Why did Fanny do this? The judge would like to know. The judge would like
to help her. The judge says: "Now, Fanny, tell me all about it."
All about it, all about it! Fanny's stoical face stares at the floor. If
Fanny had words. But Fanny has no words. Something heavy in her heart,
something vague and heavy in her thought--these are all that Fanny has.
Let the policewoman's records show. Three years ago Fanny came to Chicago
from a place called Plano. Red-cheeked and black-haired, vivid-eyed and
like an ear of ripe corn dropped in the middle of State and Madison
streets, Fanny came to the city.
Ah, the lonely city, with its crowds and its lonely lights. The lonely
buildings busy with a thousand lonelinesses. People laughing and hurrying
along, people eager-eyed for something; summer parks and streets white
with snow, the city moon like a distant window, pretty gewgaws in the
stores--these are a part of Fanny's story.
The judge wants to know. Fanny's eyes look up. A dog takes a kick like
this, with eyes like this, large, dumb and brimming with pathos. The dog's
master is a mysterious and inexplicable dispenser of joys and sorrows. His
caresses and his beatings are alike mysterious; their reasons seldom to be
discerned, never fully understood.
Sometimes in this court where the sinners are haled, where "poised and
prim and particular, society stately sits," his honor has a moment of
confusion. Eyes lift themselves to him, eyes dumb and brimming with
pathos. Eyes stare out of sordid faces, evil faces, wasted faces and say
something not admissible as evidence. Eyes say: "I don't know, I don't
know. What is it all about?"
These are not to be confused with the eyes that plead shrewdly for mercy,
with eyes that feign dramatic naïvetés and offer themselves like primping
little penitents to his honor. His honor knows them fairly well. And
understands them. They are eyes still bargaining with life.
But Fanny's eyes. Yes, the judge would like to know. A vagueness comes
into his precise mind. He half-hears the familiar accusation that the
policeman drones, a terribly matter-of-fact drone.
Another raid on a suspected flat. Routine, routine. Evil has its eternal
root in the cities. A tireless Satan, bored with the monotony of his rôle;
a tireless Justice, bored with the routine of tears and pleadings, lies
and guilt.
There is no story in all this. Once his honor, walking home from a
banquet, looked up and noticed the stars. Meaningless, immutable stars.
There was nothing to be seen by looking at them. They were mysteries to be
dismissed. Like the mystery of Fanny's eyes. Meaningless, immutable eyes.
They do not bargain. Yet the world stares out of them. The face looks
dumbly up at a judge.
No defense. The policeman's drone has ended and Fanny says nothing. This
is difficult. Because his honor knows suddenly there is a defense. A
monstrous defense. Since there are always two sides to everything. Yes,
what is the other side? His honor would like to know. Tell it, Fanny.
About the crowds, streets, buildings, lights, about the whirligig of
loneliness, about the humpty-dumpty clutter of longings. And then explain
about the summer parks and the white snow and the moon window in the sky.
Throw in a poignantly ironical dissertation on life, on its uncharted
aimlessness, and speak like Sherwood Anderson about the desires that stir
in the heart. Speak like Remy de Gourmont and Dostoevsky and Stevie Crane,
like Schopenhauer and Dreiser and Isaiah; speak like all the great
questioners whose tongues have wagged and whose hearts have burned with
questions. His honor will listen bewilderedly and, perhaps, only perhaps,
understand for a moment the dumb pathos of your eyes.
As it is, you were found, as the copper who reads the newspapers puts it,
in a suspected flat. A violation of section 2012 of the City Code. Thirty
days in the Bastile, Fanny. Unless his honor is feeling good.
These eyes lifted to him will ask him questions on his way home from a
banquet some night.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty."
"Make it twenty-two," his honor smiles. "And you have nothing to say?
About how you happened to get into this sort of thing? You look like a
good girl. Although looks are often deceiving."
"I went there with him," says Fanny. And she points to a beetle-browed
citizen with an unshaven face. A quaint Don Juan, indeed.
"Ever see him before?"
A shake of the head. Plain case. And yet his honor hesitates. His honor
feels something expand in his breast. Perhaps he would like to rise and
holding forth his hand utter a famous plagiarism--"Go and sin no more." He
chews a pen and sighs, instead.
"I'll give you another chance," he says. "The next time it'll be jail.
Keep this in mind. If you're brought in again, no excuses will go. Call
the next case."
Now one can follow Fanny. She walks out of the courtroom. The street
swallows her. Nobody in the crowds knows what has happened. Fanny is
anybody now. Still, one may follow. Perhaps something will reveal itself,
something will add an illuminating touch to the incident of the courtroom.
There is only this. Fanny pauses in front of a drug-store window. The
crowds clutter by. Fanny stands looking, without interest, into the
window. There is a little mirror inside. The city tumbles by. The city is
interested in something vastly complicated.
Staring into the little mirror, Fanny sighs and--powders her nose.