Ulick was shown into a room filled with carbon photographs by a
coloured butler in sober livery. It was an ante-chamber on the first
floor of a large, old-fashioned house on a side-street off the Avenue
somewhere in the thirties; he forgot just where. When he entered the
atelier, huge in size, he was greeted by a half dozen men he knew; some
he had chummed with in Paris; one, Robbie Sanderson--the Bullrush, he
was nicknamed--had been an intimate of Oswald Invern's. He, too, was a
painter. The host, Ned Haldane, called the Zephyr, because he was so
fat and light on his feet, welcomed the newcomer, as did big Stanley
the sculptor and popular man-around-town. It was a group congenial to
Ulick. All were graduated from the Parisian art treadmill; men who took
a liberal view of life, men without puritan morals and with charming
manners.
"We are not all here yet," proclaimed the Zephyr, "but I hope soon will
be. We are only to be a dozen." "A baker's dozen," corrected Stanley,
"for there's Jim the butler." "Oh, no, my boy, Jim isn't to do any
butlering in this room tonight. He'll be busy in the cork-room with the
fizz. Besides he is a respectable married man and we musn't make him
forget his dusky spouse." The Zephyr laughed. "Are you going to give
us another pony-ballet tonight? What's the lark, Ned?" asked Robbie
Sanderson. "Never you mind, lad, be patient and just stick to the
cocktails. What--you won't drink anything?" pursued Haldane when Ulick
refused. He seemed puzzled, as if he were about to blurt out, "Then
what the devil did you come for?" but he smiled and bowed. He liked the
looks of the young aristocrat sponsored by Edgar Saltus and of whom
he had heard so much from friends in Paris. The bell rang. A message
from Saltus begging off. Illness the excuse. "I bet he's working on
the chapter of a novel--he's not sick," laughed Haldane. Ulick's face
was long. The Bullrush clapped him on the back and reassured him by
whispering, "Don't worry, Ulick. There will be lots of fun. You won't
be lonely. Girls!" The painter significantly winked. Again the bell
rang--furiously. The Zephyr went out and received noisy salutes.
Evidently belated guests. Ulick, now thoroughly bored, looked around
him.
The studio was not particularly inviting; it was almost bare. No
pictures, a few easy divans, the floor covered with rugs of fabulous
weave--he recognized that--and nothing in the middle of the room,
no tables, no preparatory symptoms of a banquet, much less a
saturnalia. Tapestries adorned the walls. The doors were draped. He
was disappointed at the absence of Saltus and annoyed with himself
for coming. He did not join the men clustered about the buffet. He
felt isolated and was mentally casting about what excuse would serve
him to escape, when the room was invaded by the gang. There were
introductions--not many. The crowd belonged to one family, the Seven
Arts. And they were at home. Drinks speedily disappeared down parched
gullets. There was a punch bowl, and early as was the hour the air was
heavy with cigarette smoke. Haldane clapped his hands. Silence. Jim and
his fat wife entered carrying a small table. Then another, and another,
till six were placed around the room, close to the walls. Each table
was set for two persons. Flowers, silver, napery and porcelain. Hurrah!
came from a dozen throats. As usual Ned Haldane had royally spread
himself. Anticipation floated in the air. After a minute's conference
with the butler the master of ceremonies bade him good night. "And now
get out Jim, and don't show your shiny face till noon tomorrow." Jim
grinned and withdrew. He knew the ropes. Haldane cried: "Gentlemen,
please be seated. The comedy is about to begin." Then he blew a silver
whistle.
Folding-doors opened and there slowly defiled through them a band
of beautiful girls, bearing silver platters. These girls were quite
naked save for a scarf which depended from their shoulders, wound
under their breasts and traversed their thighs. Blonde and brunette;
all the intermediate flesh-tints. There were a dozen and not one was
more than twenty. Their hair was filleted and their feet in sandals. A
dazzling vision from some old Greek processional cult, thought Ulick
as he clapped his palms in company with his companions. "My God, I'm
hungry," roared Robbie, and the laughter was deafening. "Listen to the
gourmand," commented the Zephyr. "Here I've gathered the finest choir
of virgins he ever saw and the beggar yells for food. What guts you
boast, Rob." The silver platters held hors d'oeuvres of quality. No
sakuzka at a Russian dinner could show so many exotic delicacies. With
these appetizers were tiny glasses of aperitives. The virgins vanished,
only to reenter with fresh dishes. No soup was served. Oysters and
shell fish. Birds. Salads. One half the band carried bottles. Champagne
of the dryest sort. Ulick was hungry enough to forget that he was being
waited upon by a plump blonde nude angel and ate as unconcernedly
as if she were a plain waitress, clothed and from the hills of New
Hampshire. Parisian training hath its uses. The candles in sconces at
the side were grateful to the eyes, the rich yet subdued tones of the
tapestry and Persian rugs evoked a harmonious atmosphere. To the memory
of Ulick, furnished with images of European picture-galleries, there
came Venetian episodes, festal suppers, and the mellow debaucheries of
Tintoretto's days and the days of the Doges. Sensualist as he was he
experienced a slight sensation of satiety.
They had reached the cognac and were now smoking, gabbling. His table
companion was the Bullrush who already felt his wine. He saluted the
virgins by their names, and when he forgot them he invented new ones;
sometimes his inventions weren't tasteful. One girl, fatter than the
others, he called rumpsteak and patted her when she passed. But it was
a well-trained orchestra; not by the movement of an eye-brow did she
notice his rudeness. After a brief interlude, during which every one
bawled or guzzled, there was heard the premonitary tinkling of little
bells. The twelve virgins emerged in Indian file; they had changed
their scanty costume; they no longer wore sashes. Instead, sleigh-bells
were fastened to their ankles, and to the insistent clicking of
castanets they danced the Dance of the Seven Devils. This spawn of
Satan, these devil's daughters, had been drilled in the technique
of the ballet infernal. Monotone of castanets and tufted footfalls
framed rhythmic obscenities. At times Ulick gasped, and he had been
in Oriental brothels where sex is become a delirium. The Ctéis was
appropriately worshipped. They sprawled and postured, they reared their
polished posteriors in porcine rhythms, as if to invite their brethren,
who ringed them with applause, urging them to audaciously lascivious
acts. The air was charged with cigarettes, the acrid smell of wine and
odor di femina. Ulick's head began to ache.
Suddenly from languourous weavings, from legs and arms in unholy
embrace, the current changed to crazy gallopings. The dancing mania
seized the men, all except the Zephyr, who leaned against a wall and
coolly regarded the spectacle, surely not a novel one to him. Ulick was
caught by the plump blonde and furiously whirled. She was an enticing
houri with gold-coloured eyes and scarlet lips--rouged. Her breath was
extra-dry. He turned his head away as she repeatedly kissed him. But
the heated curves of her finely modelled torso made him a helpless
prisoner. Sweetness exhaled from her. Young, pretty, absolutely
depraved, she had fancied the handsome youth who sat so still and
haughty, coldly refusing her libations and unconsciously frowning
when Robbie Sanderson pinched her cheeks. She drank with the others
each time they went out to the service-room, and she found her tongue
as the night wore on in frenzied intoxication. The men were in their
shirtsleeves. Everyone sang. The heat and noise were terrific. And
all this pagan revelry in a drab, respectable quarter of New York! No
matter, Ulick breathlessly exclaimed, it's a relief from the accursed
hypocricy of puritanical Yankeedom. Again the whistle sounded. A lull
followed. The girls, their smooth bodies glistening with moisture,
slipped away. A fresh attack was made on the wine stacked in ice-pails.
"What's up?" asked a jolly, white-bearded old reprobate, a great swell,
whose granddaughter had "come out" that winter at a débutante's ball
of exceeding splendour. Haldane smiled. "Wait!" he begged. However,
no one seemed to care. The intermezzo proved a breathing-spell. Ulick
debated whether he would be committing an offense against good manners
if he deserted. He could pretend to go into the ante-room--but there
was a hush. A trestle was borne in by the twelve virgins. Upon it was
a monstrous pie, a fabulous confection, the crust ermine-white, like
the souls of the votive maidens, icy as their virtue, and surmounted
by an iridescent plumage of flowers. The pagan priestesses, who with
difficulty carried this offering to Ceres--or was it Bacchus!--had
once more changed their costumes; each wore a dainty liberty cap in
tricolor. They sang, and their voices were heavy with wine, passion and
incipient catarrh. At a signal they placed their burden upon the middle
rug, then encircled it. Someone clapped hands. The top of the pie was
thrown off, birds, doves, canaries and nightingales, flew out in every
direction seeking shelter and piteously piping to the flappings of
their wings. A shining child of exquisite beauty arose in the centre of
the pie and made graceful weaving motions. She, too, was newly-born.
Her breasts were lilliputian, tender, rose-colored. Her evasive hips
proclaimed precocious puberty and Jason himself would not have become
inflamed over further search for the toison d'or. As a picture she
is admirable, thought Ulick; as a spectacle decidedly suggestive. He
was wrong. There was not the slightest evocation of evil in the posed
gestures of this pretty maid; the evil lay in the lewd imaginings of
the men, blasé from indulgence, brain-sick with wine, their nerves taut
from morbid imaginings. The Zephyr went to the sacrificial pastry and
lifted the pink darling to the floor, then cradling her in his arms he
disappeared behind the arras to the choral accompaniment of his jeering
guests. The storm burst. A tornado of twirling flesh, the atmosphere
punctured by shrieks of laughter, and growlings of wild-men. It became
too much for Ulick and he begged his girl to desist. She had sunk on
the floor and imploringly grasped his hand. Kneeling, he told her to
dress and he would go home with her. For some reason his proposition
pleased. She went to the retiring-room, he to get his own things. Their
presence was not missed on the carnal battlefield.
"What's the difference?" he asked himself in disgust as he found his
top-coat and sat down to wait for the girl, "what's the difference
between this crowd, cultured, artistic men and pretty sluts, and the
ugly howling fanatics up in New England?" Inevitably the image of
Easter arose in his slightly smoky brain. What tremendous minutes they
had been when he held her close to him in the mystic blackness; held
and possessed her. The present was but the mimique of a monkey-cage. No
enchantment of the senses beyond optical titillation. Without strong
drink such carnivals of turpitude appal. He almost regretted the
champagne. He hadn't long to wait. The girl appeared, slightly tipsy,
but very appealing in her innocence--for her youth made her innocent,
notwithstanding her frivolity. He recognized her with difficulty, so
genteel her externals. A picture-hat shaded her baby face. She was in
evening dress, ivory-coloured silk cut low revealing a young bosom.
Charming, said Ulick, and how much more provocative her charm when
properly clothed. "Oh, Ulick, you are such a dear to wait so long.
Let's go home. I love you already." Drunk or sober, she spoke with the
accent of truth. As they went out, the door opened by the discreet
butler, his features as impassive as an undertaker's, big, red-haired
Stanley spied them and joyously shouted after them: "Good-bye, Ulick.
You've picked a winner! Dora is a darling. Look out for the newspaper
buzzards. There's a bunch of them at the corner. They will try to
flash-light you!" As the street door closed behind them, a night-hawk
drove to the curb. Ulick bundled Dora in and asked her the address. Up
on Lexington Avenue somewhere in the nineties. A tall apartment house.
The driver nodded, and turned his horse's head eastward. Footsteps were
heard. Ulick peeped through the back glass. "It's the newspaper men and
some policemen. I hope they won't pull the place." "Never fear! the
Zephyr knows how to butter their bun!" replied Dora, snuggling close to
him. "No cops will ever enter that house, but I suppose the newspapers
will print the shocking news. They never got in yet, but they will tell
what happened just the same. In their minds." And then she promptly
fell asleep, her head on his shoulder. She smelt of champagne. Another
wasted night, he sighed, as the ramshackle cab rattled through the
empty avenue, gray dawn thrusting its cold nozzle into the dreary
city-scape. He, too, began to doze....