leaped from the doorway, flinging out the pigeon which was tied to her
wrist by a string. Upon alighting, one of her thin legs bent under her,
then she began to dance. She pirouetted and waved her flabby hips while
the bird tried desperately to escape. Once it descended upon her head and
lifted the transformation. The guests had a fleeting glimpse of a pink,
bald dome. Occasionally Sophie’s joints cracked. The effect was macabre.
“Mercy!” said Beulah. “If _my_ bones were in that condition, I’d have
brought my little can of lubricating oil. She positively drowns out the
orchestra!”
“‘Little’ can, did you say?” timidly questioned Daisy, who had rejoined
the group.
Beulah did not turn her head. Only the bulges on her neck seemed to
stiffen and bulge out further.
But Sophie was now in difficulty. The pigeon had become terrified and was
jerking at the string. All pretense of dancing stopped and Sophie stood
there, feebly waving her arms. Pitying her, Drewena stepped to her side,
closed one hand gently around the panicky bird and slipped the noose from
its leg. Out in the dim corridor she opened a window, touched her cheek
to the bird’s soft, rumpled feathers and, with a sigh, tossed it into the
darkness.
Miriam had returned to the powder room when Sophie came in, near to
hysteria, weeping.
“Oh, heavens!” she cried, while the mascara streamed down her cheeks.
“It stooled on me!” And she wiped the top of her bare head with a
handkerchief.
“That’s nothing—a seagull once did the same for me,” said Miriam. “You
can’t get it off that way. Why don’t you stick your head under the
shower?”
“You’re insulting,” said Sophie, drying her eyes.
Miriam left the room in disgust.
Another number was on. Carrie, her fingers fan-shaped over her heart, was
singing “_Mother Macree_” in a soft voice, high and clear. The strange
tonal quality was like that of a contralto.
Drewena was accompanying her. And along the rows of gossips there was now
complete silence. Miriam noticed that both Beulah and Docky were holding
handkerchiefs to their eyes, and when the last words—“God keep you and
bless you, Mother Macree” trailed off, Miriam watched a solid, tremulous
emotion sweep the crowd. Only Kate, openly defiant to any sentiment,
poured a drink down her throat and looked at the others with disdain.
This time, as they danced, Miriam sneaked the footman in through the
back, and hoisted him to the long beam, one end of which lay in shadow.
Once more, she whispered instructions to her assistant, then went for
Tai. The music ceased and she could hear Drewena quieting the crowd.
Then Miriam entered the room. She did not walk with the air of one
experienced in drag, but her stalking, feline movements seemed even more
proper. Several paces behind her came Tai, a rope over one tiny shoulder,
his eyes lowered. He still wore the golden tunic and it gleamed against
his little body as he held out the rope to Miriam. She took it, coiling
it sailor-fashion on the floor, then hurled one end to the ceiling where
it held, in a rim of shadow. Immediately Tai grabbed it and climbed
upward to the beam, apparently on a rope which was in no way supported.
Only the magician could see the tensed form of the footman holding the
slight weight of the child. Then Tai disappeared. Miriam lifted her arms
and the rope fell in waves over her shoulders. She dropped it, turned to
the crowd and solemnly picked up her train. Tai, smiling and bowing, ran
forth from its folds, and held out his arms to Drewena.
The crowd was charmed; but Drewena, furious, caught up the child and
hurrying with him through the corridor, took him into his own room and
laid him upon his own bed.
For a moment her hot cheek rested against the child who petted her,
saying nothing. Then she swept into the powder room where she knew she
would find Miriam. Still furious, she faced her friend.
“Miriam,” she cried, “that was a coarse trick.” Her eyes were narrowed
and a drop of blood was welling out of the corner of her lip where she
had bitten herself. “What made you do it?”
Miriam inhaled the smoke of her cigarette.
“We don’t think alike, Drewena,” she said reflectively at last. “There
was nothing coarse in the act. It is a good trick.”
“Under your skirts, Miriam!” said Drewena, her deep blue eyes watching
her friend intensely.
Miriam shrugged.
“You and I have a different attitude toward such things, I fear. I hope
the child feels the way I do about it. He is quite innocent—as apparently
am I.” Then for an instant Miriam’s eyes became colder than Drewena’s.
“Of course, I cannot help, nor can I control your interpretations.” A
dark, ugly vein showed vertically now in the center of Miriam’s forehead.
Drewena’s white velvet gown seemed to turn blood-red before her.
Even in her own anger, Drewena was amazed. Surely these could not be the
features of her friend! She watched Miriam as she turned and walked
to the ottoman where she sat down, breathing heavily. A tremor passed
through her body and she sat, looking straight ahead. Fascinated, Drewena
saw the vein in Miriam’s forehead diminish at last and her features
become natural again. A little frightened, she went over and put her hand
on the shoulder of her friend.
“It’s just that I love both of you so much, Miriam,” she said. “I was
jealous of you both. Please, forgive me.” Her hand was trembling. “And
now,” she added, trying to compose herself, “I must announce Kate’s
dance. Won’t you come out?—she dances divinely.”
“Later, Drewena,” Miriam said in a despondent voice. And when Drewena
had gone, still looking disturbed, Miriam lay down on her back on the
couch and stared at the ceiling with both eyes open wide. Her thoughts
were jumbled and confused in this strange atmosphere. She had felt
singular reactions. Desires that were new to her had come upon her
without warning. Were her concepts changing? Or had they lain dormant,
awaiting only the right moment to make her aware of another facet in her
individuality?... And did this constitute a shame to God? Should the
mind reject what the spirit had planted?... Was this not a possibility
for every man, as well as the necessity for the cultivated group
outside?... It was obscure to Miriam, lying there. Her mind was tired
from these perplexing questions. Such problems as these charged without
apparent reason. She stood up, held the sides of her head which now
ached violently. Slowly she went to the doorway in time to hear Drewena
announce Kate’s dance.
The crowd applauded vigorously and Miriam could feel again the mass
excitement.
“As usual,” continued Drewena, “Kate has adapted a native dance-ritual
to her own choreography. To-night she will interpret the fire dance of a
tribe of Andean people.”
Drewena stepped back as Patsy came from the corridor with a smoldering,
perfumed brazier which she placed upon the floor, now cleared for a space
in the center. The music began, the muted drums became more prominent,
and Kate walked from the shadows of the alcove to the brazier, standing
quietly beside it, her eyes lifted upward, watching the smoke, her hands
palm outward before her. There was a leather strap around her forehead
and a leather wristlet above the left hand. On her upper arm was a metal
band which had the dull gleam of copper.
The high knee movement as she circled the brazier showed the control and
discipline of her deeply tanned legs, and the supple flexibility of a
professional dancer. Her bare feet slapped stiffly against the wooden
floor as she continued to circle the smoke which was now rising like a
slender blue pillar. As she went round the coals, her body rotated while
circling, so that at times she faced the low flames and at others had
her back to them, her body always arched, her circled head often coming
close to the flickering brazier. A soft, faun-colored wrap that looked
like chamois swung from Kate’s waist; but on one side it had been cut in
from the hips where the fine webbing of her dark jockstrap covered her.
Among the excited watchers, none was more affected than Beulah. She kept
wiping her mouth and whispering, “My God!” to Docky. Docky, however, for
once, was too fascinated to reply.
Intoxicated by the wild music and by the incense which now pervaded the
room, even more by the dance itself, Kate continued her steps with more
abandon, her copper body whirling with such rapidity that she seemed to
be weaving amid the smoke, making it catch her enthusiasm as it leaned
toward her at every angle until it spiraled upward as though part of
the dance. A bolo knife with a polished bone handle rested against the
nearby wall and Kate leaped toward it, picked it up swiftly and fastened
the looped thong around her wrist. Then as the song of the Firebird[2]
grew wilder, she swung the heavy, shining blade as though cutting her way
through vines and wet, tall grass, until the knife sang in the air and
Kate’s slim, powerful body weaved from side to side in her savage desire
to get once more to the flames. Her teeth were drawn back as though
fighting with intangible yet formidable spirits, and her handsome face
was set in a perfect mask of determination to get to her own beckoning
god—the crimson soul of the flame—life-giving and protecting. At last she
reached the genie of the fire-bowl, her face, arms and belly streaming
with sweat, the bolo knife held rigidly over her head and her left hand
supporting the sinews of the wrist which held it.
This time, instead of circling the brazier, she leaped over it, held
herself suspended one fraction of a second before she dropped lightly
on the other side, wheeled instantly and repeated the floating movement
until the blur of her body became one with the smoke. Suddenly, to the
horror of the guests, there was a soft whisper, like fire through damp
reeds, and the odor of burning hair mixed with the scent of the pitch. As
the crowd held its breath sharply, Kate let out a fierce, sensuous shout
of triumph, and whirled in eccentric half-turns into the shadows of the
alcove....
There was no applause. The crowd was stunned by this amazing, painful
exhibition into deep silence. Docky abstractedly removed and wiped her
glass eye again, and Beulah dabbed futilely at her aging face. But their
attention was now quickly drawn to the corner where Roberta had been
sitting. She was standing in such an imperious manner that everyone
turned toward her in astonishment. The broken rays from a chandelier
nearby revealed her beautiful, tragic face as she said with the elegance
of contempt, “And now—let _me_ speak!” Her resonate voice filled the deep
silence, and she crossed the floor to a place where she could face the
crowd more fully.
Rather nervously, Drewena hurried to her and whispered something; but
Roberta’s desperate expression stopped her from speaking further and she
drew back, more than ever perplexed. At this, Miriam, watching the blue
fox muff attentively, walked quietly to Roberta until her eyes said,
“Stop!” which Miriam did, a few paces away.
Then, in level voice and without gesture, never taking her eyes from
Miriam’s face, Roberta said—
There on the sheets, my lad,
With small gold arms and hair tossed back
Most carelessly,
She bears the quality we lack.
And older, perhaps weary, I’m some sad.
Here in my arms, my lad,
With strong gold wrists and hair tossed back
In liberty,
You bear the quality I lack.
And older, perhaps weary, I’m some sad.
But in my glass, sweet lad,
I see thy dreams, thy lady’s,
And thy profligacy.
And _know_ the quality you lack....
Yet still I’m older, perhaps weary, and some sad.
There was a buzz of disapproval as Roberta finished. “Well,” said Beulah,
“we may have _lived_ in our time, but we _never_ carried on like _that_!
In those pastel days,” and she tapped Docky’s arm with her fan, parting
her lips with a snap, “we _did_ carry on a bit—but this is _too_ much! I
feel like entering the philanthropies. They’re so much quieter.”
“Yes, yes,” said Docky, “I tried it once. But it’s too expensive, Beulah.
And don’t expect, dear, too much of your personality. We’re getting
wrinkles. Soon the lovelies won’t _look_ at us for less than a dollar!
How your quarter has worked as long as it has, is beyond me!”
Roberta had returned to the solitude of her corner when there was a
terrified screech from Patsy, and Rio, completely drunken, in servant’s
skirts held high above his knees, lurched into the drawing room. He
stood there just inside the doorway, swaying and looking around at the
gathering.
“Whores!” he shouted stridently, raising one heavy brown arm in his
anger. “You lousy, campy sons-of-bitches!” He forced his risqué Robin
Hood hat down to his ears, his shoulders nearly popping out of his dress,
and his great legs encased in red football stockings which were rolled
just beneath his hairy knees. Then he saw Miriam looking at him without
amusement as she leaned against the piano. Rio walked slowly to her, his
arms hanging like lead. As he approached, Miriam did not stir and there
was a contemptuous look upon her face. Rio moved his lips in an obscene
gesture and pretended to whimper.
“Could a old ’ooman show ’ee the sights o’ Cooney Island? I’ll do no
traffic with ’ee.”
Miriam smiled, for in his hatred Rio had mimicked his character with
perfection. Even the crowd began to think it was a camp when suddenly,
without warning, Rio struck Miriam who fell slowly to the floor. Drewena
noticed that she looked like Tai, the way she was curled. With a low
scream, Drewena ran swiftly from the room while Rio looked on with
contempt. But his expression changed as he saw his friend still lying
open-mouthed, a little absent, upon the floor, one slippered foot thrust
out from the folds of the yellow dress.
Drewena now returned silently. She was carrying a long, gilded whip. She
held it firmly in her delicate hands, the barbs away from her, ready to
be snapped. As Rio bent over his friend, he started to kneel. But before
his knee was completely bent, Drewena brought the thorned end of the gold
scourge straight down across his shoulders, the faint swish modified by
Rio’s cry of pain and surprise; for as the flesh was ripped from his
back there was the sound of crushed bubbles. In his agony, he rushed at
the white-gowned hostess, but Drewena, as though in a fantastic ballet,
dodged him and pivoted so swiftly that when Rio passed, the wrench and
throb of his sickening pain as he was struck again, brought forth a groan
from everyone in the room. Drewena stood poised for the next thrust, and
her expression brought Rio on once more, his great hands searching for
her through his agony. Again she avoided him and turned to lay the hooked
rods into his lacerated flesh. Rio, in all his bravery could stand no
more and fell upon his face, his arms reaching out like claws. Cool and
mindful of her action, Drewena struck him again until the blood formed in
small pools by his side.
Roberta still stood silently in the shadow of her corner. Docky, who
had been watching her, had seen with her one alert, keen eye, a single
movement and a flash of steel as Roberta withdrew her hand from her muff,
then returned it stoically when Rio fell.
This time, as Drewena lifted her arm, Miriam sat up. There was no
movement, no shudder from the prone figure on the floor.
“Wait, Drew!” called Miriam. “Leave the man alone!”
Drewena looked at her incredulously.
“This beast knocked you down,” she said, “and without reason.”
She turned again to strike, but Miriam arose unsteadily and held
Drewena’s arm.
Drewena dropped the whip.
“Do you, then, consider _this_ more important?” she asked nodding
toward Rio who was still lying quietly, his blouse in shreds upon his
blood-soaked back.
“He is my friend,” said Miriam. “We are going home.”
“Our rendezvous?” breathed Drewena.
“Will wait,” said Miriam.
Then, kneeling down by the stricken man whose face showed no expression
as she turned it toward her, Miriam repeated, “It’s Martin, Rio, ...
Martin ... we are going home.” Half lifting, half imploring, Martin got
Rio to his feet, and as the man leaned heavily against him, they crossed
the floor amid the horrified silence of the crowd.
Then “Boor!” ... “Common!” ... “Stiff!” ... came to Martin’s ears as he
bore the weight of his friend onward to the doorway. At last, he could
stand no more of it.
“You!” he cried, turning. “You! Leave us alone!—my friend and me!”
In the hall, Martin looked at Rio’s thrashed back.
“We’d better go to my room,” he said. “Call a cab for us, Patsy.” And he
threw Deane’s coat over Rio.... As they left, they could hear the sound
of music and dancing.
Carrie had gone into hysterics. Her high heel had caught in her train and
ripped it open. She was rushing to the powder room when Drewena saw her.
The hostess followed her guest through the groups of dancers and found
Carrie on the ottoman, crying brokenly. Drewena closed and locked the
door. Her lips were bitter—to have revealed herself and lost her caste
over a graceless Polynesian was unbearable! She went through a hidden
paneled doorway into Tai’s room and lightly kissed his fingers, listening
to the sweet sound of his even breathing. Then opening the door into the
corridor, she called the footman who brought Patsy to her at once.
“We are leaving, Patsy,” she said. “Arrange for an early departure. We
will go to Paris. Cable Jacques to meet us.”
Patsy bowed.
“May I say ‘thank God,’ Madame? I speak reverently.”
Drewena laughed, and for a moment looked into Patsy’s faithful eyes.
“Arrange things quickly,” she repeated as the attendant left.
Again Drewena tiptoed past the sleeping, tired baby and entered the
powder room, closing the panel behind her and ignoring the pounding on
the door.
Carrie still cried, her tears dampening the golden pillows of the couch.
“Miriam left without asking me to dance,” she kept on sobbing.
Drewena picked her up bodily and making a cradle out of her own
slender arms, held the unhappy girl. Singing a soft, melodic lullaby,
she rocked Carrie, thinking, “It is time once more, for me to go.
Ah, Martin!—indiscriminate man!—you see beauty only through your
prostitution.... How I envy you!... How I ...” Drewena’s thick tears
clung to her lashes and did not fall on Carrie who, now rocked asleep,
held tightly to Drewena’s comforting breast.
_CHAPTER XVII_
On the low coffee table in front of Deane was a bowl of yellow roses. She
had broken off one of the blossoms and was slowly, abstractedly pulling
it to pieces. Listlessly she allowed the golden petals to fall to the
floor.
“Why didn’t you tell me of Drew’s love letter earlier, Martin?” she asked.
“It was an invitation,” he answered. “I shouldn’t have shown it at all.”
Deane lit a cigarette nervously.
“But what did you do?—I mean—oh!” she cried out, hiding her face in her
hands.
Martin shook his head but did not speak.
“And now,” continued Deane, “you insist on meeting him in the Bowery.”
“Yes,” Martin nodded.
“But it isn’t like Drew to go to such a terrible place. Why did you agree
to such a rendezvous?”
“I don’t know, except that he sounded sincere and almost desperate over
the phone.”
“How _did_ he sound?” asked Deane. “Remember, I know him.”
“Cool on the surface, but determined,” answered Martin, “and worried—no,
not worried; just rather desperate.”
“You _can’t_ go!” cried Deane. “I’ve been driven through the place at
night. It’s terrifying; a street of yellow lanterns, and figures huddled
in shadow like fallen bric-a-brac.”
“I must go,” said Martin.
“Won’t you stay, for me?”
Martin pressed his hand against his temple.
“Yes, Deane,” he answered at last.
“Thank God!” she said. “There is something cruel in the air to-night.”
Then, relieved, she asked, “What happened to Rio?”
Martin regarded her so long and steadily that she flushed, looking a
little frightened. At last he answered, “The driver helped me get him
into the cab and he slept all the way to my place. When I got him on the
bed with his shirt off, he awoke in great pain and I smelt a curious odor
that came from his back. I’m sure the thorns of the whip held some kind
of drug. Rio said they felt like fishhooks and that he was dizzy a moment
before he fell on the floor. It’s odd the way Drew is able to handle him.
They fought like two dancers.”
Deane’s face was white and she spoke quietly, as though faint.
“I believe you enjoyed it. How can you be so impersonal?”
Martin put his chin in his hands. How could two people, close in
passion, united in mind, lapse into these subtle quarrels? There was no
basis. The quarrel was an excuse for something deeper.
Analyzing himself, Martin tried to find the fault within him. Coldly,
impersonally, he reviewed the scene, not sparing himself in any way. It
was impossible. Deane had subtly forced the argument. Deeply, actually,
she had been the aggressor. Martin accepted this with no pleasure. Deane
would not intentionally wound him. _Not intentionally._ The phrase
gathered meaning. Unconsciously she had created the picture. Why?
Nothing on the surface. Nothing of which she was conscious. Rather, some
deep-seated demand for pain. Pain for herself and for him. A hunger to
wound and be wounded. Martin shook his head helplessly. From his chair he
could see Deane sitting quietly serene, apparently indifferent. No. It
was a simulated indifference. A strange play with no tenable motive. She
must be as aware of the chasm between them as he. Out of this isolation
she was drawing something. Something that fed her. It was inexplicable
to Martin, for Deane was not a tyrant. She was, however, feminine. And
now, the roots of all womanhood shone grimly through. Martin wondered,
hesitated, and spoke.
“Deane, are you well? I mean,” he continued, “is it the time of the moon,
you know?”
Deane was casual.
“Yes, Martin.” Her voice was tolerant.
“Well, then,” he said, “I should have been more considerate.”
“Don’t be impossible,” Deane exclaimed. “My condition has nothing at all
to do with our discussion.”
“I’m inclined to believe, Deane, that it has everything to do with it.”
“That is ridiculous,” she answered, flushing. “It isn’t nice.”
Martin looked at her closely. Deane’s eyes were implacable. Cold,
glassed-in, the poisonous shell moved around her. He could not reach
her. He thought quickly, fantastically, in his unhappiness. The period.
The time of the moon. The time eggs swell and burst into a live stream.
In his vision he watched a flood of red, elliptical objects swing in a
gigantic arch from heaven to earth. Rolling and whispering through the
dark air, they poured in a fast tide past his aching eyes. Redolent of
life, acrid with blood, they cried from the great sky-womb into the
whirling land. Symbolic of woman’s supremacy, the scarlet bank lightened,
faded and died, that it might live again.
“Deane!” cried Martin. “I have seen the secret.”
“What secret, Martin?”
“The secret that you have a secret. That you have a secret that I will
never know. That no man will ever know. It is your earth-quality, your
heritage as a woman. A glory and a pride, and I have confused it.”
Deane turned her dark, lovely eyes toward him.
“What do you mean?” she asked, and a tiny nerve close to her mouth
quivered.
Martin laughed. He had the key. He had turned the key and the glass had
broken. Gone was the poisonous mist and doubt from Deane’s eyes.
“I mean that there is a completeness in woman that man will never have,”
he said, with quiet conviction. “A secret that man will never fully
understand. A secret that women are not aware of—consciously. A pact of
woman in the woman that is not revealed until the life-flow moves from
their bodies. A pact so complete, so magnificent, that man takes on his
true perspective—an interloper.”
Deane turned and hugged him to her. Her hair fell over his
shoulder—burned him.
“You’re crazy,” she said. But there was warmth in her voice, and love,
and some belief.
“I’m not crazy,” said Martin, kissing her. He held her proudly, and
looked at her and kissed her again. He was arrogant of his weakness and
proud of her strength. He was that way, whether he was wrong, or right.
And there was the man, and there was the woman.
* * * * *