DREAMLAND
As winter faded into spring the first tracery of green fringed the
branches in Stuyvesant Square. The municipal authorities decorated the
grass with tulips and later with geraniums. Later still, cannas and
foliage plants were planted, over which two fountains spurted aqua
Crotonis.
But in spite of tasteless horticulture it is a quaint old square, a
little sad and shabby, perhaps, yet mercifully green inside its two
iron-railed parallelograms. Above the great sycamores and elms the
truncated towers of St. George's brood heavily; along the short, leafy
reach of Rutherford Place an old-time Quaker meeting-house keeps gentle
vigil; northward, aged mansions peer at the square through time-dimmed
windows; south, above the Sisters of The Assumption, a painted Virgin
clasps her stone hands and looks down on the little children of the
poor.
Along the east side of the square runs Livingston Place; behind it an
elevated railroad roars; in front lies the square, shabby, unkempt, but
lovely always, when night lends to it her mystery. For at night the
trees loom gigantic; lights sparkle over lawn and fountain; the
illuminated dial of St. George's hangs yellow as a harvest moon above
the foliage; and the pleasant bell sounds from the towers, changing, for
a moment, the streets' incessant monotone to a harmony.
Into this square went Landon; oftener, as the summer grew hotter and
work grew scarcer.
Once, at the close of a scorching afternoon, his pretty neighbour from
across the corridor came slowly into the square and rested for a few
moments on the same bench he occupied.
So lovely and fresh and sweet she seemed in the early dusk that he, for
an instant, was tempted from his parched loneliness to speak to her; but
before he could bring himself to it she turned, recognized him, rose and
went back to the house without a second glance.
"We've been neighbours for a year," he thought, "and she has never been
civil enough to look at me yet--and I've been too civil to look at her.
I was an ass."
He was wrong; she had looked at him often, when unafraid that his eyes
might surprise her.
He was amusingly wrong. Waking, she remembered him; during the long day
she thought of him; at night, when she returned from business, the
radiance from his studio lamp streaming through the transom had for her
all the thrilling fascination that a lighted shop window, at Christmas,
has for a lonesome child passing in darkness.
From the dim monotony of her own life she had, at times, caught glimpses
through his open door of splendours scarcely guessed. In her eyes an
enchanted world lay just beyond his studio's threshold; a bright, warm,
mellow wonderland, indistinct in the golden lamplight, where only a
detail here and there half revealed a figured tapestry or carved
foliation--perhaps some soft miracle of ancient Eastern weaving on the
floor, perhaps a mysterious marble shape veiled in ruddy shadow--enough
to set her youthful imagination on fire, enough to check her breath and
start the pulses racing as she turned the key in her own door and
reëntered the white dusk of her own life once more.
The three most important events of her brief career had occurred within
the twelvemonth--her mother's death, her coming here to live--and love.
That also had happened. But she did not call it love; it did not occur
to her to consider him in any possible, tangible relation to herself.
She never even expected to know him, to speak to him, or that he could
possibly care to speak to her. As far as the east is from the west, so
far apart were their two worlds. For them the gusty corridor was wider
than interstellar voids; she had not even a thought that a miracle might
bridge the infinite from her tiny world to his, which seemed to her so
bright and splendid; she had never advanced farther than the happiness
of lying still after the day's work, and thinking, innocently, of what
she knew about him and what she timidly divined.
At such times, stretched across her bed, the backs of her hands resting
on her closed lids, she pondered on that alluring wonderland, his
studio--of the mystery that so fittingly surrounded his artist's life.
She saw him always amid the tints and hues of ancient textiles,
sometimes dreaming, sometimes achieving with fiery inspiration--but
precisely how or what he achieved remained to her part of his mystery.
She cherished only the confused vision of the youth of him, and its
glorious energy and wisdom.
He could be very human, too, she thought; and often the smile curved her
lips and cheeks at the recollection of the noisy gayety coming in gusts
through his transom on those nights when his friends were gathered
there--laughter and song--the incense of tobacco drifting into her own
white room from the corridor. She loved it; the odor seemed spicy with a
delicate hint of sweet-brier, and she opened her transom wider to let it
in.
Usually she fell asleep, the distant uproar of gayety lulling her into
happier slumbers. And for days and nights afterward its recollection
made life easier and pleasanter, as though she lived with amusing
memories of events in which she herself had participated.
All day long, in a fashionable dry-goods shop, she sold cobweb finery
and frail, intimate, lacy stuffs to very fine ladies, who usually drew a
surprised breath at her beauty, and sometimes dealt with her as though
they were dealing with one of their own caste.
At night, tired, she looked forward to her return, when, behind her own
closed door, she could rest or read a little, or lie still and think of
Landon. But even in the daring magic of waking dreams she had scarcely
ventured any acquaintance with him; in dreamland they were as yet only
just aware of one another. He had lately--oh, breathless and audacious
imagination of hers!--smiled at her in the corridors of dreamland; and
she had been a good many days trying to decide what she was going to do
about it. In her phantom world matters were going well with her.
Meanwhile, except for the stupefying heat, the actual world was also
going well with her. She had saved a little money, enough to give her
ten days of luxury and fresh air when the time came. She needed it; the
city had been hard on her. Yet the pleasure of going was not unmixed;
for, as the day of her release drew nearer, she realized how, within the
year, he had, in her dreams, insensibly become to her a part of her real
life, and that she would miss him sorely. Which gave her courage to
hasten their acquaintance in dreamland; and so it came about that he
spoke to her one night as she lay dreaming, awake on her pillow; and she
felt her cheeks burn in the dark as though it had all been real.
Yet he was very gentle with her in dreamland--quite wonderful--indeed,
all that the most stilted vision of a young girl could desire.
Less unquiet, now that they knew each other, she looked forward to the
real separation with comparative resignation.
Then came that unexpected episode when she seated herself on the same
bench with him, unintentionally braving him in the flesh.
All that night she thought about it in consternation--piteously
explaining it to him in dreamland. He understood--in dreamland--but did
he understand in real life? Would he think she had meant to give him a
chance to speak--horror of crimson dismay! Would he think her absurd to
leave so abruptly when he caught her eye? And oh, she cared so much what
he might think, so much more than she supposed she dared care!
All day long it made her miserable as she moved listlessly behind the
counter; at night the heated pavements almost stunned her as she walked
home to save the pennies.
She saw no light in his studio as she slipped through the corridor into
her stifling room. Later, she bathed and dressed in a thinner gown, but
it, also, was in black, in memory of her mother, and seemed to sere her
body. The room grew hotter; she went out to the passage; no light
threatened her from his transom, so she ventured to leave her door open.
But even this brought no relief; the heat became unendurable; and she
rose at last, pinned on her big black hat of straw, and went out into
the dusk.
Through the gates of the square she saw the poor surging into the park.
The police had opened the scant bits of lawn to them. Men, women,
children, lay half-naked on the grass, fighting for breath. And, after
a little while, she crossed the street and went in among them.
The splash of the fountain was refreshing. She wandered at random, past
the illuminated façade of the Lying-in Hospital, past the painted
Virgin, then crossed Second Avenue, entered the gates again, and turned
aimlessly by the second fountain. There seemed to be no resting-place
for her on the crowded benches.
Beyond the fountain a shadowy sycamore stood in the centre of a strip of
lawn. She went toward it, hesitated, glancing at the motionless,
recumbent figures near by, then ventured to seat herself on the grass
and lean back against the tree. Presently, she unpinned her hat, lifted
a white face to the night, and closed her eyes.
How long she sat there she did not know when again she opened her tired
lids.
A figure stood near her. For a moment she confused dream and reality and
smiled at him; then sat up, rigid, breathless, as the figure stirred and
came forward.
She remembered attempting to rise, remembered nothing else very
distinctly--not even his first words, though his voice was gentle and
pleasant, just as it was in dreamland.
"Do you mind my speaking to you?" he was asking now.
"No," she said faintly.
He raised his head and looked out across the feverish city, passing one
thin hand across his eyes. Then, with a slight movement of his
shoulders, he seated himself on the ground at her feet.
"We have been neighbours so long," he said, "that I thought perhaps I
might dare to speak to you to-night. My name is Landon--James Landon. I
think I know your last name."
"O'Connor--Ellie O'Connor--Eleanor, I mean," she added, unafraid. A
curious peace seemed to possess her at the sound of his voice. There was
a stillness in it that reassured.
The silence between them was ringed with the distant roar of the city.
He looked around him at the shadowy forms flung across bench and lawn;
his absent glance swept the surrounding walls of masonry and iron, all
a-glitter with tiny, lighted windows. Overhead a tarnished moon looked
down into the vast trap where five million souls lay caught, gasping for
air--he among the others--and this young girl beside him--trapped,
helpless, foredoomed. The city had got them all! But he sat up the
straighter, giving the same slightly-impatient shake to his shoulders.
"I came," he said, "to ask you one or two questions--if I may."
"Ask them," she answered, as in a dream.
"Then--you go to business, do you not?"
"Yes."
He nodded: "And now I'm going to venture another question which may
sound impertinent, but I do not mean it so. May I?"
"Yes," she said in a low, hushed voice, as though a clearer tone might
break some spell.
"It is about your salary. I do not suppose it is very large."
"My wages? Shall I tell you?" she asked, so innocently that he flushed
up.
"No, no!--I merely wish to--to find out from you whether you might care
to take a chance of increasing your salary."
"I don't think I know what you mean," she said, looking at him.
"I know you don't," he said, patiently; "let me begin a little farther
back. I am a sculptor. You know, of course, what that is----"
"Yes. I am educated." She even found courage to smile at him.
His answering smile covered both confusion and surprise; then perplexity
etched a crease between his brows.
"That makes it rather harder for me"--he hesitated--"or easier; I don't
know which."
"What makes it harder?" she asked.
"Your being--I don't know--different--from what I imagined----"
"Educated?"
"Y-yes----"
She laughed deliciously in her new-born confidence.
"What is it you wish to ask?"
"I'll tell you," he said. "I need a model--and I'm too poor to pay for
one. I've pledged everything in my studio. A chance has come to me. It's
only a chance, however. But I can't take it because I cannot afford a
model."
There was a silence; then she inquired what he meant by a model. And he
told her--not everything, not clearly.
"You mean that you wish me to sit for my portrait in marble?"
"There are two figures to be executed for the new Department of Peace in
Washington," he explained, "and they are to be called 'Soul' and 'Body.'
Six sculptors have been invited to compete. I am one. We have a year
before us."
She remained silent.
"It is perfectly apparent, of course, that you are exquis--admirably
fitted"--he stammered under her direct gaze, then went on; "I scarcely
dared dream of such a model even if I had the means to afford--" He
could get no further.
"Are you really poor?" she asked in gentle wonder.
"At present--yes."
"I never dreamed it," she said. "I thought--otherwise."
"Oh, it is nothing; some day things will come out right. Only--I have a
chance now--if you--if you would help me.... I _could_ win with you; I
know it. And if I do win--with your aid--I will double your present
salary. And that is what I've come here to say. Is that fair?"
He waited, watching her intently. She had dropped her eyes, sitting
there very silent at the foot of the tree, cradling the big straw hat in
her lap.
"Whatever you decide to be fair--" he began again, but she looked up
wistfully.
"I was not thinking of that," she said; "I was only--sorry."
"Sorry?"
"That you are poor."
He misunderstood her. "I know; I wish I could offer you something beside
a chance----"
"Oh-h," she whispered, but so low that he heard only a long, indrawn
breath.
She sat motionless, eyes on the grass. When again she lifted them their
pure beauty held him.
"What is it you wish?" she asked. "That I should be your model for
the--this prize which you desire to strive for?"
"Yes; for that."
"How can I? I work all day."
"I could use you at night and on Saturday afternoons, and all day
Sunday. And--have you had your yearly vacation?"
She drew a quietly tired breath. "No," she said.
"Then--I will give you two hundred dollars extra for those ten days," he
went on eagerly--so eagerly that he forgot the contingency on which hung
any payment at all. As for her, payment was not even in her thoughts.
Through the deep, sweet content which came to her with the chance of
serving him, ran an undercurrent of confused pain that he could so
blindly misunderstand her. If she thought at all of the amazing
possibility of such a fortune as he offered, she knew that she would not
accept it from him. But this, and the pain of his misunderstanding,
scarcely stirred the current of a strange, new happiness that flowed
through every vein.
"Do you think I could really help you?"
"If you will." His voice trembled.
"Are you sure--quite sure? If you are--I will do what you wish."
He sprang up buoyant, transfigured.
"If I win it will be _you_!" he said. "Could you come into the studio a
moment? I'll show you the two sketches I have made for 'Soul' and
'Body'."
On the prospect of a chance--the chance that had come at last--he was
completely forgetting that she must be prepared to comprehend what he
required of her; he forgot that she could know nothing of a sculptor's
ways and methods of production. On the way to the studio, however, he
tardily remembered, and it rather scared him.
"Do you know any painters or sculptors?" he asked, keeping impatient
pace beside her.
"I know a woman who makes casts of hands and arms," she said shyly. "She
stopped me in the street once and asked permission to cast my hands.
Would you call her a sculptor?"
"N--well, perhaps she may be. We sculptors often use casts of the human
body." He plunged into it more frankly: "You know, of course, that to
become a sculptor or a painter, one has to model and paint from living
people."
"Yes," she said, undisturbed.
"And," he continued, "it would be impossible for a sculptor to produce
the beautiful marbles you have seen--er--around--unless he could pose a
living model to copy from."
An unquiet little pulse began to beat in her breast; she looked up at
him, but he was smiling so amiably that she smiled, too.
Mortally afraid of frightening her, he could not exactly estimate how
much she divined of what was to be required of her.
He continued patiently: "Unless a student dissects he can never become a
surgeon. It is the same with us; our inspiration and originality must be
founded on a solid study of the human body. That is why we must always
have before us as perfect a living model as we can find."
"Do--do you think--" she stopped, pink and confused.
"I think," he said, quietly impersonal, "that, speaking as a sculptor,
you are as perfect and as beautiful a model as ever the old Greek
masters saw, alive or in their dreams."
"I--did not--know it," she faltered, thrilling from head to foot.
They entered the corridor together. Her breath came faster as he
unlocked his door and, turning up a lamp, invited her to enter.
At last in the magic world! And with _him_!
Figured tapestries hung from the golden mystery of the ceiling; ancient
dyes glowed in the soft rugs under foot; the mellow light glimmered on
dull foliations. She stood still, looking about her as in a trance.
"All this I will buy back again with your help," he said, laughingly;
but his unsteady voice betrayed the tension to which he was keyed. A
slow excitement was gaining on her, too.
"I will redeem all these things, never fear," he said, gayly.
"Oh--if you only can.... It is too cruel to take such things from you."
The emotion in her eyes and voice surprised him for one troubled moment.
Then the selfishness of the artist ignored all else save the work and
the opportunity.
"You _will_ help me, won't you?" he asked. "It is a promise?"
"Yes--I will."
"Is it a _promise_?"
"Yes," she said, wondering.
"Then please sit here. I will bring the sketches. They merely represent
my first idea; they are done without a living model." He was off,
lighting a match as he hastened. A tapestry fell back into place; she
lifted her blue eyes to the faded figures of saints and seraphim
stirring when the fabric moved.
[Illustration]