozcope, I feel happy I +don' know. Some time maybe somebody pick me up like I vas a busted vatch +und hold me under a micgrozcope und figx me up until I go tick tick again. +Maybe dat's vy. Here. All done." + +Gustave shifted the microscope up over his eyebrow and smiled ponderously +across the counter. + +"Put it on," he said, "but be careful. Dat's how vatches iss busted +alvays. By bumping und paying no attention to dem." + + + +SCHOPENHAUER'S SON + + +Life, alas, is an intricate illusion. God is a pack of lies under which +man staggers to his grave. And man--ah, here we have Nature's only +mountebank; here we have Nature's humorous and ingenuous experiment in +tragedy. And thought--ah, the tissue-paper chimera that seeks forever to +devour life. + +It is the cult of the pessimist, the gentle malice of disillusion. And, +like all other cults, it sustains its advocates. Thus, the city has no +more debonairly-mannered, smiling-souled citizen to offer than Clarence +Darrow. For years and years Mr. Darrow has been gently disproving the +intelligence of man, the importance of life, and the necessity of thought. +For years and years Mr. Darrow has been whimsically deflating the +illusions in which man hides from the purposelessness of the cosmos. God, +heaven, politics, philosophies, ambition, love--Mr. Darrow has deflated +them time and again--charging from $1 to $2 a seat for the spectacle. + +This is nothing against Mr. Darrow--that he charges money sometimes. For +years and years Mr. Darrow has been enlivening the intellectual purlieus +of the city with his debates. And Mr. Darrow's debates have been always +worth $1, $2 and even $5--for various reasons. It is worth at least $5 to +observe at first hand what a cheering and invigorating effect Mr. Darrow's +pessimism has had upon Mr. Darrow after these innumerable years. + + * * * * * + +The story concerns itself with a funeral Mr. Darrow attended a few years +ago. It is at funerals that Mr. Darrow's gentle malice finds itself +crowned by circumstances. For to this son of Schopenhauer death is a weary +smile that is proof of all his arguments. + +This time, however, Mr. Darrow was curiously stirred. For there lay dead +in the coffin a man for whom he had held a deep affection. It was Prof. +George B. Foster, the brilliant theologian of the University of Chicago. + +During his life Prof. Foster had been a man worthy the steel of Mr. +Darrow. Not that Prof. Foster was an unscrupulous optimist. He was merely +an intellectual whose congenital tendencies were idealistic, just as Mr. +Darrow's psychic and subconscious tendencies were anti-idealistic. And +apart from this divergence of congenital tendencies Mr. Darrow and Prof. +Foster had a great deal in common. They both loved argument. They both +doted upon seizing an idea and energizing it with their egoism. They were, +in short, ideal debaters. + +Whenever Mr. Darrow and Prof. Foster debated on one of the major issues of +reason a flutter made itself felt in the city--even among citizens +indifferent to debate. Indifferent or not, one felt that a debate between +Prof. Foster and Mr. Darrow was a matter of considerable importance. +Things might be disproved or proved on such an occasion. + + * * * * * + +They were to have debated on "Is There Immortality?" when Prof. Foster's +death canceled the engagement. This was one of the favorite differences of +opinion between the two friends. Mr. Darrow, of course, bent all his +efforts on disproving immortality. Prof. Foster bent all his on proving +it. Considerable excitement had been stirred by the coming debate. The +death of the brilliant theologian put an end to it. + +Instead of the debate there was a funeral. Thousands of people who had +admired the intellect, kindness and humanitarianism of Prof. Foster came +to the memorial services held in one of the large theaters of the loop. +Mr. Darrow came, his head bowed and grief in his heart. Friends like +George Foster never replace themselves. Death becomes not a triumphant +argument--an aloof clincher for pessimism, but a robber. + +There were speakers who talked of the dead man's virtues, his love for +people, scholarship and the arts, his keen brain and his genius. Mr. +Darrow sat listening to the eulogy of his dead friend and tears filled his +eyes. Poor George Foster--gone, in a coffin; to be buried out of sight in +a few hours. Then some one whispered to Mr. Darrow that a few words were +expected of him. + + * * * * * + +It was Mr. Darrow's good-bye to his dear friend. He stood up and his loose +figure and slyly malicious face wore an unaccustomed seriousness. The +audience waited, but the facile Mr. Darrow was having difficulty locating +his voice, his words. His eyes, blurred with tears, were still staring at +the coffin. Finally Mr. Darrow began. His dear friend. Dead. So charming a +man. So brilliant a mind. Dead now. He had been so amazingly alive it +seemed incredible that he should be dead. It was as if part of +himself--Mr. Darrow--lay in the coffin. + +The eulogy continued, quiet, sincere, stirring tears in the audience and +filling their hearts with a realization of the grief that lay in Mr. +Darrow's heart. Then slowly the phrases grew clearer. + +"We were old friends and we fought many battles of the mind," said Mr. +Darrow. "And we were to have debated once more next week--on 'Is There +Immortality?' It was his contention," whispered Mr. Darrow, "that there is +immortality. He is gone now, but he speaks more eloquently on the subject +than if he were still with us. There lies all that remains of my friend +George Burman Foster--in a coffin. And had he lived he would have argued +with me on the subject. But he is dead and he knows now, in the negation +and darkness of death, that he was wrong--that there is no immortality--" + +Mr. Darrow paused. He had after many years won his argument with Prof. +Foster. But the victory brought no elation. Mr. Darrow's eyes filled again +and he turned to walk from the stage. But before he left the mourners +sitting around him heard him murmur: + +"I wish poor George Foster had been right. There would be nobody happier +than I to realize that his soul had survived--that there was still a +George Foster. But--if he could come back now after the proof of death he +would admit--yes, admit that--that there is no immortality." + +And Mr. Darrow with his head bowed yielded the platform to his +inarticulate and vanquished friend and debater. + + + +WORLD CONQUERORS + + +The hall is upstairs. A non-committal sign has been tacked over the street +entrance. It discloses that there is to be a discussion this night on the +subject of the world revolution. The disclosure is made in English, +Yiddish and Russian. + +A thousand people have arrived. They are mostly west siders, with a +sprinkling of north and south side residents. There seem to be two types. +Shop workers and a type that classifies as the intelligentsia. The workers +sit calmly and smoke. The intelligentsia are nervous. Dark-eyed women, +bearded men, vivacious, exchanging greetings, cracking jokes. + +The first speaker is a very bad orator. He is a working-man. An intensity +of manner holds the audience in lieu of phrases. He says nothing. Yet +every one listens. He says that workingmen have been slaves long enough. +That there is injustice in the world. That the light of freedom has +appeared on the horizon. + +This, to the audience, is old stuff. Yet they watch the talker. He has +something they one and all treasured in their own hearts. A faith in +something. The workingmen in the audience have stopped smoking. They +listen with a faint skepticism in their eyes. The intelligentsia, however, +are warming up. For the moment old emotions are stirring in them. +Sincerity in others--the martyr spirit in others--is something which +thrills the insincerity of all intelligentsia. + +Suddenly there is a change in the hall. Our stuttering orator with the +forceful manner has made a few startling remarks. He has said, "And what +we must do, comrades, is to use force. We can get nowhere without force. +We must uproot, overthrow and seize the government." + +Scandal! A murmur races around the hall. The residents from the north and +south sides who have favored this discussion of world revolution with +their uplifting presence are uneasy. Somebody should stop the man. It's +one thing to be sincere, and another thing to be too sincere and tell them +that they should use force. + +Now, what's the matter? The orator has grown violent. + +It is somebody in the back of the hall. Heads turn. A policeman! The +orator swings his arms, and in his foreign tongue, goes on. "They are +stopping us. The bourgeoisie! They have sent the polizei! But we stand +firm. The police are powerless against us. Even though they drive us from +this hall." + +The orator is all alone in his excitement. The audience has, despite his +valorous pronouncements, grown nervous. And the policeman walking down the +aisle seems embarrassed. He arrives at the platform finally. He hands a +card to the orator. The orator glances at the card and then waves it in +the air. Then he reads it slowly, his lips moving as he spells the words +out. The audience is shifting around, acting as if it wanted to rise and +bolt for the door. + +"Ah," exclaims the orator, "the policeman says that an enemy of the +revolution has smashed an automobile belonging to one of the audience that +was standing in front of the hall. The number of the automobile is as +follows." He recites the number slowly. And then: "If anybody has an +automobile by that number standing downstairs he better go and look after +it." + +A substantial looking north sider arises and walks hurriedly through the +hall. The orator decides to subside. There is a wait for the chief +speaker, who has not yet arrived. During the wait an incident develops. +There are two lights burning at the rear of the stage. A young woman calls +one of the officials of the meeting. + +"Look," she says, "those lights make it impossible for us to see the +speaker who stands in front of them. They shine in our eyes." + +The official wears a red sash across the front of his coat. He is one of +the minor leaders among the west side soviet radicals. He blinks. "What do +you want of me?" he inquires with indignation. "I should go and turn the +lights out? You think I'm the janitor?" + +"But can't you just turn the lights off?" persists the young woman. + +"The janitor," announces our official with dignity, "turns the lights on +and he will turn them off." Wherewith the Tarquin of the proletaire +marches off. Two minutes later a man in his short sleeves appears, +following him. This man is the janitor. The audience which has observed +this little comedy begins to laugh as the janitor turns off the offending +lights. + +The chief speaker of the evening has arrived. He is a good orator. He is +also cynical of his audience. A short wiry man with a pugnacious face and +a cocksure mustache. He begins by asking what they are all afraid of. He +accuses them of being more social than revolutionary. As long as +revolution was the thing of the hour they were revolutionists. But now +that it is no longer the thing of the hour, they have taken up other +hobbies. + +This appears to be rather the truth from the way the intelligentsia take +it. They nod approval. Self-indictment is one thing which distinguishes +the intelligentsia. They are able to recognize their faults, their +shortcomings. + +Now the speaker is on his real subject. Revolution. What we want, he +cries, is for the same terrible misfortune to happen in this country that +happened in Russia. Yes, the same marvelous misfortune. And he is ready. +He is working toward that end. And he wishes in all sincerity that the +audience would work with him. Start a reign of terror. Put the spirit of +the masses into the day. The unconquerable will to overthrow the tyrant +and govern themselves. He continues--an apostle of force. Of fighting. Of +shooting, stabbing and barricades that fly the red flag. He is sardonic +and sarcastic and everything else. And the audience is disturbed. + +There are whispers of scandal. And half the faces of the intelligentsia +frown in disapproval. They came to hear economic argument, not a call to +arms. The other half is stirred. + +It is almost eleven. The hall empties. The streets are alive. People +hurry, saunter, stand laughing. Street cars, store fronts, mean houses, +shadows and a friendly moon. These are part of the system. Three hours ago +they seemed a powerful, impregnable symbol. Now they can be overthrown. + +The security that pervades the street is an illusion. Force can knock it +out. A strange force that lies in the masses who live in this street. + +The audience moves away. The intelligentsia will discuss the possibility +of a sudden uprising of the proletaire and gradually they will grow +cynical about it and say, "Well, he was a good talker." + +The orator finally emerges from the building. He is surrounded by friends, +questioners. For two blocks he has company. Then he is alone. He stands +waiting for a street car. Some of the audience pass by without recognizing +him. + +The street car comes and the orator gets on. He finds a seat. His head +drops against the window and his eyes close. And the car sweeps away, +taking with it its load of sleepy men and women who have stayed up too +late--including a messiah of the proletaire who dreams of leading the +masses out of bondage. + + + +THE MAN FROM YESTERDAY + + +"You'll not use my name," he said, "because my family would be exceedingly +grieved over the notoriety the thing would bring them." + +Fifty or sixty or seventy--it was hard to tell how old he was. He looked +like a panhandler and talked like a scholar. Life had knocked him out and +walked over him. There was no money in his pocket, no food in his stomach, +no hope in his heart. He was asking for a job--some kind of writing job. +His hands were trembling and his face twitched. Despair underlay his +words, but he kept it under. Hunger made his body jerked and his eyes +shine with an unmannerly eagerness. But his words remained suave. He +removed a pair of cracked nose-glasses and held them between his thumb and +forefinger and gestured politely with them. Hungry, dirty, hopeless, his +linen gone, his shoes torn, something inside his beaten frame remained +still intact. There was no future. But he had a past to live up to. + +He was asking for a job. What kind of job he didn't know. But he could +write. He had been around the world. He was a cosmopolite and a rhymester +and a press agent and a journalist. He pulled himself together and his +eyes struggled hard to forget the hunger of his stomach. + +"In the old days," he said, enunciating in the oracular manner of a day +gone by--"ah, I was talking with Jack London about it before he died. Dear +Jack! A great soul. A marvelous spirit. We were in the south seas +together. Yes, the old days were different. Erudition counted for +something. I was Buffalo Bill's first press agent. Also I worked for dear +P. T. Barnum. I was his publicity man. + +"Doesn't the world seem to have changed, to you?" he asked. "I was talking +to George Ade about this very thing. Strange, isn't it? George and I are +old friends. Who? Dickie Davis of the Sun? Certainly--a charming fellow. +Stephen Crane? Genius, my friend, genius was his. That was the day when O. +Henry was in New York. There was quite a crowd of us. We used to +foregather in some comfortable grog shop and discuss. Ah, life and letters +were talked about a great deal in those days." + + * * * * * + +His voice had the sound of a man casually relating incidents of his past. +But his eyes continued to shine eagerly. And between sentences there were +curious pauses. The pauses asked something. + +"A most curious thing occurred the other evening," he smiled. "I had to +pay for my oysters by writing a rhyme for the waiter." An anecdote by a +dilettante, a gracefully turned plea worthy of M'sieur Bruinrmell. "You +know, it grows more and more difficult to obtain employment. My wardrobe +is practically gone." He glanced with apparent amusement at his +weary-willie makeup. His hand moved tremblingly to his neck. "My collar is +soiled," he murmured, apologizing with eyes that managed to smile, "and +the other evening I lost my stick." + +Then the hunger and the hopelessness of the man broke through the shell of +his manner. He needed a job, a job, a job! Something to do to get him food +and shelter. His fingers tried to place the cracked nose-glasses back in +position. + +"I would--pardon me for mentioning this--I would much rather sit with a +man like you and discuss the phases of life and literature of interest to +both of us. But I would write almost anything. I have written a great +deal. And I have managed money. There was a time--" A look of pain came +into his eyes. This was being vulgar and not in line with the tradition +that his enunciation boasted. + +"I have known a great many people. I don't desire to bore you with talk of +celebrities and all that. But I assure you, I have been somebody. Oh, +nothing important or perhaps very worth while. I dislike this sort of +thing, you know." Another smile twisted his lips. "But, when one is down +to the last--er--to the last farthing, so to speak, one swallows a bit of +his pride. That's more than an aphorism with me. To go on, I have handled +great sums of money. I have traveled all over the world, I have eaten and +spoken with men of genius all my life. My youth was a very interesting one +and--and perhaps we could go somewhere for dinner and--and I could tell +you things of writing men of the past that--that might appeal to you. +Marvelous fellows. There was O. Henry and London and Davis and Phillips +and Stevie Crane. I dislike imposing myself on you this way, but--if I +didn't think you would be interested in a discussion with a man who--who +admires the beautiful things of life and who has lived a rather varied +existence I would not--" + + * * * * * + +The cracked nose-glasses were back in place and he had stopped short. +Despair and hunger now were talking out of his eyes. They had come too +close to his words. They must never come into his words. That would be the +one defeat that would drive too deeply into him. Of the past, of the +easygoing, charmingly garrulous past, all that was left to this nomad of +letters was its manner. He could still sit in his rags as if he were +lounging in the salon of an ocean liner, still gesture with his +nose-glasses as if he were fixing the attention of a Richard Harding +Davis across a bottle of Chateau Yquem. + +So he remained silent. Let his eyes and the twitching of his face betray +him. His words never would. His words would always be the well-groomed, +carefully modulated, nicely considerate words of a gentleman. He resumed: + +"So you have nothing. Ah, that's rather--rather disturbing. Just a +moment--please. I don't mean to impose on you. Won't you sit down--so I +will feel more at ease? Thank you, sir. Perhaps there is something in the +way of a--of another kind of job. Anything about a theater, a newspaper +office, a magazine, a circus, an hotel. I know them all. And if you could +only keep an eye open for me. Thank you, sir. I am glad to see that men of +letters are still considerate of their fellow craftsmen. Ah, you would +have liked Jack London. Did you know him? You know, we live in an age of +jazz. Yes, sir, the tempo is fast. Life has lost its andante. Materialism +has triumphed. There is no longer room for the spirit to expand. Machines +are in the way. Noises invade the sanctity of meditative hours." + + * * * * * + +It was cold outside the cigar store. The man from yesterday stepped into +the street. He stood smiling for a moment and for the moment in the +courteous friendliness of his rheumy eyes, in the mannerly tilt of his +head there was the picture of a sophisticated gentleman of the world +nodding an adieu outside his favorite chophouse. Then he turned. The +mannerly tilt vanished. There was to be seen a man--fifty, sixty or +seventy, it was hard to tell how old--shuffling tiredly down the street, +his body huddled together and his shoulders shivering. + + + +THUMBNAIL LOTHARIOS + + +Here's the low down, gentlemen. The Miserere of the manicurist. Peewee, +the Titian-haired Aphrodite of the Thousand Nails has been inveigled into +submitting her lipstick memoirs to the public eye. + +Peewee is the melting little lady with the vermilion mouth and the cooing +eyes who manicures in a Rialto hotel barber shop. She is the one whose +touch is like the cool caress of a snowflake, whose face is as void of +guile as the face of the Blessed Damosel. + +There are others, scissor-Salomes and nail-file Dryads. Mr. Flo Ziegfeld +has nothing on George, the head barber, when it comes to an eye for color +and a sense for curve. But they are busy at the moment. The hair-tonic +Dons and the mud-pack Romeos are giving the girls a heavy play. Peewee +alone is at leisure. Therefore let us gallop quickly to the memoirs. + + * * * * * + +"H'm," says Peewee, "I'll tell you about men. Of course what I say doesn't +include all men. There may be exceptions to the rule. I say may be. I hope +there are. I'd hate to think there weren't. I'd get sad." + +Steady, gentlemen. Peewee's doll face has lost guilelessness. Peewee's +face has taken on a derisive and ominous air. + +"I'll give you the low down," says she with a sniff. "Men? They're all +alike. I don't care who they are or what their wives and pastors think of +them or what their mothers think of them. I got them pegged regardless. +Young and old, and some of them so old they've gone back to the milk diet, +they all make the same play when they come in here. + +"And they're all cheap. Yes, sir, some are cheaper than others, of course. +There's the patent-leather hair lounge-lizard. I hand him the fur-lined +medal for cheapness. But I got a lot of other medals and I give them all +away, too. + +"Well, sir, they come in here and you take hold of their hand and start in +doing honest work and, blooey! they're off. They're strangers in town. And +lonesome! My God, how lonesome they are! And they don't know no place to +go. That's the way they begin. And they give your hand a squeeze and roll +a soft-boiled eye at you. + +"Say, it gets kind of tiring, you can imagine. Particularly after you've +been through what I have and know their middle names, which are all alike, +they all answering to the name of cheap sport. Sometimes I give them the +baby stare and pretend I don't know what's on their so-called minds. And +sometimes when my nerves are a little ragged I freeze them. Then sometimes +I take them up. I let them put it over. + +"You'd be surprised. Liars! They're all rich. The young ones are all bond +salesmen with wealthy fathers and going to inherit soon. The middle-aged +ones are great manufacturers. The old ones are retired financiers. You +should ought to hear the lads when they're hitting on all six." + + * * * * * + +Peewee wagged a wise old head and her vermilion mouth registered scorn at +105 degrees Fahrenheit. A very cold light, however, kindled in her +beautiful eyes. + +"Yes, yes, I've taken them up," she went on. "I've let them stake me to +the swell time. Say, ten dollars to one that these manicured millionaires +don't mean any more than the Governor's pardon does to Carl Wanderer. Not +a bit. I don't want to get personal, but, take it from me, they're all +after one thing. And they're a pack of selfish, mushy-headed tin horns +with fishhook pockets, the kind you can't pull anything out of. + +"Well, to get back. About the first minute you get the big, come-on +squeeze. Then next the big talk about being strangers in your town. Then +next they open with the big, hearty invitations. Will you be their little +guide? And ain't you the most beautiful thing they ever set eyes on! And +say, if they'd only met you before they wouldn't be living around hotels +now, lonesome bachelors without a friend. I forgot to tell you, they're +all single. No, never married. Even some of the most humpbacked married +men you ever saw, who come in here dragging leg irons and looking a +picture of the Common People, they're single, too. I've seen them slip +wedding rings off their fingers to make their racket stand up. + +"Then after they've got along and think they've got you biting they begin +to get fresh. They tell you you shouldn't ought to work in a barber shop, +a girl as beautiful as you. The surroundings ain't what they should be. +And they'd like to fix you up. Yes, they begin handing out their castles +in Rome or Spain or whatever it is. Cheap! Say, they are so cheap they +wouldn't go on the 5- and 10-cent store counter. + +"Sometimes you can shame them into making good in a small way. But it's +too much work. Oh, yes, they give tips. Fifty cents is the usual tip. +Sometimes they make it $2.00. They think they're buying you, though, for +that. + + * * * * * + +"As I was saying, the patent-leather hair boys are the worst. They're the +ones who call themselves loop hounds. They know everybody by their first +name and sometimes they've got all of $6.50 in their pocket at one time. +And if you're out some evening with a friend--a regular fella, they pop in +the next day and say, 'Hello, Peewee, who was that street sweeper I see +you palling with last night? Oh, he wasn't! Well, I had him pegged either +as a street sweeper or a plumber!" + +"That's their speed. And they come again and again. They never give up. +They've got visions of making a conquest some day--on $1.50. And when a +new girl comes into the shop--boy, don't the buzzards buzz! I came here +six months ago and they started it on me. But I wasn't born yesterday. I'd +been a manicure in Indianapolis. And they're just the same in Indianapolis +as they are in Chicago. And they're just the same in Podunk. + +"Now, I'm not going to mention any names. But take your city directory and +begin with Ab Abner and go right on through to Zeke Zimbo and don't skip +any. And you'll get a clear idea about the particular gentlemen I'm +talking about." + + * * * * * + +Peewee sighed and shook her head. + +"Are you busy?" inquired the head manicurist. + +"Not at all," said Peewee, "not at all." + +Peewee's biographer asked a final question. To which she responded as +follows: + +"Well, I'll get married. Maybe. When I find the exception I was telling +you about--the gentleman who isn't a stranger in town and in need of a +little guide. There must be one of them somewhere. Unless they was all +killed in the war." + + + +THE SOUL OF SING LEE + + +The years have made a cartoon out of Sing Lee. A withered yellow face with +motionless black eyes. Thin fingers that move with lifeless precision. +Slippered feet that shuffle as if Sing Lee were yawning. + +A smell of starch, wet linen and steam mingles with an aromatic mustiness. +The day's work is done. Sing Lee sits in his chair behind the counter. +Three walls look down upon him. Laundry packages--yellow paper, white +string--crowd the wall shelves. Chinese letterings dance gayly on the +yellow packages. + +Sing Lee, from behind the counter, stares out of the window. The Hyde Park +police station is across the way. People pass and glance up: + + Sing Lee, Hand Laundry, + 5222 Lake Park Avenue. + +Come in. There is something immaculate about Sing Lee. Sing Lee has been +ironing out collars and shirts for thirty-five years. And thirty-five +years have been ironing Sing Lee out. He is like one of the yellow +packages on the shelves. And there is a certain lettering across his face +as indecipherable and strange as the dance of the black hieroglyphs on the +yellow laundry paper. + +Something enthralls Sing Lee. It can be seen plainly now as he sits behind +the counter. It can be seen, too, as he works during the day. Sing Lee +works like a man in an empty dream. It is the same to Sing Lee whether he +works or sits still. + +The world of collars, cuffs and shirt fronts does not contain Sing Lee. It +contains merely an automaton. The laundry is owned by an automaton named +Sing Lee, by nobody else. Now that the day's work is done he will sit like +this for an hour, two hours, five hours. Time is not a matter of hours to +Sing Lee. Or of days. Or even of years. + +The many wilted collars that come under the lifeless hands of Sing Lee +tell him an old story. The story has not varied for thirty-five years. A +solution of water, soap and starch makes the collars clean again and +stiff. They go back and they return, always wilted and soiled. Sing Lee +needs no further corroboration of the fact that the crowds are at work. +Doing what? Soiling their linen. That is as final as anything the crowds +do. Sing Lee's curiosity does not venture beyond finalities. + + * * * * * + +Sing Lee is a resident of America. But this is a formal statistic and +refers only to the automaton that owns the hand laundry in Lake Park +Avenue. Observe a few more formal facts of Sing Lee's life. He has never +been to a movie or a theater play. He has never ridden in an automobile. +He has never looked at the lake. + +Thus it becomes obvious that Sing Lee lives somewhere else. For a man must +go somewhere in thirty-five years. Or do something. There is a story then, +in Sing Lee. Not a particularly long story. Life stories are sometimes no +longer than a single line--a sentence, even a phrase. So if one could find +out where Sing Lee lives one would have a story perhaps a whole sentence +long. + +"Mukee kai, Sing Lee." + +A nod of the thin head. + +"Business good?" + +Another nod. + +"Pretty tired, washing, ironing all day, eh?" + +A nod. + +"When are you going to put in a laundry machine?" + +A shake of the thin head. + +"When are you going to quit, Sing Lee?" + +Another shake of the thin head. + +"You're not very gabby tonight, Sing." + +A dignified answer to this: "I thinking." + +"What about, Sing Lee?" + +A faint smile. The smile seems to set Sing Lee in motion. It comes from +behind the automaton. It is perhaps Sing Lee's first gesture of life in +weeks. + +"You don't mind my sitting here and smoking a pipe, eh?" + + * * * * * + +The minutes pass. Sing Lee stands up. He turns on a small electric light. +This is a concession. This done, he opens a drawer behind the counter and +removes a little bronze casket. The casket is placed on the counter. +Slowly as if in a deep dream Sing Lee lights a match and holds it inside +the casket. A thin spiral of lavender smoke unwinds from its mouth. + +Sing Lee watches the spiral of smoke. It wavers and unwinds. A finger +writing; an idiot flower. Then it opens up into a large smoke eye. Smoke +eyes drift casually away. An odor crawls into the air. Sing Lee's eyes +close gently and his thin body moves as he takes a deep breath. + +His eyes still closed, Sing Lee speaks. + +"You writer?" he murmurs. + +"Yes." + +"I too," says Sing Lee. "I write poem." + +"Yes? When did you do that?" + +"Oh, long ago. Mebbe year. Mebbe five years." + +Sing Lee reaches into the open drawer and takes out a large sheet of rice +paper. It is partly covered with Chinese letters up and down. + +"I read you in English," says Sing Lee. His eyes remain almost shut. He +reads: + + The sky is young blue. + Many fields wait. + Many people look at young blue sky. + Old people look at young blue sky. + Many birds fly. + At night moon comes and young blue sky is old. + Many young people look at old sky. + +"Did you write that about Chicago, Sing Lee?" + +"No, no," says Sing Lee. His eyes open. The smoke eyes from the incense +pot drift like miniature ghost clouds behind him and creep along the rows +of yellow laundry packages. + +"No, no," says Sing Lee. "I write that about Canton. I born in Canton many +years ago. Many, many years ago." + + + +MRS. RODJEZKE'S LAST JOB + + +Mrs. Rodjezke scrubbed the corridors of the Otis building after the +lawyers, stenographers and financiers had gone home. During the day Mrs. +Rodjezke found other means of occupying her time. Keeping the two Rodjezke +children in order, keeping the three-room flat, near the corner of +Twenty-ninth and Wallace streets, in order and hiring herself for half-day +cleaning, washing or minding-the-baby jobs filled this part of her day. As +for the rest of the day, no fault could be found with the manner in which +Mrs. Rodjezke used that part of her time. + +At five-thirty she reported for work in the janitor's quarters of the +office building. She was given her pail, her scrub brush, mop and bar of +soap and with eight other women who looked curiously like herself started +to work in the corridors. The feet of the lawyers, stenographers and +financiers had left stains. Crawling inch by inch down the tiled flooring, +Mrs. Rodjezke removed the stains one at a time. Eight years at this work +had taken away the necessity of her wearing knee pads. Mrs. Rodjezke's +knees did not bother her very much as she scrubbed. + + * * * * * + +In the evening Mrs. Rodjezke usually rode home in the street car. There +were several odd items about Mrs. Rodjezke that one could observe as she +sat motionless and staring in her seat waiting for the 2900 block to +appear. First, there were her clothes. Mrs. Rodjezke was not of the +light-minded type of woman that changes styles with the season. Winter and +summer she wore the same. + +Then there were her hands. Mrs. Rodjezke's fingernails were a contrast to +the rest of her. The rest of her was somewhat vigorous and buxom looking. +The fingernails, however, were pale--a colorless light blue. And the tips +of her fingers looked a trifle swollen. Also the tips of her fingers were +different in shade from the rest of her hands. + +Another item of note was her coiffure. Mrs. Rodjezke was always +indifferently dressed, her clothes looking as if they had been thrown on +and pinned together. Yet her coiffure was almost a proud and +careful-looking thing. It proclaimed, alas, that the scrubwoman, despite +the sensible employment of her time, was not entirely free from the +vanities of her sex. The deliberate coiling and arranging of her stringy +black hair must have taken a good fifteen minutes regularly out of Mrs. +Rodjezke's otherwise industrious day. + +These items are given in order that Mrs. Rodjezke may be visualized for a +moment as she rode home on a recent evening. It was very hot and the +papers carried news on the front page: "Hot Spell to Continue." + +Mrs. Rodjezke got off the car at 29th and Halsted streets and walked to +her flat. Here the two Rodjezke children, who were 8 and 10 years old +respectively, were demanding their supper. After the food was eaten Mrs. +Rodjezke said, in Bohemian: + +"We are going down to the beach to-night and go in swimming." + +Shouts from the younger Rodjezkes. + + * * * * * + +When the family appeared on the 51st Street beach it was alive with people +from everywhere. They stood around cooling off in their bathing suits and +trying to forget how hot it was by covering themselves in the chill sand. + +Mrs. Rodjezke's bathing suit was of the kind that attracts attention these +days. It was voluminous and hand made and it looked as if it might have +functioned as a "wrapper" in its palmier days. For a long time nobody +noticed Mrs. Rodjezke. She sat on the sand. Her head felt dizzy. Her eyes +burned. And there was a burn in the small of her back. Her knees also +burned and the tips of her fingers throbbed. + +These symptoms failed to startle Mrs. Rodjezke. Their absence would have +been more of a surprise. She sat staring at the lake and trying to keep +track of her children. But their dark heads lost themselves in the noisy +crowds in front of her and she gave that up. They would return in due +time. Mrs. Rodjezke must not be criticized for a maternal indifference. +The children of scrubwomen always return in due time. + + * * * * * + +Mrs. Rodjezke had come to the lake to cool off. The idea of going for a +swim had been in her head for at least three years. She had always been +able to overcome it, but this time somehow it had got the better of her +and she had moved almost blindly toward the water front. + +"I will get a rest in the water," she thought. + +But now on the beach Mrs. Rodjezke found it difficult to rest. The dishes +weren't washed in the kitchen home. The clothes needed changing on the +beds. And other things. Lots of other things. + +Mrs. Rodjezke sighed as the shouts of the bathers floated by her ears. The +sun had almost gone down and the lake looked dull. Faintly colored clouds +were beginning to hide the water. It was no use. Mrs. Rodjezke couldn't +rest. She sat and stared harder at the lake. Yes, there was something to +do. Before it got too dark. Something very important to do. And it wasn't +right not to do it. The scrubwoman sighed again and put her hand against +her side. The burn had dropped to there. It had also gone into her head. +But that was a thing which must be forgotten. Mrs. Rodjezke had learned +how to forget it during the eight years. + + * * * * * + +A girl saw it first. She was laughing in a group of young men from the +hotel. Then she exclaimed, suddenly: + +"Heavens! Look at that woman!" + +The group looked. They saw a middle-aged woman in a humorous bathing +costume crawling patiently down the beach on her hands and knees. Soon +other people were looking. Nobody interfered at first. Perhaps this was a +curious exercise. Some of them laughed. + +But the woman's actions grew stranger. She would stop as she crawled and +lift up handfuls of water from the edge of the lake. Then she would start +scratching in the sand. A crowd collected and the beach policeman arrived. +The beach policeman looked down at the woman on her hands and knees. + +She had stopped and her face had grown sad. + +"What's the matter here?" the policeman asked of her. + +The woman began to cry. Her tears flooded her round worn face. + +"I can't finish it to-night," she sobbed, "not now anyway. I'm too tired. +I can't finish it to-night. And the soap has floated away. The soap is +gone." + + * * * * * + +Mrs. Rodjezke was taken up by the policeman with the two Rodjezke +children, who had, of course, returned in due time. They cried and cried +and the group went to the police station. + +"I don't know what's wrong with the poor woman," said the beach policeman +to the Hyde Park police sergeant. "But she was moving up and down like she +was trying to scrub the beach." + +"I guess," said the sergeant, "we'll have to turn her over to the +psychopathic hospital." + +There's a lot more to the story, but it has nothing to do with Mrs. +Rodjezke's last job. + + + +QUEEN BESS' FEAST + + +Elizabeth Winslow, who was a short, fat woman with an amazing gift of +profanity and "known to the police" as "Queen Bess," is dead. According to +the coroner's report Queen Bess died suddenly in a Wabash Avenue rooming +house at the age of seventy. + +Twenty-five years ago Queen Bess rented rooms and sold drinks according to +the easy-going ideas of that day. But there was something untouched by the +sordidness of her calling about this ample Rabelaisian woman. There was a +noise about Queen Bess lacking in her harpy contemporaries. + +"Big-hearted Bess," the coppers used to call her, and "Queenie" was the +name her employees had for her. But to customers she was always Queen +Bess. In the district where Queen Bess functioned the gossip of the day +always prophesied dismally concerning her. She didn't save her money, +Queen Bess didn't. And the time would come when she'd realize what that +meant. And the idea of Queen Bess blowing in $5,000 for a tally-ho layout +to ride to the races in! Six horses and two drivers in yellow and blue +livery and girls all dressed like sore thumbs and the beribboned and +painted coach bouncing down the boulevard to Washington Park--a lot of +good that would do her in her old age! + +But Queen Bess went her way, throwing her tainted money back to the town +as fast as the town threw it into her purse, roaring, swearing, +laughing--a thumping sentimentalist, a clownish Samaritan, a Madam +Aphrodite by Rube Goldberg. There are many stories that used to go the +rounds. But when I read the coroner's report there was one tale in +particular that started up in my head again. A mawkish tale, perhaps, and +if I write it with too maudlin a slant I know who will wince the +worst--Queen Bess, of course, who will sit up in her grave and, fastening +a blazing eye on me, curse me out for every variety of fat-head and +imbecile known to her exhaustive calendar of epithets. + +Nevertheless, in memory of the set of Oscar Wilde's works presented to my +roommate twelve years ago one Christmas morning by Queen Bess, and in +memory of the six world-famous oaths this great lady invented--here goes. +Let Bess roar in her grave. There's one thing she can't do and that's call +me a liar. + + * * * * * + +It was Thanksgiving day and years ago and my roommate Ned and I were +staring glumly over the roofs of the town. + +"I've got an invitation for Thanksgiving dinner for both of us," said Ned. +"But I feel kind of doubtful about going." + +I inquired what kind of invitation. + +"An engraved invitation," grinned Ned. "Here it is. I'll read it to you." +He read from a white card: "You are cordially invited to attend a +Thanksgiving dinner at the home of Queen Bess, ---- Street and Wabash +Avenue, at 3 o'clock. You may bring one gentleman friend." + +"Why not go?" I asked. + +"I'm a New Englander at heart," smiled Ned, "and Thanksgiving is a sort of +meaningful holiday. Particularly when you're alone in the great and wicked +city. I've inquired of some of the fellows about Queen Bess's dinner. It +seems that she gives one every Thanksgiving and that they're quite a +tradition or institution. I can't find out what sort they are, though. I +suspect some sort of an orgy on the order of the Black Mass." + +At 2 o'clock we left our room and headed for the house of Queen Bess. + + * * * * * + +A huge and ornamental chamber known as the ballroom, or the parlor, had +been converted into a dining-room. Ned and I were early. Six or seven men +had arrived. They stood around ill at ease, looking at the flamboyant +paintings on the wall as if they were inspecting the Titian room of some +museum. Ned, who knew the town, pointed out two of the six as men of +means. One was manager of a store. One was a billiard champion in a +Michigan Avenue club. + +Gradually the room filled up. A dozen more men arrived. Each was admitted +by invitation as we had been. Sally, the colored mammy of the house, took +charge and bade us be seated. Some twenty men took their places about the +long rectangular table. And then a pianist entered. I think it was Prof. +Schultz. He played the piano in the ballrooms of the district. He came in +in a brand-new frock coat and patent leather shoes and sat down at the +ivories. There was a pause and then the professor struck up, doloroso +pianissimo, the tune of "Home, Sweet Home." + +As the first notes carrying the almost audible words, "Mid pleasures and +palaces" arose from the piano the folding doors at the end of the ballroom +parted and there appeared Queen Bess, followed by fifteen of the girls who +sold drinks for her. Queen Bess was dressed in black, her white hair +coiffured like a hospital superintendent's. Her girls were dressed in +simple afternoon frocks. Neither rouge nor beads were to be seen on them. +And as the professor played "Home, Sweet Home" Queen Bess marched her +companions solemnly down the length of the ballroom and seated them at the +table. + +I remember that before the numerous servitors started functioning Queen +Bess made a speech. She stood up at the head of the table, her red face +beaming under her white hair and her black eyes commanding the attention +of the men and women before her. + +"All of you know who I am, blankety blank," said Queen Bess, "and, +blankety blank, what a reputation I got. All of you know. But I've invited +you to this blankety blank dinner, hoping you will humor me for the +afternoon and pretend you forget. I would like to see you enjoy yourselves +at the banquet board, eat and drink what wine there is and laugh and be +thankful, but without pulling any blankety blank rough stuff. I would like +to see you enjoy yourselves as if you were in--in your own homes. Which I +take it none of you gentlemen have got, seeing you are sitting here at the +board of Queen Bess. + +"Now, gentlemen," she concluded, "if it's asking too much of you to +forget, the fault is mine and not yours. And nobody will be penalized or +bawled out, blankety blank him, for being unable to forget. But if you can +forget, and if you can let us enjoy ourselves for an afternoon in a +blankety blank decent and God-fearing way--God love you." + +And Queen Bess sat down. We ate and drank and laughed till seven o'clock +that evening. And I remember that not one of the twenty men present used a +profane word during this time; not one of them did or said anything that +wouldn't have passed muster in his own home, if he had one. And that no +one got drunk except Queen Bess. Yes, Queen Bess in her black dress got +very drunk and swore like a trooper and laughed like a crazy child. And +when the party was over Queen Bess stood at the door and we passed out, +shaking hands with her and giving her our thanks. She stood, steadying +herself against the door beam, and saying to each of us as she shook our +hands: + +"God love you. God love you for bringing happiness to a blankety blank +blank like old Queen Bess." + + +THE DAGGER VENUS + + +The great Gabriel Salvini, whose genius has electrified the populace of a +thousand vaudeville centers, sat in his suite at the Astor Hotel and +listened glumly to the strains from a phonograph. + +"What is the use?" growled the great Salvini. "It is no use. You listen to +her." + +"New music for your act, signor?" + +"No, no, no. My wife. You hear her? She lie on the floor. The phonograph +music play. The man call from the phonograph, 'one, two; one, two; one, +higher; one, two.' And my wife, she lie on the floor and she kick up. She +kick down. She roll over. She bend back. She bend forward. But it is no +use." + +"Madam is reducing, then, signor?" + +"Bah! She kick. She roll. She jump. I say 'Lucia, what good for you to +kick and jump when tonight you sit down and you eat; name of God, how you +eat! Potatoes and more potatoes. Bread with butter on it. Meat, pie, +cream, candy--ten thousand devils! She eat and eat until the eyes stick +out. There is no more place to put. And I say, 'Lucia, you eat enough for +six weeks every time you set down to the table.' I say, 'Lucia, look how +the MacSwiney of Ireland go for thirty weeks without eating one bite.' +Bah!" + +"It is difficult to make a woman stop eating, signor." + +"Difficult! Aha, but she must stop, or what become of me, the great +Salvini, who have 200 medals? Look! I will show you from my book what they +say of me. They say, 'Salvini is the greatest in his line.' They say, +'Here is genius; here is a man whose skill transcends the imagination.' So +what I do if madam keep on growing fatter? Ah, you hear that music? It +drive me crazy. I sit every day and listen. You hear her kick. Bang, bang! +That's how she kick up she lie on the back. Ah, it is tragedy, tragedy!" + +I nodded in silence as the great Salvini arose and moved across the room, +a dapper figure in a scarlet dressing gown and green silk slippers. He +returned with a fresh load of cigarettes. I noticed his hands--thin, +gentle-looking fingers, like a woman's. They quivered perceptibly as he +lighted his smoke, and I marveled at this--that the wizard fingers of the +great Gabriel Salvini should shake! + +"I tell you my story," he resumed. "I tell no one else. But you shall hear +it. It is a story of--of this." And he clapped his hand despairingly over +his heart. "I suffer. Name of God, I suffer every day, every night. And +why? because! You listen to her. She still kick and kick and kick. And I +sit here and think 'Where will it all end?' Another five pounds and I am +ruined. + +"It is ten years ago I meet her. Ah, so beautiful, so sweet, so +light--like this." And the great Salvini traced the wavering elfin +proportions of the Lucia of his youth in the air with his hands. + +"And I say to her, 'My beloved, my queen, you and I will be married and we +will work together and grow famous and rich.' And she say, 'Yes.' So we +marry and begin work at once. I am in Milan, in Italy. And all through the +honeymoon I study my Lucia. For my work is hard. All through the honeymoon +I use only little stickers I throw at her. I begin that way. Five, six, +seven hours a day we practice. Ah, so sweet and beautiful she is as she +stand against the board and I throw the little stickers at her. She smile +at me, 'Have courage, Salvini.' And I see the love in her eyes and am +happy and my arm and wrist are sure. + +"Then I buy the knives to throw at her. I buy the best. Beautiful knives. +I have them made for her special. For not a hair of my beloved's head must +be touched. And we practice with the knives. I am then already famous. +Everybody in Italy knows Salvini, the great knife thrower. They say, +'Never has there been a young man of such genius with the knives.' But I +am only begin. + + * * * * * + +"Our début is a success. What do I say, 'Success!' Bah! It is like +wildfire. They stand up and cheer. 'Salvini, Salvini!' they cry. And she, +my beloved, stand against the board framed by the beautiful knives that +fit exactly around her--to an inch, to a quarter inch, to a hair from her +ears and neck. And she stand, and as they cheer for Salvini, the great +Salvini, I see her smile at me. Ah, how sweet she is! How happy I am! + +"And so we go on. I train all the time. Soon I know the outline of my +Lucia so well I can close my eyes and throw knives at her, and always they +come with the point only a hair away from her body. I pin her dress +against the board. Her arms she stretch out and I give her two sleeves of +knives. And for five years, no for eight years, everything go well. Never +once I touch her. Always I watch her eyes when I throw and her eyes give +me courage. + +"But then what happen? Ah, ten thousand devils, she begin. She grow fat. +One night I send a knife through the skin of her arm. I cannot go on with +the act. I must stop. I break down and weep. For I love her so much the +blood that comes from her arm drive me crazy. But I say, 'How did the +great Salvini make such a mistake? It is incredible.' Then I look at her +and I see something. She is getting fat. Name of God, I shudder. I say, +'Lucia, we are ruined. You get fat. I can only throw knives at you like +you were, like we have studied together. You get fat. I must change my +throw. I cannot!" + + * * * * * + +The great Salvini raised his shoulders in a despairing shrug. + +"Two years ago that was," he whispered. "She weigh one hundred fifty +pounds when we marry. So pretty, so light she is. But now she weigh +already two hundred pounds, and she is going up. She will not listen to +me. + +"It is the eat, the eat, the terrible eat which do this. And every night +when we perform I shiver, I grow cold. I stand looking at her as she take +her place on the board. And I see she have grow bigger. Perhaps it is +nothing to you, a woman grown bigger. But to Salvini it is ruin. + +"I throw the knife. Zip it goes and I close my eyes each time. I no longer +dare give her the beautiful frame as before. But I must throw away. +Because for eight years I have thrown at a target of 150 pounds. And my +art cannot change. + +"Some day she will be sorry. Yes, some day she will understand what she is +doing to me. She will eat, eat until she grow so fat that it is all my +target that I mastered on the honeymoon. And I will throw the knife over. +She will no longer be Lucia, and it will hit. Name of God, it will hit her +and sink in." + +"Well, she will have learned a lesson then, signor." + +"She will have learned. But me, I will be ruined. They will laugh. They +will say, 'Salvini, the great Salvini, is done. He cannot throw the knives +any more. Look, last night he hit his wife. Twice, three, times he threw +the knives into her.' _Sapristi!_ It is the stubbornness of +womankind. + +"I will tell you. Why does she eat, eat, eat? Why does she grow fat? +Because she no longer loves me. No, she do it on purpose to ruin me." + +And the great Salvini covered his ears with his hands as the phonograph +continued relentlessly, "one, two, one, two, higher, two." + + + +LETTERS + + +One of the drawers in my desk is full of letters that people have sent in. +Some of them are knocks or boosts, but most of them are tips. There are +several hundred tips on stories in the drawer. + +Today, while looking them over I thought that these tips were a story in +themselves. To begin with, the different kinds of stationery and the +different kinds of handwriting. You would think that stationery and +handwriting so varied would contain varied suggestions and varied points +of view. + +But from the top of the pile to the bottom--through 360 letters written on +360 different kinds of paper--there runs only one tip. And in the 360 +different kinds of handwriting there runs only one story. + + * * * * * + +"There is a man I see almost every day on my way home from work," writes +one, "and I think he would make a good story. There is something queer +about him. He keeps mumbling to himself all the time." This tip is on +plain stationery. + +"--and I see the old woman frequently," writes another. "Nobody knows who +she is or what she does. She is sure a woman of mystery. You ought to be +able to get a good story out of her." This tip is on pink stationery. + +"I think you can find him around midnight walking through the city hall. +He walks through the hall every midnight and whistles queer tunes. Nobody +has ever talked to him and they don't know what he does there. There is +certainly a queer story in that man." This tip is written on a business +letterhead. + +"She lives in a back room and so far as anybody knows has no occupation. +There's something awfully queer about her and I've often wondered what the +mystery about her really was. Won't you look her up and write it out? Her +address is--" This tip is on monogrammed paper. + +"I've been waiting for you to write about the queer old man who hangs out +on the Dearborn Street bridge. I've passed him frequently and he's always +at the same place. I've wondered time and again what his history was and +why he always stood in the same place." This tip is on a broker's +stationery. + +"He sells hot beans in the loop and he's an old-timer. He's always +laughing and whenever I see him I think, 'There's a story in that old man. +There's sure something odd about him.'" This tip is on scratch paper. + +"I saw her first several years ago. She was dressed all in black and was +running. As it was past midnight I thought it strange. But I've seen her +since and always late at night and she's always running. She must be about +forty years old and from what I could see of her face a very curious kind +of woman. In fact, we call her the woman of mystery in our neighborhood. +Come out to Oakley Avenue some night and see for yourself. There's a +wonderful story in that running woman, I'm certain." This tip is signed "A +Stenographer." + +They continue--tips on strange, weird, curious, odd, old, chuckling, +mysterious men and women. Solitaries. Enigmatic figures moving silently +through the streets. Nameless ones; exiles from the free and easy +conformity of the town. + +If you should read these letters all through at one sitting you would get +a very strange impression of the city. You would see a procession of +mysterious figures flitting through the streets, an unending swarm of dim +ones, queer ones. And then as you kept on reading this procession would +gradually focus into a single figure. This is because all the letters are +so nearly alike and because the mysterious ones offered as tips are +described in almost identical terms. + +So the dim ones, the queer ones, would become a composite, and you would +have in your thought the image of a single one. A huge, nebulous +caricature--hooded, its head lowered, its eyes peering furtively from +under shaggy brows, its thin fingers fumbling under a great black cloak, +its feet moving in a soundless shuffle over the pavement. + +Sometimes I have gone out and found the "woman of mystery" given in a +letter. Usually an embittered creature living in the memory of wrongs that +life has done her. Or a psychopathic case suffering from hallucinations or +at war with its own impulses. And each of them has said, "I hate people. I +don't like this neighborhood. And I keep to myself." + +The letters all ask, "Who is this one?" + +But that doesn't begin to answer the question the letters ask, "Who is +it?" + + * * * * * + +The story of the odd ones is perhaps no more interesting than the story +that might be written of the letters that "tip them off." A story here, of +the harried, buried little figures that make up the swarm of the city and +of the way they glimpse mystery out of the corners of their eyes. Of the +way they pause for a moment on their treadmill to wonder about the silent, +shuffling caricature with its hooded face and its thin fingers groping +under its heavy black cloak. + +In another drawer I have stored away letters of another kind. Letters that +the caricature sends me. Queer, marvelous scrawls that remind one of +spiders and bats swinging against white backgrounds. These letters are +seldom signed. They are written almost invariably on cheap blue lined pad +paper. + +There are at least two hundred of them. And if you should read them all +through at one sitting you would get a strange sense that this caricature +of the hooded face was talking to you. That the Queer One who shuffles +through the streets was sitting beside you and whispering marvelous things +into your ear. + +He writes of the stars, of inventions that will revolutionize man, of +discoveries he has made, of new continents to be visited, of trips to the +moon and of buried races that live beneath the rivers and mountains. He +writes of amazing crimes he has committed, of weird longings that will not +let him sleep. And, too, he writes of strange gods which man should +worship. He pours out his soul in a fantastic scrawl. He says: "One is +all. God looked down and saw ants. The wheel of life turns seven times and +you can see between. You will sometime understand this. But now you have +curtains on your eyes." + +Now that you have read all the letters the city becomes a picture. An +office in which sits a well-dressed business man dictating to a pretty +stenographer. They are hard at work, but as they work their eyes glance +furtively out of a tall, thin window. Some one is passing outside the +window. A strange figure, hooded, head down, with his hands moving queerly +under his great black cloak. + + + +THE MOTHER + + +She sat on one of the benches in the Morals Court. The years had made a +coarse mask of her face. There was nothing to see in her eyes. Her hands +were red and leathery, like a man's. They had done a man's work. + +A year-old child slept in her arms. It was bundled up, although the +courtroom itself was suffocating. She was waiting for Blanche's case to +come up. Blanche had been arrested by a policeman for--well, for what? +Something about a man. So she would lose $2.00 by not being at work at the +store today. Why did they arrest Blanche? She was in that room with the +door closed. But the lawyer said not to worry. Yes, maybe it was a +mistake. Blanche never did nothing. Blanche worked at the store all day. + +At night Blanche went out. But she was a young girl. And she had lots of +friends. Fine men. Sometimes they brought Blanche home late at night. +Blanche was her daughter. + + * * * * * + +The woman with the sleeping child in her arms looked around. The room was +nice. A big room with a good ceiling. But the people looked bad. Maybe +they had done something and had been arrested. There was one man with a +bad face. She watched him. He came quickly to where she was sitting. What +was he saying? A lawyer. + +"No, I don't want no lawyer," the woman with the child mumbled. "No, no." + +The man went back. He kept pretty busy, talking to lots of people in the +room. So he was a lawyer. Blanche had a lawyer. She had paid him $10. A +lot of money. + +"Shh, Paula!" the woman whispered. Paula was the name of the sleeping +child. It had stirred in the bundle. + +"Shh! Mus'n't. Da-ah-ah-ah--" + +She rocked sideways with the bundle and crooned over it. Her heavy +coarsened face seemed to grow surprised as she stared into the bundle. The +child grew quiet. + +The judge took his place. Business started. From where she sat the woman +with the child couldn't hear anything. She watched little groups of men +and women form in front of the judge. Then they went away and other groups +came. + +The lawyer had said not to worry. Just wait for Blanche's name and then +come right up. Not to worry. + +"Shh, Paula, shh! Da-ah-ah-ah--" + +There was Blanche coming out of the door. She looked bad. Her face. Oh, +yes, poor girl, she worked too hard. But what could she do? Only work. And +now they arrested her. They arrested Blanche when the streets were full of +bums and loafers, they arrested Blanche who worked hard. + +Go up in front like the lawyer said. Sure. There was Blanche going now. +And the lawyer, too. He had a better face than the other one who came and +asked. + +"And is this the woman?" + +The lawyer laughed because the judge asked this. + +"Oh, no," he said; "no, your honor, that's her mother. Step up, Blanche." + +What did the policeman say? + +"Shh! Paula, shh! Da-ah--" She couldn't hear on account of Paula moving so +much and crying. Paula was hungry. She'd have to stay hungry a little +while. What man? That one! + +But the policeman was talking about the man, not about Blanche. + +"He said, your honor, that she'd been following him down Madison Street +for a block, talking to him and finally he stopped and she asked him--" + +"Shh! Paula, don't! Bad girl! Shh!" + +That man with the black mustache. Who was he? + +"Yes, your honor, I never saw her before. I walk in the street and she +come up and talk to me and say, 'You wanna come home with me?'" + +"Blanche, how long has this been going on?" + +Look, Blanche was crying. Shh, Paula, shh! The judge was speaking. But +Blanche didn't listen. The woman with the child was going to say, +"Blanche, the judge," but her tongue grew frightened. + +"Speak up, Blanche." The judge said this. + + * * * * * + +She could hardly hear Blanche. It was funny to see her cry. Long ago she +used to cry when she was a baby like Paula. But since she went to work she +never cried. Never cried. + +"Oh, judge! Oh, judge! Please--" + +"Shh, Paula! Da-ah-ah-ah--" Why was this? What would the judge do? + +"Have you ever been arrested before, Blanche?" + +No, no, no! She must tell the judge that. The woman with the child raised +her face. + +"Please, judge," she said, "No! No! She never arrested before. She's a +good girl." + +"I see," said the judge. "Does she bring her money home?" + +"Yes, yes, judge! Please, she brings all her money home. She's a good +girl." + +"Ever seen her before, officer?" + +"Well, your honor, I don't know. I've seen her in the street once or +twice, and from the way she was behavin', your honor, I thought she needed +watchin'." + +"Never caught her, though, officer?" + +No, your honor, this is the first time." + +"Hm," said his honor. + +Now the lawyer was talking. What was he saying? What was the matter? +Blanche was a good girl. Why they arrest her? + +"Shh, Paula, shh! Mus'n't." She held the child closer to her heavy bosom. +Hungry. But it must wait. Pretty soon. + +He was a nice judge. "All right," he said, "you can go, Blanche. But if +they bring you in again it'll be the House of the Good Shepherd. Remember +that. I'll let you go on account of her." + +A nice judge. "Thank you, thank you, judge. Shh, Paula! Goo-by." + +Now she would find out. She would ask Blanche. They could talk aloud in +the hallway. + +"Blanche, come here." A note of authority came into the woman's voice. A +girl of eighteen walking at her side turned a rouged, tear-stained face. + +"Aw, don't bother me, ma. I got enough trouble." + +"What was the matter with the policeman?" + +"Aw, he's a boob. That's all." + +"But what they arrest you for, Blanche? I knew it was a mistake. But what +they arrest you for, Blanche? I gave him $10." + +"Aw, shut up! Don't bother me." + +The woman shrugged her shoulders and turned to the child in her arms. + +"Da-ah-ah, Paula. Mamma feed you right away. Soon we find place to sit +down. Shh, Paula! Mus'n't. Da-ah-ah--" + +When she looked up Blanche had vanished. She stood still for a while and +then, holding the year-old child closer to her, walked toward the +elevator. There was nothing to see in her eyes. + + + +CLOCKS AND OWL CARS + + +As they say in the melodramas, the city sleeps. Windows have said +good-night to one another. Rooftops have tucked themselves away. The +pavements are still. People have vanished. The darkness sweeping like a +great broom through the streets has emptied them. + +The clock in the window of a real estate office says "Two." A few windows +down another clock says "Ten minutes after two." + +The newspaper man waiting for a Sheffield Avenue owl car walks along to +the next corner, listening for the sound of car wheels and looking at the +clocks. The clocks all disagree. They all hang ticking with seemingly +identical and indisputable precision. Their white faces and their black +numbers speak in the dark of the empty stores. "Tick-tock, Time never +sleeps. Time keeps moving the hands of the city's clocks around and +around." + +Alas, when clocks disagree what hope is there for less methodical +mechanisms, particularly such humpty-dumpty mechanisms as tick away inside +the owners of clocks? The newspaper man must sigh. These clocks in the +windows of the empty stores along Sheffield Avenue seem to be arguing. +They present their arguments calmly, like meticulous professors. They say: +"Eight minutes of two. Three minutes of two. Two. Four minutes after two. +Ten minutes after two." + +Thus the confusions of the day persist even after the darkness has swept +the streets clean of people. There being nobody else to dispute, the +clocks take it up and dispute the hour among themselves. + +The newspaper man pauses in front of one half-hidden clock. It says "Six." +Obviously here is a clock not running. Its hands have stopped and it no +longer ticks. But, thinks the newspaper man, it is not to be despised for +that. At least it is the only clock in the neighborhood that achieves +perfect accuracy. Twice a day while all the other clocks in the street are +disputing and arguing, this particular clock says "Six" and of all the +clocks it alone is precisely accurate. + +In the distance a yellow light swings like an idle lantern over the car +tracks. So the newspaper man stops at the corner and waits. This is the +owl car. It may not stop. Sometimes cars have a habit of roaring by with +an insulting indifference to the people waiting for them to stop at the +corner. At such moments one feels a fine rage, as if life itself had +insulted one. There have been instances of men throwing bricks through the +windows of cars that wouldn't stop and cheerfully going to jail for the +crime. + +But this car stops. It comes to a squealing halt that must contribute +grotesquely to the dreams of the sleepers in Sheffield Avenue. The night +is cool. As the car stands silent for a moment it becomes, with its +lighted windows and its gay paint, like some modernized version of the +barque in which Jason journeyed on his quest. + + * * * * * + +The seats are half filled. The newspaper man stands on the platform with +the conductor and stares at the passengers. The conductor is an elderly +man with an unusually mild face. + +The people in the car try to sleep. Their heads try to make use of the +window panes for pillows. Or they prop their chins up in their palms or +they are content to nod. There are several young men whose eyes are +reddened. A young woman in a cheap but fancy dress. And several +middle-aged men. All of them look bored and tired. And all of them present +a bit of mystery. + +Who are these passengers through the night? And what has kept them up? And +where are they going or coming from? The newspaper man has half a mind to +inquire. Instead he picks on the conductor, and as the car bounces gayly +through the dark, cavernous streets the mild-faced conductor lends himself +to a conversation. + +"I been on this line for six years. Always on the owl car," he says. "I +like it better than the day shift. I was married, but my wife died and I +don't find much to do with my evenings, anyway. + +"No, I don't know any of these people, except there's a couple of +workingmen who I take home on the next trip. Mostly they're always +strangers. They've been out having a good time, I suppose. It's funny +about them. I always feel sorry for 'em. Yes, sir, you can't help it. + +"There's some that's been out drinking or hanging around with women and +when they get on the car they sort of slide down in their seats and you +feel like there was nothing much to what they'd been doing. Pessimistic? +No, I ain't pessimistic. If you was ridin' this car like I you'd see what +I mean. + +"It's like watchin' people afterwards. I mean after they've done things. +They always seem worse off then. I suppose it's because they're all +sleepy. But standin' here of nights I feel that it's more than that. +They're tired sure enough but they're also feeling that things ain't what +they're cracked up to be. + +"I seldom put anybody off. The drunks are pretty sad and I feel sorry for +them. They just flop over and I wake them up when it comes their time. +Sometimes there's girls and they look pretty sad. And sometimes something +really interestin' comes off. Once there was a lady who was cryin' and +holdin' a baby. On the third run it was. I could see she'd up and left her +house all of a sudden on account of a quarrel with her husband, because +she was only half buttoned together. + +"And once there was a man whose pictures I see in the papers the next day +as having committed suicide. I remembered him in a minute. Well, no, he +didn't look like he was going to commit suicide. He looked just about like +all the other passengers--tired and sleepy and sort of down." + +The mild-faced conductor helped one of his passengers off. + +"Don't you ever wonder what keeps these people out or where they're going +at this time of night?" the newspaper man pursued as the car started up +again. + +"Well," said the conductor, "not exactly. I've got it figured out there's +nothing much to that and that they're all kind of alike. They've been to +parties or callin' on their girls or just got restless or somethin'. +What's the difference? All I can say about 'em is that you get so after +years you feel sorry for 'em all. And they're all alike--people as ride on +the night run cars are just more tired than the people I remember used to +ride on the day run cars I was on before my wife died." + +The clock in a candy store window says "Three-twelve." A few windows down, +another clock says "Three-five." The newspaper man walks to his home +studying the clocks. They all disagree as before. And yet their faces are +all identical--as identical as the faces of the owl car passengers seem to +the conductor. And here is a clock that has stopped. It says "Twenty after +four." And the newspaper man thinks of the picture the conductor +identified in the papers the next morning. The picture said something like +"Twenty after four" at the wrong time. It's all a bit mixed up. + + + +CONFESSIONS + + +The rain mutters in the night and the pavements like dark mirrors are +alive with impressionistic cartoons of the city. The little, silent street +with its darkened store windows and rain-veiled arc lamps is as lonely as +a far-away train whistle. + +Over the darkened stores are stone and wooden flat buildings. Here, too, +the lights have gone out. People sleep. The rain falls. The gleaming +pavements amuse themselves with reflections. + +I have an hour to wait. From the musty smelling hallway where I stand the +scene is like an old print--an old London print--that I have always meant +to buy and put in a frame but have never found. + + * * * * * + +Writing about people when one is alone under an electric lamp, and +thinking about people when one stands watching the rain in the dark +streets, are two different diversions. When one writes under an electric +lamp one pompously marshals ideas; one remembers the things people say and +do and believe in, and slowly these things replace people in one's mind. +One thinks (in the calm of one's study): "So-and-so is a Puritan ... he is +viciously afraid of anything which will disturb the idealized version of +himself in which he believes--and wants other people to believe...." Yes, +one thinks So-and-so is this and So-and-so is that. And it all seems very +simple. People focus into clearly outlined ideas--definitions. And one can +sit back and belabor them, hamstring them, pull their noses, expose their +absurdities and derive a deal of satisfaction from the process. Iconoclasm +is easy and warming under an electric light in one's study. + +But in the rain at night, in the dark street staring at darkened windows, +watching the curious reflections in the pavements--it is different in the +rain. The night mutters and whispers. + +"People," one thinks, "tired, silent people sleeping in the dark." + +Ideas do not come so easily or so clearly. The ennobling angers which are +the emotion of superiority in the iconoclast do not rise so spontaneously. +And one does not say "People are this and people are that...." No, one +pauses and stares at the dark chatter of the rain and a curious silence +saddens one's mind. + +Life is apart from ideas. And the things that people say and believe in +and for which they die and in behalf of which they invent laws and +codes--these have nothing to do with the insides of people. Puritan, +hypocrite, criminal, dolt--these are paper-thin masks. It is diverting to +rip them in the calm of one's study. + +Life that warms the trees into green in the summer, that sends birds +circling through the air, that spreads a tender, passionate glow over even +the most barren wastes--people are but one of its almost too many +children. The dark, the rain, the lights, people asleep in bed, the wind, +the snow that will fall tomorrow, the ice, flowers, sunlight, country +roads, pavements and stars--all these are the same. Through all of them +life sends its intimate and sacred breath. + +One becomes aware of such curious facts in the rain at night and one's +iconoclasm, like a broken umbrella, hangs useless from one's hand. +Tomorrow these people who are now asleep will be stirring, giving vent to +outrageous ideas, championing incredulous banalities, prostrating +themselves before imbecile superstitions. Tomorrow they will rise and +begin forthwith to lie, quibble, cheat, steal, fourflush and kill, each +and all inspired by the solacing monomania that every one of their words +and gestures is a credible variant of perfection. Yes, tomorrow they will +be as they were yesterday. + +But in this rain at night they rest from their perfections, they lay aside +for a few hours their paper masks. And one can contemplate them with a +curious absence of indignation or criticism. There is something warm and +intimate about the vision of many people sleeping in the beds above the +darkened store fronts of this little street. Their bodies have been in the +world so long--almost as long as the stones out of which their houses are +made. So many things have happened to them, so many debacles and monsters +and horrors have swept them off their feet ... and always they have kept +on--persisting through floods, volcanic eruptions, plagues and wars. + +Heroic and incredible people. Endlessly belaboring themselves with ideas, +gods, taboos, and philosophies. Yet here they are, still in this silent +little street. The world has grown old. Trees have decayed and races died +out. But here above the darkened store fronts lies the perpetual +miracle.... People in whom life streams as naïve and intimate as ever. + + * * * * * + +Yes, it is to life and not people one makes one's obeisance. Toward life +no iconoclasm is possible, for even that which is in opposition to its +beauty and horror must of necessity be a part of them. + +It rains. The arc lamps gleam through the monotonous downpour. One can +only stand and dream ... how charming people are since they are alive ... +how charming the rain is and the night.... And how foolish arguments are +... how banal are these cerebral monsters who pose as iconoclasts and +devote themselves grandiloquently and inanely to disturbing the paper +masks.... + + * * * * * + +I walk away from the musty smelling hallway. A dog steps tranquilly out of +the shadows nearby. He surveys the street and the rain with a proprietary +calm. + +It would be amusing to walk in the rain with a strange dog. I whistle +softly and reassuringly to him. He pauses and turns his head toward me, +surveying me with an air of vague discomfort. What do I want of him? ... +he thinks ... who am I? ... have I any authority? ... what will happen to +him if he doesn't obey the whistle? + +Thus he stands hestitating. Perhaps, too, I will give him shelter, a +kindness never to be despised. A moment ago, before I whistled, this dog +was tranquil and happy in the rain. Now he has changed. He turns fully +around and approaches me, a slight cringe in his walk. The tranquillity +has left him. At the sound of my whistle he has grown suddenly tired and +lonely and the night and rain no longer lure him. He has found another +companionship. + +And so together we walk for a distance, this dog and I, wondering about +each other.... + + + +AN IOWA HUMORESQUE + + +In a room at the Auditorium Hotel a group of men and women connected with +the opera were having tea. As they drank out of the fragile cups and +nibbled at the little cakes they boasted to each other of their love +affairs. + +"And I had the devil of a time getting rid of her," was the motif of the +men's conversation. The women said, "And I just couldn't shake him. It was +awful." + +There was one--an American prima donna--who grew pensive as the amorous +boasting increased. An opulent woman past 35, dark-haired, great-eyed; a +robust enchantress with a sweep to her manner. Her beauty was an +exaggeration. Exaggerated contours, colors, features that needed +perspective to set them off. Diluted by distance and bathed by the +footlights she focused prettily into a Manon, a Thaïs, an Isolde. But in +the room drinking tea she had the effect of a too startling close-up--a +rococo siren cramped for space. + +The barytone leaned unctuously across the small table and said to her with +a preposterous archness of manner: + +"And how does it happen, my dear, that you have nothing to tell us?" + +"Because she has too much," said one of the orchestra men, laughingly. + +The prima donna smiled. + +"Oh, I can tell a story as well as anybody," she said. "In fact, I was +just thinking of one. You know I was in Iowa last month. And I visited the +town where I was born and lived as a girl--until I was nineteen. It's +funny." + +Again the pensive stare out of the window at the chill-looking autumn sky +and the sharp outlines of the city roofs. + +"Go on," her hostess cried. To her guests she added, in the social +curtain-raiser manner peculiar to rambunctious hostesses, "if Mugs tells +anything about herself you can be sure it'll be something immense. Go on, +Mugs." Mugs is one of the nicknames the prima donna is known by among her +friends. + +"We went to school together," the prima donna smiled, "John and I. And I +don't think I've ever loved anybody as I loved him. He used to frighten me +to death. You see, I was ambitious. I wanted to be somebody. And John +wanted me to marry him. Somehow marriage wasn't what I wanted then. There +were other things. I had started singing and at night I used to lie awake, +not wanting to sleep. I was so taken up with my dreams and plans that I +hated to lose consciousness. That's a fact. + +"Well, John grew more and more insistent. And one evening he came to call +on me. I was alone on the porch. John was about twenty-three then. That +was about twenty years ago. He was a tall, good-looking, sharp-faced young +man with lively eyes. I thought him marvelous at the time. And he stood on +the steps of the porch and talked to me. I never forgot a word he said. I +have never heard anything so wonderful since." + +The barytone shrugged his shoulders politely and said "Hm!" + +"Oh, I know," smiled the prima donna, "you're the Great Lover and all +that. But you never could talk as John did that evening on the porch--in +Iowa. He stood there and said, 'Mugs, you're going to regret this moment +for the rest of your life. There'll be nights when you'll wake up +shivering and crying and you'll want to kill yourself. Why? Because you +didn't marry me. Because you had your chance to marry me and turned it +down. Remember. Remember how I'm standing here talking to you--unknown--a +country boy. Remember that when you hear of me again.' + +"'What are you going to do?' I asked. + +"I'm going to be president of the United States,' he said. And he said it +so that there was truth in it. As I looked at him standing on the steps I +felt frightened to death. There he was, going to be president of the +United States, and there was I, throwing the greatest chance in the world +away. He knew I believed him and that made it worse. He went on talking in +a sort of oracular singsong that drove me mad. + +"'I'm not asking you again. You've had your chance, Mugs. And you've +thrown it away. All right. It'll not be said afterward that John Marcey +made a fool of himself. Good-bye.'" + + * * * * * + +The prima donna sighed. "Yes," she went on, looking into her empty teacup; +"it was good-bye. He walked away, erect, his shoulders high, his body +swinging. And I sat there shivering. I had turned down a president of the +United States! Me, a gawky little Iowa girl. And, what was worse, I was in +love with him, too. Well, I remember sitting on the porch till the folks +came home from prayer meeting and I remember going to bed and lying awake +all night, crying and shivering. + +"I didn't see John Marcey again. I stayed only a week longer and then I +came to Chicago to study music. My folks were able to finance me for a +time. But I never forgot him. It was John who had started me for Chicago. +And it was John who kept me practicing eight hours a day, studying and +practicing until I thought I'd drop. + +"I was going to make good. When he became president I was going to be +somebody. I wasn't going to do what he said I would, wake up cursing +myself and remembering my lost chance. So I went right on working my head +off and finally it was Paris and finally it was a job in London. And I +never stopped working. + +"But the funny part was that I gradually forgot about John Marcey. When I +had arrived as an opera singer he was entirely dead for me. But last month +I visited my home town. I was passing through and couldn't resist getting +off and looking up people I knew as a girl. My folks are dead, you know. + +"And when I walked down the street--the same old funny little Main +Street--I remembered John Marcey. And, would you believe it, that same +feeling of fear came back to me as I'd had that night on the porch when he +made his 'remember' speech. I got curious as the devil about John and felt +afraid to inquire. But finally I was talking to an old, old man who runs +the drug-store on the corner of Main and Sixth streets there. I'd +recognized him through the window and gone inside and shaken hands; and I +asked him: + +"'Do you remember John Marcey?' + +"'Marcey--Marcey?' he repeated. 'Oh, yes. Old Marse. Why, yes. Sure.' And +he kept nodding his head. Then I asked with my heart in my mouth, 'What's +become of him?' And the old druggist who was looking out of his store +window adjusted his glasses and pointed with his finger. 'There he is. +There he is. Wait a minute. I'll call him.' + +"And there was John, my president of the United States, hunched over on +the seat of a garbage wagon driving a woebegone nag down the street. I +grabbed hold of the druggist and said, 'Don't, I'll see him later.' + +"Well, I couldn't stay in that town another minute. I hurried to the +station and waited for the next train and kept thinking of John driving +his garbage wagon, and his battered felt hat and his hangdog face until I +thought I'd go mad. + +"That's all," laughed the prima donna, "That's my love story." And she +stared pensively into the empty teacup as the barytone moved a bit closer +and began: + +"I'll tell you about a Spanish girl I met in Prague that'll interest +you--" + + + +THE EXILE + + +The newspaper man told the story apropos of nothing at all. There was a +pause in the talk among the well-dressed dinner guests. A very +satisfied-looking man said: + +"Well, thank God, this radical excitement is over." + +Every one agreed it was fortunate and the newspaper man, an insufferably +garrulous person, interjected: "That reminds me of Bill Haywood." + +"Oh, yes," said the hostess, "he was the leader of all that terrible +thing, wasn't he?" + +"He was," said the newspaper man. "I knew him fairly well. I covered the +I.W.W. trial in Judge Landis' court, where he and a hundred or so others +were sent to prison." + +"What was the charge against them?" inquired the satisfied one. + +"I forget," said the newspaper man, "but I remember Haywood. The trial, of +course, had something to do with the war. The war was going on then, you +remember." + +"Oh, yes, indeed," exclaimed the hostess. "It will take a long time to +forget the war." And her eyes brightened. + + * * * * * + +"You were going to tell us about the I.W.W. trial," pursued the hostess a +few minutes later. + +"Oh, there's nothing much about that," said the newspaper man. "I was +principally interested in Bill Haywood for a moment. You know they sent +him to jail for twenty years or so. Anyway, that was his sentence." + +"The scoundrel ran away," said the very satisfied one. "Funny they should +let a man as unprincipled and dangerous as Haywood slip through their +hands after sending him to jail." + +"Yes, they let him escape to Russia, of all places," declared the hostess +with indignation. "Where he could do the most harm. Oh, the government is +so stupid at times it simply drives one furious. Or makes you laugh. +Doesn't it?" + +"Yes, he skipped his bond or something," said the newspaper man, "and +became an exile." + +The satisfied one snorted. + +"Exile!" he derided. "You don't call a man an exile who runs away from a +country he has always despised and fought against?" + +"The last time I saw him," went on the newspaper man, as if he were +unruffled, "was about four or five days before he disappeared. I was +surprised to see him. I thought he was serving his time in jail. I hadn't +been following the ins and outs and I wasn't aware he had got appeals and +things and was still at large." + +"Yes," said the satisfied one, "that's the trouble with this country. Too +lenient toward these scoundrels. As if they were entitled to--" + +"Justice," murmured the newspaper man. "Quite so. Our enemies are not +entitled to justice. It is one of my oldest notions." + +"But tell us about what this Haywood said," pursued the hostess. "It must +have been funny meeting him." + +"It was," said the newspaper man. "It was at the Columbia theater between +acts in the evening. I had gone to see a burlesque show there. And between +acts I was on the mezzanine floor. I went out to get a glass of water. + +"As I was coming back whom do I see leaning against the railing but old +Bill Haywood. I hadn't seen him for about two years, I guess. But he +hadn't changed an iota. The same crooked-lipped smile. And his one eye +staring ahead of him with a mildly amused light in it. A rather striking +person was Bill. I suppose it was because he always seemed so calm +outside. + +"He remembered me and when I said hello to him he called me by name and I +walked to his side. I started talking and said: 'Well, what are you doing +here? I thought you were serving time in six jails.' + +"'Not yet,' said Haywood, 'but in a few days. The sentence starts next +week.' + +"'Twenty years?' + +"'Oh, something like that.' + + * * * * * + +"Well," said the newspaper man, "I suddenly remembered that he was in a +theater and I got kind of curious. I asked what he was doing in the +theater and he looked at me and grinned. + +"'I'm all in," he said. 'Been going the pace for about a month now. Out +every night. Taking in all the glad spots and high spots.' + +"This was so curious coming from Big Bill that I looked surprised. And he +went on talking. Yes, sir, this Big Bill Haywood, the terror of organized +society, was saying goodbye to his native land as if he were a sentimental +playboy. He wasn't going to jail because by that time he had all his plans +matured for his escape to Russia. + +"But he knew he was going to leave the country and perhaps never come back +again. So he was making the rounds. + +"'I've been to almost every show in town,' he went on talking, 'all the +musical comedies, all the dramas, all the west side melodramas. I've been +to almost all the cafés, the swell ones with the monkey-suit waiters and +the old ones I've known myself for years. I drew up a list of all these +places in town about a month ago and I've been following a schedule ever +since.' + + * * * * * + +"I asked him," said the newspaper man, "if he liked the plays he'd seen. +Bill grinned at that. + +"'It ain't that,' said Bill. 'No, it ain't that. It's only seeing them. +You know, there's nothing like these kind of things anywhere else in the +world.' + +"And then the theater got dark and we said good-bye casually and went to +our different seats. I didn't see Haywood again. About a week or so later +I read the headline that he had fled the country. Nobody knew where he +was, but people suspected. And then two weeks after that there was the +story that he had reached Russia and was in Moscow. + +"Well, when I read that," said the newspaper man, "I remembered all of a +sudden how he had stood leaning against the railing at the Columbia +theater saying good-bye to something. Making the rounds for a month saying +good-bye in his own way to all the places he would never see again. Kind +of odd, I thought, for Bill Haywood to do that. That isn't the way +Nietzsche would have written a radical. But Dickens might have written it +that way, like Bill. + +"That's why whenever I see his name in print now," pursued the newspaper +man, "I always think of the burlesque chorus on the stage kicking their +legs and yodeling jazzily and Big Bill Haywood staring with his one eye, +saying good-bye with his one eye. + +"Tell me he's not an exile!" laughed the newspaper man suddenly. + + + +ON A DAY LIKE THIS + + +On a day like this, he says, on a day like this, when the wind plays cello +music across the rooftops.... I think about things. The town is like a +fireless, dimly lighted room. Yesterday the windows sparkled with +sunlight. To-day they stare like little coffin tops. + +On a day like this, he says, on this sort of a day I walk along smoking a +pipe and wonder what I was excited about yesterday. Then I remember, he +says, that once it rained yesterday and I waited under the awning till it +ended. I remember, he says, that once I walked swiftly down this street +toward a building on the corner. It was vastly important that I reach this +building. I remember, he says, that there were days I hurried down Clark +Street and days I ran down Monroe Street. Now it is windy again. There is +long silence over the noises of the street. The sky looks empty and old. + + * * * * * + +There were people gathered around an automobile that had bumped into the +curbing. I stopped to watch them, he says. There was a man next to me with +a heavy gray face, with loose lips and with intent eyes. There was another +man and another--dozens of men--all of them people who had been hurrying +in the street to get somewhere. And here they were standing and looking +intently at an automobile with a twisted wheel. + +I became aware that we were all looking with a strange intensity at this +automobile; that we all stood as if waiting for something. Dozens of men +hurrying somewhere suddenly stop and stand for ten, twenty, thirty minutes +staring at a broken automobile. There was a reason for this. Always where +there is a machine at work, digging or hammering piles, where there is a +horse fallen, an auto crashed, a flapjack turner, a fountain pen +demonstrator; where there is a magic clock that runs, nobody knows how, or +a window puzzle that turns in a drug-store window or anything that moves +behind plate glass--always where there is any one of these things there +are people like us standing riveted, attentive, unwavering. + +People on artificial errands, hurrying like obedient automations through +the streets; stern-faced people with dignified eyes, important-stepping +people with grave decision stamped upon them; careless, innocuous-looking +people--all these people look as if they had something in their heads, as +if there were things of import driving them through the streets. But this +is an error. Nothing in their heads. They are like the fish that swim +beneath the water--a piece of shining tin captures their eyes and they +pause and stare at it. + +The broken automobile holds their eyes, holds them all riveted +because--because it is something unordinary to look at, to think about. +And there is nothing unordinary to look at or think about in their heads. + + * * * * * + +And I too, he says, on this day when the wind played cello music across +the rooftops, stood in the crowd. We were all children, I noticed, more +than that--infants. Open-mouthed infantile wonder staring out of our +tired, gray faces. Men, without thought, men making a curious little +confession in the busy street that they were not busy, that there is +nothing in life at the moment that preoccupies them--that a broken +automobile is a godsend, a diversion, a drama, a great happiness. + +I smoked my pipe, he says, and began to wonder again. Why did they stare +like this? And at what? And who were these staring ones? And what was it +in them that stared? I thought of this, he says. Dead dreams, and +forgotten defeats stood staring from the curb at the broken automobile. +Men who had survived themselves, who had become compliant and automatic +little forces in the engine of the city--these were ourselves on the curb. + +And this is a weary thing to remember about the city. When I am tired, he +says, and the plot of which I am hero, villain and Greek chorus suddenly +vanish from my mind, I pause and look at something behind plate glass. A +bauble catches my eye. Long minutes, half hours pass. There is a marvelous +plentitude of baubles to look at. Machines digging, excavations, +scaffoldings, advertisements, never are lacking. + +And at such times I begin to notice how many of us there are. The hurry of +the streets is an illusion. The noises that rise in clouds, and the +too-many suits of clothes and hats that sweep by--all these things are +part of an illusion. The fact drifts through my tired senses that there is +an amazing silence in the street--the silence inside of people's heads. +Everywhere I look I find these busy ones, these energetic ones stopped and +standing like myself before a bauble in a window, before a broken +automobile. + + * * * * * + +Of people, authors always make great plots. Authors always write of +adventures and intrigues, of emotions and troubles and ideas which occupy +people. People fall in love, people suffer defeats, people experience +tragedies, happinesses, and there is no end to the action of people in +books. + +But here is a curious plot, he says, on a day like this. Here is a crowd +around a broken automobile. The broken automobile has trapped them, +betrayed them. They realize the broken automobile as a "practical" excuse +to stop walking, to stop moving, to stop going anywhere or being anybody. +Their serious concentration on the broken wheel enables them to pretend +that they are logically interested in practical matters. Without which +pretense it would be impossible for them to exist. Without which pretense +they would become consciously dead. They must always seem, to themselves +as well as to others, logically interested in something. Yes, always +something. + +But the plot is--and do not misunderstand this, he cautions--that the +pretense here around the broken automobile grows shallow enough to plumb. +There is nothing here. Two dozen men standing dead on a curbing, tricked +into confessional by a little accident. + +So I will begin a book tomorrow, he says, and empties his pipe as he +talks, which will have to do with the make-believe of people in +streets--the make-believe of being alive and being somebody and going +somewhere. + +And saying this, this garrulous one walks off with a high whistle on his +lips and a grave triumph sitting on his shoulders. + + +JAZZ BAND IMPRESSIONS + + +The trombone player has a straight part. He umpah umps with the +conventional trombone fatalism. Whatever the tune, whatever the harmonies, +trombone umpah umps regardless. Umpah ump is the soul of all things. +Cadenzas, glissandos, arpeggios, chromatics, syncopations, blue +melodies--these are the embroidery of sound. From year to year these +change, these pass. Only the umpah ump remains. And tonight the trombone +player plays what he will play a thousand nights from tonight--umpah ump. + +The bassoon and the bull fiddle--they umpah ump along. Underneath the +quaver and whine of the jazz they beat the time, they make the tuneless +rhythm. The feet dancing on the crowded cabaret floor listen cautiously +for the trombone, the bassoon and the bull fiddle. They have a liaison +with the umpah umps--the feet. Long ago they danced only to the umpah +umps. There were no cadenzas, glissandos, arpeggios then. There was only +the thumping of cedar wood on cedar wood, on ebony or taut deerskin. + +Civilizations have risen, fallen and risen again. Armies, gods, races have +been chewed into mist by the years. But the thumping remains. The feet of +the dancers on the cabaret floor keep a rendezvous with the ebony on the +taut deerskin, with the cedar wood beating on cedar wood. + + * * * * * + +The clarinet screeches, wails, moans and whistles. The clarinet flings an +obbligato high over the heads of the dancers on the cabaret floor. It +makes shrill sounds. It raves like a fireless Ophelia. It plays the clown, +the tragedian, the acrobat. + +A whimsical insanity lurks in the music of the clarinet. It stutters +ecstasies. It postures like Tristan and whimpers like a livery-stable nag. +It grimaces like Peer Gynt and winks like a lounge lizard, a cake eater. + +It is not for the feet of the dancers on the crowded cabaret floor. The +feet follow the umpah umps. The thoughts of the dancers follow the +clarinet. The thoughts of the boobilariat dance easily to the tangled +lyric of the clarinet. The thoughts tie themselves into crazy knots. The +music of the clarinet becomes like crazily uncoiling whips. The thoughts +of the dancers shake themselves loose from words under the spur of the +whips. They begin to dance, not as the feet dance. There is another rhythm +here. The rhythm of little ecstasies whimpering. Thus the thoughts of the +dancers dance--dead hopes, wearied ambitions, vanishing youth do an +inarticulate can-can in the heads of the dancers on the cabaret floor. + + * * * * * + +The cornet wears a wooden gag in its mouth and a battered black derby +hangs over its end. Umpah ump from the trombone, the bull fiddle and the +bassoon. Tangled lyrics from the clarinet. And the cornet cakewalks like a +hoyden vampire, the cornet whinnies like an odalisque expiring in the arms +of the Wizard of Oz. + +Lust giggles at a sly jest out of the cornet. Passion thumbs its nose at +the stars out of the cornet. The melody of jazz, the tin pan ghosts of +Chopin, Tchaikowsky, Old Black Joe, Liszt and Mumbo Magumbo, jungle +troubadour of the Congo, come whinnying out from under the pendant derby. + +The dancers on the cabaret floor close their eyes and grin to themselves. +The cornet kids them along. When they grow sad it burlesques their sorrow. +The cornet laughs at them. It leers like a satyr master of ceremonies at +them. It is Pan in a clown suit, Silenus on a trick mule, Eros in a +Pullman smoker. + + * * * * * + +Laugh, dance, jerk, wiggle and kid all you want--but the Lady of the Sea +Foam whispers a secret. Aphrodite, become a female barytone, still takes +herself very seriously. Aphrodite, alas, is always serious. She gurgles a +sonorous plaint out of the saxophone. The cornet sneers at her. The +clarinet sneaks up on her and tweaks her nose. The trombone, the bull +fiddle and the bassoon ignore her altogether. And the dancers on the +cabaret floor are too busy to dance to her simple wails. + +Yet there is no mistake. Aphrodite, the queen, abandoned by her courtiers +and surrounded by this galaxy of mountebanks, is still Aphrodite. +Big-bosomed, sleepy-eyed and sad lipped she walks invisible among the +dancers on the cabaret floor and they listen to her voice out of the +saxophone. + +The drums, the piano and the violin give her a fluttering drape. But there +are things to be seen. This is not the Aphrodite of the Blue Danube +waltz--but a duskier, more mystical lady. There are no roses on her +cheeks, no lilies in her skin. She is colored like a panther flower and +her limbs are heavy with taboo magic. But she is still imperial. In vain +the mountebanks and burlesqueries of her court. Her lips place themselves +against the hearts of the dancers on the cabaret floor. And she croons her +ancient hymns. + +The hearts of the dancers give themselves to the saxophone. Their feet +keep a rendezvous with the umpah umps. Their thoughts dance on the slack +wire of the clarinet. Their veins beat time to the whinny of the derby +wreathed cornet. The fiddles and the drums are partners for their arms and +their muscles. But their hearts embrace shyly the Mother Aphrodite. Their +hearts listen sadly and proudly and they almost forget to dance. + + * * * * * + +Midnight approaches. Enameled faces, stenciled smiles, painted eyes and +slants of colored hats--these are the women. Careless, polite, suave, +grinning--these are the men. The jazz band plays. The cabaret floor, +jammed, seems to be moving around like a groaning turnstile. + +Bodies are hidden. The spotlight from the balcony begins to throw a series +of colors. Melody is lost. The jazz band is hammering like a mad +blacksmith. Whang! Bam! Whang! Bam! Nobody hears the music of the band. +Bodies together move on the turnstile floor. This is the part of the feast +of Belshazzar that the authorities censored in a Griffith movie. This is +the description of Tiberius's court that the authorities suppressed. Here +are the poems that hide on the forbidden shelves of the public library. + +The pulp of figures dissolves. The hammering band has finished. Men and +women, grown suddenly polite and social, return to their tables. Citizens +of a neighborhood, toilers, clerks, fourflushers, wives, husbands, +gropers, nobodies, less-than-nobodies--watch and see where they go. Into +the brick holes, into the apartment buildings. They pack themselves away +like ants in an anthill. + +The nobodies--the gropers, husbands, wage-earners, fourflushers--but they +made a violent picture a moment ago. Under the revolving colors of the +floodlight and the hammering, whinnying music of the jazz band they became +again the mask of Dionysus--the ancient satanical mask which nature slips +over her head when in quest of diversion. + + + +NIGHT DIARY + + +Where is the moon? Gone. This inferior luminary cannot compete with the +corset ad signs and the ice cream ad signs that blaze in the night sky. We +stand on a bridge that connects State Street and look at the river. + +There are night shapes. But first we see the dark water of the river and +silver, gold and ruby reflections of the bridge lights. These hang like +carnival ribbons in the water. The "L" trains crawl over the Wells Street +bridge and the water below them becomes alive with a moving silver image. +For a moment the reflection of the "L" trains in the river seems like a +ghostly waterfall. Then it changes and becomes something else. What? The +light reflections in the dark water are baffling. It is a game to stand on +the bridge and make up similes about them. They look like this, like that, +like something else. Like golden pillars, like Chinese writing, like +monotonous exclamation points. + +There are boat shapes. The river docks bulge with shadows. The boat shapes +emerge slowly from the shadows. These shapes, unlike the river +reflections, do not suggest similes. They bulge in the darkness and their +vanished outlines remind one of something. What? Of boats, of ships, of +men. + +Men and ships. Little lanterns hang like elfin watchmen from the sterns of +ships. The bulldog noses of tugboats sleep against the docks. High +overhead the corset ad and the ice cream ad blaze, wink and go out and +turn on so as to attract the preoccupied eyes of people far away. Then the +bridges count themselves to the west. First bridge, second bridge, third +bridge. Street cars, auto lights and vague noises jerk eerily over the +bridges. + +The sleeping tugboats, launches and lake craft remind one of nothing at +all except that there are engines. But as one stares at them they become +secret. There is something mysterious about abandoned engines. It is +almost as if one saw the bodies of men lying in shadows. Engines and men +are inseparable. And these boats that sleep in the river shadows are parts +of men. Amputations. + +The night shapes increase. There are buildings. They drift along the river +docks. Dark windows and faded brick lines. Their rooftops are like the +steps of a giant stairway that has broken down. Where is the moon? Here +are windows to mirror its distant silver. Instead, the windows sleep. The +nervous electric signs that wink and do tricks throw an intermittent glare +over the windows. + +Do you know the dark windows of the city, you gentlemen who write +continually of temples and art? Come, forget your love for things you +never saw, cathedrals and parthenons that exist in the yesterdays you +never knew. Come, look at the fire escapes that are stamped like letter +Z's against the mysterious rectangles; at the rhythmic flight of windows +whose black and silver wings are tipped with the yellow winkings of the +corset and ice cream signs. The windows over the dark river are like an +alphabet, like the keyboard of a typewriter. They are like anything you +want them to be. You have only to wish and the dark windows take new +patterns. + +Wall shapes arise. Warehouses that have no windows. Huge lines loom in the +shadows. A vast panel of brick without windows rises, vanishes. Buildings +that stand like playing blocks. The half-hidden shapes, the tracks of +windows, the patterns of rooftops suggest things--fortresses, palaces, +dungeons, wars, witches and cathedrals. + +But after watching them they lose these false significances. They suggest +nothing. They are the amputations of men. Things, playthings men have left +behind for the corset and the ice cream ads to wink at. And this is the +real secret of their beauty. The night devours their meaning and leaves +behind lines; angles, geometries, rhythms and lights. And these things +that have no meaning, that suggest nothing, that are not the symbols of +ideas or events--these become beautiful. + +There are several people standing on this bridge--loiterers. Their elbows +rest on the railing, their faces are hidden in their hands. They stare +into the scene. A hoarse whistle toots at Wells Street. Bells clang far +away. There is a scurry of dim noises in the dark. Something huge moves +through the air. It is a bridge opening. Its arms make a massive gesture +upward. A boat is coming through, a heavy shape drifting among the +carnival ribbons that hang down in the black water. + + * * * * * + +Noises that have different tones. Boat whistles, bridge bells, electric +alarm tinglings and the swish of water like the sound of wood tapping +wood. Lights that have different colors. The yellow of electric signs. +Around one of them that hoists its message in the air runs a green border. +The electric lights quiver and run round the glaring frame like a +mysterious green water. Red, gold and silver pillars in the water. Gray, +blue and black shadows; elfin lanterns, "L" trains like illuminated +caterpillars creeping over Wells Street, waterfalls of silver, Chinese +writing in ruby; black, lead and silver windows and a thousand shades of +darkness from bronze to strange greens. All these are things that the +loitering ones leaning on the bridge rail know. + + * * * * * + +How nicely the hoods of automobiles hide the twisted lines of the gas +engines under them. Smooth as chariots, curved and graceful as greyhounds, +pigeons, rabbits--the State Street begins after one passes odors. This is +South Water Street. A swept, dusted and wonderfully silent street. White +wings have scrubbed its worn body. But the odors deepen with the night. +Farm odors, food odors--an aroma of decay surrounds them. By their smells +one can almost detect the presence of chickens, eggs, oranges, cabbages, +potatoes, plums and cantaloupes. + +A group of movie theaters holds carnival at the entrance to the loop. +People hurry under electric canopies, dig in their pockets for dollar +bills and buy tickets. The buildings sleep along the river. The boats wait +in the shadows. Movie signs, crossing cops, window tracks and different +colored suits of clothes; odors, noises, lights and a mysteriously tender +pattern of walls--these lie in the night like a reward. + +We walk away with memories. When we are traveling some day, riding over +strange places, these will be things we shall remember. Not words, but +lines that mean nothing; and the scene from the bridge will bring a sad +confusion into our heads. And we shall sit staring at famous monuments, +battlefields, antiquities, and whisper to ourselves: + +"... wish I was back ... wish I was back...." + + + +THE LAKE + + +The lake asks an old question as you ride to work or come home from work +on the I. C. train. The train shoots along and out of the window the lake +turns slowly like a great wheel. There is a curious optical illusion, as +if the train were riding frantically on the rim of a great wheel and the +wheel were turning in an opposite direction. + +Perhaps this illusion makes it seem as if the lake were asking an old +question as you ride along its edge--"Where you going?" + + * * * * * + +People looking out of the train window seem to grow sad as they stare at +the lake. But this does not apply to train riders alone. In the summer +time there are the revelers on the Municipal Pier and the beach loungers +and all others who sit or take walks within sight of the water. + +During the summer day the beaches are lively and the vari-colored bathing +suits and parasols offer little carnival panels at the ends of the east +running streets. As you pass them on the north side bus or on the south +side I. C., the sun, the swarm of bathers smeared like bits of brightly +colored paint across the yellow sand and the obliterating sweep of water +remind you of the modernist artists whose pictures are usually +lithographic blurs. + + * * * * * + +Yet winter and summer, even when the thousands upon thousands of bathers +cover the sand like a shower of confetti and when there are shouts and +circus excitements along the beach, people who look at the lake seem +always to become sad. One wonders why. + +Perhaps it is because the inanimate sweep of the water, its hugeness and +silence, make one forget the petty things and the greedy trifles which +form the routine of one's day. And when one forgets these things one +remembers, alas, something they pleasantly obscured by their presence. A +dream, perhaps, buried long ago. A hope, an emotion successfully interred +under the amiable rubbish the days have piled up. + +Then, too, there is the question, "Where you going?" And an answer to it +that seems to come out of the long reaches of water--"Come with +me--somewhere--nowhere." + +These thoughts play in people's minds without words. They are almost more +a part of the lake than of their thinking, as if they were, in fact, lake +thoughts. + +Another reason why people grow sad when they look at the water of the lake +is perhaps that the lake offers them an escape from the tawdry, nagging +little responsibilities of the day that go with being a citizen and a +breadwinner. Not that it invites to suicide. Quite the reverse; it invites +to living. To doing something that has a sweep to it; that has a swagger +to it. To setting sail for strange ports where strange adventures wait. + +So, as the I. C. trains rush their thousands to work and home again the +citizens and breadwinners let their imaginations gallop toward a faraway +horizon. And these imaginations came galloping back again and the +breadwinners are saddened--by a memory. Yes, they were for a moment +rovers, egad! swashbucklers, gentlemen and ladies of fortune free of the +rigamarole burdens that keep them on the I. C. treadmill. And now they are +again passengers. Going to work. Going home to go to work again tomorrow. + +It is easy to think that this is the secret of the sad little grimace the +lake brings to the eyes of the train riders. + + * * * * * + +This discourse is becoming a bit dolorous. But the subject rather requires +an andante treatment. The city's press agents will tell you quite another +story about the lake--about the "city's playground" and how conducive it +is to healthful sport and joyous recreation. But, on the other hand, there +is this other side, so to speak, of the lake. For the lake belongs to +those familiar things that surprise people into uncomfortable silences. + +One could as easily write about the sky in this vein, since the lake, like +the sky, challenges the monotony of people's lives with another +monotony--the monotony of nature that seems to engulf, obliterate, reduce +to puny proportions the routine by which people live and which, +fortunately, they delude themselves into admiring. + +There is also the question of beauty. This is a delicate issue to +introduce into one's daily reading and the reader's pardon is solicited +with proper humiliation. And yet, there is a question of beauty, of soul +states and aesthetic nuances involved in the consideration of the lake. + +Beauty by one definition is the sensatory excitement stirred in people by +the rhythm of line, the vibration of color, the play of motion and the +surprise of idea. It is usually a saddening effect that beauty produces +and perhaps this is because beauty is something like an illumination that +while admirable in itself throws into pathetic evidence all the ugly and +unbeautiful things of one's life. + +In this somewhat involved aesthetic principle there is probably another +hint at the causes of the sadness people show when they look at the lake. + + * * * * * + +Today the lake wears its autumn aspect. Out of the train window one sees a +wedge of geese flying south or occasionally a lone bird circling like an +endless note over the water. The waves look cold and their symmetrical +crisscross makes one think of the chill, lonely nights that beckon outside +the coziness of one's home windows. + +On summer days the lake is sometimes like a huge lavender leaf veined with +gold. Sometimes it becomes festive and wears the awning stripes of cloud +and sun. Or it grows serene and reminds one of a superb domesticity--as it +lies pointed like a grate, arched like a saucer or the back of a sleeping +kitten. + +But today its autumn is a bit depressing. It no longer lures toward +strange adventure. Instead its grayness seems to say to one, "Stay +away--stay away. Hide away in warm houses and warm overcoats. Men are +little things--puny things." + +It is when one leaves the city and goes to visit or to live in another +place where there is no lake that the lake grows y alive in one's mind. +One becomes thirsty for it and dreams of it. One remembers it then as +something that was almost an essential part of life, like a third +dimension. In some way one associates one's day dreams with the lake and +falls into thinking that there is something unfinished, sterile about +living with no lake at one's elbow. + + * * * * * + +In a short while, a month or so, the lake will become a stage for +melodrama. The people riding on its edge will stare into mists. They will +watch the huge mist shapes rolling back and forth over the hidden water. +The blue of the sky, the cold sun, the fog and the freezing water will +become actors in a great play and the train windows will be little +prosceniums inclosing the melodrama of winter. + + + +SERGT. KUZICK'S WATERLOO + + +"Offhand," said Sergt. Kuzick of the first precinct, "offhand, I can't +think of any stories for you. If you give me a little time, maybe I could +think of one or two. What you want, I suppose, is some story as I know +about from personal experience. Like the time, for instance, that the +half-breed Indian busted out of the bridewell, where he was serving a six +months' sentence, and snuck home and killed his wife and went back again +to the bridewell, and they didn't find out who killed her until he got +drunk a year later and told a bartender about it. That's the kind you +want, ain't it?" + +I said it was. + +"Well," said Sergt. Kuzick, "I can't think of any offhand, like I said. +There was a building over on West Monroe Street once where we found three +bodies in the basement. They was all dead, but that wouldn't make a story +hardly, because nobody ever found out who killed them. Let me think +awhile." + +Sergt. Kuzick thought. + + * * * * * + +"Do you remember the Leggett mystery?" he inquired doubtfully. "I guess +that was before your time. I was only a patrolman then. Old Leggett had a +tobacco jar made out of a human skull, and that's how they found out he +killed his wife. It was her skull. It come out one evening when he brought +his bride home. You know, he got married again after killin' the first +one. And they was having a party and the new bride said she didn't want +that skull around in her house. Old Leggett got mad and said he wouldn't +part with that skull for love or money. So when he was to work one day she +threw the skull into the ash can, and when old Leggett come home and saw +the skull missing he swore like the devil and come down to the station to +swear out a warrant for his wife's arrest, chargin' her with disorderly +conduct. He carried on so that one of the boys got suspicious and went out +to the house with him and they found the skull in the ash can, and old +Leggett began to weep over it. So one of the boys asked him, naturally, +whose skull it was. He said it wasn't a skull no more, but a tobacco jar. +And they asked him where he'd got it. And he begun to lie so hard that +they tripped him up and finally he said it was his first wife's skull, and +he was hung shortly afterward. You see, if you give me time I could +remember something like that for a story. + + * * * * * + +"Offhand, though," sighed Sergt. Kuzick, "it's difficult. I ain't got it +clear in my head what you want either. Of course I know it's got to be +interestin' or the paper won't print it. But interestin' things is pretty +hard to run into. I remember one night out to the old morgue. This was +'way back when I started on the force thirty years ago and more. And they +was having trouble at the morgue owing to the stiffs vanishing and being +mutilated. They thought maybe it was students carryin' them off to +practice medicine on. But it wasn't, because they found old Pete--that was +the colored janitor they had out there--he wasn't an African, but it +turned out a Fiji Islander afterward. They found him dead in the morgue +one day and it turned out he was a cannibal. Or, anyway, his folks had +been cannibals in Fiji, and the old habit had come up in him so he +couldn't help himself, and he was makin' a diet off the bodies in the +morgue. But he struck one that was embalmed, and the poison in the body +killed him. The papers didn't carry much on it on account of it not bein' +very important, but I always thought it was kind of interestin' at that. +That's about what you want, I suppose--some story or other like that. +Well, let's see. + + * * * * * + +"It's hard," sighed Sergt. Kuzick, after a pause, "to put your finger on a +yarn offhand. I remember a lot of things now, come to think of it, like +the case I was on where a fella named Zianow killed his wife by pouring +little pieces of hot lead into her ear, and he would have escaped, but he +sold the body to the old county hospital for practicin' purposes, and +while they was monkeying with the skull they heard something rattle and +when they investigated it was several pieces of lead inside rattling +around. So they arrested Zianow and got him to confess the whole thing, +and he was sent up for life, because it turned out his wife had stabbed +him four times the week before he poured the lead into her while she +slept, and frightened him so that he did it in self-defense, in a way. + +"I understand in a general way what you want," murmured Sergt. Kuzick, +"but so help me if I can think of a thing that you might call interestin'. +Most of the things we have to deal with is chiefly murders and suicides +and highway robberies, like the time old Alderman McGuire, who is dead +now, was held up by two bandits while going home from a night session of +the council, and he hypnotized one bandit. Yes, sir, you may wonder at +that, but you didn't know McGuire. He was a wonderful hypnotist, and he +hypnotized the bandit, and just as the other one, who wasn't hypnotized, +was searching his pockets McGuire said to the hypnotized bandit, 'You're a +policeman, shoot this highwayman.' And the hypnotized one was the bandit +who had the gun, and he turned around, as Alderman McGuire said, and shot +the other, unhypnotized bandit and killed him. But when he reported the +entire incident to the station--I was on duty that night--the captain +wouldn't believe it, and tried to argue McGuire into saying it was a +accident, and that the gun had gone off accidentally and killed the +unhypnotized bandit. But the alderman stuck to his story, and it was true, +because the hypnotized bandit told me privately all about it when I took +him down to Joliet. + + * * * * * + +"I will try," said Sergt. Kuzick, "to think of something for you in about +a week. I begin to get a pretty definite idea what you want, and I'll talk +it over with old Jim, who used to travel beat with me. He's a great one +for stories, old Jim is. A man tan hardly think of them offhand like. You +give me a week." And the old sergeant sank into his wooden chair and gazed +out of the dusty station window with a perplexed and baffled eye. + + + +DEAD WARRIOR + + +Do you want to see the dead warriors come back, the fallen army come back, +crawling out of its million coffins and walking back across the sea and +across the prairie; the waxen face of youth come out of its million graves +and its uniform hanging from its limp frame? Do you want to see the war +dead, the young ones ripped to pieces in the trenches standing like tired +beggars at your back door, dead hands and dead eyes and wailing softly: "I +was so young. I died so soon. All of us from all the countries who died so +soon, we grow lonely on the other side. Ah, my unlived days! My uneaten +bread! My uncounted years! They lie in a little corner and nobody comes to +them!" + +It's a Jewish play called "The Dead Man" and every night in Glickman's +Palace Theater on Blue Island Avenue a thousand men and women sit with +staring eyes and watch this figure in its grave-clothes come dragging back +like a tired beggar, come moaning back with the cry: "My unlived days! My +uneaten bread! My uncounted years!" + +He stands between Hamlet and Peer Gynt, this strangely motionless one who +has thrown the west side into an uproar. There is no drama around him. He +is a dead young man in uniform walking slowly, limply through three acts. +This is all one remembers--that his eyes were open and unseeing, that his +arms hung like a scarecrow's and that the fingers of his hands were curled +in and motionless. + + * * * * * + +They talk to him in the play. The scene is a Jewish village in Poland. The +war has ended. Famine, disease and poverty remain. Refugees, dying ones, +starving ones, huddle together in the dismantled synagogue. No one knows +what has happened. The armies have passed. Flame and blood brightened the +sky for a time. Now the little village lies cut off from the world and its +people clutch desperately to the hem of life. No news has come. Wanderers +stagger down the torn roads with crazy tidings and the old men of the +synagogue sit shivering over their prayer books. A world has been blown +into fragments and this scene is one of the fragments. + +Sholom Ash, who wrote this play, spent a time in villages abroad as a +Jewish relief worker and he brought back this scene. A bedlam of despair, +a merciless photograph that stares across the footlights for a half-hour. +The story begins. There is a village leader in whose veins the will to +live still throbs. He exhorts the shivering ones. There will be a wedding. +He will give his daughter in marriage. There will be feasting. The dead +are dead. The duty of the living ones is to live. Let the old women +prepare food and the men will sing. Life will begin over and a new village +will be built up. + +But the daughter hangs back. She talks of the young man whom she married +and who went away to war. + +"He is dead, poor child," the father says. + +"No, no, he isn't dead. I dreamed he was still alive," she answers. + +But the festival starts. The starving ones sing in the broken synagogue. +There will be a wedding. Life will begin. But there is something in the +ruined doorway. A uniform stands in the doorway. A dark, waxen-faced young +man who seems asleep, whose arms hang limp, whose fingers curl in. He +comes forward and stands, a terribly idle figure. He is the young man. + + * * * * * + +They greet him. His bride weeps with joy. His aged mother presses his +hands and weeps and murmurs in a whisper: "Oh, how changed he is!" The +synagogue shouts and cries its welcome. But the young man's eyes stare and +it would seem almost that he is dead. Then he talks. His voice has a +lifeless sound, his words are like a child reciting sleepily. There is a +gruesome oddity about him. But an old man explains. "They come back like +that," he says. "There is one who came back who shrieks all night. And +another who cannot remember anything." + +Yet how strangely he talks! Of a country from which he has come--on the +other side, it lies. Hysterical questions arise. Is there food there, are +there houses there, is there milk for children and synagogues in which to +pray? There is everything one desires, he says. So the questions rise and +the answers come--curious child answers. But why is he so pale and worn if +the country whence he comes is so remarkable? Ah, because he was lonely. +All who are in this country are like him--lonely for the homes they left +so soon. For their people. All who are in the country whence he came sit +and remember only the things of the past. Yes, that is all one does in +this marvelous country--remember the things of the past, over and over +again. + + * * * * * + +They will go with him. The miser who has hidden away his gold, the widow +and her two orphans, the hungry ones and despairing ones--they will all go +back with him. + +One comes out of the theater with a strange sense of understanding. The +dead have spoken to one. It is never to be forgotten. The youth that was +ripped to pieces in the trenches reached out his limp arms across a row of +west side footlights and left a cry echoing in one's heart: "My unlived +days! My uneaten bread! My uncounted years! They lie in a little corner +waiting and no one comes to them." + +Propaganda? Yes, a curious undertone of propaganda. The war propaganda of +the dead, older than the fall of Liege by a hundred centuries. The +primitive propaganda of the world mourning for its lost ones. + +You will see the play, perhaps. Or you will wait until it is translated +some day. But this month the west side is aglow with the genius of Sholom +Ash and with the interpretative genius of Aaron Teitelbaum, who plays the +dead man in uniform and who directed the production. I know of no +performance today that rivals his. + + + +THE TATTOOER + + +Here the city kind of runs over at the heel and flaunts a seven-year-old +straw hat. Babylon mooches wearily along with a red nose dreaming in the +sun, and Gomorrah leans against an ash can. It is South State Street below +Van Buren. The ancient palaces of mirth and wonder blink with dusty +lithographs. + +"Long ago," says Dutch, "yeh, long ago it was different. Then people was +people. Then life was something. Then the tattooing business was a +business. When the old London Musee was next door and everybody knew how +to have a good time." + +The automatic piano in the penny arcade whangs dolorously into a forgotten +tango. The two errand boys stand with their eyes glued on the interiors of +the picture slot machines--"An Artist's Model" and "On the Beach at +Atlantic City." A gun pops foolishly in the rear and the 3-inch bullseye +clangs. In a corner behind the Postal Card Photo Taken in a Minute gallery +sits Dutch, the world's leading tattooer. Sample tattoo designs cover the +two walls. Dragons, scorpions, bulbous nymphs, crossed flags, wreathed +anchors, cupids, butterflies, daggers and quaint decorations that seem the +grotesque survivals of the mid-Victorian schools of fantasy. Photographs +of famous men also cover the walls--Capt. Constantinus tattooed from head +to foot, every inch of him; Barnum's favorites, ancient and forgotten +kooch dancers, fire eaters, sword swallowers, magicians and museum freaks. +And a two column article from the Chicago Chronicle of 1897, yellowed and +framed and recounting in sonorous phrases ("pulchritudinous epidermis" is +featured frequently) that the society folk of Chicago have taken up +tattooing as a fad, following the lead of New York's Four Hundred, who +followed the lead of London's most aristocratic circles; and that Prof. Al +Herman, known from Madagascar to Sandy Hook as "Dutch," was the leading +artist of the tattoo needle in the world. + +Here in his corner, surrounded by the molding symbols and slogans of a +dead world, Dutch is rounding out his career--a Silenus in exile, his +eyes still bright with the memory of hurdy-gurdy midnights. + +"Long ago," says Dutch, and his sigh evokes a procession of marvelous +ghosts tattooed from head to toe and capering like a company of debonair +totem poles over the cobblestones of another South State Street. But the +macabre days are gone. The Barnum bacchanal of the nineties lies in its +grave with a fading lithograph for a tombstone. Along with the fall of the +Russian empire, the collapse of the fourteen points and the general +dethronement of reason since the World's Fair, the honorable art of +tattooing has come in for its share of vicissitudes. + +"Oh, we still do business," says Dutch. "Human nature is slow to decline +and there are people who still realize that if you got a handsome watch +what do you want to do to it? Engrave it, ain't it? And if you got a +handsome skin, what then? Tattoo, naturally. And we tattoo in seven colors +now where it used to be three, and use electricity. Do you think it's +crazy? Well, you should see who I used to tattoo in the old days. Read the +article on the wall. As for being crazy, what do you say about the man who +spends his last 50 cents to get into a baseball game, and gets excited and +throws his only hat in the air and loses it, and the man who sits all day +and all night with a fishpole on the pier and don't catch any fish? Yes, +like I tell the judge who picked us up one day in Iowa, you know how they +do sometimes when you follow the carnival. And he asks me why I shouldn't +go to jail, and if tattooing ain't crazy, and I says give me three minutes +and I prove my case. And I begin with the Romans, and how they was the +brightest people we knew, and how they went in for tattooing, and how +Columbus was tattooed, and all the sailors that was bright enough to +discover America was tattooed, also. Then I say, what if Charlie Ross was +tattooed? Would he be lost to-day? And what if he had under his name the +word Philadelphia? And in addition to that the date where he was born and +his address and so on. Would he be lost then? 'You see,' I says, 'a man +can't be tattooed enough for his own good,' and the judge says I win my +case." + + * * * * * + +The automatic piano plays "Over There" and the shooting gallery rifles pop +too insistently for a moment. Dutch contemplates a plug of fresh tobacco. +Then he resumes. This time a more intimate tale--the story of his +romance--a weird, grotesque amour with a gaudy can-can obbligato. + +"Long ago," Dutch whispers; "yeh, I knew all the girls. I tattoned them +all. And I live in this street for thirty years now. But nobody is +interested any more in what used to be. How this street has become +different! Ach, it is gone, all gone. Everything. Tattooing hangs on a +little. Human nature demand it. But human nature is dying likewise. Yeh, I +ask you what would old Barnum say if he should come back and see me +sitting here? Me, who was as good any day as Capt. Constantinus? I hate to +think what. In those days talent counted. If you could sing or dance or +tattoo it meant something. Now what does it mean? Look at the dancers and +singers they have, and who is there that tattooes any more? It's all gone +to smash, the whole world." + + * * * * * + +Now amid the popping of the rifles and the tinny whanging of the piano +Dutch draws forth a final package. He unwraps a yellowed newspaper. +Photographs. One by one he shuffles them out and arranges them on the +broken desk as if in some pensive game of solitaire. There is Dutch when +he was a boy, when he was a sailor, when he grew up and became a world +famous tattooer. There is Dutch surrounded by queens of the Midway, Dutch +with his arms debonairly thrown round the shoulders of snake charmers and +other bizarre and vanished contemporaries. The photographs are yellowed. +They make a curious collection. They make the soulless piano sound a bit +softer. A "where are the snows of yesteryear" motif played on a can-can +fife. + +Finally a modern photo in a folder, unyellowed. A smiling, wholesome faced +girl. Here Dutch pauses in his game of solitaire and looks in silence. + +"My daughter," he says finally. "I sent her through college. Yeh, she's +graduated now and has a fine job. I help her all I can. What? Is she +tattooed?" + +The world's greatest tattoo artist bristles and glowers at the designs on +the walls, frowns at the cupids, nymphs, anchors, dragons and butterflies. + +"I should say not," he mutters. "She don't belong in this street, not +here. She's got a different life, and I help her all I can and she likes +me. No, sir, in this street belongs only those who have a long memory. The +new ones should start somewhere else. Not, mind you, that tattooing ain't +good enough for anybody. But times have changed." + +The piano obliges with "The Blue Danube." A customer saunters in. Dutch is +all business. The electricity is switched on. A blue spark crackles. Dutch +clears his throat and slaps the customer proudly on the back. + +"Only a little more to go," he explains, "all over. Two more ships at sea +and three dragons will do the job, Heinie. And then, h'm, you will get a +job any day in any side show, I can guarantee you that." + +Heinie grins hopefully. + + + +THE THING IN THE DARK + + +It has the usual Huron street ending. Emergency case. Psychopathic +hospital. Dunning. But the landlady talked to the police sergeant. The +landlady was curious. She wanted the police sergeant to tell her +something. And the police sergeant, resting his chin on his elbow, leaned +forward on his high stool and peered through the partition window at the +landlady--and said nothing. Or rather, he said: "don't know. That's the +way with people sometimes. They get afraid." + +This man came to Mrs. Balmer's rooming-house in Huron Street when it was +spring. He was a short, stocky man with a leathery face and little eyes. +He identified himself as Joseph Crawford, offered to pay $5 a week for a +12 by 12 room on the third floor at the rear end of the long gloomy +hallway and arrived the next day at Mrs. Balmer's faded tenement with an +equally faded trunk. Nothing happened. + +But when Mrs. Balmer entered the room the following morning to straighten +it up she found several innovations. There were four kerosene lamps in the +room. They stood on small rickety tables, one in each corner. And there +was a new electric light bulb in the central fixture. Mrs. Balmer took +note of these things with a professional eye but said nothing. +Idiosyncrasies are to be expected of the amputated folk who seek out +lonely tenement bedrooms for a home. + + * * * * * + +A week later, however, Mrs. Balmer spoke to the man. "You burn your light +all night," said Mrs. Balmer, "and while I have no objection to that, +still it runs up the electric light bill." + +The man agreed that this was true and answered that he would pay $1 extra +each week for the privilege of continuing to burn the electric light all +night. + +Nothing happened. Yet Mrs. Balmer, when she had time for such things as +contemplation, grew curious about the man in the back room. In fact she +transferred her curiosity from the Japanese female impersonator on the +second floor and the beautiful and remarkably gowned middle-aged woman on +the first floor to this man who kept four kerosene lamps and an electric +bulb burning all night on the third floor. + +For some time Mrs. Balmer was worried over the thought that this man was +probably an experimenter. He probably fussed around with things as an old +crank does sometimes, and he would end by burning down the house or +blowing it up--accidentally. + +But Mrs. Balmer's fears were removed one evening when she happened to look +down the gloomy hallway and notice that this man's door was open. A gay, +festive illumination streamed out of the opened doorway and Mrs. Balmer +paid a social call. She found her roomer sitting in a chair, reading. +Around him blazed four large kerosene lamps. But there was nothing else to +notice. His eyes were probably bad, and Mrs. Balmer, after exchanging a +few words on the subject of towels, transportation and the weather, said +good-night. + +But always after that Mrs. Balmer noticed that the door remained open. +Open doors are frequent in rooming-houses. People grow lonely and leave +the doors of their cubby holes open. There is nothing odd about that. Yet +one evening while Mrs. Balmer stood gossiping with this man in the doorway +she noticed something about him that disturbed her. She had noticed it +first when she looked in the room before saying hello. Mr. Crawford was +sitting facing the portieres that covered the folding doors that +partitioned the room. The portieres were a very clever ruse of Mrs. +Balmer. Behind them were screwed hooks and these hooks functioned as a +clothes-closet. + +Mrs. Balmer noticed that Mr. Crawford, as she talked, kept staring at the +portieres and watching them and that he seemed very nervous. The next +morning, when she was straightening up the room, Mrs. Balmer looked behind +the portières. An old straw hat, an old coat, a few worn shirts hung from +the hooks. There was nothing else but the folding-door and this was not +only locked but nailed up. + +When two months had passed Mrs. Balmer had made a discovery. It had to do +with the four kerosene lamps and the extra large electric bulb and the +portières. But it was an irritating discovery, since it made everything +more mysterious than ever in the landlady's mind. + +She had caught many glimpses of this man in the back room when he wasn't +looking. Of evenings he sat with his door opened and his eyes fastened on +the portières. He would sit like that for hours and his leathery face +would become gray. His little eyes would widen and his body would hunch up +as if he were stiffening. But nothing happened. + +Finally, however, Mrs. Balmer began to talk. She didn't like this man +Crawford. It made her nervous to catch a glimpse of him in his +too-brightly lighted room, sitting hour after hour staring at the +portières--as if there was something behind them, when there was nothing +behind them except an old hat and coat and shirt. She looked every +morning. + +But he paid his rent regularly. He left in the morning regularly and +always returned at eight o'clock. He was an ideal roomer--except that +there never is an ideal roomer--but Mrs. Balmer couldn't stand his lights +and his watching the portières. It frightened her. + + * * * * * + +Screams sometimes sound in a rooming-house. One night--it was after +midnight--Mrs. Balmer woke up. The darkened house seemed filled with +noises. A man was screaming. + +Mrs. Balmer got dressed and called the janitor. There was no doubt in her +mind where the noises came from. Some of the roomers were awake and +looking sleepily and frightenedly out of their doorways. Mrs. Balmer and +the janitor hurried to the back room on the third floor. It was Crawford +screaming. + +His door was closed, but it opened when the janitor turned the knob. Mr. +Crawford was standing in front of the portières in the too-brightly +lighted room and screaming. His arms, as if overcoming some awful +resistance, shot out, and his hands seized the portières. With the amazing +screams still coming from his throat, Mr. Crawford tore crazily at the +portières until they ripped from the rod above the folding-door. They came +down and the man fell with them. Over him, hanging on the "clothes-closet" +hooks, were revealed an old straw hat, an old coat and a worn shirt. + + * * * * * + +"You see," said Mrs. Balmer to the police sergeant, "he was afraid of +something and he couldn't stand the dark. And the portières always +frightened him. But the doctor wasn't able to do anything with him. The +doctor says there was some secret about it and that Mr. Crawford went +crazy because of this secret. The only thing they found out about him was +that he used to be a sailor." + + + +AN OLD AUDIENCE SPEAKS + + +Tired, madam? That is nothing remarkable. So are we, whose faces you see +from across the footlights, faces like rows of wilted plants in the gloom +of this decrepit theater. We are all very tired. + +It is Saturday afternoon. For a little while yesterday there was spring in +the streets. But now it has grown cold again. The wind blows. The +buildings wear a bald, cheerless look. + +What are we tired about? God knows. Perhaps because winter is so long in +passing. Or, perhaps, because spring will be so long in passing. Tired of +waiting for tomorrow. + +So you dance for us. We have paid 50 cents each to see the show. This +abominable orchestra is out of tune. The fiddles scrape, the piano makes +clattering sounds. And you, madam, are tired. The gay purple tights, the +gilded bodice, the sultana's toque, or whatever it is, do not deceive us. +Your legs, madam, are not as shapely as they were once. And your body--ah, +bodies grow old. + +Yes, we are not deceived, madam. You have come to us--last. There were +others before us, others reaching far back, to whom you gave your youth. +Others for whom you danced when your legs were, perhaps, like two spring +mornings, and when your body was, perhaps, like a pretty laugh. + + * * * * * + +Here are the tired ones. From the South Clark and South State streets +bed-houses. The kinds of faces that the smart movie directors hire as +"types" for the underworld scenes or the slum scenes. + +It is Saturday afternoon and we walked up and down the street, looking at +the lithographs outside the decrepit theater fronts. And when it got too +cold to walk any farther we dropped in, forking out four bits for the +privilege. + +And we expect nothing, madam. There will be no great music for us. And +what scenery there is behind the footlights will be faded and patched. The +jokes will be things that make no one laugh. And the dancers, madam, will +be like you. Tired, heavy-faced dancers, whose legs flop, whose bodies +bounce while the abominable orchestra plays. + +But it is warm where we sit. We half shut our eyes and tired little dreams +come to us. And you, madam, going wearily through your steps, are the Joy +of Life. Your hoarse voice, singing indecipherable words about dearie and +honey and my jazz baby, your sagging shoulders layered with powder and +jerking to the music, the rigid, lifeless grin of your cruelly painted +lips--these things and the torn, smeared papier-mâché ballroom +interior--these are the Joy of Life. + +Tired little dreams, worth almost the four bits. Do you remember other +audiences, madam? As we remember other dancers? Do you recall the gay, +dark glow of ornate auditoriums, and do you remember when you were young +and there were many tomorrows? As we do? Oh, dearie, dearie, how mah heart +grows weary, waitin' for mah baby for to come back home. Very good, madam. +Although the voice is a bit cracked. Now dance. Lumber across the stage in +your purple tights, wiggle around in your sultana's toque. That's the +baby. And kick your legs at us as you exit. Ah, what a kick! But never +mind. It is quite good enough for us. And--it reminds us. + + * * * * * + +We applaud. Does the noise sound ghastly? What is it we applaud? God +knows. But applause is a habit. One applauds in a theater. How does it +sound in the wings to you, madam, our applause? Rather meaningless, eh? +And not interesting at all? Ah, we forgive you for that, for not feeling a +great thrill at our applause. Nevertheless, it is a rather piquant thing, +our applause. Considering how cold it is outside, how long winter is in +passing. Considering how cheerless the buildings look. + +Put on the red ball gown and come out and crack jokes with the +hop-headed-looking juvenile lead. Greetings, madam. How marvelous you look +in this ball gown! Ah, indeed! You were walking down the street the other +day and chanced to meet. Hm, we've heard that joke, but we'll laugh again. +Matrimony. I'll tell you what marriage is. A lottery. Yes, we've heard +that one, too. Accept our laughter, nevertheless. + +Your jokes, madam, are neither young nor refined. But--neither are we. And +your wit is somewhat coarse and pointless. But so are we. And your voice +is a trifle tired and cracked and loud. But so is our laughter. We are +even, quite even, madam. If you were better once, so were we. If you +remember sweeter laughter, why we remember more charming jests. Go on, +Dolores, our lady of jokes, you're worth the four bits. + + * * * * * + +Now the street seems a bit colder because it was warmer in the theater. +Where do we go from here? Up and down, up and down the old street. A very +pleasant afternoon. Spent in laughter and applause. Once there was booze +for a nickel and a dime. But it was found necessary to improve the morals +of the nation. No booze today. + +That is quite a brave photograph of you outside the theater, madam. The +Dancing Venus. If we had tears we would shed them. The Dancing Venus, +indeed! We smile as you smiled yourself when you saw it for the first +time. But--good-by. Master Francois Villon sang it all long ago. +Yesterdays, yesterdays, here is a street of yesterdays. + +And we, the tired ones, the brutal-faced, bitter-eyed ones, the beaten +ones--we walk up and down the cold street, peering at the cheerless +buildings. Life takes a long time to pass. But without changing our +bitter, brutal faces we bow this afternoon, madam, to the memory of you. + +We paid four bits to see you. Our Lady of Jokes, and in this cold, sunless +street we grin, we smirk, we leer a salutation to your photograph and the +phrase beneath it that laughs mockingly back at us--Oh, Dancing Venus! + + + +MISHKIN'S MINYON + + +We were discussing vacations and Sammy, who is eleven years old going on +twelve, listened nervously to his father. Finally Sammy spoke up: + +"I won't go," he bristled. "No, I won't if I gotta tell the conductor I'm +under five. I ain't going." + +Sammy's father coughed with some embarrassment. + +"Sha!" said Feodor Mishkin, removing his attention from the bowl of fruit, +"I see it takes more than naturalization papers to change a +_landsmann_ from Kremetchuk." And he fastened a humorous eye upon +Sammy's father. + +"It's like this," continued the Falstaffian one from Roosevelt Road: "In +Russia where my friend here, Hershela comes from, that is in Russia of the +good old days where there were pogroms and ghettos and _provocateurs_--ah, +I grow homesick for that old Russia sometimes--the Jews were not always so +honest as they might be. Don't interrupt me, Hershela. My friend here I +want to tell a story to is a journalist and he will understand I am no +'antishemite' if I explain how it is that you want your son Sammy to tell +the conductor he is under five." + + * * * * * + +Turning to me Mishkin grinned and proceeded. + +"The Jews, as you know, are great travelers," he said. "They have traveled +more than all the other peoples put together. And yet, they don't like to +pay car fare, in Russia, particular. I can remember my father, who was a +good rabbi and a holy man. Yes, but when it came time to ride on the train +from one city to another he would fold up his long beard and crawl under +the seat. + +"It was only on such an occasion that my father would talk to a woman. He +would actually rather cut off his right hand than talk to a woman in +public that he didn't know. This was because Rabbi Mishkin, my father, was +a holy man. But he was not above asking a woman to spread out her skirts +so that the inspector coming through the train couldn't see him under the +seat. + +"Of course, you had to pay the conductors. But a ruble was enough, not ten +or twenty rubles like the fare called for. And the conductors were always +glad to have Jews ride on their train because it meant a private revenue +for them. I remember that the conductors on the line running through +Kremetchuk had learned a few words of Yiddish. For instance, when the +train would stop at a station the conductor would walk up and down the +platform and cry out a few times--_mu kennt_. This meant that the +inspector wasn't on the train and you could jump on and hide under the +seats. Or if the inspector was on the train the conductor would walk up +and down and yell a few times, _Malchamovis_! This is a Hebrew word +that means Evil Angel and it was the signal for nothing doing. + +"The story I remember is on a train going but of Kiev," said Mishkin. +"Years ago it was. I was sitting in the train reading some Russian papers +when I heard three old Jews talking. They had long white beards and there +were marks on their foreheads from where they laid twillum. Yes, I saw +that they were holy men and pretty soon I heard that they were upset about +something. You know what? I'll tell you. + +"For a religious Jew in the old country to pass an evening without a +minyon is a sin. A minyon is a prayer that is said at evening. And to make +a minyon there must be ten Jews. And they must stand up when they pray. Of +course, if you are somewhere where there are no ten Jews, then maybe it's +all right to say it with three or four Jews only. + +"So these holy men on the train were arguing if they should have a minyon +or not because there were only three of them. But finally they decided +after a theological discussion that it would be all right to have the +minyon. It was dark already and the train was going fast and the three +Jews stood up in their place at the end of the car and began the prayer. + +"And pretty soon I began to hear voices. Yes, from under nearly every +seat. Voices praying. A mumble-bumble that filled the car. I didn't know +what to make of it for a few minutes. But then I remembered. Of course, +the car was full of rabbis or at least holy men and they were as usual +riding with their beards folded up under the seats. + + * * * * * + +"So," smiled Mishkin, "the prayer continued and some of the passengers who +were listening began to smile. You can imagine. But the three Jews paid no +attention. They went on with the minyon. And now, listen, now comes the +whole story You will laugh. But it is true. I saw it with my own eyes. + +"The prayer, like I told you, must be said standing up. At least it is a +sin to say the last part of the prayer, particularly the 'amen,' without +standing up. So as the prayer came towards its finish imagine what +happened. From under a dozen seats began to appear old Jews with white +beards. They crawled out and without brushing themselves off stood up and +when the 'amen' finally came there were eleven Jews standing up in a group +and praying. Under the seats it was completely vacant. + +"And just at this moment, when the 'amen' filled the car, who should come +through but the inspector in his uniform with his lantern. When he saw +this whole car full of passengers he hadn't seen before he stopped in +surprise. And the finish of it was that they all had to pay their +fare--extra fare, too. + + * * * * * + +"It is a nice story, don't you think, Hershela" Mishkin laughed. "It shows +a lot of things, but principally it shows that a holy man is a holy man +first and that he will sacrifice himself to an inquisition in Madrid or a +train inspector in Kiev for the simple sake of saying his 'amen' just as +he believed it should be said and just as he wants to say it." + +Sammy's father shrugged his shoulders. + +"I don't see how what you say has anything to do with what my son said," +he demurred. "Sammy looks user more than five and what harm is there in +saving $15 if--" + +Sammy interrupted with a wail. + +"I won't go," he cried. "No, if I gotta tell the conductor I'm under five +I better stay home. I don't wanna go. He'll know I'm 'leven going on +twelve." + +"All right, all right," sighed Sammy's father. "But you see," he added, +turning to Mishkin, "it ain't on account of wanting to have a minyon that +my son has such high ideas." + + + +SOCIABLE GAMBLERS + + +"Yes, it do interfere with their game," said Bill Cochran, the deputy +sheriff from Tom Freeman's office. He cut himself a slice of chewing +tobacco and glanced meditatively out of the window of the Dearborn Street +bastile. Whereat he repeated with gentle emphasis, "It do." + +A long rain was leaning against the walls of the county jail. A dismal +yellowish gloom drifted up and down the street. Deputy Cochran, with an +effort, detached his eye from the lugubrious scene of the rain and the +day-dark and spoke up brightly. + +"But at that," said he, "I don't think their being doomed for to hang can +be held entirely responsible for their losing. You see, I've made quite a +study of the game o' rhummy, not to mention pinochle and other such games +of chance, and if I do say so myself I doubt there's the man in Chicago, +doomed for to hang or otherwise, who would find me an easy mark. Still, as +I say, in the case of these gentlemen who you refer to--to wit, the doomed +men as I have acted as death watch for--it do interfere with their game. +There's no denying that." + + * * * * * + +Now the rain chattered darkly on the grated windows of the Dearborn Street +bastile and Deputy Cochran tilted back in his chair and thought pensively +and in silence of life and death and high, low, jack and the game. + +"They pick me out for the death watch on account I have a way with doomed +men," he remarked at last, his voice modestly self-conscious. "Some of the +deputies is inclined to get a bit sad, you know. Or to let their nerves go +away with them. But me, I feel as the best thing to do in the crisis to +which I refer is to make the best of it. + +"So when I sit in on the death watch I faces myself with the truth. I says +to myself right away: 'Bill, this young feller here is to be hanged by the +neck until dead, in a few hours. Which being the case, there's no use +wasting any more time or thought on the matter.' So after this +self-communication, I usually says to the young feller under observation +by the death watch, 'Cheerio, m'lad. Is there anything in particular as +you'd like to discuss.' + +"I was a bit thick with the Abyssinian prince, Grover Redding, you recall. +The man spent the whole time we were with him praying at the top of his +voice and singing hymns. Not that I begrudged the fellow this privilege. +But if you've ever heard a man who's going to be hanged in a few hours try +to pass the time in continual prayers shouted at the top of his voice +you'll understand our predicament. + +"Then there was Antonio Lopez. I was death watch on him and a difficult +task that was. The lad kept up his pretense that he fancied himself a +rooster to the very end. He crouched on the chair on his feet and flapped +his elbows like as they were wings and emitted rooster calls all night +long. I tried to dissuade him and offered to play him any game he wished +for any stake. But the only way he could reconcile himself to the +approaching fatal dawn was to crow like a rooster. I thought to cheer him +up toward the end by congratulating him on his excellent imitations, as I +bore him no ill will despite he gave us all a terrible headache before the +death march took him away." + + * * * * * + +Now the rain dropped in long, quick lines outside the window and the +pavements below glowed like dark mirrors. Deputy Cochran, however, had +become oblivious to the scene. His eyes withdrew themselves from the +rain-dark and casually traced themselves over the memories his calling had +left him. + +"There was Blacky Weed some years ago," he went on. "And Viana, the choir +boy. And to come down to more recent incidents, Harry Ward, the 'Lone +Wolf.' I played cards with them all and can truthfully say I won most of +the games played to which I refer, with the exception of those played with +the 'Lone Wolf,' hanged recently, if you recall. + +"I will say that the chief trouble with the doomed men as I have engaged +in games of chance with is their inability to concentrate. Now cards, to +be properly played, requires above all a gift of the ability to +concentrate. Recognizing this I have always refused to play for money with +the doomed as I have been watch over, saying to them when they pressed the +matter, 'No, m'lad. Let's make it just a sociable game for the fun there's +in it rather than play for money.' + +"There are others not so scrupulous," hinted Deputy Cochran. "Take for +instance, the example of the newspaper man as was Eddie Brislane's friend +and comforter. He was with him in the cell most of the time before the +hanging, and two days before the aforesaid he paid Brislane $50 for a +story to be printed exclusively in his paper. Then this newspaper man, +which I consider unethical under the circumstances, played Brislane poker, +and what with the doomed man's lack of concentration and his inability to +take advantage of the turns of the game, therefore, this newspaper man won +back his $50 and some few dollars besides. + +"As for me, I doubt whether all my card playing with these doomed men, +successful though it has been, has ever brought me as much as a half +dollar. No, as I said, sociability is the object of these games and all I +aim for is to put the doomed man at his ease for the time being." + + * * * * * + +Deputy Cochian suddenly smiled, although before an impersonal air had +marked his discourse. + +"There was the 'Lone Wolf,' as I mentioned," he continued. "A cold-blooded +feller and a sinner to the end. But he was the best rhummy player as I +have ever had the pleasure of matching skill with. Yes, sir, it was his +ability for to concentrate. As I said, that is, the prime ability +necessary and the 'Lone Wolf' had more concentration than any one I have +matched skill with in or out of the jail. + +"That was an interesting evening we spent on the death watch for the 'Lone +Wolf.' He regaled us for an hour or so telling us how he used to steal +motor cars. Yes, sir, whenever the 'Lone Wolf' wanted a new car he just +went out and took it. A cold-blooded feller, as I say. + +"Then he asked if I would mind playing him a game of rhummy and I +answered, 'No, Harry. As you are aware, I am here to oblige. So we got out +the deck and Harry insisted upon gambling. 'Make it a dollar a hand,' he +said. But I would listen to none of that. We played eight games in all and +he beat me six of them. Perhaps I was not at my best that night. But I +never played against such a cold-blooded feller. He took a positive joy in +winning his games and on the whole acted like a bum winner, making the +most of his unusual good luck. I hold no grudge for that, however. But I +feel that if we could have continued the play some other time I'd easily +have finished him off." + +Now the sun was slowly recovering its place and the rain had become a +light mist. Deputy Cochran seemed to regard this as a signal for a +conclusion. + +"Summing the matter all up, pro and con," he offered, "it do interfere +with their game a lot. But I lay this to the fact that they all fancy +they're going to be reprieved and they keep waiting and listening for an +announcement which will save them from the gallows. I've known some of +them to lead a deuce thinking it was an ace and vice versa. But at that I +can fully recommend a good, sociable game of cards as the best way for a +doomed man to pass the few hours before the arrival of the fatal moment." + + + +RIPPLES + + +It rains. People carry umbrellas. A great financier has promised me an +interview. The windows of his club look out on a thousand umbrellas. They +bob along like drunken beetles. + +Once in a blue moon one becomes aware of people. Usually the crowds and +their endless faces are a background. They circle around one the way +ripples circle around a stone that has fallen into the water. The +torments, elation of others; the ambitions, defeats of others; the bedlam +of others--who the piano. A cornet, probably. Or a ukulele. +_Parbleu_, what creates in the plunge from youth to age. + +Here, then, under the umbrellas outside the great financier's club, are +people. One must marvel. They pass one another without so much as a +glance. To each of them all the others--the bedlam of others--are ripples +emanating from themselves. The great quests and struggles going on and the +million agonies and tumults beating in the veins of the world--ripples. +Yes, vague and vaguer ripples which surround the fact that one is going to +buy a pair of suspenders; which circle the fact that one is invited out +for dinner this evening. + + * * * * * + +Ah, the smug and oblivious ones under umbrellas! It rains, but the +umbrellas keep off the rain. The world pours its distinctions and elations +over their souls, but other umbrellas, invisible, keep off distractions +and elations. And each of them, scurrying along outside the window of the +great financier's club, is an omniscient world center to himself. The +great play was written around him, a blur of disasters and ecstasies, a +sort of vast and inarticulate Greek chorus mumbling an obbligato to the +leitmotif which is at the moment the purchase of a pair of suspenders or a +dinner invitation for the evening. + +None so small under these umbrellas outside the window but fancies himself +the center of the cosmos. None so stupid but regards himself as the oracle +of the times. And they scurry along without a glance at one another, each +innately convinced that his ideas, his prejudices, his ambitions, his +tastes are the Great Standard, the Normal Criterion. Puritan, paranoiac, +sybarite, katatoniac, hardhead, dreamer, coward, desperado, beaten ones, +striving ones, successful ones--all flaunt their umbrellas in the rain, +all unfurl their invisible umbrellas to the world. Let it rain, let it +rain--calamities and ecstasies tipped with fire and roaring with +thunder--nothing can disturb the terrible preoccupation of the plunge from +youth to age. + + * * * * * + +The pavements gleam like dark mirrors. The office window lights chatter in +the gloom. An umbrella pauses. The great financier is giving directions to +his chauffeur. The directions given, the great financier stands in the +rain for a moment. His eyes look up and down the street. What does he see? +Ripples, vague and vaguer ripples, that mark his passage from the +limousine into the club. + +He is wet. A servant helps him remove his coat. Then he comes to the +window and sinks into a leather chair and stares at the rain and the +umbrellas outside. The great financier has been abroad. His highly +specialized mind has been, poking among columns of figures, columns of +reports. He desired to find out if possible what conditions abroad were. +For six months the great financier closeted himself daily with other great +financiers and talked and talked and discussed and talked. + +But he says nothing. It is curious. The whole world and all its marvelous +distractions seem to have resolved themselves into the curt sentence, "It +rains." And somehow the great financier's faculty for the glib +manipulation of platitudes which has earned him a reputation as a powerful +economist seems for the moment to have abandoned him. His eyes remind one +of a boy standing on tiptoe and staring over a fence at a baseball game. + + * * * * * + +The conversation finally begins. It runs something like this. It is the +great financier talking. "Europe. Oh, yes. Quite a mess. Things will pick +up, however." A long pause. The umbrellas bob along. One, two, three, +four, five--the financier counts up to thirty. Then he rubs his hands +together as if he were taking charge of a situation freshly arisen at a +board of directors' meeting and says in a jovial voice: "Where were we? +Oh, yes. The European situation. Well, now, what do you want to know in +particular?" + +Ah, this great financier has columns of figures, columns of reports and +columns of phrases in his head. Press a button and they will pop out. +"Have a cigar?" the financier asks. Cigars are lighted. "A rotten day," he +says. "Doesn't look as if it will clear up, either, does it?" Then he +says, "I guess this is an off day for me. No energy at all. I swear I +can't think of a thing to tell you about the European situation." + +He sits smoking, his eyes fastened on the scene outside the window. His +eyes seem to be searching as if for meanings that withhold themselves. Yet +obviously there is no thought in his head. A mood has wormed its way +through the columns of figures, columns of reports, and taken possession +of him. This is bad for a financier. It is obvious that the umbrellas +outside are for the moment something other than ripples; that the great +play of life outside is something other than an inarticulate Greek chorus +mumbled as an obbligato for him alone. + +The great financier is aware of something. Of what? He shakes his head, as +if to question himself. Of nothing he can tell. Of the fact that a great +financier is an atom like other atoms dancing in a chaos of atoms. Of the +fact that each of the umbrellas crawling past under his window is as +important as himself. The great financier's ego is taking a rest and +dreams naked of words crowd in to distract him. + +"We have in Europe a peculiar situation," he says. "England and France, +although hitched to the same wagon, pull in different directions. England +must build up her trade. France must build up her morale. These involve +different efforts. To build up her trade England must re-establish +Germany. To build up her morale France must see that Germany is not +re-established and that it remains forever a beaten enemy." + +The great financier looks at his watch suddenly. "By Jove!" he says. "By +Jove!" He has to go. He is sorry the interview was a failure. But a rotten +day for thinking. Back into his raincoat. A limousine has drawn up. A +servant helps him to dress. In a moment another umbrella has joined the +crawl of umbrellas over the pavement. + +It rains. And a great financier is riding home to dinner. + + + +PITZELA'S SON + + +"His name?" said Feodor Mishkin. "Hm! Always you want names. Is life a +matter of names and addresses or is it something else?" + +"But the story would be better, Feodor, with names in it." + +The rotund and omniscient journalist from the west side muttered to +himself in Russian. + +"Better!" he repeated. "And why better? If I tell you his name is Yankel +or Berella or Chaim Duvit do you know any more than if I tell you his name +is Pitzela?" + +"No. We will drop the matter. I will call him Chaim Yankel." + +"You will call him Chaim Yankel! And what for? His name is Pitzela and not +Chaim Yankel." + +"Thanks." + +"You can go anywhere on Maxwell Street and ask anybody you meet do they +know Pitzela and they will say: 'Do we know Pitzela? We know Pitzela all +right.' So what is there to be gained by calling him Chaim Yankel?" + +"Nothing, Feodor. It was a mistake even to think of it." + +"It was. Well, as I was telling you before you began this interruption +about names, he is exactly 110 years old. Can you imagine a man 110 years +old? A man 110 years old is an unusual thing, isn't it?" + +"It is, Feodor. But I once knew a man 113 years old." + +"Ha! And what kind of a man was he? Did he dance jigs? Did he crack nuts +with his teeth? Did he drink like a fish?" + +"No, he was an old man and very sad." + +"You see! He was sad. So what has he to do with Pitzela? Nothing. Pitzela +laughs all day long. And he dances jigs. And he cracks nuts with his +teeth. Mind you, a man 110 years old cracks nuts with his teeth! Can you +imagine such a thing?" + +"No Feodor. It is amazing." + +"Amazing? Why amazing? Everything that happens different from what you +know is amazing to you! You are very naïve. You know what naïve means? It +is French." + +"I know what naïve means, Feodor. Go on about Pitzela." + +"Naïve means to be childish late in life. In a way you are like Pitzela, +despite the difference in your ages. He is naïve. You know what he wants?" + +"What?" + +"This Pitzela wants to show everybody how young he is. That's his central +ambition. He don't talk English much, but when you ask him, 'Pitzela, how +do you feel today?' he says to you right back, 'Oi, me? I'm full o' pep.' +Then if you ask him, 'How old are you, Pitzela?' he says: 'Old? What does +it matter how old I am? I am just beginning to enjoy myself. And when you +talk about my dying don't laugh too much. Because, you know, I will attend +all your funerals. When I am 300 years old I will be burying your +grandchildren.' And he will laugh. Do you like the story?" + +"Yes, Feodor. But it isn't long enough. I will have to go out and see +Pitzela and describe him and that will make the story long enough." + +"It isn't long enough? What do you mean? I just begun. The story ain't +about Pitzela at all. So why should you go see Pitzela?" + +"But I thought it was about Pitzela." + +"You thought! Hm! Well, you see what good it does you to think. For +according to your thinking the story is already finished. Whereas +according to me the story is only just beginning." + +"But you said it was about Pitzela, Feodor. So I believed you." + +"I said nothing of the sort. I merely asked you if you knew Pitzela. The +story is entirely about Pitzela's son." + +"Aha! This Pitzela has a son. That's interesting." + +"Of course it is. Pitzela's son is a man 87 years old. Ask anybody on +Maxwell street do they know Pitzela's son and they will tell you: 'Do we +know Pitzela's son? Hm! It's a scandal." + +"The editor, Feodor, forbids me to write about scandals. So be careful." + +"This scandal is one you can write about. This Pitzela's son is such a +poor old man that he can hardly walk. He has a long white beard and wears +a yamulka and he has no teeth and one foot is already deep in the grave. +If you saw Pitzela's son you would say: 'Why don't this dying man go home +and sit down instead of running around like this?' + +"And why don't he?" + +"Why don't he? Such a question! He don't because Pitzela don't let him. +Pitzela is his father and he has to mind his father. And Pitzela says: +'What! You want to hang around the house like you were an old man? You are +crazy. Look at me, I'm your father. And you a young man, my son, act like +you were my father. It's a scandal. Come, we will go to the banquet.' + +"What banquet, Feodor?" + +"Oh, any banquet. He drags him. He don't let him rest. And he says: 'You +must shave off your beard. For fifteen years you been letting it grow and +now it's altogether too long. How does it look for me to go around with a +son who not only can't walk, but has a beard that makes him look like +Father Abraham himself?'" + +"And what does Pitzela's son say?" + +"What can he say? Nothing. The doctor comes and tells him: 'You got to +stay in the house. You are going out too much. How old are you?' And +Pitzela's son shakes his tired head and says: 'Eighty-seven years old, +doctor.' And the doctor gives strict orders. But Pitzela comes in and +laughs. Imagine." + +"Yes, it's a good story, Feodor." + +"A good story! How do you know? I ain't come to the point yet. But never +mind, if you like it so much you don't need any point." + +"The point, Feodor. Excuse me." + +"Well, the point is that Pitzela and the way he treats his son is a +scandal. You know why? Because he uses his son as an advertisement. +Pitzela's son, mind you, is so weak and old that he can hardly walk and he +carries a heavy cane and his hands shake like leaves. And Pitzela drags +him around all over. To banquets. To political meetings. To the Yiddish +theater. All over. He holds him by the arm and brings him into the hall +and sits him down in a chair. And Pitzela's son sits so tired and almost +dead he can't move. And then Pitzela jumps up and gets excited and says: +'Look at him. A fine son, for you! Look, he's almost dead. Tell me if you +wouldn't think he was my father and I was his son? Instead of the other +way around? I ask you.'" + +"And what does Pitzela's son say, Feodor?" + +"Say? What can he say? He looks up and shakes his head some more. He can +hardly see. And when the banquet talking begins he falls asleep and +Pitzela has to hold him up from falling out of the chair. And when the +food is done and the dessert comes Pitzela leans over and says to his son: +'Listen. I got a treat for you. Here.' And he reaches into his pocket and +brings out a handful of hickory nuts. 'Crack them with your teeth,' he +says, 'like your father.' And when his son looks at him and strokes his +white beard and sighs, Pitzela jumps up and laughs so you can hear him all +over the banquet hall. But the point of the story is that two weeks ago +Pitzela went to his grandson's funeral. It was Pitzela's son's son and he +was a man almost 70 years old. And it was a scandal at the funeral. Why? +Because Pitzela laughed and coming back from the grave he said: 'Look at +me, my grandson dies and I go to his funeral and if he had a son I would +go to his, too, and I would dance jigs both times.'" + + + +PANDORA'S BOX + + +A dark afternoon with summer thunder in the sky. The fan-shaped +skyscrapers spread a checkerboard of window lights through the gloom. It +rains. People seem to grow vaguely elate on the dark wet pavements. They +hurry along, their eyes saying to one another, "We have something in +common. We are all getting wet in the rain." The crowd is no longer quite +so enigmatic a stranger to itself. An errand boy from Market Street +advances with leaps through the downpour, a high chant on his lips, "It's +raining ... it's raining." The rain mutters and the pavements, like +darkened mirrors, grow alive with impressionistic cartoons of the city. + +Inside the Washington Street book store of Covici-McGee the electric +lights gleam cozily. New books and old books--the high shelves stuffed +with books vanish in the ceiling shadows. On a rainy day the dusty army of +books peers coaxingly from the shelves. Old tales, old myths, old wars, +old dreams begin to chatter softly in the shadows--or it may be the +chatter of the rain on the pavement outside. The Great Philosophers +unbend, the Bearded Classics sigh, the Pontifical Critics of Life murmur +"ahem." Yes, even the forbidding works of Standard Authors grow lonely on +the high shelves on a rainy day. As for the rag-tag, ruffle-snuffle crowd +in motley--the bulged, spavined, sniffling crew of mountebanks, +troubadours, swashbucklers, bleary philosophers, phantasts and +adventurers--they set up a veritable witches' chorus. Or it may be the +rain again lashing against the streaming windows of the book store. + + * * * * * + +People come in out of the rain. A girl without an umbrella, her face wet. +Who? Perhaps a stenographer hunting a job and halted by the rain. And then +a matron with an old-fashioned knitted shopping bag. And a spinster with a +keen, kindly face. Others, too. They stand nervously idle, feeling that +they are taking up valuable space in an industrial establishment and +should perhaps make a purchase. So they permit their eyes to drift +politely toward the wares. And then the chatter of the books has them. Old +books, new books, live books, dead books--but they move carelessly away +and toward the bargain tables--"All Books 30 Cents." Broken down best +sellers here--pausing in their gavotte toward oblivion. The next step is +the junk man--$1 a hundred. Pembertons, Wrights, Farnols, Websters, +Johnstones, Porters, Wards and a hundred other names reminiscent more of a +page in the telephone book than a page out of a literary yesterday. The +little gavotte is an old dance in the second-hand book store. The +$2-shelf. The $1-rack. The 75-cent table. The 30-cent grab counter. And +finis. New scribblings crowd for place, old scribblings exeunt. + +The girl without an umbrella studies titles. A love story, of course, and +only thirty cents. An opened page reads, "he took her in his arms...." Who +would not buy such a book on a rainy day? + + * * * * * + +It rains and other people come in. A middle-aged man in a curious coat, a +curious hat and a curious face. Slate-colored skin, slate-colored eyes +behind silver spectacles. A scholar in caricature, an Old Clothes Dealer +out of Alice in Wonderland. The rain runs from his stringy, slate-colored +hair. He approaches the high shelves, thrusts the silver spectacles +farther down on his nose. In front of him a curious row of literary +gargoyles--"The Astral Light," "What and Where Is God?", "Man" by Dohony +of Texas, "The Star of the Magi." + +Thin slate-colored fingers fumble nervously over the title backs. A second +man, figure short, squat, red-faced, crowds the erratic scholar. A third. +The rain is bringing them in in numbers. These are the basement students +of the gargoyle philosophies, the gargoyle sciences, the gargoyle +religions. Perpetual motion machine inventors, alchemists with staring, +nervous-eyed medieval faces, fourth dimensionists, sun worshippers, +cabalistic researchers, voodoo authorities--the old-book store is suddenly +alive with them. They move about furtively with no word for one another, +lost in their grotesque dreamings. + + * * * * * + +On a rainy day the city gives them up and they come puttering excitedly +into the loop on a quest. The world is a garish unreality to them. The +streets and the crowds of automatic-faced men and women, the upward rush +of buildings and the horizontal rush of traffic are no more than vague +grimacings. Life is something of which the streets are oblivious. But here +on the gargoyle shelves, the high, shadowed shelves of the old book +store--truth stands in all its terrible reality, wrapped in its authentic +habiliments. Dr. Hickson of the psychopathic laboratory would give these +curious rainy day phantasts identities as weird as the volumes they +caress. But the old book store clerk is more kind. He lets them rummage. +Before the rain ends they will buy "The Cradle of the Giants," "The Key to +Satanism," Cornelius Agrippa's "Natural Magic," "The Astral Chord," +"Occultism and Its Usages." They will buy books by Jacob Boehme, William +Law, Sadler, Hyslop, Ramachaska. And they will go hurrying home with their +treasures pressed close to them. Stuffy bedrooms lined with hints of +Sabbatical horror, strewn with bizarre refuse; musty smelling books out of +whose pages fantastic shapes rear themselves against the gaslights, +macabre worlds in which unreason rides like a headless D'Artagnan; +evenings in the park arguing suddenly with startled strangers on the +existence of the philosophers' stone or the astrological causes of +influenza--these form a background for the curious men whom the rain has +drifted into the old book store and who stand with their eyes haunting the +gargoyle titles. + +The rain brings in another tribesman--a famed though somewhat ragged +bibliomaniac. His casual gestures hide the sudden fever old books kindle +in his thought. Old books--old books, a magical phrase to him. His eyes +travel like a lover's back and forth, up and down. He knows them all--the +sets, the first editions, the bargains, the riff-raff. A democratic lover +is here. But the clerk watches him. For this lover is an antagonist. Yes, +this somewhat ragged, gleaming-eyed gentleman with the casual manner is a +terrible person to have around in a second-hand book store on a rainy day. +Only six months ago one of his horrible tribe pounced upon Sander's +"Indian Wars," price 30 cents; value, alas, $150.00. Only two months ago +another of his kidney fell upon a copy of Jean Jacques Rosseau's "Emile" +with Jean's own dedication on the title page to "His Majesty, the King of +France." Price 75 cents; value, gadzooks, $200. + +There will be nothing today, however. Merely an hour's caress of old +friends on the high shelves while the rain beats outside. Unless--unless +this Stevenson happens by any chance to be a "first." A furtive glance at +the title page. No. The clerk sighs with relief as the Stevenson goes back +on the shelf. It might have been something overlooked. + + * * * * * + +The rain ends. The old book store slowly empties. A troop of men and women +saunter out, pausing to say farewell to the gaudily ragged tomes in the +old book store. The sky has grown lighter. The buildings shake the last +drops of rain from their spatula tops. There is a different-looking, +well-linened gentleman thrusts his head into the old book store and +inquires, "Have you a copy of 'The Investors' Guide'?" + + + +ILL-HUMORESQUE + + +The beggar in the street, sitting on the pavement against the building +with his pleading face raised and his arm outstretched--I don't like him. +I don't like the way he tucks his one good leg under him in order to +convey the impression that he is entirely legless. I don't like the way he +thrusts his arm stump at me, the way his eyes plead his weakness and +sorrow. + +He is a presumptuous and calculating scoundrel, this beggar. He is a +diabolical psychologist. Why will people drop coins into his hat? Ah, +because when they look at him and his misfortunes, by a common mental ruse +they see themselves in his place, and they hurriedly fling a coin to this +fugitive image of themselves. And because in back of this beggar has grown +up an insidious propaganda that power is wrong, that strength is evil, +that riches are vile. A strong, rich and powerful man cannot get into +heaven. Thus this beggar becomes for an instant an intimidating symbol of +perfections. One feels that one should apologize for the fact that one has +two legs, money in one's pocket and hope in one's heart. One flings him a +coin, thus buying momentary absolution for not being an unfortunate--i.e., +as noble and non-predatory--as the beggar. + + * * * * * + +I do not like the way this beggar pleads. And yet after I pass him and +remember his calculating expression, his mountebank tricks, I grow fond of +him--theoretically. My thought warms to him as a creature of intelligence, +of straightforward and amusing cynicisms. + +For this beggar is aware of me and the innumerable lies to which I lamely +submit. I am the public to him--one of a herd of identical faces drifting +by. And this beggar has perfected a technique of attack. It is his duty to +sit on the pavement and lay for me and hit me with a slapstick labeled +platitude and soak me over the head with a bladder labeled in stern white +letters: "The Poor Shall Inherit the Kingdom of Heaven." + +And this he does, the scoundrel, grinning to himself as the blows fall and +slyly concealing his enthusiasm as the coins jingle into his hat. I am one +of those who labor proudly at the immemorial task of idealizations. I am +the public who passes laws proclaiming things wrong, immoral, contrary to +my "best instincts." Thus I have after many centuries succeeded in +creating a beautiful conception--a marvelous person. This marvelous person +represents what I might be if I had neither ambition nor corpuscles, +prejudices nor ecstasties, greeds, lusts, illusions or curiosity. This +marvelous person is the beautiful image, the noble and flattering image of +itself that the public rapturously beholds when it stares into the mirror +of laws, conventions, adages, platitudes and constitutions that it has +created. + +A charming image to contemplate. Learned men wax full of stern joy when +they gaze upon this image. Kind-hearted folk thrill with pride at the +thought that life is at last a carefully policed force which flows +politely and properly through the catalogued veins of this marvelous +person. + +But my beggar in the street--ah, my beggar in the street knows better. My +beggar in the street, maimed and vicious, sits against the building and +wields his bladder and his slapstick on me. Whang! A platitude on the +rear. Bam! A bromide on the bean! And I shell out a dime and hurry on. I +do not like this beggar. + + * * * * * + +But I grow warm with fellowship toward him after I have left him behind. +There is something comradely about his amazing cynicism. People, thinks +this beggar, are ashamed of themselves for being strong, for having two +legs, for not being poor, brow-beaten, cheek-turning humble mendicants. +People, thinks this beggar, are secretly ashamed of themselves for being +part of success. And their shame is inspired by fear. When they see me +they suddenly feel uncertain about themselves. When they see me they think +that reverses and misfortunes and calamities might overtake them and +reduce them to my condition. Thinking this, they grow indignant for an +instant with a society that produces beggars. Not because it produced me. +But perhaps it might produce them--as beggars. And then remembering that +they are responsible for my plight--they being society--they beg my +pardon by giving me money and a pleading look. Oho! You should see the +pleading looks they give me. Men and women pass and plead with me not to +hit them too hard with my slapstick and bladder. They plead with me to +spare them, not to look at them. And when they give me a dime it is a +gesture intended to annihilate me. The dime obliterates my misfortunes. It +annihilates my poverty. For an instant, having annihilated poverty and +misfortune with a dime, the man or woman is happy. An instant of security +strengthens his wavering spirit. + + * * * * * + +Thus my beggar whom I have grown quite fond of as I write. I would write +more of him and of the marvelous person in me whom he is continually +belaboring with his slapstick and bladder. But I remember suddenly a man +in a wheel chair. A pale man with drawn features and paralyzed legs. It +was at night in North Clark Street. Lights streamed over the pavements. +People moved in and out of doorways. + +And this man sat in his wheel chair, a board on his lap. The board was +laden with wares. Trinkets, pencils, shoestrings, candies, tacks, +neckties, socks. And from the front of the board hung a sign reading, +"Jim's Store--Stop and Shop." + +I remember this creature with a sudden excitement. I passed by and bought +nothing. But after five days his face has caught up with me. A sallow, +drawn face, burning eyes, bloodless lips and skinny hands that fumbled +among the wares on his board. He was young. Heroic sentences come to me. +"Jim's Store--" Good hokum, effective advertising. And a strange pathos, a +pathos that my beggar with one leg and a pleading face never had. + +I do not like cynics. I like Jim better. I like Jim and his burning eyes, +his skinny hands, his dying body--and his store. Fighting--with the lights +going out. Sitting in a wheel chair with death at his back and despair +crying from his eyes--"Come buy from me--a little while longer--I don't +give up ... another week ... another month ... but I don't give up. I'm +still on the turf.... Never mind my dying body ... business as usual ... +business as usual.... Come buy from me ... little while longer ... a...." + +But I never gave a nickel to Jim. I passed up his store. I took him at his +word. He was selling wares and I didn't want any. But my beggar with the +one leg and the inward grin was selling absolutions.... And I patronized +him. + + + +THE MAN WITH A QUESTION + + +Late afternoon. An hour more and the city will be emptying itself out of +the high buildings. Now the shoppers are hurrying home to get dinner on +the table. + +A man stands on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Adams Street. +Unwittingly he invites attention. A poorly dressed man, with a work-heavy +face and coarsened hands. But he stands motionless. More than that, he is +not looking at anything. His deep-set eyes seem to withhold themselves +from the active street. + +In the sauve spectacle of the avenue his motionless figure is like an +awkward faux pas in a parlor conversation. The newspaper man on his way to +the I. C. station pauses to light his pipe and his eyes take in the figure +of this motionless one. + +The newspaper man notices that the man stands like one who is braced +against something that may come suddenly and that his deep-set eyes say, +"We know what we know." There are other impressions that interest the +newspaper man. For a moment the motionless one seems a blurred little unit +of the hurrying crowd. Then for a moment he seems to grow large and his +figure becomes commanding and it is as if he were surveying the blurred +little faces of the hurrying crowd. This is undoubtedly because he is +standing still and not looking at anything. + + * * * * * + +"Can I have a light, please?" + +The man's voice is low. A bit hoarse. He has a pipe and the newspaper man +gives him a match. Ah, the amiable, meaningless curiosity of newspaper +men! This one must ask questions. It is after work, but, like the +policeman who goes to the movies with his club still at his side, he is +still asking questions. + +"Taking in the sights?" + +The man, lighting his pipe, nods slowly. Much too slowly, as if his answer +were fraught with a vast significance. + +"I like it myself," insinuates the newspaper man. "I was reading Junius +Wood's article on Bill Shatov, who is running things now in Siberia. He +quotes Bill as saying what he misses most in life now is the music of +crowds in Chicago streets. Did you read that?" + +This is a brazen lead. But the man looks like a "red." And Bill Shatov +would then open the talk. But the man only shakes his head. He says, "No, +I don't read the papers much." + +Now there is something contradictory about this man and his curtness +invites. He seems to have accepted the presence of the newspaper man in an +odd way, an uncity way. After a pause he gestures slightly with his pipe +in his hand and says: + +"Quite a crowd, eh?" + +The newspaper man nods. The other goes on: + +"Where are they going?" + +This is more than a question. There is indignation in it. The deepset eyes +gleam. + +"I wonder," says the newspaper man. His companion remains staring in his +odd, unseeing way. Then he says: + +"They don't look at anything, eh? In a terrible hurry, ain't they? Yeah, +in a rotten hurry." + +The newspaper man nods. "Which way you going?" he asks. + +"No way," his companion answers. "No way at all. I'm standin' here, see?" + +There is a silence. The motionless one has become something queer in the +eyes of the newspaper man. He has become grim, definite, taunting. Here is +a man who questions the people of the street with unseeing eyes. Why? Here +is one who is going "no way." Yet, look at him closely and there is no +sneer in his eyes. His lips hold no contempt. + +There you have it. He is a questioning man. He is questioning things that +no one questions--buildings, crowds, windows. And there is some sort of +answer inside him. + + * * * * * + +"What you talking to me for?" + +The newspaper man smiles disarmingly at this sudden inquiry. + +"Oh, I don't know," he says. "Saw you standing still. You looked +different. Wondered, you know. Just kind of thought to say hello." + +"Funny," says the motionless one. + +"I got a hunch you're a stranger in town." + +This question the companion answers. "Yeah, a stranger. A stranger. That's +what I am, all right. I'm a stranger, all right. You got me right." + +Now the motionless one smiles. This makes his face look uncomfortable. +This makes it seem as if he had been frowning savagely before. + +"What do you think of this town?" pursues the newspaper man. + +"Think of this town? Think? Say, I ain't thinking. I don't think anything +of it. I'm just looking at it, see? A stranger don't ever think, now, does +he? There, that's one for you." + +"When'd you come here?" + +"When'd I come here? When? Well, I come here this noon. On the noon train. +Say, don't make me gabby. I never gab any." + +Nothing to be got out of this motionless one. Nothing but a question. A +pause, however, and he went on: + +"Have you ever seen such a crowd like this? Hurrying? Hm! Some town! There +used to be a hotel over here west a bit." + +"The Wellington?" + +"Yeah. I don't see it when I pass." + +"Torn down." + +"Hm!" The deep-set eyes narrow for an instant. Then the motionless one +sighs and his shoulders loosen. His face grows alive and he looks this way +and that. He starts to walk and walks quickly, leaving the newspaper man +standing alone. + + * * * * * + +The newspaper man watched him. As he stood looking after him some one +tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. "Specs" McLaughlin of the detective +bureau. "Specs" rubbed his chin contemplatively and smiled. + +"Know that guy?" + +"Who?" + +"No; just bumped into him. How come?" + +"You might have got a story out of him," "Specs" grinned. "That's George +Cook. Just let out of the Joliet pen this morning. Served fourteen years. +Quite a yarn at the time. For killing a pal in the Wellington hotel over +some dame. I guess that was before your time, though. He just landed in +town this noon." + +The detective rubbered into the moving crowd. + +"I'm sort of keeping an eye on him," he said, and hurried on. + + + +GRASS FIGURES + + +You will sometimes notice when you sit on the back porch after dinner that +there are other back porches with people on them. And when you sit on the +front steps, that there are other front steps similarly occupied. In the +park when you lie down on the grass you will see there are others lying on +the grass. And when you look out of your window you can observe other +people looking out of their windows. + +In the streets when you walk casually and have time to look around you +will see others walking casually and looking around, too. And in the +theater or church or where you work there are always the inevitable +others, always reflecting yourself. You might get to thinking about this +as the newspaper reporter did. The newspaper reporter got an idea one day +that the city was nothing more nor less than a vast, broken mirror giving +him back garbled images of himself. + +The newspaper reporter was trying to write fiction stories on the side and +he thought: "If I can figure out something for a background, some idea or +something that will explain about people, and then have the plot of the +story sort of prove this general idea by a specific incident, that would +be the way to work it." + +Thus, when the reporter had figured it out that the city was a mirror +reflecting himself, he grew excited. That was the kind of idea he had +always been looking for. But at night in his bedroom when he started to +write he hit a snag. He had thought he held in his mind the secret of the +city. Yet when he came to write about it the secret slipped away and left +him with nothing. He sat looking out of his bedroom window, noticing that +the telephone poles in the dark alley looked like huge, inverted music +notes. Then he thought: "It doesn't do any good to get an idea that +doesn't tell you anything. Just figuring out that the city is a mirror +that reflects me all the time doesn't give me the secret of streets and +crowds. Because the question then arises: 'Who am I that the mirror +reflects, and what am I? What in Sam Hill is my motif?'" + + * * * * * + +So the newspaper reporter decided to wait awhile before he wrote his +story--wait, at least, until he had found out something. But the next day, +while he was walking in Michigan Avenue, the idea he had had about the +mirror trotted along beside him like some homeless Hector pup that he +couldn't shake. He looked up eagerly into the faces of the crowd on the +street, searching the many different eyes that moved by him for a "lead." + +What the newspaper reporter wanted was to be able to begin his fiction +story by saying something like this: "People are so and so. The city is so +and so. Everybody feels this and this. No matter who they are or where +they live, or what their jobs are they can't escape the mark of the city +that is on them." + +It was after 7 o'clock and the people in Michigan Avenue were going home +or sauntering back and forth, looking into the shop windows, with nothing +much to do. The street was still light, although the sun had gone. Hidden +behind the buildings of the city, the sun flattened itself out on an +invisible horizon and spread a vast peacock tail of color across the sky. +In Grant Park, opposite the Public Library, men lay on their backs with +their hands folded under their heads and stared up into the colors of the +sky. The newspaper reporter stood abstractedly on the corner counting the +automobiles that purred by to see if more taxicabs than privately owned +cars passed a given point in Michigan Avenue. Then he walked across the +street for no other reason than that there were for the moment no more +automobiles to count. He stopped on the opposite pavement and stood +looking at the figures that lay on the grass in Grant Park. + + * * * * * + +The newspaper reporter had been lying for ten minutes on his back in the +grass when he sat up suddenly and muttered: "Here it is. Right in front of +me." He sat, looking intently, at the men who were lying on the grass as +he had been a moment before. And his idea about the city's being a mirror +giving him back images of himself started up again in his mind. But now he +could find out what these images of himself were. In fact, what he was. +Whereupon he would have his story. + +Being a newspaper reporter there was nothing unusual in his mind about +walking up to one of the figures and talking to it. For years and years he +had done just that for a living--walked up to strangers and asked them +questions. So now he would ask the men lying on their backs what they were +lying on their backs for. He would ask them why they came to Grant Park, +what they were thinking about and how it happened that they all looked +alike and lay on their backs like a chorus of figures in a pastoral +musical comedy. + +The first figure the newspaper reporter approached listened to the +questions in surprise. Then he answered: "Well I dunno. I just came into +the park and lay down." The second figure looked blank and shook its head. +The reporter tried a third. The third figure grinned and answered: "Oh, +well, nothing much to do and the grass rests you a bit." + +The reporter kept on for a few minutes, asking his questions and getting +answers that didn't quite mean anything. Then he grew tired of the job and +returned to his original place on the grass and lay down again and stared +up into the colors of the sky. After a half-hour, during which he had +thought of nothing in particular, he arose, shook his legs free of dirt +and grass and walked away. As he walked he looked at the figures that +remained. The arc lamps on the park shafts and on the Greek-like fountain +were popping on and the avenue was lighting up like a theater with the +footlights going on. + +"Funny about them," the newspaper reporter thought, eyeing the figures as +he moved away; "they lie there on their backs all in the same position, +all looking at the same clouds. So they must all be thinking thoughts +about the same thing. Let's see; what was I thinking about? Nothing," + +An excited light came suddenly into the newspaper reporter's eyes. + +"I was just waiting," he muttered to himself. "And so are they." + + * * * * * + +The newspaper reporter looked eagerly at the street and the people +passing. That was it. He had found the word. "Waiting." Everybody was +waiting. On the back porches at night, on the front steps, in the parks, +in the theaters, churches, streets and stores--men and women waited. Just +as the men on the grass in Grant Park were waiting. The only difference +between the men lying on their backs and people elsewhere was that the men +in the grass had grown tired for the moment of pretending they were doing +anything else. So they had stretched themselves out in an attitude of +waiting, in a deliberate posture of waiting. And with their eyes on the +sky, they waited. + +The newspaper reporter felt thrilled as he thought all this. He felt +thrilled when he looked closely at the people in Michigan Avenue and saw +that they fitted snugly into his theory. He said to himself: "I've +discovered a theory about life. A theory that fits them all. That makes +the background I'm looking for. Waiting. Yes, the whole pack of them are +waiting all the time. That's why we all look alike. That's why one house +looks like another and one man walking looks like another man walking, and +why figures lying in the grass look like twins--scores of twins." + + * * * * * + +The newspaper man returned to his bedroom and started to write again. But +he had been writing only a few minutes when he stopped. Again, as it had +before, the secret had slipped out of his mind. For he had come to a +paragraph that was to tell what the people were waiting for and he +couldn't think of any answer to that. What were the men in the grass +waiting for? In the street? On the porches and stone steps? They were +images of himself--all "waiting images" of himself. Therefore the answer +lay in the question: "What had he been waiting for?" + +The newspaper reporter bit into his pencil. "Nothing, nothing," he +muttered. "Yes, that's it. They aren't waiting for anything. That's the +secret. Life is a few years of suspended animation. But there's no story +in that. Better forget it." + +So he looked glumly out of his bedroom window, and, being a +sentimentalist, the huge inverted music notes the telephone poles made +against the dark played a long, sad tune in his mind. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, A THOUSAND AND ONE AFTERNOONS IN CHICAGO *** + +This file should be named 7988-8.txt or 7988-8.zip + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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