and full of smoke, sifted into his nostrils. Halfway down the block he
pressed against the wall, partly out of the storm, and lit a cigarette.
The glare of the match showed his calm features. Shielding his cigarette
from the downpour with his hand, he walked slowly toward the Bowery.
As he turned into Third Avenue he became, once more, aware of a madman’s
world. Little dwarfs with sour, twisted faces uplifted in the rain
implored with mocking smiles a cigarette; and when he gave it he could
feel the jeers carried after him by the wind. Soon he went into Bowery
Lane and a blind man stumbled into him.
“You’re not real,” said Martin. “Don’t ever believe that you’re real.”
“What?” cried the man, tapping the street with his stick. “You
scoundrel,” he went on, “let me go! I’ll call the damned police, curse
them!” And he walked on swiftly, tapping his cane through the mist.
Martin continued along the Bowery until he saw a saloon. He crossed the
street and went inside wondering if he had time for a drink. Looking at
his watch he saw that he was far too early for his appointment with Drew.
“Step up, Mac,” called out a fat, red-faced gentleman at the bar. “Name
it, and I’ll buy it.”
“Thanks,” said Martin. “I’ll have a Bass Ale.”
“To my little lady I left in the west!” said the florid man, a few tears
trickling down the side of his pudgy nose. “Ain’t that right, Allie?” he
continued, turning to a slab-headed man next to him.
“Yeah,” replied Allie, looking Martin over.
The three men lifted their glasses. Allie belched and took a package of
baking soda from his pocket. He dumped a teaspoonful into the remainder
of his beer and stirred it. Swallowing this concoction with some effort,
he turned to Martin.
“It takes a goddam acid out,” he said earnestly. “It don’t give a gas
like a plain goddam beer—” he stopped to belch again.
Martin nodded in agreement.
“I must be going now,” he said, “but before I do, kindly have a drink on
me.”
Allie insisted on a third which Martin thanked him for, but put down
untouched after seeing the fellow cleverly add an astonishing portion of
“mickey” to it.
The men were sullen as he said goodnight, and a little way down the
street Martin knew he was being followed by them. He ducked around a
corner and into a doorway for a moment, but they were even closer behind
him as he started on. Ahead of him four men were huddled on a stoop
out of the rain, the light from a yellow lamp streaking their greasy
features. Martin thought momentarily of Deane’s weird description, then
looking back and seeing Allie and his friend closing in upon him, he went
directly to the little group on the doorstep and addressed them earnestly.
“It’s cold,” he said. “A smoke for the soul’s sake,” he continued,
handing some cigarettes around, one at a time, to the greedy, shaking
fingers. One cigarette was now left in the case, and one man was left
out. “I just came down from Heaven, sir,” Martin said to the man quite
solemnly. “They told me that worldly goods were without blessing unless
freely given.” He handed the cigarette to the man, who backed slightly
away, but who accepted it nevertheless. All the men lit up and formed a
thinly protective group against Martin, who heard one of them whisper,
“The kid’s cracked. Hope he ain’t got no ‘shiv.’ Religion guys go fast
wit’ a knife.”
Another, a giant in a white shirt and dark coat said, “Don’t squawk.
Lookit a kid’s face in a lamp. God!—a smoke is sweet! Lookit a kid.” They
all studied Martin whose uplifted face and exalted eyes seemed far away
from them. They talked on quietly among themselves as the rain streaked
down Martin’s cheeks unnoticed.
By this time Allie and his companion had reached the little group.
“Hello, Pal,” said Allie, addressing Martin.
Martin did not answer, but turned to his new friends.
“These men are evil,” he said in a deep, resonant tone. “The very lips of
the Devil are among us!” Martin lifted his voice into an hysterical pitch
as he noticed with curiosity the strange effect of his words upon the men
about him.
The giant with the coat carefully hung the dripping garment on a railing,
and the dirty shirt and muscular reach of his arms showed in the yellow,
muckish light.
“Amen!” he cried, and advanced slowly toward Allie.
“Amen, amen!” echoed through the group behind him. The little fat man
ran crying into the heavy rain; but it was with singular detachment that
Martin watched the giant he had converted, strike tirelessly the broken
form of Allie until the body was dumped, face down, in the swirling
length of gutter.
Martin strode to the hard-breathing giant, placed his hand on the
fellow’s damp shoulder and said softly, “It was a message! It has been
answered.” And he went silently into the rain again.
A square away he paused and looked at a large clock. Once more he saw
that in his impatience he was ahead of time. The cold rain had now
penetrated the shoulders of his coat and Martin felt the steam rising
from his hot body. What did Drew want in this undesirable section?
Accustomed as Martin was to certain ways of life, he could not help
but feel the disease of this unnatural quarter. He stood on the corner
of Bowery and Pell—the Chinese street—a mimeographed edition of its
former tong retreat and underground silence. It was true, a small group
of thin-lipped, older men with their discreet smoke-houses and their
hatchet-men survived. But the list was growing smaller so swiftly that
the aroma of opium now had a death-like stench. The neon lights of New
America had quickly dispelled the shadows and the soft lanterns of
oriental intrigue. Martin looked across the street toward the little
theater on the corner. It was half hidden by rain, but he could faintly
see the line of trade in front of it. As the fog deepened, sailing lower
under Brooklyn Bridge, Martin could hear the tangled music of a victrola
somewhere nearby. The singsong lady of Shanghai was mute behind the
stalls. But her Tiao-wu chords brought about by twangy, cut-off strings
and yellow pipes as high as reeds can go, caused him to reflect upon the
ancient wailing destined to wail forever....
Suddenly he felt his arm seized and the hard mouth of a gun pressed into
his back.
“Don’t make a mistake,” said a harsh, low voice.
Martin dropped swiftly on his hands and brought his heels upward, barely
missing the other’s chin. The fellow chuckled.
“Still good with your feet, eh, Martin,” he said. “Damn your French foot!
It nearly got me!”
Martin squatted by the gutter as he rinsed his stinging hands in the pure
flow of rainwater. Getting up, he rubbed his sore shoulders.
“You’ve gone to hell, Duke,” he said. “You weren’t this bad when I left
Panama. You should have stuck to reefers. What is it now?”
“The Duke” drew his fingers slowly under his nose, then brought up his
coat collar to hide his face, pretending to shake.
Martin smiled, shook hands with his friend whose uproarious laughter
followed this act, and pulled him along to a tea-shop on Pell Street.
Inside, he ordered coffee while the Duke took Chow Mein with tea.
Martin leaned on the table.
“It’s good to see you,” he said. “Heroin can’t hurt you, apparently.”
“Yes, it can,” said the Duke, nervously pressing a small blue butterfly
which was tattooed on his wrist. “Sometimes it hits me like dynamite, and
I’ll go on a mad rob for a dollar. But it’s worse when I get cop-fever.
Then I go back to my room—Christ!” he said, wiping his face. “Sometimes
I crawl back of the dresser. Say—maybe I get peddled the wrong junk?” He
looked at Martin hopefully.
“No,” said Martin, “the stuff is all right. You know your contact.” But
he was beginning to see certain signs in The Duke’s eyes even now. “Get
the tea down,” he continued, “and we’ll move out. Where’s your room?”
With a grotesque, frightening look, the Duke sat up.
“I’m cut short,” he said, the sweat breaking out on his face. “God,
Mart!—get me back to my room! Jesus!—it’s the snow!... Cut off the cold
wind, Mart!—it’s down on my head!” The Duke’s white face seemed blue in
the yellow light. “God, Mart!... Mate!—ah!” he cried, the perspiration
running from his forehead in streams.
Martin snapped his fingers at the Chinese waiter who was watching The
Duke with placid, averted eyes, took a bill from his pocket and laid it
on the table.
“Quickly—where does my friend live?” he asked.
“I do not know, sir,” the waiter smiled.
Martin added another bill to his account.
“Where might he live?” he asked soberly, adding, “when the man is sick,
we are all brothers.”
“I would not live against that proverb,” said the waiter. “The hotel is
directly across the street—there—” The Chinaman pointed to a large bulb,
glowing, but marked with age. “His room may be ascertained at the desk,”
he added, bowing low.
“Thanks,” said Martin, as The Duke got to his feet, the horrified turmoil
within pressing out through his eyes. He clung to the arm of his friend,
but once inside the hotel, tried to dash to the stairs. He was stopped,
however, by a quiet little gray-headed Chinese clerk.
“Let me get him up,” Martin said to the man. “I’ll see about his rent
later.”
“We do not want Mr. Duke,” said the clerk mildly. He was wearing
octagonal glasses which were useless but for their dignity.
“Then I must ask you for his room for only a few minutes,” continued
Martin.
“A woman waits for him also,” said the Chinaman.
Martin became cold, as though he were facing a crisis of his own.
“Please show me his room,” he insisted, and perhaps it was his
unequivocal stare that made the Chinese submit graciously to his demand.
The cranky elevator stopped and Martin helped The Duke into the hall.
As they approached his room a slim woman—a beautiful Eurasian, so Martin
judged by the hall’s dim light, stepped from the door and ran at him.
“Fag!” she cried, as she tried to strike his face.
Martin wrapped her long hair around his wrist, and holding his friend and
the woman, entered the room.
The Duke ran to the window, looking out.
“I’ll jump!” he said. “This rat-hole’s too crowded. It’ll call the
police.” He stood, bending down to the sill.
“Go ahead,” said Martin, watching him closely, his hand still wrapped in
the beautiful long blue hair of the squirming girl.
“No, I’ll hide from them,” cried the Duke, and he began to crawl under
the carpet.
The Eurasian, slant-eyed, watched him. Then quickly she turned to Martin.
“Babee!” she said, in a Dutch accent, her yellow eyes lifted to his.
“Come with me. Let my hair go.”
Martin saw that The Duke, now flat under the carpet was quiet, and he
loosened his own wrist from the woman’s soft hair.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“It is Siedred!”
“A mongrel boy,” he said, his teeth closing and unclosing. “Where do you
wish me to go?”
“To my room.”
“In this hall?”
“It is so.”
* * * * *
Martin looked once more at the shaking body under the carpet and took the
girl by the waist.
“Come,” he said.
The Eurasian led him from the room, across the hall and to another door
which she unlocked silently. Once inside, she turned the lock again and
laid the key upon a table.
Breathing without restraint, she slipped her blouse over her head and
snapped the buttons from her skirt. As she looked at Martin, her breast
filled, then fell, then rose again until Martin, impatient, lifted her
and tossed her on the bed, laughing.
“I love you,” cried the native girl as she felt his pointed tongue.
“You are so hot,” replied Martin. “This is not love.”
“It is, it is!” the woman insisted. “Touch me again!”
“Siedred,” said Martin.
“What?”
“Siedred.” He pulled the long cord of the lamp which hung above them.
There was a frantic sound of broken clothes, of sighs too distressing, of
a single, smothered scream.
“Oh, oh!” Siedred cried.
And out in the corridor, besieged by following tears and moans, Martin
crept down the stairs into the street. Unquestioning, he waited before
the tiny theater for Drew’s arrival.
As Martin watched, a limousine drew up before the theater and stopped.
Drew, his friend, stepped out. He made no sign, but pulled down his hat
and turned up the collar of his coat, bringing it under his chin. Then
he observed the trade, beckoning at last to a roughly dressed youngster
with golden skin and frightened eyes. As he helped the lad into his car,
he closed the door upon him, and turning to Martin who stood so quietly
in the rain, Drew removed his hat, keeping it off until the water spilled
over his blond, pinned hair. His lips spelled “Night.” He bowed slightly
and entered the car, closing the door as Martin started toward him. As
the limousine passed, Martin could see his mocking, tired face.
_CHAPTER XVIII_
In his room Martin laid his head upon his desk. He wondered about
Roberts, his magnificence at the drag, the mad poem intended for himself.
Confused by these thoughts, he fell asleep. He dreamed that he was in the
bow of a shining canoe, spinning down a great white length of rapids.
In the stern of the boat two men were fighting. Rio, and the giant with
the white, rain-soaked shirt were striking each other fiercely. Above
them hovered the spirit of Freud, smiling at both of them and holding
a battered text in one hand and a setscrew in the other which were
apparently to be awarded to the victor. Roberts, however, in the form
of mist, obstructed the blows of the fighters until the two gladiators
became entangled and suddenly dissolved. The spirit of Freud withdrew
hastily, while the adviser, with a faint smile at Martin, sat down in the
boat as it rotated toward destruction.
Martin awakened from the dream with a somber expression. Then he shook
his head and laughed.
“What a symbol!” he exclaimed to himself.
The deep whistles of a ship ready to sail seemed to agitate him and he
lowered his head upon the desk again. He thought of Paris, where Drew was
going, of Tai with him, and of Deane seeing him off. Once more Martin
fell asleep, this time in a world uninhabited by dreams.
* * * * *
This was true for the most part, for Tai was playing in Drew’s suite,
while Pat attended him as though he were a little saint.
In the great lounge of the liner Drew was talking seriously with Deane.
“I can’t understand Martin,” he said. “And I must confess that it is
impossible for me to live within his orbit.”
“You dislike him so?” Deane raised her dark eyes.
Drew shook his head.
“I can’t connect that term with him,” he answered. “I loved him very
deeply at one time. Now, I hate him, or rather, am frightfully jealous of
him.”
“Of his sins?” asked Deane.
“No,” replied Drew irritably. “He has no sins. He has none because
he does not believe the things he does are wrong.” Drew touched a
handkerchief to his head. “Martin,” he continued, “could destroy the
world and it would not be sinful. He is selfish, but because he knows it,
there is no feeling of blame. He’s like a ghost, and all of the people
around him are like ghosts. Even I came to feel like one. There is no
reality about him. Yes,” Drew sighed, “he is the most physical creature
in the world, and the most untouchable. Oh—I know what you’re thinking,
Deane! And I know I’m just putting on.” Suddenly Drew stopped and lit a
cigarette for Deane and one for himself.
“I like him the way he is,” said Deane. “I like his unreality. And he
isn’t the way you think he is.”
“Oh, _no_,” said Drew, arching his eyebrows. “Oh, dear no!”
“Just the same,” went on Deane quietly, “although I’ve seen him pretend
to have the quality you say he has, I’m a woman, and I would know. I
would rebel.” She tapped out her cigarette. “Surely, Drew, you can see
that he speculates about himself in order to enjoy his own pursuits.”
“That may be so,” agreed Drew, somewhat sardonically. “But I have
something of more immediate importance, Deane. Roberts is not well. I
don’t know what the trouble is, but he has changed terribly in the past
few months. His reaction to Martin is instantaneous and violent. This may
affect you. Please see as little as you can of him.”
“I know,” said Deane with a charming, puzzled frown. “I’ve felt it too,
and sometimes it frightens me.”
“Please come to Paris,” suggested Drew impulsively, leaning forward and
taking both her hands in his.
“Sweet Drew,” whispered Deane, “how good you are! But I love Martin and I
need to be with him, I want to go right away to him. Now. Even now,” She
stood up and held Drew’s arm as they strolled to the promenade.
“Let’s say good-by right here,” she said, her full, red lips trembling.
“I’m about to cry.”
“It isn’t good-by at all, dearest,” said Drew, smiling gravely. “You know
that in spite of anything, we’ll always be together. Go to Martin now,
but remember that _we_ have the phone, the cable, the secret bond and
love in understanding.” He kissed her on both cheeks and as Deane turned,
she saw that his eyes were misty.
After she had gone, Drew went into Tai’s little room. The ship was
slipping out of the pier and the child clapped his hands at the movement.
Drew lay down on the couch and laid his arms over his eyes. This!—to
happen for the second time in his life! It was too severe. There could
not be a third. Little Tai approached softly and kissed the tears away.
It was all he knew, and suddenly Drew smiled.
Before he went on the promenade he looked out through the darkness and
saw the black, rolling water. He gazed at himself in the mirror and drew
a warm scarf under his dark overcoat. Then he pulled his dark hat over
his forehead, looked steadily at himself once more and went on deck.
He hesitated for a moment by a large ventilator as he saw a young man
leaning on the rail, studying the ocean. The boy’s profile was quaint in
the dim overhead lights. Drew pulled his own hat lower, turned up the
collar of his coat and approached the stranger with unhurried, gentle
steps.
_CHAPTER XIX_
The concert hall quieted. Conversation hushed.
The White Peacock,[3] sorrowful and majestic, appeared in the faint
light. Winding through deep white reeds, brushing through ghostly
ferns, he approached. Wading the moon-puddles, breaking the mist with
silver feathers, he looked at Deane. Holding his white throat into the
stars, moving the fallen petals, he sang to her—sang a clear, demanding
song of his remote, pale island. Deane shivered under the soft notes,
loosening her gown. The White Peacock, his snowy tail drifting over the
moon-flowers, lifted his scarlet eyes—lifted his eyes through clouds and
placed each strong tone against her.... The music changed tempo. The
white bird screamed shrilly, his bright whistle falling through glissandi
of sound. The exquisite melody rose into the wind, hesitated, and dropped
murmuring into the white sea.... The White Peacock faded in the fluid
light, became distant—Deane, following with her arms the receding shadow.
The music died. People moved in their chairs and the subdued whispers
grew into applause. The mood was broken and Deane touched her eyes. She
put on a coat of soft gray fur, adjusted her little tight-fitting blue
toque and carelessly pinned back on her collar a small bunch of violets
which had fallen to her lap during the concert. As she was rising someone
addressed her.
“Then you, too, are fond of modern music?”
Surprised, Deane looked up. Roberts stood before her.
“It was beautiful,” she answered. “Beautiful, and intimate.”
Roberts smiled in appreciation, acutely aware of the faint and lovely
perfume of her violets.
“Did you come alone, Deane?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then,” said the adviser, his voice curiously naive and youthful, “let me
drive you home. I have my car.”
She stepped into the aisle by his side and as they walked out together
the distinguished grace of his movements and the coloring in his cheeks,
still flushed by the spell of the music, made Deane conscious of the
beauty of a sex that shocked her heart but held her mind; and in this
acceptance every light in her hair and eyes acquired luminance until she
was betrayed—and Roberts looked, turned blind, and never looked again.
The early darkness of winter had descended and the streets were brightly
lit with red and green lights. Snow, falling gently, coated the buildings
and walks. The holiday atmosphere—the thought of Christmas, gave them a
feeling of friendliness. They drove over to Fifth Avenue.
All down the broad expanse of the great boulevard swept the Yuletide
spirit. The thick streams of people, carrying boxes and parcels wrapped
in colored paper, seemed compact—a constant mass instead of one of
gigantic fluctuation. At the corners they bumped and jostled each other,
frantically trying to retrieve dropped packages, laughing all the while.
There they were, pouring their laughter and hustle and gay concern over
the Avenue—a huge, comforting block of the world, this infinite throng.
As Deane and Roberts passed St. Patrick’s Cathedral they noticed that
the doors of the church had been thrown open—a silent welcome to the
holiday crowds. There was an impression of austere immensity; and over
the kneeling figures which had sought tranquillity within the sacred
vault there shone a great soft radiance, whether from electric lights or
candles on the altar, Deane and Roberts did not know.
Farther down the Avenue they could hear the muffled sound of chimes; and
as they drew near one of the department stores the sound became more
brilliant until they noticed that behind the glass of the one window
which ran its entire front length there was nothing but an illusion of
depth in a green-blue sky and two large gold bells, swinging slowly back
and forth.
Deane turned to Roberts and was astonished to find that he was looking at
her instead of the lovely window.
“It is as glorious as that other vault we passed,” she said quietly,
amazed at his attitude.
“Yes,” he answered, still regarding her gravely, “and although beauty,
to me, is but a dream gone by—a vagrant moment—a motion lost before it’s
held—oddly, I find it stationary for one evening.” He paused and added,
looking at her fixedly, “Even within a superb commercial painting.”
The chiming now covered the air with invisible shadows. There was an icy
wind; and as Deane sensing its fury within the well-heated car, pulled
her coat more tightly around her shoulders, Roberts again caught the
perfume of the flowers she was wearing, and their fragrance seemed to him
to become as audible—to have a resonance and vibration quite as definite
as the chimes.
They spoke no more but continued down the Avenue until they came upon a
children’s shop with such a pretty charm about it that Roberts stopped
the car. For the shop’s display there was a miniature snowstorm—a tiny
replica of the one outside which was increasing in density each moment.
Amidst the artificial snow within the window were artificial children
posed in different attitudes. One small boy had his hand raised against
a snowman as though building him. A little girl stood by, just watching.
And still another boy was stooped as though gathering more snow. The
scene was such a dainty one that Roberts looked at it wistfully, with a
reserved hunger that seemed to demand release; and Deane, fascinated,
clasped her hands together. On the street a ragged boy, walking beside
a hulk of a man, stopped for a moment to look quietly, but in silent
despair at these happy children who played in the snow and wore such
pretty clothes. He stared particularly at the little girl, with her long,
blond curls and piquant face and her little dress and coat that were like
a dream. But the man, resentful, cuffed the boy’s cheek roughly, pulling
him along. The lad cringed. Deane thought she heard him cry out once and
turned her face away; while Roberts, who had also witnessed the episode,
started the car and drove on swiftly through the storm.
Near the lower part of the Avenue, just before they turned off on Deane’s
street, they came upon a Christmas tree which had been set up in the
courtyard of a large apartment hotel. The branches of the pine were
straight and proud; and instead of the usual strings of many-colored
lights which had dressed the other trees along the boulevard, on this,
there were dull points of red under the boughs, or brilliant ones of
green that stood far out, so awkwardly, that by their very misplacement
the tree appeared to be native and uncut. It was without tinsel.
There was only the snow. The wind and the shadows did the rest. The
unusual reflections dwelt upon Deane’s face and Roberts turned to her
impulsively.
“You are beautiful this evening, Deane,” he said.