In Pace Conquiescare
Toward midnight, Paul Duval emerged from 355 McDougal
Street, quietly closed the battered door behind him, and
descended the steps. He slouched along the street, with the brim
of his felt hat, which dangled over his ears, flapping up and down
to the rhythm of his stride. Probably, he thought, some one
would take him for a murderer or a burglar—although, to be
sure, such people use automobiles in this twentieth century. Paul
was especially conscious that the policeman leaning against a post
of the elevated railway, did peer at him searchingly, whistled
something, and twirled his stick meditatively. But perhaps all
this was fancy, aided by the dim light of the arcs.
It was, however, likely that Paul carried with him a remnant
of the atmosphere of the death-chamber he had just left—the
green-walled room in the rear of 355 where Hanaré Tierens had
died—and that the remembrance of this most recent experience
created in his mind a marked sensitiveness to ghostly things such
as policemen and Greenwich Village arc-lights. That calm, livid
face, with its peculiarly French nose, had passed through some
experience of which Paul, at least, knew nothing. He still felt
the pressure of Hanaré’s hand, which he had held until the last
moment. It had relaxed and become dead. What a world of
truth and wonder was there in that moment, that relaxation!
Few men, Paul thought, had ever passed through emotions such
as his own had been. It was bad enough to see one’s old friend
and adviser die; to feel a hand relax, the way Hanaré’s had; to
realize that it belonged no longer to a friend or an adviser. This,
Paul reflected, was bad enough. But there had also been a girl—Hanaré’s
daughter; a girl whom Paul had passionately loved
for the last five years; a girl whose drawn, white face stood out
now in his memory, like a ghost, to aggravate the torture in his
heart. These two had sat facing each other during the last hours,
when the doctor had gone, and the rest of the house was asleep.
They had not exchanged a word. The tragedy had been heightened
by the silence. Paul had expressed his love too often for her to
be able to forget, even at this time, the intensity of his passion.
And once, when their eyes met, he knew that in her young heart
one more sorrow had thus been added to her present burden—a
sympathy for him, and a feeling of almost shame that she could
not respond to his love.
Then there had been a frightful kind of mental telepathy which
carried even his most involuntary thoughts over to her. How
could he help thinking that since she was now alone, without her
father, she might accept him as a lover and a protector? How
could he avoid extending his sympathy for her distress into a
conviction that, since she needed comfort, some overt expression
of his love was justified? Indeed, once when she had laid her
head in despair upon the dying man’s breast, Paul had stretched
out his hand and stroked her hair. She had, then, taken his hand
in hers, pressed it, and released it. The situation only seemed to
strengthen the barrier between them, and to make them even
more intensely conscious of it.
These thoughts flowed slowly through Paul’s mind, now that
he was out on the street, walking toward his apartment. He
cursed himself for his selfishness and for bringing into a death-chamber
such passions and emotions, thereby to heighten a young
girl’s distress. What if they were the passions of a lifetime!
What if they had caused him inexpressible suffering! He was
none the less a selfish brute, immersed in his own selfishness.
Upon passing a quick-lunch room, he decided to enliven his
tired mind by indulging in some coffee and doughnuts. He
opened the door, walked past the shiny, white-topped tables, and
approached the counter. Here he was at once surprised by the
beauty of the girl’s face, which confronted him, and which stood
out against the background of coffee containers, cups, saucers,
shredded wheat boxes, and the like, as though an inhabitant of
his dreams had been transposed to this earthly environment. Paul,
who was sleepy and dazed, stared at her until she was forced to
drop her lashes and hide from him the blue depths of her eyes.
“I am Paul Duval,” he said, in his absent-minded way, “and
I should like some coffee.”
The girl turned and drew it from the container. Paul watched
her—the slim back and the delicate, white skin which showed
through her fine blouse.
“A strange world,” he sighed as she turned toward him with
the coffee. “Isn’t it?”
He had not meant it offensively. And as she gazed into his
vague, grey eyes, saw the sallow cheeks and the whimsical expression
on the mouth, she divined that he was not talking about the
world but about himself.
“Do you think so?” she smiled.
“Don’t you?”
“I think you are a strange person!” she laughed, turned on her
heel gayly, and pretended to busy herself with something below
the counter. Paul noticed that her voice was quite cultured.
“Do you work here—always?” he asked.
“One week,” she passed nonchalantly from one little task to
another. “This is my first night’s work—my last, too—Fred
was sick.”
“Who’s Fred?” Paul found it difficult to keep up with her.
“Night-man. Did you want anything else?” She leaned across
the counter, exposing her slim arms, and a pair of delicate hands.
She looked up at him, laughing.
Stupidly he remembered that he had come there to drink coffee.
He fumbled for his cup.
“No,” he said, “—eh—that is—I’d like some doughnuts.”
She procured the doughnuts, and Paul reluctantly shambled
off to a nearby table, where he sat down, facing the counter. It
was indeed strange that this girl should exert so much attraction
over him. He had seen beautiful women before during his
twenty-six years of varied existence. However, he remembered
with a smile that since women had meant anything to him at all,
he had been in love: first with a stolidly serious young lady, who
was now married to a man much older than herself, and then with
Marie Tierens. This latter affair had been going on for the past
five or six years. It had become his ideal. It had given Paul
the conviction that if a man is going to marry a decent woman,—well—the
least he can do is to be decent himself. At the heart of
civilization, he thought, lay the unitary standard. And thus he
had crossed in safety numerous pitfalls which present themselves
to the average hack-writer—the small dealer in ideas.
But to-night, ah, well—even one’s deepest ideals are shattered
at times. The excruciating emotions of the past few hours had
left him like a rudderless ship, adrift in a sea of bewildering
passions. Hanaré was gone now. Without Hanaré life could
never be the same. And Hanaré’s daughter had changed. She
had become an independent woman. There was defiance in her
eyes, instead of that ancient girlishness which had always kept
hope alive in Paul’s heart. Indeed, the world had changed. For
better or for worse, Paul, too, had changed.
In those intense moments of a man’s lifetime, wherein the past,
together with the ideals which epitomize the past, are relinquished
and a new method of life undertaken—in those moments a man
is not fully conscious of all that he is doing. He moves in
response to the predominant feeling in his heart. And there
opens up before him new and unexplored vistas of life, at the
other end of which he hopes to find some sort of Eldorado.
To-night Paul was craving for beauty. Beauty to alleviate the
coarseness of the death-chamber. Beauty to help him forget the
face and the eyes of a girl who could no longer truly be called
“his” girl.
He was awakened from his short reverie by a voice close beside
him. “Good-night,” it said cheeringly. Paul looked up to behold
the girl of the counter, in a blue serge dress, with a dark blue hat
slanted to one side of her head. She waved to him as she passed.
Paul gathered his queer legs together, and arose.
“Eh—are you going?”
The girl turned. “Yes,” she said, “I’m only on duty until
one o’clock.”
“Really? Is it that late?” He felt for his watch, but could
not find it.
“Good-night,” said the girl again.
“I say,” said Paul, as though he were embarrassed, “perhaps—well—wouldn’t
it be rather nice if I were to take you home? We
could—eh—go somewhere—dance—first.”
“Dance! At one o’clock?” she laughed. “I don’t think we
could.”
“Of course.”
She made no move to go, nor did Paul, who was standing close
to her. At length she took hold of his arm.
“Well, are you coming?”
They walked out of the restaurant and down the deserted street
together.
The night spent itself. Some sort of a dawn crept across the
city and touched the edges of the windows in the rear of 355
McDougal Street. As the grey light penetrated the room on the
third floor, a girl, who had been lying across the body of a dead
man, arose, looked stupidly about her, rubbed her eyes, and went
over to the window where she gazed across the damp Greenwich
Village roofs. She thought, perhaps, that she was going mad,
with this silence which penetrated her whole nature, like the cold
dawn that had just penetrated the night. But, strangely enough,
it was not altogether her own loneliness, nor yet the painful sense
of loss at the death of her father, nor even the ghostliness of his
figure on the bed, that was thus driving her toward insanity.
Rather, it was the remembrance of Paul’s face, the knowledge of
his suffering for her, and the feeling that, although she could
never love him—really love him, as she had pictured love in her
girlhood dreams—still, the death of her father had removed the
last tangible excuse which she had to offer him. She felt that
it was not right to add to his sorrow for Hanaré’s death, a still
larger grief caused by her own selfishness.
She smiled tearfully as she gazed out of the window. Why,
she was making it appear like a case of duty!—and, of course,
no one ought to marry for duty. Actually, it was not altogether
a case of duty. Actually, she was alone—and afraid of her own
loneliness. Indeed, the image of Paul came to her like a light
shining through the darkness. He was forced upon her, by the
strength of circumstances. Hanaré was gone now. Without
Hanaré life could never be the same. Paul had become essential
to her very existence. Love him or not, he was essential to her
existence.
As the sun rose and the day wore on, and she went about her
necessary tasks, it seemed to her almost as though she loved Paul.
She had never had a feeling quite so compelling as this. Before
her father’s death, she had never wished to marry. She had
contemplated some sort of a career, with her painting and her
sculpture, which she inherited from Hanaré. Besides, her father
had needed her. He had been a solitary man, with few friends,
a dreamy personality, and so absent-minded that he required her
constant attention. Thus life had seemed to her best, close to her
father’s side, managing the little household, and doing her art at
her leisure. The thought of children to take care of revolted her.
And as yet no passion had entered her life, sufficiently powerful
to make this secluded existence seem trivial or repulsive. Nor
was there anything about Paul Duval to attract her strongly. He
was the nicest and kindest man in the world, and he loved Hanaré;
but for a husband—well—what was the use of a husband,
anyway?
She felt differently now. She wanted Paul. Yet all day he
stayed away.
Toward evening there came to her again the sensation that she
was going mad. It was simply inhuman of Paul to leave her
alone like this. There had been, of course, the neighbors, who
offered their sympathetic assistance, and who tried to comfort
this strange, silent girl, whom none of them understood. But
because of her yearning for Paul, the neighbors only aggravated
her nervous sorrow. And although she had consented to sleep
with an elderly woman in another part of the house, until her
father should be buried, nevertheless, late that night, she felt herself
irresistibly drawn to Hanaré’s stiff corpse; and she crept into
the ghostly room, in her night-gown, to appease that unnatural
craving. This was about ten o’clock. She sat for some minutes
on the edge of the bed, but could find no consolation. Suddenly
she jumped up with the wild resolve to go to Paul’s apartment
and find out what had happened to him.
She reflected, as she slipped on her clothes, that this was a
most unwomanly course of action. She was impelled toward it
by the almost inhuman nature of her circumstances. She hoped
Paul would understand. She hoped nothing had happened to
him. Perhaps she could even be of some comfort to him, in this
recent sorrow which so obviously depressed him.
In fact, as she made her away along the winding streets of
Greenwich Village, Marie began to feel almost exultant. A new
joy entered her heart, because she was relieving herself of intolerable
burdens, and because, too, she was bringing to Paul a surprise-present
for which he had been waiting many years. She
began timidly to picture to herself Paul’s expression, first upon
seeing her, and later—perhaps even days later—when he should
realize what this new resolve of hers meant to both of them. She
found herself immensely relieved at the thought of transferring
her small belongings from her present dreary apartment to his
own. Her collection of books, her pictures, yes, and even her
paints and her sculptor’s tools—all these she would show to Paul
as belonging to both of them together. In his eyes and in his
mouth would come that look of appreciation for things which
were such precious possessions. It would be inexpressible relief!
A happy life! They were both dreamers—
She arrived, a trifle breathless, at his apartment, which was
four stories up in a brick building that boasted of no elevator.
She knocked several times on the thin, wooden door, but no one
answered. So she tried the door knob, found that it was unlatched,
opened the door timidly, and gazed in. There was a
vestibule leading into the sitting-room, and since the latter was
lighted, she proceeded on tip-toe toward it. Upon entering she
perceived a long, narrow room, hazy with tobacco smoke and
heavy with the odor of stale whiskey. The bric-a-brac and furniture
were in a state of disorder. There were a couple of empty
bottles on the table—glasses and books. She perceived a thin,
sallow figure, sprawled out in the morris chair, staring at her in
a glazed way, like a dead man.
“Paul!” she cried.
Paul moved slowly, blinked his eyes, shuddered. “Eh?”
“Paul!”
“I should not have wished you to see me like this,” he said, as
though her coming were the most natural thing in the world.
“Are you—all right?”
“Yes, a little dazed.”
“Why have you been drinking?”
He sighed and bowed his head, in a tired way, until his chin
touched his disordered bow-tie. But he did not answer.
Impulsively Marie ran over to his side and knelt there, with her
arms upon the chair.
“Are—are you drunk, Paul?” She had rarely seen drunken
men.
He raised his head then and looked into her eyes, which were so
close to his. “No,” he said. “I have been drinking, but I am
not drunk. I am merely dazed, by death, and by life—but mostly
by life. Life is so strange. Have you never thought that?”
“Yes.”
“No—no—no! Not the way I have thought it. You only
know the half of life—Hanaré’s half. You have inherited, now,
Hanaré’s domain. Innocent, childish Hanaré! You are the
mistress of his innocence and his naïveté. But it will never—never—never
be the same again.”
“Paul! What do you mean?”
“O Welt du bist so nichtig!
Du bist so klein, O Rom!”
They lapsed into silence then, for Marie saw that he was in
one of those unintelligible moods, which had often come upon him,
but which she had never seen so pronounced.
“Why did you stay away all day?” she asked.
“Have I been away all day? I had forgotten.”
“I have been lonely and miserable, Paul.”
“I am sorry. I have forgotten.”
“How could you forget?”
“How? There are plenty of ways to forget.” He arose and
strode up and down the room restlessly.
“How could I forget?” She looked at him as though he had
wounded her.
“I don’t know.”
They were silent while Paul continued to walk up and down.
At length he proceeded.
“Certainly my being there wouldn’t have helped much, would
it? It isn’t as though you had ever allowed me to love you or
comfort you! God knows, I’ve been ready to do so—any time.
I thought you hated me. Do you?”
“Yes,” she replied, “at this moment I hate you intensely.”
“Why did you come here, then—if you hate me?”
“O Paul, Paul! Because I needed you!”
He stared at her. This woman! “I didn’t suppose anybody
needed me now, except the devil.”
He saw then that she was crying and that he had hurt her
tremendously. He saw distinctly that he had been unjust. But
his mind could not piece together the broken fragments of the
situation. He, too, had been unjustly treated: it was not fair
for a woman to allow a man to love her for six years, and to hold
herself away from him merely for the sake of her own career—her
own whimsical happiness. He felt that in the hour of need
Marie had not been with him. He felt this even more keenly
than his own cruelty toward her now.
“My God!” he exclaimed, in the midst of his meditation. “What
twenty-four hours will do!”
There was undisguised bitterness in his words; a bitterness
which Marie, conscious of the unprecedence of her behavior,
construed as an expression of his scorn for what she called her
“unwomanliness”. Her excited mind only served to intensify the
horrid picture which she had drawn of herself. To think that
she had come this way to Paul, of all people! Even the awful
atmosphere of her father’s death-chamber could not excuse her
for doing so. She wished that she could hide herself away. She
was ashamed of her body—her very existence.
But Paul was not thinking of these things. He was merely
astounded at the change that the night had wrought in himself.
“I wish to hell Hanaré hadn’t died,” he exclaimed suddenly,
and without any reason for it. “Life is nothing but a constant
attempt to adjust ourselves to the tragedy of existence. Since
we cannot tell to-day what will happen to-morrow, we never quite
succeeded in our adjustments: and so, there’s always a tragedy.
We go on and on—like that!”
He felt master of himself now. But Marie supposed that he
was lecturing her. There was an element of brutality in it.
“If we were automatons,” Paul proceeded, as though the sound
of his own voice helped to drive away the real tragedy behind—“if
we were all automatons, who acted out one day the same as
any other, incapable of making fools out of ourselves,—why then,
life might be worth living. But some fool of a God—a fool God—gave
us this power to make mistakes. Marie, for the past six
years both our lives have been mistakes. And now just see what
you have done—and what I have done.”
Marie stood facing him, and clenched her fists.
“Paul Duval, you are undoubtedly the most unfeeling man in
the world—the most pitiless—the most un—unreasonable. I
know I’m a little fool! Do you suppose I have no sensibilities?
Do you sup—? Oh, heaven!” She fell back again into the armchair,
weeping.
The situation between them had changed tremendously in one
night, because his ideals had become incompatible with her ideals,
his life had lost that simplicity and innocence which they had
once shared together. Paul found that his love for her, just yesterday
so vivid and passionate, had changed, and had converted
itself into a red and golden derelict of the past, which he still
loved, though in a different way. Like Dante, his love for a face
and a living body had transformed itself into an intellectual remembrance—an
ideal—a hope which, while it might later be fulfilled
in some immortal existence, had lost, once and forever, its
earthly potency. Just as the death of Beatrice had forced Dante
to relinquish the earthly passion, so the death of Hanaré, which
brought the confusing emotions of last night, had led Paul to
reconceive Marie and transform her into a vanished reality, an
ideal, rather than a living being. He had tasted, now, that side
of life which does not permit of the more refined loves.
Indeed it was a strange position to be in: and the tragedy of it
lay in the fact that he could never make it clear to Marie why he
had done as he had, and why the relationship between them was
now changed. Tremendous, this change!—almost infinite in
character. Especially, she would never understand how it had
come about so quickly. He sighed. “With questions like this,”
he said, “of life and death—time has little, if anything, to do.”
He began to reflect that the course he had taken was an evil one.
And although the forces which had led him along this course were
still potent, nevertheless the sudden apparition of Marie into the
midst of them recalled his old life with her, if nothing else. And
this feeling, that he had better go back, repent, and, if possible,
forget the slight digression of the night before, grew upon him,
just as a glimmer of light, which increases in intensity, turns at
last into a ball of fire. He even came to the conclusion that it was
his duty to marry her. He felt that he had no right to add to her
sorrow for Hanaré’s death, a still larger grief caused by his own
selfishness.
He smiled then. He was making it out to be a wretched case
of duty—and of course no one ought to marry for duty. Actually
it was not altogether a case of duty. Actually he was alone in a
new sea of conflicting passions, lost ideals, and hopelessness,—and
he was afraid of his own loneliness. Indeed, the picture of
Marie sitting there came to him as a light shining through the
darkness. He no longer loved her. True. But he felt that in
her he could find some salvation from the horrible destiny which
immediately confronted him, and a relief from his present
wretchedness.
“Marie,” he said suddenly. “You know that I have loved
you!”
“Yes. You have said so. I believe it.”
“Last night there came into my life something which you could
not understand—which I cannot explain now—which some day I
hope to forget.”
She looked up at him, anxiously, as though fearing unknown
things.
“Ah, don’t look at me that way. Let the past take care of the
past. You shall know some day. I will tell you.”
“Why don’t you tell me now?”
“Because you would not understand—you would not appreciate—nor
could I tell it as it is.”
“You only arouse my worst fears by talking this way,” she
said. “I came to you as a friend, for consolation. I came in
order to forget that horrible room. I wanted your companionship—perhaps
for always. But you have only succeeded in
making me more disturbed. I do not understand you.”
He went over to her chair, and sat down beside her, and put
his arm around her.
“Come,” he said. “You and I must escape the tragedy of our
existence. Together we will fly away from it. You will forget
that room, and I—I shall forget myself.”
She drew away from him a little—from his impetuosity. “I
don’t love you, that way,” she said.
“Great heaven! Nor do I love you that way, any more. You
are too idealistic, Marie. Marriage, for you and me, is no longer
an ideal, but a necessity. We will escape, that way. We will
rest in peace and Hanaré’s death will be forgotten.”
She made no reply, but sat there as though meditating. Suddenly,
from far out in the city, came the boom of a clock—a lonely
thing beating the hour of midnight. It awoke Paul to realities.
And, although he had so far been master of the situation, he now
lost control of himself, and cried: “Twelve o’clock! You must
go now, you must go!” And as she stared at him, mystified, he
cried again, “You must go, you must go!”
He took her arm, and she arose. They stood facing each other.
“Promise me,” he said, “that you will marry me—to-morrow.”
She dropped her eyes. Impulsively he took her in his arms
and kissed her—not passionately, but as he would a little child.
And then he led her toward the vestibule.
Even then there was a knock at the door. He did not answer.
He looked at Marie, and she at him.
“Who is that?” she asked.
He turned bitterly away. “Nobody! Fate!”
The door opened, since he had given no answer. There was
a moment of suspense while the visitor was hidden in the vestibule.
Then the girl of the counter, looking extraordinarily pretty, came
toward them. She started imperceptibly upon seeing Marie, but
regained her composure.
“Good evening,” she said.
“Good evening,” Paul replied, but did not move.
The girl proceeded to take off her hat in front of the mirror,
and to make herself at home, adjusting her brown hair prettily
and helping herself to a cigarette from the box on the table. “You
look tired,” she said “And the room’s a mess. Is there no one
to clean up for you?”
Paul did not answer.
Marie could do nothing but stare. She stared at the girl and
then at Paul. Suddenly she ran toward the door and was gone.
“Who was that?” asked the girl.
“That is Hanaré Tierens’ daughter. Why did you come?”
“You told me to come at twelve.”
Paul sat down and put his hands over his face. “You have
ruined everything,” he said.
“So you told me last night.”
“Did I? I had forgotten.”
“You said an old friend had died—and that you were in love
with his daughter.”
“Really? I was quite frank, wasn’t I?” Her reference to
Marie exasperated him.
“Don’t be cross.” She came up close to him and put her hand
upon his shoulder.
“I am not going to kiss you,” said Paul, anticipating her.
“I haven’t asked you to, have I?”
“No; but I’m going to marry Ma—Hanaré’s daughter.”
“There! I knew you had something like that in your mind!
You look so—so determined,” she laughed, in spite of her obvious
vexation.
“I am determined.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
He started. “You? You aren’t going to make a fuss about
it, are you?”
“That’s impudent!” She turned away from him and sat down
upon the sofa restlessly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you needn’t be! Last night you let me know well enough
what you thought of me. But I don’t mind, because I know that
is what I am. I can’t remember ever being anything else; though,
of course, if one is to be a man’s mistress, one has the right of
choosing the man. I prefer education to ignorance, and a decent
amount of politeness to mere brutality.”
“I am not merely brutal!” He stood up and faced her as he
said it. “It’s you who are brutal—or at least you will be before
you have done with me. Women are all cruel, because they
understand men so well. Our souls are torn first by one and then
by the other. I should like to make you see, however, that I
have a duty to perform.”
“Duty?” She arose from the sofa, and came to stand beside
him again.
“A duty to myself and—to some one else.”
“There’s a difference between duty and love, isn’t there?” This
time she appeared to have no scruples, for she put her arms around
him, frankly, and stood looking up at him. He held himself
rigidly away from her.
“I am not going to kiss you,” he said again. That appeared
to be his last defense in any case.
She made no answer to that, except to deny it with her eyes.
“You’re a witch!” he cried, drawing away from her suddenly.
“A positive instrument of the devil. Leave me alone!”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I am going to marry Marie. Because, for
Hanaré’s sake, I’m going to forget you. I was a fool last night.”
“Last night you said you’d rather be a fool than a wise man.
I suppose you have forgotten that also.”
He cringed. “No,” he said, “I have not forgotten that.” He
began wandering about the room as though hunting for something,
picking up piles of papers, looking underneath the tables
and chairs.
“What are you hunting for?” she asked.
“My hat.”
“Do you want to go out?”
“I’m going out. You can do as you please. I’m going over
to see Marie.”
“Marie? At this time of night?”
He found his hat behind the sofa. He put it on, pulling the
soft brim far down over his eyes.
“Good-night,” he said casually, as he walked out of the room.
He was not fully conscious that there was anybody else there.
He had one determination. In view of that everything else was
forgotten.
Vain resolve! The windows at 355 McDougal Street were
brilliantly lighted, policemen were in front of the door, people
stared, and there was general confusion. Some one had been
killed. Paul learned, finally, that Marie had committed suicide.
He felt, rather, that he had committed murder.
Thus, when he return to his own apartment and found the girl
still there, he was glad to forget Hanaré’s death that way instead.
RUSSELL WHEELER DAVENPORT.
Portfolio — Melody — Inspiration — The Dreamer
My lady sitteth on a shrine
And dreameth beauteously.
She dreameth much, her deep eyes shine
Like stars on a quiet sea.
And to watch her hands so soft and white
Is a never-ending, sweet delight.
Lady of Day, Lady of Night,
Queen of the World is she.
The smoking-room gave a terrific lurch. As if the motion
had been a signal, Carlos Bentley abruptly broke off his
sentence, at the same time removing his hand from the arm of
his companion’s chair. Although the big steamer recovered almost
immediately from the unexpected blow, Carlos continued to
remain silent, his gaze wandering uncertainly around the comfortable
room. But he did not notice particularly the brown
sleekness of the leather chairs nor the subtle masculinity of the
lighting. He was wondering whether he had not again let his
tongue run away with his good taste in allowing it to run on over
the history of his past two weeks to this gentleman to whom he
had introduced himself. That was one of Carlos’ bête-noirs—a
cheerful frankness and lack of reserve that made him communicate
things he wished later he had kept to himself. But after all
the fellow had looked lonely and— A polite question which
interrupted his train of thought finished by driving the self-reproaches
from his mind. He answered the question at some
length.
“Oh, yes! We spent six months in Paris. I got to know the
place quite well—well enough to get tired of it. I’m looking
forward to New York as a change. If it hadn’t been for my
wife, I’d have come back before, but she insisted on our staying—for
my own good, she said. You see, I went over to study
art—portraits mainly. Spent hours every day looking at pictures
and trying to copy them.”
“Do you plan to take up art as a profession?” asked his companion,
knocking the ashes from his pipe. He was an elderly man
who had an air of demanding confidences with a view of solving
any difficulties connected with them from the depths of a thoughtful
urbanity.
Carlos hesitated a moment.
“Yes,” he said finally, “I expect to. That’s my ultimate aim.
But, of course, after all this studying I’ll want a bit of a rest—say
a month or so. Then I’ll be ready to get down to work.”
The other nodded a thoughtful assent. Then—
“You’ll pardon the remark, but—you have an income, I take it.”
Bentley nodded.
“Very fortunate, very fortunate indeed. So many poor devils
have to start with literally nothing but their talent. You’re
unusually blessed. Well, I must be getting to bed. We dock
early to-morrow, I believe. I’ve enjoyed talking to you immensely,
and you’ll pardon my leaving so abruptly, won’t you? Good-night.”
Carlos stood gazing after him a moment; then, turning away,
went off in the direction of his own stateroom. He had an
uneasy feeling that the man had not quite approved of him, although
he was unable to explain what he himself had said that
could have given ground for such an opinion.
When he got to his stateroom, he found a message that his wife
had left on his bureau before going to bed. It had come by wireless
that evening and was from his father. On opening it, he
read:
“Meet you at pier. Glad you are settling down
to work at last.
Dad.”
Carlos laughed softly. Just like his father to mention work,
even in a wireless. It occurred to him that everyone, ever since
he was a boy, had been wanting him to work. They had all told
him what great things they expected of his talent if he would
only use it. His mother had cherished a letter from a boyhood
schoolmaster, which dwelt in glowing terms on his artistic ability,
while at the same time it decried his indolence. His wife had
refused many suitors as importunate and more wealthy than he
because she was in love with him, and believed that her love could
make him fight for the success which was expected of him. Well,
his father was right—it was time to start work. They had had
enough disappointments in him, and now he must do something
to make them proud of him. It wouldn’t be hard.
In an exceedingly virtuous mood Carlos bent over and kissed
his sleeping wife. What a wonderful girl Eloise was, and what
a trump to have believed in him enough to have married him. He
would work as he never had before as soon as they got settled in
New York. With which resolutions he got into bed to dream
of painting portraits for the kings and queens of Europe.
Four months later in a studio-apartment in the low Fifties a
wet paint-brush was hurled viciously at a small statue of the
Laocoon. It struck the largest figure full in the face with a
comforting smack, and clattered to the floor. Carlos Bentley
had been trying to do a portrait. Eloise, who in lieu of a regular
model had been sitting for him, started at the sound, then relaxed
her pose. She was an appealing figure with a touch of dynamic
force in the aggressive tilt of her chin that made Carlos, jokingly
and yet half-seriously, call her his will-power; at this moment she
seemed to be bracing herself as if to meet something.
“Why, Carlos dear, what is the matter?” she asked, approaching
her husband doubtfully.
Carlos stood before a half-finished picture removing his painting
jacket, which he hurled into a corner before turning to his
wife.
“I’m going to stop,” he said impatiently. “I don’t seem to
feel in a mood for it to-day somehow. Besides we’ve been working
for quite a while and we need a rest.” His eyes met hers
half-defiantly, as if he were expecting some remonstrance. Then
he added, “Come on down to a show, dear. We can do some
more to-night on this.”
His wife turned away.
“I don’t care to go down, Carlos,” she answered slowly, “and
I had hoped you’d want to work this afternoon. We’ve only
been up here a little over an hour. Won’t you stay a little longer?
You were just beginning to get the right feeling in the picture. I
know you were.”
Carlos laughed and kissed her.
“There’s plenty of time for the picture and it’s too wonderful
an afternoon to stay indoors. I’m going out for a walk. Sorry
you won’t come.” He slammed the door as he went out.
Eloise sat down dejectedly on a straight chair. Her lips
trembled until she could hardly keep from crying. For seven
weeks this same thing had happened continuously until she was
sick to death of trying to fight against it. Every day Carlos had
alternated playing around the city with attempts to work which
always ended like to-day. In all that time he had only finished
one picture—but it had been good, and had shown the talent that
was being wasted. If only she knew some way to touch the spark
to that talent. Eloise found herself wondering whether perhaps
she had not undertaken a task too difficult even for her love. It
seemed as if Carlos utterly lacked the requisite energy to produce
what he was capable of. With a sigh she turned to putting the
studio in order.
Meanwhile Carlos, after wandering out onto the street, had set
off in the direction of the park. The refreshing air of a sunny
autumn afternoon soon cleared his brain, but there was still an
uneasy feeling in the back of his mind. He felt that he ought to
be working, yet was unable to, and he knew vaguely that he was
not happy even in the freedom of the moment. In this contradictory
frame of mind he entered the park, strolling aimlessly
along the walks, where the park-loungers basked in the unexpected
warmth, and nurse-maids and children tried to make the best of
each other’s company. Carlos, deep in thought, paid little attention
to anyone unless some child inadvertently threatened to collide
with him, when he would start, step aside, and relapse again into
his reverie.
It was during one of these lapses that Carlos failed to note the
appearance of a phenomenon. This consisted of a very dirty girl
who was leading—or being led by—a little white dog on a long
rope, who, strangely enough, was as clean as his mistress was
dirty. The two came charging down the path toward Carlos,
evidently expecting to go past him on the left. But just before
they reached him, the little dog with all the unexpectedness of
little dogs darted to the right. The next moment Carlos was
startled to feel his feet being jerked backward and wound up
tightly in several yards of cotton clothesline on one end of which
was a little girl, who was the most striking surprise of all. In
spite of an evident absence of any recent ablution her features had
a peculiarly charming grace which was surprising under the circumstances
and so pleasant that Carlos found suddenly that he
wanted to paint it.
When the child straightened up from her task of unwinding the
little white dog, which she now held in her arms, she was adorable
as she tried confusedly to explain and apologize for what had
happened.
“Never mind that—I don’t appear to be any the worse. But
would you mind telling me your name?”
The vision was entirely agreeable.
“It’s Rosalie,” she replied. “At least I think so. I haven’t no
father or mother. I live with Aunt Bess, but Toots is my dog.”
“I’d like to paint a picture of you, Rosalie. That’s my business,
you see; I’m an artist—or supposed to be. Do you think your
aunt would let you come up to my house to-morrow afternoon,
and would you like to?”
The child stared open eyed, but she quickly assimilated the facts.
Her reply was frank.
“Sure I would. Aunt Bess don’t care where I go. Will you
have some cookies? What do you want to paint me for?”
“Yes, there might be something to eat. Then you will come?
That’s fine. My house is at 16 West 5—th Street. Can you
remember that, Rosalie?” The child nodded. “Then I’ll expect
you at two o’clock to-morrow afternoon.”
Carlos walked home in high spirits. The child’s face had so
impressed him that it seemed as if he could never wait till the
next day. Eloise was still at the apartment. To her he recounted
his find in such glowing terms that she began to share his enthusiasm
and help him make his plans.
“We’ll have to give her a bath,” he said cheerfully. “She’s
horribly dirty. And we’ve got to find out whether she can come
regularly. But we can do that to-morrow. Let’s celebrate to-night.
I know a wonderful little restaurant. By the way, her
name’s Rosalie.”
They were still talking about the child when they returned late
in the evening.
The next afternoon at a quarter of two the bell rang, and
Rosalie was announced by a shocked and protesting doorman.
Shortly after Rosalie herself appeared. Believing it her duty to
do her best to make the picture a success, and feeling that the
occasion demanded something out of the ordinary, the child had
worn her best clothes and even gone to the length of a somewhat
tentative washing. The dress—it was her Sunday one, she explained—was
hideous, but Eloise, who was as fascinated by the
child as her husband had been, with infinite tact persuaded her to
put on some things they had bought for her the afternoon before.
Posing the child presented little difficulty. All Carlos asked
was to have her sit in a little rocker with an open picture book
in her lap, which Rosalie did with such a natural grace and
unembarrassed manner that she might have been sitting in little
rockers for her picture all her life. Her hair, which Eloise had
loosened, hung in long curls that completely covered her shoulders,
and from which the exquisite little face looked out like an ivory
miniature in a golden frame. As he gazed speechless at the effect,
Carlos knew that at last he had found his inspiration. He began
feverishly to sketch in the first rough outlines of the portrait.
As long as the light lasted he worked rapidly, looking up at the
child on the platform where the chair had been placed and down
to the canvas, as he touched it with quick, sure strokes. Sometimes
he paused, seemingly forgetful of the picture, looking for
long intervals at the girl as if to draw her whole personality out
of herself and place it on the canvas. Finally Rosalie began to
become more and more restless, until Eloise was forced to interrupt
the work.
“You’ll have to stop now, dear,” she said. “The poor child is
tired out and it’s too dark now, anyway.”
Carlos paid no attention, but went on painting. All he said
was, “Tell her to sit still. Can’t stop now.”
But at last she persuaded him to lay aside his brushes, so that
Rosalie could go home, after promising faithfully to return the
next afternoon. Carlos was triumphant.
“It’s going to be the best thing I ever did. The kid gets into
me in a way I can’t explain, but I’m putting it in the picture.”
For two weeks the child came almost every day and each time
the picture advanced further. Carlos had been right—it was the
best thing he had ever done, incomparably the best. To Eloise,
who in the months in Paris had gained a good critical knowledge
of pictures, it was evident that it was a masterpiece. The feeling
of greatness was in it; in the perfection of the body, in the grace
of the pose, and most of all in the face. There was something so
compelling about the personality of that face, that Eloise would
often sit and look at it alone when Carlos had gone out. It was
the only time she was ever alone with it, for if he were in the
apartment, he spent all his time in the studio.
Then one late afternoon after Rosalie had left, Carlos said:
“One more day, Eloise. Just one more day and it will be done.
To-morrow night I’ll be satisfied with it—I’ll even be a little proud
of it, because it is good, isn’t it?”
And Eloise nodded happily. For the past two weeks she had
been happier than she had ever been before, and now she was too
overcome to speak.
The next day Rosalie did not come, although they waited impatiently
all afternoon. Carlos tried to go on with the picture
from memory, but gave up in disgust. Without the child he was
unable to go any further. When she did not appear the next day,
Carlos became desperate. The picture was so tantalizingly near
completion, yet there was something to be added, something indefinite
which he could not name and the lack of which left him
dissatisfied and uneasy. He went to the house where she had said
she lived, but even the aunt had gone, and no one knew anything
about either of them. For a week, two weeks, Carlos alternately
waited in the studio and made fruitless attempts to locate the
child. When Eloise, fearing he would go mad with impatience,
tried to make him work on other pictures, he seemed unable to
concentrate for long on anything. The old indolence had returned
with a new force which he was unable and half-unwilling to overcome;
for the child was the only thing that could fill him with that
burning desire to paint that had driven him on, often in spite of
himself.
Carlos refused to give up the hope that she might yet return.
For hours in the afternoon he would go up to the studio, and,
putting on his painting jacket, sit gazing hopelessly at the picture,
or make sudden attempts that were over almost as soon as begun
to complete the portrait. Fall passed—the fall that had so nearly
brought realization—and winter came. The studio became dark
early in the afternoons, and no childish laugh returned to lighten
the dusk.
STANLEY MILLER COOPER.
Pine tree, pine tree,
Pointing to the sky,
Your branches are all naked
And all your leaves are dry.
Pine tree, pine tree,
And did you reach too high,
And did your soul grow weary,
Leaving you to die?
Pine tree, pine tree,
In my heart I know
You are pointing out to us
The way we should not go.
