But I insisted that I must go on and acquire a college education ...
which he maintained would be a hindrance, not a help--"they will iron
you out, and make you a decent member of society--and then, Razorre, God
help the poet in you ... poets and artists should never be decent ...
only the true son of Ishmael can ever write or paint," he waved.
* * * * *
There came to the artworkers one day a young Southern woman, a six
months' widow ... she was gentle and lily-coloured and lovely. She had
great, swimming, blue eyes, a sensitive red bow of a mouth ... and the
lashes of her eyes lay far down on her cheeks. She was the first woman I
had met who approximated my poet's ideal of what a woman should be.
I was working for Spalton during my stay, which I meant to make a brief
one. I was shovelling coal for him, and firing a furnace.
Wash as I might, I could not remove a faint blackness that clung to the
edges of my eyes. This made my eyes glow and seem larger than they were.
On such an extraneous and whimsical exterior circumstance hinged the
young widow's interest in me.
And I decided that I'd stay a little longer at the Eos Studios ... all
winter, if she stayed all winter. And I no longer asked for an easier
job. For I wanted my eyes to remain large-seeming, since, half in jest,
she admired their present appearance.
She manifested a close and affectionate friendship for me, and all day
long all I thought of, as I kept the furnace going, was the evening
after dinner, when I could sit close by her reading poetry in a low
voice to her.
I leaned over her on every pretext to smell her hair,--her body, through
her low-necked dress--to breathe in giddily that delicate fragrance that
emanates from the bodies of beautiful women, as perfume from flowers.
Once, in spite of my timidity, I dared place my arm about her shoulders,
there in the dark. There was a lecture on over in the "chapel" and
mostly everybody had gone to it. Spalton, in passing through where we
sat together, asked her if she was coming. "No, she was too tired." She
remained sitting by me. Spalton shot me a glance of scarcely concealed
resentment and went on. We were left alone.
She began telling me of her deceased husband ... of their devotion to
each other ... she applied a dainty thing of lace to her eyes, pausing a
moment....
"John? may I call you by your name, not by the odious name they have for
you here?..."
She leaned her head against my shoulder.
"Johnnie, you are a fine, sensitive soul, and I know you'll be a great
poet some day ... but why don't these people take you more seriously?
"I think it must be your childlikeness ... and your spirit of
horse-play, that breaks through at the most inopportune moments, that
encourages these fools to treat you with levity."...
"Dear woman," I began, "dearest woman," and my throat bunched queerly so
that I could not speak further.
She stroked my hair....
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-three."
"I am just a year younger."
"May I kiss you?" I asked, stumblingly.
"Yes, Johnnie, you may kiss me"....
"Why, you dear child, you ... you kiss just like a small boy ..." in a
lower voice, "can it be possible that you, with all your tramping, your
knowledge of life in books, of people?--"
I bent my head, ashamed, silently acknowledging my inexperience of
women.
"No, it's nothing to be ashamed of, dearest boy ... I think you are a
fine man--to have gone through what you have--and still--"
Her voice trailed off. She put her arm around my neck, drew me to her,
and kissed me!
* * * * *
As we sat close together, a brooding silence. Then, with a transition of
thought to the practical, she remarked....
"I'm angry with these people ... they over-charge for everything."
"Just think of it--I--I feel I may speak of it to you ... we seem to
have come so near to each other to-night--"
"They brought my laundry back yesterday, and for one piece of silk
lingerie I was charged--guess?"