THE FIRST NIGHT
It was a sight to watch Edith in the kitchen. She took to the work as
any healthy-minded woman will; although she preferred fancy cooking to
plain, and would glory in five-hours’ toil on fruit-cake and be balked
altogether at boiling eggs. The fine way she sliced bread, running the
knife rhythmically; the delightful grace she showed as she forked at
potato-slices frying in the pan; the tenderness she spent on a tough
hunk of boiled meat, abstracted admiration even from her brothers.
They didn’t let on, however; merely howling their hunger and asking if
supper never would be ready.
But at table they ate like healthy animals, and Edith glowed with
motherly pleasure. After their first onslaught had ended, she noticed
that they both were glancing at her knowingly. Finally Sam cleared his
throat.
“Might I inquire,” he asked in a pompous way he sometimes affected, “if
the parlor is in a condition to receive a caller?”
“Why?” asked Edith.
“Because, I suppose, there will _be_ a caller.”
“I can fix it up,” said Edith simply.
The two brothers glanced at each other and winked. Said Marcus:
“Ain’t she the baby, Sam?”
Sam cleared his throat again:
“And what if this caller is calling on my sister, Edith?”
Edith choked on some bread.
“On _me_?” she gasped.
“On you.”
“_Me?_” She could not believe her ears.
“Shall I repeat it?” asked Sam. “I say, what if this young man is
calling on you?”
“_Young man?_ Goodness!”
The young men looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Well,” cried Marcus, smiting the table, “I’ll be damned.”
“You know, Marc,” said Sam, “she never saw a young man before!”
Edith leaned forward, her cheeks red.
“If you’re making fun of me,” she cried indignantly, “Sam, if this is
a joke----” Then, looking on their grinning faces, she rippled with
laughter, “Oh, I’m such a fool!--Sam, is someone really going to call
on me? Don’t fool me, Sam.”
Her voice was so tenderly sweet, that Sam, to drive home the truth, had
to assume anger.
“I told you he was coming, and that’s all there is to it. Call me a
liar, why don’t you?”
“But--surely?”
“Did I say so or not?”
“A young man?”
“No,” snorted Marcus, “a young elephant!”
“To see _me_?”
“No,” Marcus snorted again, “your Mother!”
“But who can want to see me?”
Sam ahemed.
“Oh--you know and I know and they know----”
“I know!” cried Edith, “it’s that bald-headed Zug.”
“Zug!” they laughed together, and Sam added: “Guess again!”
She had reached the end of her guessing. Poor Edith! Seventeen, and a
young man’s call was an event to send the blood to the cheeks and to
set the heart a-thump. She forgot that she was never to be married; she
forgot her questionings; in a moment of amazement all the yearning and
mystery of the blue morning rushed upon her, crying: “Edith, you are
woman!” She realized her sex in a white flash, as it were; and all the
wild glory of her natural destiny rose like a vision before her. Now
she knew. Now the yearnings had a meaning. Now Earth had a meaning;
life had a meaning. A man wanted to see _her_. Why? Because she was
a woman. What a wild wonder to be alive; what an adventure; what a
romance!
So terrific was this blaze of new light that all this time she sat with
flushed cheeks and shining, far-seeing eyes and looked so beautiful
that her brothers could not banter her, but marveled at the strange
thing that had crept into the house. This was not Edith, their sister.
This was someone new, a stranger. They were surprised, perhaps a little
annoyed. It was a very quiet minute; but sometimes a minute works great
changes.
Suddenly Edith leaped up and ran from the room. The brothers whistled
and gave up girls as a bad job. But Edith had burst in on her Mother,
and sat on the bed beside her.
“Mother, what do you think?”
“Think! Come along!”
“Mother!”
“Out with it!”
“Oh, Mother, you can’t guess!” She darted and kissed a sallow cheek.
The Mother grunted.
“Mother,” Edith burst out, “someone is calling on me to-night!”
“On you? Who?”
“A man--a young man!”
“A young man?” Now, was the Mother indeed amazed. “Ah, dear one, dear
one!” She laughed softly. “So comes a nice young man.”
Edith’s glad voice was full of mystery:
“Who should want to call on me?”
“Who? What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know?” cried the Mother; “what a fool! Don’t know his name, and
you ask him to call? Heavens, what a fool!”
Edith explained, and then was all eagerness. Was her hair right? Should
she put on her blue dress? Should she change her collar? Then was
her Mother all Mother, pulsing with joy, patting at the hair, tying
a ribbon, adjusting a collar, and totally forgetting her troubles.
Finally she gave her daughter a light kiss on the cheek.
“Who gets you,” she murmured devoutly, “is a lucky man. I was never
so beautiful myself. I was a good cook, and no good-looker. But then
your father, _selig_, Edith, was a big eater. And you know,” she added
wisely, “you can’t eat looks.”
Edith wasn’t listening. She was summoning up male-images, but whenever
a new face appeared, immediately Doctor Rast’s face bobbed through it.
If he was like the Doctor! But who could be like the Doctor? Who could
be so handsome, so tender, so noble, so good? Doctor Rast might have
answered her, being a man truthful with himself, and knowing some of
his own limitations. But Edith was a young girl and had ideals. He was
one of them.
So Edith wondered, and while she wondered, she flung into the parlor
and gave it the worst cleaning-up it had ever received. Pins and
threads were stooped for; dust was vanquished; curtains straightened;
and when she was through the cheerful little room was trim and
tidy. Then two lights sprang up and flooded the place golden. As
Edith stood, surveying her work, she did not know how vital was her
beauty--breathing there rich with life, even as a daisy is rich
with sun and moisture and tint and form. She was just beginning
to ripen--bud unfolding into flower--the white of dawn was still
on her--the careless grace, the unstudied bewitchment, the fresh
sweetness of a pure young girl.
Her brothers entered and expressed astonishment that a room in their
flat should finally clean itself up; but Edith did not listen to them.
And then came the knock.
Sam consulted his watch:
“Eight to the dot! I win my bet!”
Marcus grumbled.
“Say, sis, open!”
“_You_ open!” she cried, and vanished.
Sam opened, and Edith heard low voices. She felt almost frightened; a
little stifled. Sam spoke at the door:
“Someone for you, Eed.”
“For _me_?”
She followed him into the golden-flooded room. Frank Lasser was
standing before her. And swiftly two strange emotions clashed
within her, and left her standing mute. The first was a horrible
disappointment; this smart young man was no Rast; the second was a
throb of recognition; she had seen him somewhere. And standing thus,
mute, lips parted, eyes drinking him in, she did not know her beauty!
Her brother Sam was speaking:
“Edith--this is Frank--Frank Lasser--old friend of mine----”
Frank reached out his hand, and she felt it cool and strong about hers.
He was speaking, too; trying to speak in his light way, and making a
bad fizzle of it:
“You see--Miss Kroll--we work in the same place.”
“In the same place? Goldin’s?”
“Yes--you see----” he paused.
“Oh!” she cried, and then remembered. He and Zug, they were at the
window quarreling; she had gone in to quiet them.
He lowered his glance.
“Yes,” he muttered, “Zug and I--you see we were at it a little----”
“A little?” she echoed, and then silver laughter woke, the air
cleared, Frank felt at home at once, and the brothers made themselves
“scarce”--though not without inviting Frank to join them “with the
boys,” and expressing consternation that he did not care for their
society and telling him to “ware, ware the ladies,” until Edith
told them sharply to hurry up and shut out the draught. They shut
themselves out with it.
The two sat down, Frank on the sofa, Edith on a chair, and at once
Edith was at her ease, and wondering why she had felt such strange
pangs. Wasn’t she used to men? She had brothers, and she had worked
several years in business. She talked to strangers every day. And then
why palpitation because one of them was in her home? She was inclined
to laughter, which made her eyes sparkle and her voice melodious:
“You must be a new man.”
“I am.”
“Salesman?”
“Pennsylvania.”
“Of course!” laughed Edith, “I entered it on the books--Frank Lasser.
How is it I didn’t see you?”
“Oh, I was just in a moment to see the boss--ain’t he a terror?--and
then I got out. I really go on to-morrow.”
Edith wished he wouldn’t say “ain’t.” He went on feebly:
“I hope I didn’t make it unpleasant this morning.”
“You did--a little,” she said.
He was puzzled. Up to the present he had been a great “hand” with the
ladies; his hard handsome face fascinating the fair sex. But this girl
was different; she was new and strange; naive and direct. There was
something about her, not of the face or form, that yet was shed by her
personality--a something that came via the eyes or the voice or the
gesture--a something penetratingly sweet and pure and poignant with
mystery. A spiritual quality new to Frank. None of his familiar weapons
was available--boisterousness, cynicism, flattery, all were useless.
And so he felt as if he were weak as water, and yet as if some new
Power were groping into his heart.
In the short awkward silence Edith could not help noticing and
disliking his clothes. The young man had his legs crossed widely,
his hands clasped about his knee--a favorite position of his, which
displayed his light-green socks and patent leather low shoes. His
necktie matched the socks, and was stuck with a ruby-studded horseshoe
pin. His collar was a “choker”; his shirt broadly striped. Edith had
a sudden senseless desire to muss his hair; it was so plastered and
shiny. Altogether she began to think him very odd and funny, and not to
be taken seriously.
But something had to be done with the silence, which was deepening, and
which made Frank fidget. Finally he burst out:
“You see I met your brother Sam--at least I called at his place--and he
promised to bring me up. Never knew he had a sister till this morning
and then Zug told me.”
As she said nothing, merely nodding, he stammered:
“What you think of Zug?”
“Mr. Zug? To tell you the truth, I’ve never thought very much about
him. I’m busy at the office.”
Frank brightened perceptibly.
“Say,” he began, “it’s quit raining. Would you care to take a walk,
Miss Kroll?”
This question was answered by three hearty knocks on the door. Edith
laughed as she rose:
“That’s Mr. Grupp.”
“Grupp?” cried Frank, “Mo Grupp, salesman for Heimedinger’s? Lordy, I
know Mo.”
Edith opened the door, and Mr. Grupp entered. He was a Bavarian built
like a short Grenadier, soldier-straight and stout, with ruddy face and
big spongy nose and weathered blue eyes. He had been a friend of the
Krolls the last thirty years--watched the babies grow and the parents
age--and for the delight of the human race spoke as broken an English
as he could command.
He at once seized Edith under the chin.
“Ah, Sveetie!” he cried; “how’s my Sveetie!”
Frank was seized with impatience; Edith laughed and drew back.
“Hello, Mo,” said Frank.
Mr. Grupp wheeled around.
“Well, my old college chum!” They shook hands. “My old college chum!”
“What brings _you_ here?” asked Frank.
“Such a question! I was here the day Edy was born, and you never heard
such a yelling in your life. Have a cigar?” he drew one from his pocket
and held it out, “It’s my last!”
Frank refused laughingly, much to Mr. Grupp’s relief. The older man sat
down and began puffing comfortably. Frank looked at Edith, but Edith
returned to her chair.
“Where’s your Mudder?” asked Mr. Grupp.
“She’s not so well,” said Edith, “she’s in bed.”
“That’s a fine way, when I call on her! Ach, but I’m sick, too!”
“Sick?” echoed Edith.
“Yes, I’ve lost my appetite. I remember twenty years ago, on my
birthday, your Father, _selig_, for breakfast said, ‘Eat till you
busted,’ und I eat a big juicy steak and twenty-two hard-boiled eggs.
Then I could eat. But now? Oh, weh! Oh, Mamma! I have no appetite. I
can only eat breakfast in the morning, and then a little yowsa (bite)
at ten; at noon, dinner, at four in the afternoon a cup of Mocha, then
supper, and at ten o’clock another yowsa. I’m a sick man.”
Edith laughed, for this was an old, old story. Mr. Grupp noticed
how Frank was fidgeting and enjoyed the little comedy greatly. He
deliberately reached over again and seized Edith’s chin:
“Well, my Sveetie!”
Edith pushed his hand away.
“Don’t!” she cried.
“Himmel! how nervous you’re getting. Yes,” he shook his head, “here
they call it nervous, but in the old country they call it verrückt
(crazy).”
Frank could not contain himself.
“Do you want to walk, Miss Kroll?”
“I don’t know,” said Edith. “Would you wait here, Mr. Grupp? Mother’s
alone.”
“Oh, ho!” Mr. Grupp winked his eye. “That’s the way, is it? Vell, for a
consideration----”
“No,” said Edith, “no kisses.”
“Vell,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I’m a poor Yank. So it goes!”
Edith smiled:
“Then I’ll ask Mother!”
This was so naive that Frank almost laughed. Edith ran into her
Mother’s room.
“Asleep, dear?” The room was dark.
“No,” came a soft voice in the warm darkness.
Edith felt out and touched the old arms, the old face.
“Mother dear,” she leaned over and put cheek to cheek, “Mr. Grupp is
here--he’ll wait--may I go out for a walk with Mr. Lasser?”
The Mother laughed softly and drew the young face closer:
“Ach, ya, run along!”
“You’re sure you won’t need me?”
“Soon you won’t ask no questions!--Is he a nice young feller?”
“I don’t know. He’s funny.”
“Well, don’t let him get any funnier till you know positif his
prospects and his savings and his family.”
“Oh, Mother!” cried Edith, shocked.
She kissed the old face and stole back. Mr. Grupp was revealing his
true heart to Frank, who was much bored, and kept saying flippantly,
“Aw, cut it out! You don’t know what you’re talking about”--much to
Edith’s displeasure. Mr. Grupp was talking Socialism; he was describing
the terrible lot of the toilers in mines and steel mills, and
predicting revolution, all with a fiery passion that grew incoherent.
“You will see,” he shouted, “we will have such a revolution worse than
the pogroms of Russia and the Inquisitive-ition. Watch my vords.”
“Cut it,” cried Frank, and then saw Edith gazing at him.
Edith said in a low voice that she could go, so they put on coats and
hats, and then finally Mr. Grupp buttonholed Frank as he was going out:
“Take my advice,” he said, “for I know vomen, Mr. Lasser.”
“Yes,” said Frank irritably.
Mr. Grupp spoke dramatically with flourishes of the arm.
“A tiger, Mr. Lasser, a _lion_, Mr. Lasser, a _rhinoceros_, Mr. Lasser,
_even a rattlesnake_, Mr. Lasser, you can tame--but a vomen, _never_!”
This was one of his pet formulas, and Edith laughed. Mr. Grupp
continued:
“If you want to be happy--fifty years engaged, and one year married!”
Frank, catching Edith’s eye then, laughed too, and they went out,
groping their way down the dim stairs and into the street. There was
something wild about the night, something sharp and vivid. Tattered
clouds, in the highest skies, were racing, and it seemed as if the
edge-broken moon were tumbling and plunging into the fleece--shrouded
a moment, and then spilling through the thin silver fringe, and then
rolling into a glory of moonlight. A star here and there came and
went. The street-lamps sparkled sharp; the shop-windows were lit; the
pavement, still wet, was daubed gold or silver by every light; and
people were wandering about, free and fresh in the cold blowing air.
As they walked along, Frank, under cover of night, became voluble, as
if in answer to the Mother’s question. Twelve a week and his expenses
and commission; he could easily earn eighteen to twenty a week; a
little family could live on that. He knew her brothers and many of the
family friends. He remembered her father “one of the best of them”--an
easy spender, a good fellow. He knew how to live! It’s an art this
generation hasn’t learned. Now, heavens, he knew fellows who didn’t
smoke, or play cards, or go to the races, or go around. Was the world
becoming womanized? The sissies! Why, a fellow wasn’t a man until he
had been through it all! Take this Zug; he was a queer one. Well, he
smoked; a fellow had to with a customer; and he used to be a regular
devil. But lately, he’s a sis. Stays home with his folks at night;
never touches a drop; never gambles. Tame as a dog. Eat out of your
hand. Reformed all but his temper. Did Edith favor that type of man?
But Edith was with the racing moon. His talk had been blowing
about her with the noises of the great night-city--the roar of the
elevated train, the rattle of a late wagon, the stir and talk of
people. Something of the morning came back to her, something of the
romance that goes on unseen through all the world. The wild skies,
the clear-eyed city, the buoyant air, the feel of a universe in
action--everything intensely alive, pulsing, dreaming, struggling--not
a grain of dust without its motion--and she moving through all, a part
of the processes, a part of the to-and-fro, the give-and-take of living
Nature. Glory was afoot; adventure was at hand. Whither was it all
leading? What wild destiny was whirling her through this chaos of life?
How good to breathe the air, how good to feel the blood tingle from
ankle to neck, how good to swing along--give the body its way--give
the mind to the moon, and the heart to the stirring people. She wanted
to speak of it; loose the tumult within her; she felt creative, as all
young people do; she wanted all this glory to prompt her brain and
her hands, until she shaped life, handled human beings, wrought in the
world.
So, at his question, she dropped from the skies, as it were, to his
side, and felt a sympathy for this living being who shared the night
with her.
He repeated his question.
“Shall I tell you,” she said softly, “what I like in a man?”
He felt a thrill steal through him; all the new Power worked on him and
made him weak.
“Tell me,” he murmured in a new voice--a voice lacking his habitual
glibness and coarseness.
“I like a man to be simple and sincere--just himself----” she
hesitated, and then went on with great courage. “In his clothes,
too--not too flashy--rather too quiet--and the same in his manners.
And he ought to think of others, and be very kind with stupid or weak
people. I like such men--and women, too.”
The effect of these plain words was emphatic. It was the new Power
at work. It was the woman-soul for the first time sweeping over
his. He saw himself in a new light, and was acutely conscious of his
socks, tie, pin, and shirt. He suddenly felt that Edith was at a great
distance, and that, dressed as he was, and mannered as he was, he
could not come an inch closer. That a woman should ever affect him in
this way was inconceivable. That something pure and sweet should begin
to bubble like a spring in his heart was a new experience. He felt
uncomfortable--almost meek.
Edith went on, in a low voice:
“Do you know Doctor Rast?”
“Rast?” he stammered, “Dr. Rast?--Oh, I guess I’ve heard of him. He’s
that”--he was going to say--“molly coddle,” but desisted.
“Dr. Rast,” said the young idealist slowly, “is just what a man should
be. He never thinks of himself; he gives his whole life to help others;
he makes people glad they are living. He’s very wonderful.”
Frank was more and more disturbed. Edith went on:
“He loves people. Once I heard him call the poor down here on the East
Side, ‘the beloved people!’”
They walked in silence.
“He’s so real,” said Edith fervently.
Frank felt a jealous stab.
“Is he married?”
“Oh,” laughed Edith softly, “very much. And he has a boy three years
old. I kissed him this morning.”
“The Doctor?”
Edith’s silver laughter matched the moon.
“No--the little boy.”
They had almost unconsciously retraced their steps and stood before the
doorway of the tenement.
“May I come up?” asked Frank.
“No,” said Edith simply, “my Mother isn’t well. I must look after her
now.”
Frank hesitated; thoughts and feelings hitherto unknown clamored at
his lips; his eyes were glistening; he felt something break within,
some hard crust about his heart; he was in a melting mood. It was
her exquisite face, the light of blue eyes in the light of the moon,
the quivering lips, the tinted cheeks, the stray hair; it was the
night; it was the glory of the new Power. His heart pounded, he was
breathless, something shuddered down his back. He held out his hand,
and when he enclosed hers and felt the little cool daintiness in his
grasp, the moment grew musical and magic for him.
He caught her eyes then, and as she saw the strangeness of his, the
expression of concern and longing and humility, the mother in her
awoke. Was he trying for her sake? She pitied him, she wanted to help
him, she looked at him with a sweet sadness. She took him into her
life. She even, for a moment, liked his face.
At that look, all crashed within him. His eyes dimmed; her sweetness
made him faint; her presence was a power that swept him. He had to
speak.
“I want to say,” he said brokenly, humbly, “I want to say--you’ve made
me feel different on some things. I never knew a woman who--who made me
feel this way. Good-night.”
Her heart sang.
“You must come again--soon!” she cried.
And then she was gone.
It was as if he were a baby again in his Mother’s arms. All the buried
goodness and tenderness and love emerged again. He wandered home in
a dream; he sought out his home in Henry Street, hardly noticed his
mother and father and their two friends who were playing pinochle in
the dining room, and went to bed. He could not sleep. He kept trying to
see Edith’s face--but it only came in enchanted glimpses--a glance of
eyes, a quiver of lips, a tint of cheeks. More subtle and strong was
the power of her spirit, sweeping over him like an ocean of sunrise,
with singing voices and silent light and snatches of heavenly beauty
and peace. He tried to summon up remembrance of the many women he had
met--“peaches” all. But they somehow had lost their good looks. They
were hard, coarse, vulgar. All the new Power in him repulsed these
images. He could not laugh at himself, he could not be sufficiently
amazed. All he knew was that henceforth there was but one real woman;
and that there was a hidden man in him long subdued, but now rising in
strength and vitality and claiming possession of his body. For hours
he lay awake, very still, very quiet, while music came and went, and
visions of the Unseeable swept his brain, and his heart bubbled like a
white dawn. It was a night of death and birth.
But Edith slept soundly beside her Mother. The Mother had asked her:
“Well, is he funny yet?”
“Sort of,” said Edith tenderly, “but he can be nice when he wants to.”
“H’m,” muttered the Mother.