THE BEARDED STRANGER
Though that which happened to Jeanne on this very night could scarcely be
called an adventure, it did serve to relieve the feeling of depression
which had settled upon her like a cloud after that dramatic but quite
terrible moment when the irate director had driven her from the stage. It
did more than this; it gave her a deeper understanding of that mystery of
mysteries men call life.
Between acts she stood contemplating her carefully creased trousers and
the tips of her shiny, patent leather shoes. Suddenly she became
conscious that someone was near, someone interested in her. A sort of
sixth sense, a gypsy sense, told her that eyes were upon her.
As her own eyes swept about a wide circle, they took in the bearded man
with large, luminous eyes. He was standing quite near. With sudden
impulse, she sprang toward him.
"Please tell me." Her voice was eager. "Why did you say all this was 'a
form of life'?"
"That question," the man spoke slowly, "can best be answered by seeing
something other than this. Would you care to go a little way with me?"
Jeanne gave him a quick look. She was a person of experience, this little
French girl. "He can be trusted," her heart assured her.
"But I am working." Her spirits dropped.
"There are extra ushers."
"Yes--yes."
"I will have one called."
"This man has influence here," Jeanne thought a moment later, as, side by
side, they left the building. "Who can he be?" Her interest increased
tenfold.
"We will go this way."
They turned west, went over the bridge, crossed the street to the south,
then turned west again.
"Oh, but this--this is rather terrible!" Jeanne protested. Scarcely five
minutes had passed. They had left the glitter and glory of jewels, rich
silks and costly furs behind. Now they were passing through throngs of
men. Roughly clad men they were, many in rags. Their faces were rough and
seamed, their hands knotted and blue with cold. Jeanne drew her long coat
tightly about her.
"No one will harm you." Her strange companion took her arm.
The street setting was as drab as were those who wandered there: cheap
movies displaying gaudy posters, cheaper restaurants where one might
purchase a plate of beans and a cup of coffee for a dime. The wind was
rising. Picking up scraps of paper and bits of straw, it sent them in an
eddy, whirling them round and round. Like dead souls in some lost world,
these bits appeared to find no place to rest.
"See!" said her companion. "They are like the men who wander here; they
have no resting place."
Jeanne shuddered.
But suddenly her attention was arrested by a falling object that was
neither paper nor straw, but a pigeon.
One glance assured her that this was a young bird, fully grown and
feathered, who had not yet learned to fly. He fluttered hopelessly on the
sidewalk.
"A beautiful bird," was her thought. "Such lovely plumage!"
A passer-by with an ugly, twisted face leered up at her as he said:
"There's something to eat."
"Some--"
Jeanne did not finish. To her utter astonishment she saw that a very
short man in a long greasy coat had captured the pigeon, tucked it under
his coat and was making off.
"He--he won't eat it?" she gasped.
"Come. We will follow." Her companion hurried her along.
The short man, with the bird still under his arm, had turned south into a
dark and deserted street. Jeanne shuddered and wished to turn back. Then
she thought of the pigeon. "He is beautiful even now," she whispered.
"What must he be when he gets his second plumage? How proudly he will
strut upon the roof-tops.
"Tell me truly," she said to her companion, "he would not eat him?"
There came no answer.
Having traveled two blocks south, they crossed the street to find
themselves facing a vacant lot. There, amid piles of broken bricks and
rusty heaps of sheet-iron, many camp fires burned. Moving about from fire
to fire, or sitting huddled about them, were men. These were more ragged
and forlorn, if that were possible, than those she had seen upon the
street.
Then, with the force of a bullet, truth entered the very heart of her
being. These men were derelicts. These piles of broken bricks and rusting
iron were their homes; these camp fires their kitchens. Soon the young
pigeon would be simmering in a great tin can filled with water.
"Wait!" she cried, leaping forward and seizing the short man by the arm.
"Don't--don't cook him! I will pay you for him. Here! Here is a dollar.
Is that enough? If not, I have another."
Blinking back at her in surprise, taking in her long coat, her jaunty
cap, the man stared at her in silence. Then, as the bearded man hurried
up, he blinked at him in turn.
"I didn't mean to eat him," he protested. "Honest I didn't. But if you
want him--" he eyed the dollar bill eagerly "--if you want him, here he
is."
Thrusting the pigeon into Jeanne's hands, he seized the bill and
muttered:
"A dollar--a dollar, a whole cartwheel, one big iron man! I didn't know
there was one left in the world!" He seemed about to shed tears.
As he turned his face up to Jeanne's she noticed that he had but one eye.
"What's your name?" the bearded one asked.
"Mostly they call me the one-eyed shrimp."
Pocketing the money, he walked away.
"This, too," said the bearded one solemnly, "is a form of life."
"But why such cruel, cruel contrasts?" In her mind's eye Jeanne was
seeing jewels, silks and furs. There were tears in her voice.
"To that question no answer has been found," the bearded man answered
solemnly. "The world is very old. It has always been so. Perhaps it is
necessary. It gives contrast. Lights and shadows. We must have them or
nothing could be seen.
"I am a sculptor, a very poor one, but one nevertheless. Perhaps you may
visit my studio. There you will find things I have done in lovely white
marble, yet the beauty of the marble can only be brought out by shadows.
"Come! You are cold." He turned Jeanne about. "We will go back to the
Opera House. Always we must be going back."
Strange as it may seem, Jeanne did not wish to return. That magnificent
palace of art and song had suddenly become abhorrent to her.
"The contrasts," she murmured, "they are too great!"
"Yes. There you have discovered a great truth. Come to my studio some
day. I will show you more." The bearded one pressed a card into her hand.
Without looking at it, she thrust it deep into her trousers pocket.
In silence they returned to the Opera House. Once inside, Jeanne
experienced a miracle. The dark, cold, bitter world outside had vanished.
In her mind, for the moment, not a trace of it remained. For her, now,
there was only light and life, melody, color--romance in fact, and opera
at its best.