THE CITY OF MASKS
NEW YORK is not merely a melting pot for the poor and the humble of the
lands of the earth. In its capacious depths, unknown and unsuspected,
float atoms of an entirely different sort: human beings with the blood
of the high-born and lofty in their veins, derelicts swept up by the
varying winds of adversity, adventure, injustice, lawlessness, fear and
independence.
Lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, counts and countesses, swarm to
the Metropolis in the course of the speeding year, heralded by every
newspaper in the land, fêted and feasted and glorified by a capricious
and easily impressed public; they pass with pomp and panoply and we let
them go with reluctance and a vociferous invitation to come again. They
come and they go, and we are informed each morning and evening of every
move they have made during the day and night. We are told what they eat
for breakfast, luncheon and dinner; what they wear and what they do not
wear; where they are entertained and by whom; who they are and why; what
they think of New York and--but why go on? We deny them privacy, and
they think we are a wonderful, considerate and hospitable people. They
go back to their homes in far-off lands,--and that is the end of them so
far as we are concerned.
They merely pause on the lip of the melting pot, briefly peer into its
simmering depths, and then,--pass on.
It is not with such as they that this narrative has to deal. It is not
of the heralded, the glorified and the toasted that we tell, but of
those who slip into the pot with the coarser ingredients, and who never,
by any chance, become actually absorbed by the processes of integration
but remain for ever as they were in the beginning: distinct foreign
substances.
From all quarters of the globe the drift comes to our shores. New York
swallows the good with the bad, and thrives, like the cannibal, on the
man-food it gulps down with ravenous disregard for consequences or
effect. It rarely disgorges.
It eats all flesh, foul or fair, and it drinks good red blood out of the
same cup that offers a black and nauseous bile. It conceals its inward
revulsion behind a bland, disdainful smile, and holds out its hands for
more of the meat and poison that comes up from the sea in ships.
It is the City of Masks.
Its men and women hide behind a million masks; no man looks beneath the
mask his neighbour wears, for he is interested only in that which he
sees with the least possible effort: the surface. He sees his neighbour
but he knows him not. He keeps his own mask in place and wanders among
the millions, secure in the thought that all other men are as casual as
he,--and as charitable.
From time to time the newspapers come forward with stories that amaze
and interest those of us who remain, and always will remain, romantic
and impressionable. They tell of the royal princess living in squalor on
the lower east side; of the heir to a baronetcy dying in poverty in a
hospital somewhere up-town; of the countess who defies the wolf by
dancing in the roof-gardens; of the lost arch-duke who has been
recognized in a gang of stevedores; of the earl who lands in jail as an
ordinary hobo; of the baroness who supports a shiftless husband and
their offspring by giving music-lessons; of the retiring scholar who
scorns a life of idleness and a coronet besides; of shifty
ne'er-do-wells with titles at homes and aliases elsewhere; of fugitive
lords and forgotten ladies; of thieves and bauds and wastrels who stand
revealed in their extremity as the sons and daughters of noble houses.
In this City of Masks there are hundreds of men and women in whose veins
the blood of a sound aristocracy flows. By choice or necessity they have
donned the mask of obscurity. They tread the paths of oblivion. They
toil, beg or steal to keep pace with circumstance. But the blood will
not be denied. In the breast of each of these drifters throbs the pride
of birth, in the soul of each flickers the unquenchable flame of caste.
The mask is for the man outside, not for the man inside.
Recently there died in one of the municipal hospitals an old
flower-woman, familiar for three decades to the thousands who thread
their way through the maze of streets in the lower end of Manhattan. To
them she was known as Old Peg. To herself she was the Princess
Feododric, born to the purple, daughter of one of the greatest families
in Russia. She was never anything but the Princess to herself, despite
the squalor in which she lived. Her epitaph was written in the bold,
black head-lines of the newspapers; but her history was laid away with
her mask in a graveyard far from palaces--and flower-stands. Her
headstone revealed the uncompromising pride that survived her after
death. By her direction it bore the name of Feododric, eldest daughter
of His Highness, Prince Michael Androvodski; born in St. Petersburgh,
September 12, 1841; died Jan. 7, 1912; wife of James Lumley, of County
Cork, Ireland.
It is of the high-born who dwell in low places that this tale is told.
It is of an aristocracy that serves and smiles and rarely sneers behind
its mask.
When Cricklewick announced the Princess Mariana Theresa the hush of
deference fell upon the assembled company. In the presence of royalty no
one remained seated.
She advanced slowly, ponderously into the room, bowing right and left as
she crossed to the great chair at the upper end. One by one the others
presented themselves and kissed the coarse, unlovely hand she held out
to them. It was not "make-believe." It was her due. The blood of a king
and a queen coursed through her veins; she had been born a Princess
Royal.
She was sixty, but her hair was as black as the coat of the raven. Time,
tribulation, and a harsh destiny had put each its own stamp upon her
dark, almost sinister, face. The black eyes were sharp and calculating,
and they did not smile with her thin lips. She wore a great amount of
jewellery and a gown of blue velvet, lavishly bespangled and generously
embellished with laces of many periods, values and, you could say,
nativity.
The Honourable Mrs. Priestly-Duff having been a militant suffragette
before a sudden and enforced departure from England, was the only person
there with the hardihood to proclaim, not altogether _sotto voce_, that
the "get-up" was a fright.
Restraint vanished the instant the last kiss of tribute fell upon her
knuckles. The Princess put her hand to her side, caught her breath
sharply, and remarked to the Marchioness, who stood near by, that it was
dreadful the way she was putting on weight. She was afraid of splitting
something if she took a long, natural breath.
"I haven't weighed myself lately," she said, "but the last time I had
this dress on it felt like a kimono. Look at it now! You could not stuff
a piece of tissue paper between it and me to save your soul. I shall
have to let it out a couple of--What were you about to say, Count
Fogazario?"
The little Count, at the Marchioness's elbow, repeated something he had
already said, and added:
"And if it continues there will not be a trolley-car running by
midnight."
The Princess eyed him coldly. "That is just like a man," she said. "Not
the faintest idea of what we were talking about, Marchioness."
The Count bowed. "You were speaking of tissue paper, Princess," said he,
stiffly. "I understood perfectly."
Once a week the Marchioness held her amazing salon. Strictly speaking,
it was a co-operative affair. The so-called guests were in reality
contributors to and supporters of an enterprise that had been going on
for the matter of five years in the heart of unsuspecting New York.
According to his or her means, each of these exiles paid the tithe or
tax necessary, and became in fact a member of the inner circle.
From nearly every walk in life they came to this common, converging
point, and sat them down with their equals, for the moment laying aside
the mask to take up a long-discarded and perhaps despised reality. They
became lords and ladies all over again, and not for a single instant was
there the slightest deviation from dignity or form.
Moral integrity was the only requirement, and that, for obvious reasons,
was sometimes overlooked,--as for example in the case of the Countess
who eloped with the young artist and lived in complacent shame and
happiness with him in a three-room flat in East Nineteenth street. The
artist himself was barred from the salon, not because of his ignoble
action, but for the sufficient reason that he was of ignoble birth.
Outside the charmed conclave he was looked upon as a most engaging chap.
And there was also the case of the appallingly amiable baron who had
fired four shots at a Russian Grand-Duke and got away with his life in
spite of the vaunted secret service. It was of no moment whatsoever that
one of his bullets accidentally put an end to the life of a guardsman.
That was merely proof of his earnestness and in no way reflected on his
standing as a nobleman. Nor was it adequate cause for rejection that
certain of these men and women were being sought by Imperial Governments
because they were political fugitives, with prices on their heads.
The Marchioness, more prosperous than any of her associates, assumed the
greater part of the burden attending this singular reversion to form. It
was she who held the lease on the building, from cellar to roof, and it
was she who paid that important item of expense: the rent. The
Marchioness was no other than the celebrated Deborah, whose gowns
issuing from the lower floors at prodigious prices, gave her a standing
in New York that not even the plutocrats and parvenus could dispute. In
private life she may have been a Marchioness, but to all New York she
was known as the queen of dressmakers.
If you desired to consult Deborah in person you inquired for Mrs.
Sparflight, or if you happened to be a new customer and ignorant, you
were set straight by an attendant (with a slight uplifting of the
eyebrows) when you asked for Madame "Deborah."
The ownership of the rare pieces of antique furniture, rugs, tapestries
and paintings was vested in two members of the circle, one occupying a
position in the centre of the ring, the other on the outer rim: Count
Antonio Fogazario and Moody, the footman. For be it known that while
Moody reverted once a week to a remote order of existence he was for the
balance of the time an exceedingly prosperous, astute and highly
respected dealer in antiques, with a shop in Madison Avenue and a
clientele that considered it the grossest impertinence to dispute the
prices he demanded. He always looked forward to these "drawing-rooms,"
so to speak. It was rather a joy to disregard the aspirates. He dropped
enough hs on a single evening to make up for a whole week of deliberate
speech.
As for Count Antonio, he was the purveyor of Italian antiques and
primitive paintings, "authenticity guaranteed," doing business under the
name of "Juneo & Co., Ltd. London, Paris, Rome, New York." He was known
in the trade and at his bank as Mr. Juneo.
Occasionally the exigencies of commerce necessitated the substitution of
an article from stock for one temporarily loaned to the fifth-floor
drawing-room.
During the seven days in the week, Mr. Moody and Mr. Juneo observed a
strained but common equality. Mr. Moody contemptuously referred to Mr.
Juneo as a second-hand dealer, while Mr. Juneo, with commercial
bitterness, informed his patrons that Pickett, Inc., needed a lot of
watching. But on these Wednesday nights a vast abyss stretched between
them. They were no longer rivals in business. Mr. Juneo, without the
slightest sign of arrogance, put Mr. Moody in his place, and Mr. Moody,
with perfect equanimity, quite properly stayed there.
"A chair over here, Moody," the Count would say (to Pickett, Inc.,) and
Moody, with all the top-lofty obsequiousness of the perfect footman,
would place a chair in the designated spot, and say:
"H'anythink else, my lord? Thank you, sir."
On this particular Wednesday night two topics of paramount interest
engaged the attention of the company. The newspapers of that day had
printed the story of the apprehension and seizure of one Peter Jolinski,
wanted in Warsaw on the charge of assassination.
As Count Andreas Verdray he was known to this exclusive circle of
Europeans, and to them he was a persecuted, unjustly accused fugitive
from the land of his nativity. Russian secret service men had run him to
earth after five years of relentless pursuit. As a respectable,
industrious window-washer he had managed for years to evade arrest for a
crime he had not committed, and now he was in jail awaiting extradition
and almost certain death at the hands of his intriguing enemies. A
cultured scholar, a true gentleman, he was, despite his vocation, one of
the most distinguished units in this little world of theirs. The
authorities in Warsaw charged him with instigating the plot to
assassinate a powerful and autocratic officer of the Crown. In more or
less hushed voices, the assemblage discussed the unhappy event.
The other topic was the need of immediate relief for the family of the
Baroness de Flamme, who was on her death-bed in Harlem and whose three
small children, deprived of the support of a hard-working music-teacher
and deserted by an unconscionably plebeian father, were in a pitiable
state of destitution. Acting on the suggestion of Lord Temple, who as
Thomas Trotter earned a weekly stipend of thirty dollars as chauffeur
for a prominent Park Avenue gentleman, a collection was taken, each
person giving according to his means. The largest contribution was from
Count Fogazario, who headed the list with twenty-five dollars. The
Marchioness was down for twenty. The smallest donation was from Prince
Waldemar. Producing a solitary coin, he made change, and after saving
out ten cents for carfare, donated forty cents.
Cricklewick, Moody and McFaddan were not invited to contribute. No one
would have dreamed of asking them to join in such a movement. And yet,
of all those present, the three men-servants were in a better position
than any one else to give handsomely. They were, in fact, the richest
men there. The next morning, however, would certainly bring checks from
their offices to the custodian of the fund, the Hon. Mrs. Priestly-Duff.
They knew their places on Wednesday night, however.
The Countess du Bara, from the Opera, sang later on in the evening;
Prince Waldemar got out his violin and played; the gay young baroness
from the Artists' Colony played accompaniments very badly on the baby
grand piano; Cricklewick and the footmen served coffee and sandwiches,
and every one smoked in the dining-room.
At eleven o'clock the Princess departed. She complained a good deal of
her feet.
"It's the weather," she explained to the Marchioness, wincing a little
as she made her way to the door.
"Too bad," said the Marchioness. "Are we to be honoured on next
Wednesday night, your highness? You do not often grace our gatherings,
you know. I--"
"It will depend entirely on circumstances," said the Princess,
graciously.
Circumstances, it may be mentioned,--though they never were mentioned on
Wednesday nights,--had a great deal to do with the Princess's actions.
She conducted a pawn-shop in Baxter street. As the widow and sole
legatee of Moses Jacobs, she was quite a figure in the street. Customers
came from all corners of the town, and without previous appointment.
Report had it that Mrs. Jacobs was rolling in money. People slunk in and
out of the front door of her place of business, penniless on entering,
affluent on leaving,--if you would call the possession of a dollar or
two affluence,--and always with the resolve in their souls to some day
get even with the leech who stood behind the counter and doled out
nickels where dollars were expected.
It was an open secret that more than one of those who kissed the
Princess's hand in the Marchioness's drawing-room carried pawnchecks
issued by Mrs. Jacobs. Business was business. Sentiment entered the soul
of the Princess only on such nights as she found it convenient and
expedient to present herself at the Salon. It vanished the instant she
put on her street clothes on the floor below and passed out into the
night. Avarice stepped in as sentiment stepped out, and one should not
expect too much of avarice.
For one, the dreamy, half-starved Prince Waldemar was rarely without
pawnchecks from her delectable establishment. Indeed it had been
impossible for him to entertain the company on this stormy evening
except for her grudging consent to substitute his overcoat for the
Stradivarius he had been obliged to leave the day before.
Without going too deeply into her history, it is only necessary to say
that she was one of those wayward, wilful princesses royal who
occasionally violate all tradition and marry good-looking young
Americans or Englishmen, and disappear promptly and automatically from
court circles.
She ran away when she was nineteen with a young attaché in the British
legation. It was the worst thing that could have happened to the poor
chap. For years they drifted through many lands, finally ending in New
York, where, their resources having been exhausted, she was forced to
pawn her jewellery. The pawn-broker was one Abraham Jacobs, of Baxter
street.
The young English husband, disheartened and thoroughly disillusioned,
shot himself one fine day. By a single coincidence, a few weeks
afterward, old Abraham went to his fathers in the most agreeable fashion
known to nature, leaving his business, including the princess's jewels,
to his son Moses.
With rare foresight and acumen, Mrs. Brinsley (the Princess, in other
words), after several months of contemplative mourning, redeemed her
treasure by marrying Moses. And when Moses, after begetting Solomon,
David and Hannah, passed on at the age of twoscore years and ten, she
continued the business with even greater success than he. She did not
alter the name that flourished in large gold letters on the two show
windows and above the hospitable doorway. For twenty years it had read:
The Royal Exchange: M. Jacobs, Proprietor. And now you know all that is
necessary to know about Mariana, to this day a true princess of the
blood.
Inasmuch as a large share of her business came through customers who
preferred to visit her after the fall of night, there is no further need
to explain her reply to the Marchioness.
When midnight came the Marchioness was alone in the deserted
drawing-room. The company had dispersed to the four corners of the
storm-swept city, going by devious means and routes.
They fared forth into the night _sans_ ceremony, _sans_ regalia. In the
locker-rooms on the floor below each of these noble wights divested
himself and herself of the raiment donned for the occasion. With the
turning of a key in the locker door, barons became ordinary men,
countesses became mere women, and all of them stole regretfully out of
the passage at the foot of the first flight of stairs and shivered in
the wind that blew through the City of Masks.
"I've got more money than I know what to do with, Miss Emsdale," said
Tom Trotter, as they went together out into the bitter wind. "I'll blow
you off to a taxi."
"I couldn't think of it," said the erstwhile Lady Jane, drawing her
small stole close about her neck.
"But it's on my way home," said he. "I'll drop you at your front door.
Please do."
"If I may stand half," she said resolutely.
"We'll see," said he. "Wait here in the doorway till I fetch a taxi from
the hotel over there. Oh, I say, Herman, would you mind asking one of
those drivers over there to pick us up here?"
"Sure," said Herman, one time Count Wilhelm Frederick Von Blitzen, who
had followed them to the side-walk. "Fierce night, ain'd it? Py chiminy,
ain'd it?"
"Where is your friend, Mr. Trotter," inquired Miss Emsdale, as the
stalwart figure of one of the most noted head-waiters in New York
struggled off against the wind.
"He beat it quite a while ago," said he, with an enlightening grin.
"Oh?" said she, and met his glance in the darkness. A sudden warmth
swept over her.