THE SECOND NIGHT
One reason why Frank had never met a good woman was that since he was
old enough to take to the streets he had not met his Mother. She was
the type of woman one might call a shadow. Thin she was, frail, small,
with large eyes and lips and fast-fading hair, and by dressing in black
she made herself all the more obscure. Her husband was all bluster,
emotion, impatience--March weather, a short man with a hawk nose and
blood-shot eyes. The mother was negative, passive, unprotesting.
Wherefore when Frank came into the dining room that next morning and
put his arms about her and gently kissed her, she was shocked, and
feared he was ill. Her alarm increased as she noted his appearance. He
had on a dark shirt and a black tie; his collar was low; his face pale.
“What’s the matter, Frank?” she asked.
“Nothing, Mother.” He smiled gently.
“I thought----” but shadows do not tell their thoughts.
Gazing at her with curious eyes, Frank felt he was making a discovery.
He began to realize how shabby her life was, lived possibly in an
area of ten square city blocks. She never went anywhere; her sole
pleasure was cards; her life was the common lot of the women of the
poor--washing, scrubbing, cooking, sewing, marketing. Frank saw the
pitiful lines of her face, the large hungry eyes, the tragic want. It
went through him like a needle of pain that this too was a woman with
all a woman’s passions. Poor Mother! Seven times had she brought to
this world in pain a human child. Seven seasons had she had of sickness
unto death. Three times had she kissed a child’s dead face and buried
a fragment of her soul under Earth. And those who had lived! Sickness,
poverty, constant worry and care, constant sewing and washing. And yet
she had said that she had not known trouble till her sixth child was
born--her first boy--Frank. Frank remembered the phrase, and began to
see something heroic in the quiet woman. He made up his mind to bring
her some flowers that evening. He was the only child at home; the rest
were married.
He was also deferential to his father, so much so that that gentleman
suspected a plot, and began to bluster:
“You good-for-nothing loafer,” he cried, shaking his newspaper, “what
are you after? If it’s money, go zum kukuk!”
Luckily, enough of the old Frank came back to answer this:
“Shut up, governor!” he snapped.
And the governor relaxed.
Frank kissed his mother good-by and went out into the brilliant
weather. The wild fresh winds were loosed over the earth like young
colts; blobs of white cloud swam over the blue; the sun came and went,
the streets darkening into winter and then bursting splendid into
spring. The air had an electric quality, that charged the heart with
lusty life. It was a morning for brisk walking, hard work, joy and good
nature. Shadows slapped buildings and gutter, and vanished.
Frank hurried through the familiar streets. There was something glad
and good in him; he had discovered his mother; now he was discovering a
new world. He was really trying to see through Edith’s eyes--to measure
the world with the new man within him. As truly as he did not know his
new self, he did not know these familiar people and streets. Life took
on a new aspect; a new light bathed the world, and people, steeped in
it, appeared divine. He had a feeling of wanting to stop people and
shake them by the hands and tell them: “I know you now. You, too, love
and have loved.” Truly the world was a deeper and greater place than
he had dreamed! There was more than the glittering surfaces and the
laughter: there was a touch of glory, a vital meaning, a struggle of
millions of destinies. And everywhere sprang the vision in shade and
shine--sweet Edith.
Further than that his thought could not go, for he was fumbling with
new sensations, and could only feel them. But he was humble and glad
and sad and thoughtful, and he longed with all his heart to see the
young girl.
So thinking, almost instinctively he walked to Grand and Clinton on a
chance of meeting her. Instead he met Marcus. He had a new feeling for
Marcus, because he was Edith’s brother. So he looked at him keenly, and
noticed his peaked and drawn face, the look of haggard exhaustion, the
expression of listless indifference.
As they walked along Frank asked him what the trouble was.
“Oh,” said Marcus bitterly, “women.”
“Women, eh?”
Marcus spoke more bitterly: “Why don’t they put a fellow wise? Here I
go and get this trouble--why, I ain’t much of a sport, either.”
“Tut, I’ve taken trouble from women myself.”
Marcus evidently didn’t know all the ins and outs.
“It’s curable, ain’t it?”
“Sure thing! You just go to one of those fellows who advertise in the
papers. He’ll fix you in a few weeks.”
“Were you cured?”
“Of course.”
“Are you sure, though?”
“Why, it’s the simplest thing in the world. Quit your worrying. Every
boy gets it. He’s not a man till he’s been through it.”
Marcus was very bitter about the women. They were the ruination of the
world; wild oats full of rotten disease; marriage not only a gamble but
a hell.
Said Frank soothingly:
“I used to think the same myself. I think differently now. A good woman
is an angel.”
It did not occur to him that his change of attitude was wrought
overnight.
And so they walked along, and then Marcus drifted off into the
thronging people to such business as the day held for him, and Frank,
with eager, quick steps, climbed to the loft, passed through the roar
of machines and the dim beings in the twilight and entered the front
office.
Zug was standing at the shut window in a familiar attitude, foot on the
low sill, hands in pockets. Frank made up his mind to be good to Zug,
for, under the new dispensation, Zug also was a human being.
“Brisk weather!” he said.
He fell into Zug’s attitude and both gazed idly at the busy street--the
children snaking in and out, the fat women nosing about the pushcarts,
the pedlars with their Babylonian beards, all the strange people garbed
modernly and yet as old as Israel. It was a bright, living sight--dabs
of red, blue, black--a mix and shuffle of faces and forms--each body
standing out distinctly as it threaded among the others. Cars clanged
by, wagons hurried.
“Yes,” said Zug, “a snappy morning!”
He did not look at Frank.
Then came a light tread and both turned. There she was, just as we saw
her yesterday. Blue hat, black feather; graceful girlish form, lines
that rippled; wild-rose face. The light of the morning had risen;
penetrated the clothing loft, and shone there like love. She smiled
sweetly at both. Both murmured some nothingness. She passed into the
other office. Only sunset remained--the empty glowing shell of day.
They heard the little clatter as she uncovered the typewriter and set
to work cleaning it. They loved the busy toil of her fingers. They
imagined her face, bending low, absorbed.
“Jonas,” said Frank, low, “come to lunch with me to-day.”
Jonas muttered his willingness.
They went that noon to Fleischer’s Bakery, in narrow Division Street,
in darkness under the elevated road. When the door opens, and it does
often (so many go to Fleischer’s), the passing train drowns out speech.
But Fleischer’s was the place! There you could get eggs--sunny side up,
browned-on-both, omelet, jelly or plain, scrambled, boiled,--and cakes!
Cakes! Rings, eclairs, puffs, apple or cheese. And the waitresses,
Jewish-fashion, show that they are not menials and inferiors, but
speak to you familiarly, and quarrel with you as if you belonged to the
family. There never was an inferior Jew. Even if he is a pedlar he will
discuss the weather or the cost of living or the Talmud as if he were
an elder brother. To be a Jew is to belong to the oldest aristocracy of
earth.
Students here sipped their coffee and talked Socialism, or Kant and
Hegel, or Music or Literature, or the latest performance at the Yiddish
theatre. Business men traded. Working girls gossiped of bosses, and she
says, and he says, and do you know him, and what do you think.
Frank and Jonas had a little marble table to themselves, and spoke as
best they could in the uproar.
Said Jonas:
“I saw you with Marc this morning.”
“Well?”
“You know him pretty well, eh?”
“Known him years.”
“Intimate?”
“Enough to call on him.”
“Call? You ever call there?”
“Only last night!” Frank, in spite of himself, could not forbear a
smile.
Jonas spoke jealously:
“You said yesterday you didn’t know Miss Kroll.”
“No more I did. I know her now, though!”
Frank saw the vein on Jonas’ forehead swell out, and as Jonas leaned
toward him, and said in a low voice:
“Lasser, I want to say something to you,” he felt again that electric
atmosphere as of two souls grappling in death struggle. He was not in a
mood for trifling, and something dark issued up from his heart and his
blood swiftened.
“Go ahead,” he muttered, “but cut it short.”
Zug leaned nearer, and his voice came low:
“Lasser, what’s your game with this girl?”
“What’s yours?”
“Lasser,” Zug broke out, still keeping his voice private, “I know
you. I know what women mean to you. I’m not going to have _her_ made
unhappy.”
The darkness in Frank deepened into blackness. He felt demons within
him, a rage never before felt.
“Who gave _you_ charge of her?” he muttered.
“Who?” Zug’s voice came as if he were smothering or strangling, “I--I
love her--I want to marry her--I--I love Edith!”
Frank at that moment did not sense the tragedy of Zug’s life; he only
felt outraged and blind devilish anger. He spoke very quietly:
“I ain’t a baby, Zug, and if ever you talk to me this way again, I’ll
knock you down!”
Zug leaned still nearer.
“Be careful, Lasser. I swear I’ll watch and protect her, and trip you
up!”
Frank arose, and spoke hotly:
“I’ll pay for you as I go out.”
Zug rose:
“No you won’t. I’ll not take anything from you, Lasser!”
They elbowed each other at the cashier’s desk and each paid for his own
lunch. Then they went out and separated. Zug returned to the office.
He found Edith washing her hands in the little white basin. She looked
very pretty, her sleeves up, and she nodded to him laughingly.
He paused beside her and tried to command himself. He was going to do
her a service. She should come under his wing, Edith, the innocent. As
he struggled with himself a beam of sunlight smote through the window,
making the water flash, and lighting Edith’s face as she looked at him.
He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her vivid face. Then he
spoke:
“What do you think of our new salesman?”
“Mr. Lasser?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” she said lightly, “I guess he’s all right.”
Zug burst out strangely:
“No, he isn’t all right. He’s led a fast life. I’d almost call him a
dissipated fellow. He’s not the sort you ought to know.”
“No?”
He had reckoned without the woman in Edith. Glancing up, he saw that
she was offended. She dried her hands slowly, and spoke evenly:
“You must never talk that way again, Mr. Zug. I don’t like it!”
She went out. How could he know that she whom he wanted to take under
his wing was taking Frank under _her_ wing? That all the creative,
the mother in her had risen, and she was filled with a passion for
making a man out of him. Zug could not work that afternoon; he walked
miles through the city, even up to Central Park, torn with jealousy,
despair, and love, and struggling with his doom. He felt the coming of
a great tragedy. He felt that Edith, unknown to herself, had swung out
on the perilous seas of life, and that her pilot would steer her on
the rocks. When he thought of her pure girlhood, her fresh beauty, her
spiritual strength, and foresaw the change that might come--the change
to disaster, the blighting of the bud, the dry-rot of the years, it
seemed to him that he would go insane. Who could protect her? She was
enfolded in ignorance and carelessness--the stupid old mother, the
flippant brothers. Where was there help? Her own innocence was now her
worst enemy. Vile system of education that allows boys to get their
knowledge of sex on the street and then turns them loose on girls who
know nothing, girls who are carefully shielded from the very facts that
concern them deepest! What more near to a girl than motherhood? And
here was Edith, just made to be a wife, a mother, even created for love
and joy of husband and laughing children, and she knew so little. She
could be led by a Lasser, and God knows the Lassers of this world have
wrecked many sweet possibilities.
Full of this storm was Zug, poor honest fellow! He was nearly thirty;
he had not been an angel; but there was in him something solid and
sound--a right worthy man--a man who would have served Edith like
a faithful dog, showered her with “attentions,” foreseen her least
wishes, shielded her from pain, smoothed out life’s wrinkles, blunted
the blows of tragedy. All this he had done for her, and given her,
too, passionately strong children.
So he went his way, raving; as many others at this moment go _their_
way raving; this being a strange world. The whole heart wishes
something; the passion that fills it we connect with God; it seems
inevitable; for this we were born. But never in our lives shall
we have it. Another comes and takes it easily. And if such is our
nature, we rave. If we could wing in an aeroplane above the city,
and the roofs were removed, and through some new telescope we could
see simultaneously the lives of four million people, the sight would
be branded on the brain as with white fire. Women shrieking with
childbirth, death-rattle of babe or man, deserted wives, suicides,
crime, lust, ruin, a host that rave. And yet walk the streets--how
common are these people! How curious or happy or listless! A stolid
crowd! The men in the cars read their papers, the people in skyscrapers
talk business, the restaurants are filled with chatter and laughter,
the theaters roar with applause.
And so Zug, whose imagination was not social, walked through a city of
souls, who all about him wept, shrieked, laughed, toiled, raved, and
he knew it not. Out of four millions three were vivid and real--Edith,
Lasser, himself. And so he went his way.
Edith and Frank went _their_ way.
Edith was putting on coat and hat under the electric bulb at six, when
Frank asked if he could accompany her. She smilingly assenting, they
went out together. Her blood was up; her heart and mind roused. She
knew already her power over this man, and was too much of a woman and
too ignorant not to use it. It was an experiment in motherhood. So she
saw no harm in having him at her side, and she made up her mind to
give him much good advice and plenty of ideals. Withal she was so much
herself, or possibly, so full of more than herself (heaven and earth is
in all youth!) that Frank noticed no change.
The skies had cleared, and were beginning to fill with stars; the wind
had died, the air warmed. Again Spring leapt on the earth, dancing
over sea, and city and prairie, scattering blossoms and babies, and
hope and youth and love. The city throbbed all about them; windows
shone golden with hint of supper and gathered families; the day’s work
was ended. Evening had come with peace and joy and contentment. Frank
had so much to say that he said nothing. He wanted to tell her of his
long sleepless night. But her presence at his side, the touch of her
elbow, the swing of her skirt, the faint glimpses of her face, flung
a wild enchantment over him. And she, too, at the first new breath
of Spring, was swept by strange passions. Not as yesterday--vague
yearning, vague desire, the sadness and longing for something than all
things wilder, sweeter. She felt sex. She felt that she was a woman,
and he a man. She felt that she was being wooed--the old, old romance,
the magic pursuit, the witchery of the hunt. Beautiful it was, and sad
as moon-stirred seas, filling the eyes with tears, shaking the sweet
flesh with tremors, waking the brain to the music of the earth and the
heavens.
So neither spoke, but at the doorway:
“It will be such a good night to-night for a walk,” said Frank.
“All right; then come at eight!”
He came. Edith laughed at his side. The warmth of the night had drawn
people out of doors, as the sun’s heat unfolds buds. The streets
flowered with human beings. Boys and girls played across the gutter;
women sat out on stoops with their babies; organ-grinders were abroad
with shouted song; the soda-water stands at corners were being tapped
of green and scarlet liquids, weird to eye and tongue; and the lovers
wove their way like melodies through the air. Oh, air, languishing,
caressing, perfect! Oh, scene, human, warm, divine! Oh, night with
yonder still, still moon, nearly full.... Silver is on the pulsing
city; towers loom black; ferries glisten red and green and gold on the
swimming tides. On such a night!
Edith was laughing.
“Marc was going out, but I told him to stay till I got back. He didn’t
want to, so I made him!”
Frank laughed.
“Where shall we go? Do you ever go to the Nickel Theater?”
“Yes, and I love to. But first we must go to Dr. Rast. I have to report
Mother’s case!”
Dr. Rast! So he would see the Ideal. His blood quickened.
“Is your Mother very ill?”
Sad was Edith:
“Yes--very--she has a weak heart--you know what that means.”
Frank said nothing; Edith went on tragically:
“Really, if anything happened to Mother----”
Frank’s heart went out in pity:
“Why should anything happen?”
“She gets excited--and she mustn’t--anything like that might kill her!”
Frank found nothing further to say, and then, queer thing, strive as
she would, Edith could keep neither fear nor grief in her heart. They
sprang from her breast like birds and disappeared in yonder moon. Magic
poured into her; she laughed over trifles; she felt elate, free, gay.
Wings sprouted on her shoulder-blades and lifted her lightly along. On
such a night! Frank was enchanted with her; all the spiritual strength
of hers was now touched with airy poetry, winding him with light
ecstasy.
She would stop to look at a baby, or clutch a dirty little urchin, or
mark the progress of the moon judged by the house-tops, or point out a
drift of chimney smoke thinning into silver; and so they tripped along,
or winged along, neither now being near the earth, darted across the
Playground Park, that lay bare and black-shadowed in the moonlight and
came to Dr. Rast’s office. The hall-door was open, so they went in and
knocked.
The Doctor flung open the door.
“Edith?”
“Yes,” she laughed, “and this,” Frank emerged from darkness, “is Mr.
Lasser.”
“Glad to know you!” he shook hands with Frank. “Come in!”
They entered the cozy glowing office, with its flat top desk in
center, its curtains, its shining instrument case. Nell was sitting
on the rocker, at her everlasting sewing. The windows were open; the
street-noise entered; but the hush and sanctity of home were in the
room--an atmosphere steeped with love and content and labor done and
done well. The tears came to Edith’s eyes. Just such a home did she
want! But with whom? She glanced curiously at Frank.
He was studying the Doctor; his handsome face, throbbing with life, was
intent on the Ideal. So this was it--big, dark, smooth-faced, simple.
Edith understood his studious look. She thrilled to think that he was
studying a model.
All of which was in the flash of a moment. Nell rose and greeted Edith
with a kiss, and met Frank with extended hand. The Doctor puffed hard
at his pipe. Nell put an arm about Edith.
“Morris,” she cried, “did you ever see a girl so radiantly happy?”
The Doctor looked from Edith to Frank, and from Frank to Edith. He
didn’t much favor Frank. But he laughed heartily.
“What’s up, Edith?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?” asked the Doctor.
“Nothing.”
Whereupon all four laughed as if that were a huge joke.
“I guess it’s the weather,” said Nell.
“H’m,” said the Doctor, “H’m!”
Edith explained then that her mother had had a bad day, and would the
Doctor look in to-morrow? He said he would.
Edith dismissed the subject:
“Where’s the baby?”
“Davy?” growled the Doctor. “Don’t you call him a baby.” He imitated
his son. “He’s a _big boy_!”
“Want to see him?” asked Nell. “Fast asleep!”
They started arms round each other.
“May I come, too?” asked Frank.
“Surely,” cried the Doctor. “I, too.”
They all went on tiptoe in the dark bedroom, and the Doctor lit the
gas, turning it dim. Softly they peered into the crib, and saw that
perfect miracle--the head sideways, red lips parted, cheek rosy, lids
together, tuft of hair on the pillow, and one little hand lying on
the coverlet. A living child, but snatched to the far world of sleep.
Breathing, but a blank. Heart beating, but all the vision of this earth
shut away.
“Beautiful,” murmured Edith.
She turned to Frank.
“Don’t you love little children?” she whispered.
Never had he loved them, but a terrific pang went through him. Now he
loved them.
“I do--I do,” he breathed.
Softly they went out. The ties between Edith and Frank were thickening.
Those last few words had stirred both to the soul. How could he help
thinking of _their_ children? How could she help thinking of _her_
children? And the father? The Doctor and Nell said little to these
entranced visitors. There was little to say. What would you say to an
angel that suddenly flew in at the window? So the Doctor shut them
out into a moonlight night, and Nell and he looked at each other with
glistening eyes.
“Her time has come,” whispered the Doctor. “The bud begins to open.
Springtime--girlhood! Oh, the mystery!”
“But do you like him?” asked Nell.
“I’m not going to marry him,” said the Doctor.
Into the moonlight stepped our pretty pair. Or rather winged again. And
thus found themselves in the Playground Park.
“Shall we sit a little?” asked he.
“Yes,” laughed she.
They sat down on a bench; behind them green was tipping the branches
of a bush; the earth smelt damp and new; and above them, stars, stars,
stars ... and the moon....
“Just look!” said Edith.
He looked; she looked--everywhere stars, dimmed about the solemn glory
of the moon.
“What are they, I wonder,” whispered she, “so far from us?”
“They say,” he murmured, “many of them are worlds bigger than this
world and people live on them....”
“Oh, isn’t the world big,” said she.
“We down here,” laughed Frank, “are nothing.”
“But we see it all!”
They were silent.
“And isn’t it beautiful!” breathed Edith. “Did you ever know how
beautiful it was before!”
“No,” he whispered, “never.”
“Everything seems alive,” she whispered, “the earth ... the air ... the
moon ... the stars ... we....”
On such a night! Oh, moon, that shinest on these young souls! Oh, air,
fragrant with earth, caressing, languishing! Oh, world so fearfully
wrought, so marvelous and magical! Oh, we living beings that breathe
this air, that see yonder moon and stars, that feel this night! Why
should we not give up our hearts to these strange ecstasies, these wild
enchantments? Is not life common enough, sordid enough---- Why not one
night of magic and glamour?
The two trembled close together; his face was softened with unselfish
love; the night and Edith had conquered him. His face was almost
beautiful with man-beauty. He leaned and whispered near.
“Listen!”
He half-turned toward her, and their eyes met.
“I want to tell you,” he whispered, and his heart poured mellow with
the words, “you’ve changed me; made a man of me. I never knew there was
such a woman!”
She was looking into his eyes. Her face was perfect with its sadness,
its ecstasy, its flash and tint and shadow and fire. And then, as she
saw his changed face and heard the wonderful words, suddenly a bolt
of electric lightning shot her heart, sprang through her eyes, smote
through his, consumed him head to foot. Both were weakened; trembled;
could not look away.
He murmured:
“Edith.”
She sighed.
“Edith.”
Then her eyes fell.
“No,” she murmured.
But the thing had happened. For life and death, Edith, you are his, he
is yours. Nature has spoken through you both, and Nature is stronger
than either of you. He is what he is, O Seventeen, but whatever he is,
he is yours. Marriages are not arranged by mortals--at least, not the
real ones.
Surely there are many powers in this world. Have we not given some of
them names? Electricity, heat, light, steam, gravitation. But there
are many other Powers, Powers unclassified, bunched under just one
name--God. It is when these Powers are at work that we little human
beings are used by mighty hands.
Remember Edith’s age. She was just ripening; she was just awake to sex;
she was ready. The moment came. Frank happened to be beside her. Nature
flung the bolt through her and him.
She was looking down. There was a long and sacred silence. For in the
first glow, contact is a sacrilege, and words are useless. Frank’s
better nature was uppermost. He would have died for her at the moment.
He was breathless; he could not see. He knew, and she knew. That was
enough. Not yet, O Human Marriage! And yet could they ever be more
married than at that first flash?
She murmured in a queer, tremulous voice:
“Take me home.... I want to go home.”
He conducted her silently. They saw no people, though this happens to
be an inhabited city; they saw no houses; they saw no moon nor lamps.
Voices they heard, pouring an ecstatic music; spheres of fire winged
about them. They were not in Time and Space; they were in ... Love.
For many hours, before sleeping, they heard that music, saw that fire.
We may not tell of it. But we know. We, too, were young.