On East 58th Street there once stood Peter Buckel's brewery. Opposite
was, still is, Terrace Garden. A theatre now occupies the old brewery
ground. Young people who preferred serious converse to the glitter and
bang of the big Garden across the street went to Buckel's. A wooden
terrace with a roof was pleasant to sit upon when the weather was
warm. A huge tree grew in the middle of this esplanade and the owner
had artfully made it serve as a decoration. Under its spreading foliage
people supped and smoked. The town was then younger, less crowded
by "undesirable citizens"--the phrase is of Theodore Roosevelt's
making--and life more mellow, because less puritanical. An evening in
middle May saw a group around the tree-table as it was called; the most
coveted spot on the terrace. There were Ulick Invern and Alfred Stone.
Next to him sat a tall thin young man addressed by his companions
as Milton. He did not wear a clerical garb but the cut of him was
unquestionably priestly. His harmonious features, extremely blond hair,
prominent eye-balls, gray in color, denoted refinement of mind and
body. He was not in the least priggish and gave himself no sacerdotal
airs. If he had done so he would soon have been lonely. Ulick and
Alfred were too easy-going to endure superior pretensions in anyone;
besides, they had known Milton before he went to the Jesuits, and Ulick
sincerely sorrowed when ill-health fostered by strenuous study had sent
his friend temporarily back into the world he despised. He recognized
that Milton had a genuine vocation.
"That was a nice hot picnic," ejaculated Stone, mopping his brow as
he dipped his nose into a long beaker of beer. "Never again," chimed
in Ulick. Milton became nervous. "Where have you chaps been this
hot afternoon?" "You wouldn't call this hot after Hoboken," cut in
Stone. "Hotter than the hinges of hell," added Ulick as he emptied
his lemonade glass. "I feel like a regular tosspot this evening," he
continued. "We must have swilled a bathtub of liquid this afternoon
over at Meyer's in Hoboken, eh, Alfred?" "You didn't, old herring-gut,"
was the rather surly retort;--"but I did. Why people of reputed
sanity cross the Hudson on a sweltering day to wave handkerchiefs at
their friends on out-bound steamers has always puzzled me. Now, why
should we have given ourselves the bother to say farewell to Easter
Brandès on a crowded dock, when we could just as well have wished her
bon-voyage the night before at the Maison Felicé"--"Has Miss Brandès
sailed to Europe?" inquired Milton, not without interest in his
voice. "Yes, she goes to Berlin, to Lilli Lehmann, thence to emerge a
full-fledged prima-donna and Wagner interpreter, et patiti et patita!
I can't for the life of me see why she didn't stay under Madame Ash's
wing a couple of seasons more. Mind you, I grant her talent. She is
positively brilliant, but she needs steadying. Her voice, her delivery,
her extraordinary memory--she already has fifteen rôles completely
memorized, mastered--these are but a hint of what the future may bring
forth; nevertheless, she is too young for Lehmann and--Oh, what's the
use? Women don't think with their heads, they think with their matrix.
They are too damned emotional. They are the sexual sex.... Putting an
idea in their heads is like placing a razor in the hands of a child...."
"And men, I presume, think with their cortex," interposed the cool
voice of Ulick. Milton deprecatingly lifted a white hand. "I can't
say I admire the turn our talk is taking. Alfred is too literal, too
fond of physiological details. I want to hear more of the art of Miss
Brandès...." "And less about her coda--there's a musical term for
you," cried Stone. All three young men laughed. At times Alfred could
be amusingly immodest. "Well, she has gone to Germany despite your
advice," declared Ulick. "She is a stubborn creature and I'm quite sure
she has done the right thing. That young woman has a head of her own
and instinct prompts her in the right direction. She may not always
think with her head, yet she has managed to land on both feet. Think
of it boys, Easter has only been here about six months. Behold! she
goes to Berlin where she will be under the protection of the greatest
living Wagner singer. How did she do it? Magnetism? Beauty? Talent?
All three I fancy. And she is penniless. She told me so. Yet she
dresses well, and someone must be putting up for her expenses while
she is abroad".... "Oh Ulick! Thou art an ass," sang Stone in his most
derisive manner. "Has she a banker? Yes, she is lucky, she has two.
Paul Godard is one--" "It's a lie!" shouted Ulick, who was at once in a
fighting mood. "And the other," continued Stone, unmoved, "is the young
woman who is to play chaperone to her innocence while she remains
abroad. I know, Frida Ash told me everything, and between you and me
and this fat old tree, I think Madame Frida is glad to lose both of her
pupils. They sat rather heavily on her betimes."
"Allie Wentworth is all right," returned the mollified Invern, "but
I fail to see where Master Godard comes in. He is rich, to be sure,
but as mean as sour-owl dirt...." "The Isles of Greece, the Isles of
Greece, where burning Sappho loved and sung." Stone sneeringly quoted.
Silence ensued. Then Milton spoke with his gentlest intonations: "I
wonder why it is that so soon as a young woman sings or goes on the
stage, mud-slinging is in order?" After that query the party broke up.
Stone, as usual, was bored. Ulick felt that too much had been said of
the girl he bade adieu a few hours before, radiant with happiness on
the upper deck of the steamship, her arms holding a perfect sheaf of
blush-roses. She had been cordial. She had kissed him on the cheek,
whispering, "You dear old Jewel," and then Allie plucked at her sleeve,
the whistle roared and that was the last he saw of Easter Brandès. He
shook hands with Milton. Stone, as he languidly sauntered away said
as a parting shot, over his shoulder: "I suppose you know the rumour
'round town that Paul Godard has been her banker? His name is on the
passenger-list too. Gay bird, Paul. Ta! Ta!" Ulick went home in a sad
humour.