It was black dark without now and Anthony wondered that his apartment had ever seemed gray—so warm and friendly were the books and pictures on the walls and the good Bounds offering tea from a respectful shadow and the three nice people giving out waves of interest and laughter back and forth across the happy fire.
Dissatisfaction
On Thursday afternoon Gloria and Anthony had tea together in the grill-room at the Plaza. Her fur-trimmed suit was gray—“because with gray you
have
to wear a lot of paint,” she explained—and a small toque sat rakishly on her head, allowing yellow ripples of hair to wave out in jaunty glory. In the higher light it seemed to Anthony that her personality was infinitely softer—she seemed so young, scarcely eighteen; her form under the tight sheath, known then as a hobble-skirt, was amazingly supple and slender, and her hands, neither “artistic” nor stubby, were small as a child’s hands should be.
As they entered, the orchestra were sounding the preliminary whimpers to a maxixe, a tune full of castanets and facile faintly languorous violin harmonies, appropriate to the crowded winter grill teeming with an excited college crowd, high-spirited at the approach of the holidays. Carefully, Gloria considered several locations, and rather to Anthony’s annoyance paraded him circuitously to a table for two at the far side of the room. Reaching it she again considered. Would she sit on the right or on the left? Her beautiful eyes and lips were very grave as she made her choice, and Anthony thought again how naive was her every gesture; she took all the things of life for hers to choose from and apportion, as though she were continually picking out presents for herself from an inexhaustible counter.
Abstractedly she watched the dancers for a few moments, commenting murmurously as a couple eddied near.
“There’s a pretty girl in blue”—and as Anthony looked obediently—“ there! No, behind you—there!”
“Yes,” he agreed helplessly.
“You didn’t see her.”
“I’d rather look at you.”
“I know, but she was pretty. Except that she had big ankles.”
“Was she?—I mean, did she?” he said indifferently.
A girl’s salutation came from a couple dancing close to them.
“Hello, Gloria! O Gloria!”
“Hello there.”
“Who’s that?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. Somebody.” She caught sight of another face. “Hello, Muriel!” Then to Anthony: “There’s Muriel Kane. Now I think she’s attractive, ’cept not very.”
Anthony chuckled appreciatively.
“Attractive, ’cept not very,” he repeated.
She smiled—was interested immediately.
“Why is that funny?” Her tone was pathetically intent.
“It just was.”
“Do you want to dance?”
“Do you?”
“Sort of. But let’s sit,” she decided.
“And talk about you? You love to talk about you, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Caught in a vanity, she laughed.
“I imagine your autobiography would be a classic.”
“Dick says I haven’t got one.”
“Dick!” he exclaimed. “What does he know about you?”
“Nothing. But he says the biography of every woman begins with the first kiss that counts, and ends when her last child is laid in her arms.”
“He’s talking from his book.”
“He says unloved women have no biographies—they have histories.”
Anthony laughed again.
“Surely you don’t claim to be unloved!”
“Well, I suppose not.”
“Then why haven’t you a biography? Haven’t you ever had a kiss that counted?” As the words left his lips he drew in his breath sharply as though to suck them back. This baby!
“I don’t know what you mean counts,’” she objected.
“I wish you’d tell me how old you are.”
“Twenty-two,” she said, meeting his eyes gravely. “How old did you think?”
“About eighteen.”
“I’m going to start being that. I don’t like being twenty-two. I hate it more than anything in the world.”
“Being twenty-two?”
“No. Getting old and everything. Getting married.”
“Don’t you ever want to marry?”
“I don’t want to have responsibility and a lot of children to take care of.”
Evidently she did not doubt that on her lips all things were good. He waited rather breathlessly for her next remark, expecting it to follow up her last. She was smiling, without amusement but pleasantly, and after an interval half a dozen words fell into the space between them:
“I wish I had some gum-drops.”
“You shall!” He beckoned to a waiter and sent him to the cigar counter.
“D’you mind? I love gum-drops. Everybody kids me about it because I’m always whacking away at one—whenever my daddy’s not around.”
“Not at all.—Who are all these children?” he asked suddenly. “Do you know them all?”
“Why—no, but they’re from—oh, from everywhere, I suppose. Don’t you ever come here?”
“Very seldom. I don’t care particularly for ‘nice girls.’”
Immediately he had her attention. She turned a definite shoulder to the dancers, relaxed in her chair, and demanded:
“What
do
you do with yourself?”
Thanks to a cocktail Anthony welcomed the question. In a mood to talk, he wanted, moreover, to impress this girl whose interest seemed so tantalizingly elusive—she stopped to browse in unexpected pastures, hurried quickly over the inobviously obvious. He wanted to pose. He wanted to appear suddenly to her in novel and heroic colors. He wanted to stir her from that casualness she showed toward everything except herself.
“I do nothing,” he began, realizing simultaneously that his words were to lack the debonair grace he craved for them. “I do nothing, for there’s nothing I can do that’s worth doing.”
“Well?” He had neither surprised her nor even held her, yet she had certainly understood him, if indeed he had said aught worth understanding.
“Don’t you approve of lazy men?”
She nodded.
“I suppose so, if they’re gracefully lazy. Is that possible for an American?”
“Why not?” he demanded, discomfited.
But her mind had left the subject and wandered up ten floors.
“My daddy’s mad at me,” she observed dispassionately.
“Why? But I want to know just why it’s impossible for an American to be gracefully idle”—his words gathered conviction—“it astonishes me. It—it—I don’t understand why people think that every young man ought to go down-town and work ten hours a day for the best twenty years of his life at dull, unimaginative work, certainly not altruistic work.”
He broke off. She watched him inscrutably. He waited for her to agree or disagree, but she did neither.
“Don’t you ever form judgments on things?” he asked with some exasperation.
She shook her head and her eyes wandered back to the dancers as she answered:
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about—what you should do, or what anybody should do.”
She confused him and hindered the flow of his ideas. Self-expression had never seemed at once so desirable and so impossible.
“Well,” he admitted apologetically, “neither do I, of course, but—”
“I just think of people,” she continued, “whether they seem right where they are and fit into the picture. I don’t mind if they don’t do anything. I don’t see why they should; in fact it always astonishes me when anybody does anything.”
“You don’t want to do anything?”
“I want to sleep.”
For a second he was startled, almost as though she had meant this literally.
“Sleep?”
“Sort of. I want to just be lazy and I want some of the people around me to be doing things, because that makes me feel comfortable and safe—and I want some of them to be doing nothing at all, because they can be graceful and companionable for me. But I never want to change people or get excited over them.”
“You’re a quaint little determinist,” laughed Anthony. “It’s your world, isn’t it?”
“Well—” she said with a quick upward glance, “isn’t it? As long as I’m—young.”
She had paused slightly before the last word and Anthony suspected that she had started to say “beautiful.” It was undeniably what she had intended.
Her eyes brightened and he waited for her to enlarge on the theme. He had drawn her out, at any rate—he bent forward slightly to catch the words.
But “Let’s dance!” was all she said.
Admiration
That winter afternoon at the Plaza was the first of a succession of “dates” Anthony made with her in the blurred and stimulating days before Christmas. Invariably she was busy. What particular strata of the city’s social life claimed her he was a long time finding out. It seemed to matter very little. She attended the semi-public charity dances at the big hotels; he saw her several times at dinner-parties in Sherry’s, and once as he waited for her to dress, Mrs. Gilbert, apropos of her daughter’s habit of “going,” rattled off an amazing holiday programme that included half a dozen dances to which Anthony had received cards.
He made engagements with her several times for lunch and tea—the former were hurried and, to him at least, rather unsatisfactory occasions, for she was sleepy-eyed and casual, incapable of concentrating upon anything or of giving consecutive attention to his remarks. When after two of these sallow meals he accused her of tendering him the skin and bones of the day she laughed and gave him a tea-time three days off. This was infinitely more satisfactory.
One Sunday afternoon just before Christmas he called up and found her in the lull directly after some important but mysterious quarrel: she informed him in a tone of mingled wrath and amusement that she had sent a man out of her apartment—here Anthony speculated violently—and that the man had been giving a little dinner for her that very night and that of course she wasn’t going. So Anthony took her to supper.
“Let’s go to something!” she proposed as they went down in the elevator. “I want to see a show, don’t you?”
Inquiry at the hotel ticket-desk disclosed only two Sunday-night “concerts.”
“They’re always the same,” she complained unhappily, “same old Yiddish comedians. Oh, let’s go somewhere!”
To conceal a guilty suspicion that he should have arranged a performance of some kind for her approval Anthony affected a knowing cheerfulness.
“We’ll go to a good cabaret.”
“I’ve seen every one in town.”
“Well, we’ll find a new one.”
She was in wretched humor; that was evident. Her gray eyes were granite now indeed. When she wasn’t speaking she stared straight in front of her as if at some distasteful abstraction in the lobby.
“Well, come on, then.”
He followed her, a graceful girl even in her enveloping fur, out to a taxicab, and, with an air of having a definite place in mind, instructed the driver to go over to Broadway and then turn south. He made several casual attempts at conversation but as she adopted an impenetrable armor of silence and answered him in sentences as morose as the cold darkness of the taxicab he gave up, and assuming a like mood fell into a dim gloom.
A dozen blocks down Broadway Anthony’s eyes were caught by a large and unfamiliar electric sign spelling “Marathon” in glorious yellow script, adorned with electrical leaves and flowers that alternately vanished and beamed upon the wet and glistening street. He leaned and rapped on the taxi-window and in a moment was receiving information from a colored door-man: Yes, this was a cabaret. Fine cabaret. Bes’ showina city!
“Shall we try it?”
With a sigh Gloria tossed her cigarette out the open door and prepared to follow it; then they had passed under the screaming sign, under the wide portal, and up by a stuffy elevator into this unsung palace of pleasure.
The gay habitats of the very rich and the very poor, the very dashing and the very criminal, not to mention the lately exploited very Bohemian, are made known to the awed high-school girls of Augusta, Georgia, and Redwing, Minnesota, not only through the bepictured and entrancing spreads of the Sunday theatrical supplements but through the shocked and alarmful eyes of Mr. Rupert Hughes and other chroniclers of the mad pace of America. But the excursions of Harlem onto Broadway, the deviltries of the dull and the revelries of the respectable are a matter of esoteric knowledge only to the participants themselves.
A tip circulates—and in the place knowingly mentioned, gather the lower moral-classes on Saturday and Sunday nights—the little troubled men who are pictured in the comics as “the Consumer” or “the Public.” They have made sure that the place has three qualifications: it is cheap; it imitates with a sort of shoddy and mechanical wistfulness the glittering antics of the great cafés in the theatre district; and—this, above all, important—it is a place where they can “take a nice girl,” which means, of course, that every one has become equally harmless, timid, and uninteresting through lack of money and imagination.
There on Sunday nights gather the credulous, sentimental, underpaid, overworked people with hyphenated occupations: book-keepers, ticket-sellers, office-managers, salesmen, and, most of all, clerks—clerks of the express, of the mail, of the grocery, of the brokerage, of the bank. With them are their giggling, over-gestured, pathetically pretentious women, who grow fat with them, bear them too many babies, and float helpless and uncontent in a colorless sea of drudgery and broken hopes.
They name these brummagem cabarets after Pullman cars. The “Marathon”! Not for them the salacious similes borrowed from the cafés of Paris! This is where their docile patrons bring their “nice women,” whose starved fancies are only too willing to believe that the scene is comparatively gay and joyous, and even faintly immoral. This is life! Who cares for the morrow?
Abandoned people!
Anthony and Gloria, seated, looked about them. At the next table a party of four were in process of being joined by a party of three, two men and a girl, who were evidently late—and the manner of the girl was a study in national sociology. She was meeting some new men—and she was pretending desperately. By gesture she was pretending and by words and by the scarcely perceptible motionings of her eyelids that she belonged to a class a little superior to the class with which she now had to do, that a while ago she had been, and presently would again be, in a higher, rarer air. She was almost painfully refined—she wore a last year’s hat covered with violets no more yearningly pretentious and palpably artificial than herself.