At his desk in _The Cry_ office Tesla was preparing the April issue of
the magazine for the printer. It was night. A garrulous political poet
named Myers was revising proofs at a smaller desk. Brander and a tall,
thin woman stood talking quietly to each other in a gloomy corner of the
office. Rachel, who had returned to the place after a hurried supper
with Tesla, waited listlessly. He had promised to finish up in a
half-hour, but there was more work than he had figured.
"We're reprinting a part of the article on the White Terror in Germany
that Erik Dorn has in the _New Opinion_," Tesla said. Rachel nodded her
head. Later Tesla asked her, "This Dorn, what is he? His writing is
amusing, sometimes violent, but always empty. He doesn't like life much,
eh?"
"I don't know," said Rachel.
"Yes," Tesla smiled. "He hates us all--reds and whites, radicals and
bourgeoisie. Yet he can write in a big way. But he isn't a big man. He
has no faith. I remember him once in Chicago. He hasn't changed."
Rachel's eyes remained steadily upon the socialist as he cleared his
desk. He stood up finally and came to where she was sitting.
"It's necessary to have something besides self," he said softly. "I was
born in a room that smelled bad. Perhaps that's why the world smells bad
to me now. I still live there. It's good to live where there are smells.
Our radicals sit too much in hotel lobbies that other people keep clean
for them."
Brander thrust his large figure between them, the tall, thin woman
moving vaguely about the room.
"Sometimes I think you're a fake, Emil," he said. "You're too good to be
true."
He grinned at Rachel.
"By the way," he went on, looking at her, "I brought something to show
you." His hands dug a paper out of his coat pocket. "You see, I've
preserved our correspondence."
He held out a letter. Rachel's eyes darkened.
"Oh, there's no hurry," Brander laughed. "So long as you keep the
application on file, you know."
Tesla, listening blankly, interrupted:
"It's late. We should go home. I'll go home with you, Rachel, and talk."
The thin woman, watching Brander anxiously, approached and seized his
arm.
"All right," the artist whispered. "We'll go now."
Rachel felt a relief as Brander passed out of the door with the woman.
"He disturbs you," Tesla commented. She nodded her head. Words seemed
to have abandoned her. There was almost a necessity for silence. They
walked out, leaving Myers still at his desk.
In the deserted streets Rachel walked beside Tesla. She felt tired.
"He's never tired," she thought, her eyes glancing at the stocky figure.
He wasn't talking as he said he would.
The night felt sad and cold. A dead March night. If not for Emil, what?
"Perhaps I'll kill myself. There's nothing now. I'm always alone. No
to-morrows."
In the evenings she came to the office to meet Emil for supper because
there was nothing else to do. Emil seemed like an old man, always
preoccupied, his eyes always burning with preoccupations. After supper
he usually walked home with her, talking to her of poor people. There
seemed no hatred in him, no argument. Poor people in broken houses.
Christ came and gave them a God. Now the revolution would come with
flaming embittered eyes but wearing a gentle smile for the poor people
in broken houses, and give them rest and happiness.
But to-night he was silent. When they had walked several blocks he began
to talk without looking at her.
"Come with me," he asked. "I live alone in a little house. We can be
happy there. You have nobody."
Rachel repeated "Nobody."
She looked at him but his eyes avoided her.
"My mother died long ago," he went on. "She was an old woman. She used
to live in this house where I live. We were always poor. I had brothers
and sisters. They've all gone somewhere. Things happened to them. I have
only my work now. Nobody else. But I'm alone too much. Since we have
seen each other I have been thinking of you. Brander has told me
something but that doesn't matter. I would like to marry you."
He paused and seemed to grow bewildered.
"Excuse me," he mumbled. Rachel took his hand and held it as they
walked. Tears in her whispered "Nobody ... nobody." The homely face of
Tesla was looking at her and saying something with its silence: "I am
not for you as Erik was. But that is gone. Dead for always...."
He was kind. It would be easy to live with him. But not married. A chill
drifted through her. It didn't matter what she did. Life had ended one
afternoon months ago. She remembered the sun shining on the sand, the
burning sea, and Erik asleep. The memory said "I am the last picture of
life."
It would be easy with Tesla. He loved elsewhere ... a wild gentle
thing--people. Poor people in broken houses. He would give her only
kindness and companionship. And if he would let her cry to-night and
make believe she was a child crying....
They had taken a different direction. This was the neighborhood where
Tesla lived. Rachel looked about her in fear. She remembered the
district. Now she was coming to live here in these streets where people
begin to give forth an odor.
As she walked beside Tesla his silence became dark like the scene
itself. She had always thought of him as somewhat strange. Now she
understood why he had seemed strange to her. Because he carried an
underworld in his heart. In his nose there was always the odor of the
streets from which he had sprung, and in his mind there was always the
picture of them. Other things did not fool him.
"Is it far?" she asked.
He looked at her, smiling.
"No," he said. "Do you want to go?"
She pressed his hand. It would be better. But her heart hurt. That was
foolish. Emil was somebody different. Not like a man, but an old man--or
an old background. There would be things to think about--Revolution.
Before, revolution was people arguing and being dragged to jail.
Sometimes people fighting. But it was something else--a thing hidden and
spreading--and here in the dark street about them where Emil lived.
Emil seemed to vanish into a background. She walked and thought of the
streets in which Emil lived. Here in the daytime the rows of sagging
little houses were like teeth in an old man's mouth. From them arose
exhalations of stagnant wood, decaying stairways; of bodies from which
the sweats of lust and work were never washed. Soft bubbling alleys
under a stiff sun. The stench like a grime leadened the air. Something
to think about in places like this. Revolution crawling up and down soft
alleys ... something in the mud waiting to be hatched.
In this street lived men and women whose hungers were not complicated by
trifles. In this way they were, as they moved thick-faced and unsmiling,
different from the people who lived in other streets and who had
civilized their odors and made ethics of their hungers. The people who
lived here walked as if they were being pushed in and out of the sagging
houses. Shrieking children appeared during the daytime and sprawled
about. They rolled over one another, their faces contorted with a
miniature senility. They urinated in gutters, threw stones at one
another in the soft alleys, ran after each other, cursing and gesturing
with idiot violence. They brought an awkward fever into the street.
Oblivious of them and the débris about them, barrel-shaped women
strutted behind their protuberant bellies, great flapping shoes over the
pavements. They moved as if unaccustomed to walking in streets.
When it grew dark the men coming home from the factories began to crowd
the street. They walked in silence, a broken string of shuffling figures
like letters against the red of the sky. Their knees bent, their jaws
shoved forward, their heads wagged from side to side. They vanished
into the sagging houses, and the night came ... an unwavering gloom
picked with little yellow glows from windows. The houses lay like
bundles of carefully piled rags in the darkness. The shrieking of the
children died, and with it the pale fever of the day passed out of the
air. There were left only the odors.
There were odors now, coming to them as they walked. Invisible banners
of decay floating upon the night. Stench of fat kitchens, of soft
bubbling alleys, of gleaming refuse. Indefinable evaporations from the
dark bundles of houses wherein people had packed themselves away. They
came like a rust into her nose.
She was moving into a new world. Drunken men appeared and lurched into
the darkness with cursings and mutterings. Sometimes they sang. The
smoke of the factory chimneys was now invisible, but the chimneys, like
rows of minarets, made darker streaks in the gloom. And in the distance
blast furnaces gutted the night with pink and orange flares. Figures of
girls not yet shaped like barrels came into the street and stood for
long moments in the shadows. Rachel watched them as she passed. They
moved away into the depths of the soft alleys and vanished. It was late
night. The exhalations of alleys and houses increased as if some great
disintegration was stewing in the night. A new world....
Rachel's fingers reached for Tesla's hand. She felt surprised. There was
no thought of Erik. This about her was a world untouched by the shadow
Erik had left behind. So she could live here easily. And Emil was not a
man like Erik. Erik, who stood alone, stark, untouched by life. Emil was
a background. It would be easy. Her fingers, tightly laced in his, grew
cold. Erik would come back. "Come back," murmured her thought. "Oh, if
he should come back! No, I mustn't fool myself. It's over. And I can
either live or die. I'll live a little while. Why? Because I still love
him. Erik mine!"
But it didn't sadden her to walk up the dark steps of Tesla's house.
"Erik, good-bye!" Not even that mattered. Erik was gone. That was all
something else. Not gone. Oh, God, no! Only Erik had died. She still
lived with a dead name in her heart. But here were odors--strange
people.
* * * * * *
It was barely furnished but clean inside. Later Rachel sat, her head in
Tesla's arms, and wept. She was not sad. Her thought faltered, reaching
for words, but drifting away. This is what had become of her--nothing
else but this.
Tesla looked quietly at her and kept murmuring, "Little girl, the world
is big. There are other things than self. Must you cry? Cry, then. I
know what sadness is."
His hands moved gently through her loosened hair and he smiled
sorrowfully.
"Dear child," he whispered, "you can always cry in my arms and I will
understand. It is the way the world sometimes cries in my heart. I
understand.... Yes ... yes...."