From his place in the corner of the basement room Wilfred watched the
other diners covertly. Had he but possessed a mantle of invisibility his
happiness would have been complete. As it was, his pleasure in looking
at people vanished when they looked at him. There were four places at a
table, and he was most comfortable when all were taken. People sitting
so close, never looked at you; and they made a sort of screen for you;
moreover he was able to listen to their talk, and to build upon it.
He ate his dinner in this place on West Tenth street once or twice a
week; or as often as he could scare up the necessary thirty-five cents.
He told his Aunts he had to work late at the office. How scandalized
they would have been could they have seen him sitting there with a
bottle of wine before him. They would never realize that he was grown.
The place had no license of course, and you had a pleasant feeling of
lawlessness; at any moment the police might come banging at the door.
But they never had. A plain and friendly place, it supplied something
that Wilfred had apprehended in novels of foreign life. He had got in
the first time by attaching himself to the tail of a party at the door.
Now he was known there and hailed by name. The generous minestrone,
ravioli, etc., made his stomach purr. When he sat back and lighted a
cigarette, life ceased to appall.
It was run by a handsome Italian woman with a heavenly smile, named
Ceccina. Her husband, Michele, held sway over the kitchen, which was
revealed through an open door; and their three children Raymo,
Alessandro and Enriqueta helped their mother to wait upon the tables.
Simple people; Wilfred loved them from a distance, except the little
girl, who was pert without being engaging. It was the fault of the fond
patrons. Wilfred felt it his duty to discourage her. He had a specially
warm spot for Alessandro the bullet-headed one, a blonde sport in that
dark family. Alessandro, always watching for a chance to sneak out and
play in the streets, was often in trouble with his father, who swore at
him in English, without being aware of the comic effect of his
aspersions on the boy’s parentage.
The round table in the middle of the room, which would hold six at a
squeeze, was reserved for a little company of friends that included two
known authors; a lady editor; an artist; and a long-legged young man of
unknown affiliations, whom the others called the bambino. These people
constituted the focus of interest in the place. Wilfred watching them,
and listening, decided against them. Let the authors be known as well as
they might, their circle was not the real thing; its brilliancy was
self-conscious. One author looked like a walrus with his tusks drawn;
the other like an elderly trained poodle. The artist had a voluminous
cape to his overcoat; and rattled his stick against the door-frame when
he entered. Somebody said he designed labels for tomato cans. The room
was small enough for Wilfred to scoop in these bits of information, as
they flew about.
These and others in the room were of the general show; there was one
group that Wilfred had taken for his own; whom he regarded with an
intensity of interest that hurt. Young fellows, no more than a year or
two older than himself; lively young fellows; and good friends! Until he
had come to Ceccina’s he had never seen any young men like these, but he
immediately understood them; he seemed to have been waiting for such.
The conventions upon which young men ordinarily formed themselves, had
no force with them. Their eyes seemed to see what they were turned upon;
they were interested in things; they could let themselves go; and how
they talked!
Two of them came every night. These addressed each other as Stanny and
Jasper. Stanny was short and sturdily built; with an expression of
doughty wistfulness that arrested Wilfred. He had a tenor voice with
rather plaintive modulations, that went with his eyes. A man every inch
of him, from the set of his strong shoulders, and his courageous glance;
but a man who felt things and wondered. Up to this time Wilfred had
despairingly supposed that manliness was the capacity for not feeling
things. Jasper, with his crisp, bronze, wavy hair, and warm color, was
full of a slow, earthy zest. His face generally wore a sleepy
half-smile; and he had a trick of squinting down his big nose. Wilfred
inferred that he must have wit, from the surprised laughter which
greeted his rare sallies.
These two were sometimes joined by an older man with a fine, reticent
face and silky black beard, whom they called Hilgy. Hilgy had his
features under such control, that it was impossible to decide whether he
was speaking in jest or in earnest. Wilfred observed that sometimes his
own friends did not know how to take him. Hilgy liked to string them.
Sometimes a thin, handsome youth no older than Wilfred, made one of the
party. They called him Binks; and so exuberant and audacious was his
style, that all hung upon his words, though he was the youngest among
them.
Unfortunately for Wilfred, these fellows, unlike the party at the center
table, talked low and all he could get of it was a phrase here and
there. He had gathered that they were all artists, though they wore
their hair short, and dressed like anybody else. They forced him to
reconsider all his notions about artists. Art! the word rang hopefully
in Wilfred’s consciousness; it was a way other than business, of making
one’s living. Of course he couldn’t be a painter, because his fingers
were all thumbs. But a writer, perhaps; that was an art, too. Years ago,
his grandfather had told him he had imagination; he had been hugging the
assurance ever since. Nobody else had ever suggested that he had any
worthy quality. Still, a writer!—how ridiculous to dream of such a
thing, when he lacked a college education.
For many nights Wilfred had been watching these happy fellows. Such
friends! What would he not have given for one friend, and each of these
had three! Talk boiled out of them. Sometimes at a heard phrase,
Wilfred’s own breast would froth up like yeasty beer. It was so
extraordinary to discover that they talked about the same things that
troubled his mind! They were clever. They poked sly fun at the other
diners. Once Wilfred caught Stanny’s nickname for the writer who looked
like a poodle: “Flannel-belly!” Inexplicably right! he laughed whenever
he thought of it.
Wilfred had taken two of the four to his heart; Stanny and Binks. But
his feelings toward them were different: for the one he felt a violent
affection and sympathy; for the other, a violent, helpless admiration.
One or another of these two, or both of them, linked arms with Wilfred
in his waking dreams; and into their attentive ears he poured the frothy
stuff that choked his breast. When he came to himself, he would smile,
to think how in his dreams, he did all the talking.
On this night none of the fellows had come, and Wilfred was obliged to
swallow his disappointment. Ceccina had finally been obliged to give
their places to a party of overdressed strangers from up-town, who
stared rudely around the room, and made audible comments. Such people
cheapened everybody in the place. Wilfred cursed them under his breath.
Then the bell rang, and Stanny and Jasper entered the room, a good half
hour after their usual time. Wilfred’s heart leaped like a lover’s; then
set up a tremendous pounding; for the only two vacant places together,
were at his table. The two crossed the room as a matter of course; and
Stanny asked him politely if they might share his table.
“Certainly!” stammered Wilfred, keeping his eyes down. He simply had not
the courage to look at them so near to.
They sat down side by side opposite him. Wilfred’s breast was in a
commotion. His confusion must have affected the other two, for they were
silent at first. Undoubtedly they thought him a churl, who hugged his
solitude. He could not bring himself to look at them. He was bitterly
upbraiding himself. You fool! What a poor figure you are cutting! Why
can’t you be natural? These are simple, likable fellows, willing to be
friends. They are your kind. What a chance! And you’re throwing it away!
You won’t get another such chance. This is what comes of dreaming!
Unfits you for the reality. . . .
Their soup was brought; and they hungrily applied themselves to it, with
encomiums upon its flavor. While waiting for their next course, they
picked up a conversation that had evidently been dropped a little while
before. They spoke low; but Wilfred’s sharpened ears heard every word.
“I think you’re foolish,” said Stanny, “after working in the office all
day, to sit in your basement nights, hacking away at your carving. With
a book of Italian verbs open besides you, too. Or if you’re not there,
you’re sitting in Madame Tardieu’s stuffy room, droning French with that
tiresome old soul!”
“She needs the money,” mumbled Jasper. His shy, unsure utterance
endeared him to Wilfred.
“Well, that’s not your fault,” said Stanny, slightly exasperated.
“You’re too easy. She knows she’s got a good thing, and she’s nursing it
along. . . . I say, it’s not natural at our age.”
“What else is there to do, nights?” grumbled Jasper. “We haven’t any
money to spend.”
“Loaf!” said Stanny, promptly. “A certain amount of loafing is necessary
to the soul’s health. You’re doing violence to your nature with this
continual grind. It’ll get back at you some day. This self-improvement
business can be carried too far. How can you improve when you’ve worked
yourself into a half-doped state? . . . I bet you fall asleep in your
chair at Mme. Tardieu’s many’s the night, while the old body drools on.”
“It’s a fact,” confessed Jasper.
While they talked together, ignoring him, Wilfred quieted down. It was
better they should ignore him, he thought; for if, as was probable, they
should not like him, that would be worse. Meanwhile what a glimpse into
their lives he was getting!
“Last night,” said Jasper in his diffident, masculine voice, “I was
sitting in Madame Tardieu’s room. It’s true, I was half asleep. I
happened to look out of the window. . . . In the house opposite, there
was a girl going to bed. She’d forgotten to pull down the shades. . . .
Damn nice-looking girl! When she put up her arms to unpin her hair . . .
lovely round arms . . . such a picture! . . . Well . . . I lost my head.
I said good-night to the old lady in a hurry, and I went . . . I mean I
went across the street. . . .”
“_What!_” exclaimed Stanny.
“It’s a rooming house. The outer door was closed. I waited on the stoop
until one of the lodgers came home. Told him I’d lost my key. He let me
in. I went up to the girl’s room and went in. . . .”
“Good God! what did _she_ say?” demanded Stanny.
“Oh, she was surprised,” said Jasper shyly. “But she didn’t make much of
a fuss . . . I stayed. . . .”
“Suppose she _had_ made a fuss?”
“I didn’t think of that.”
“You had been drinking!”
“No. . . . Something got into me. . . .”
Wilfred was astounded and delighted by this anecdote. Such delicious
effrontery was almost inconceivable to him. It was _right_, thought
Wilfred; that was the gallant way; the mad, imprudent jolly way! Jasper
loomed a hero in his eyes. He ventured to steal a look at the pair of
them. Stanny was a little scandalized by the story—but only a little.
Evidently it was much the sort of thing a friend might expect to hear
from Jasper. Then Wilfred looked at Jasper; and at the same moment
Jasper happened to raise his shy, wicked eyes to Wilfred’s face. A spark
was struck, and suddenly they laughed together.
Wilfred blushed scarlet. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I couldn’t help
hearing. . . .”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Jasper, blushing, too. “You know how it
is.”
A warm tide of joy coursed through Wilfred. To be hailed by Jasper as a
fellow!
Stanny now included Wilfred in his remarks. He was annoyed. “A piece of
folly, if you ask me,” he said. “God knows what might have happened!”
“But it wouldn’t, to him,” said Wilfred. “There wasn’t any room in his
mind for it to happen.”
Stanny looked at Wilfred dubiously. Wilfred blushed again. What nonsense
am I talking? he thought.
“He understands,” said Jasper, with a jerk of his head in Wilfred’s
direction.
“Yes, I understand,” said Wilfred, a little breathlessly. “But I
wouldn’t have had the nerve to carry it through, myself. I think it was
fine!”
“Huh!” said Stanny. “You don’t know this idiot as well as I do. Works
himself into a state of stupefaction. Then suddenly blows up, and
doesn’t know what he’s doing. I don’t call that rational!”
“Oh well, reason isn’t everything!” said Wilfred grinning.
“Hear! Hear!” said Jasper.
Stanny’s irritation was only on the surface. He grinned back at Wilfred.
“You shouldn’t encourage him!” he said with an affectionate glance at
Jasper. “The old stove-in-bottom! You wouldn’t think he was capable of
it, to look at him, would you?”
“I’m not bragging about it,” said Jasper with an aggrieved air. “I only
told you how it was. I’m ashamed of myself now, I felt rotten about it
all day.”
“If it had been me, I wouldn’t be ashamed,” murmured Wilfred.
“Anyhow, you’re no Joseph!” said Jasper to Stanny. “How about Myrtle?”
A flicker of disgust made Stanny’s face look pinched. “Oh, that was just
a common or garden pick-up,” he said; “all conducted according to rule.
It’s ended. Two nights ago I blew her to a ride in a hansom. Bowling
down Fifth Avenue. Felt like a lord! She spoiled it by getting
mercenary. I invited her to get out, and came home alone.”
“Why shouldn’t she be mercenary?” asked Jasper mildly.
“Sure, I’m a sentimentalist!” said Stanny.
Wilfred experienced a pang of sympathy. Glancing in Stanny’s face, he
thought: He deserves better than that!
Spaghetti was brought to Stanny and Jasper; and they applied themselves
to it. Wilfred, who had finished his meal, lit a cigarette with slightly
trembling fingers; and prayed that this might not be the end. In his
mind he searched furiously around for interesting matter to carry on the
talk; while at the same time another part of his mind warned him not to
force the occasion, or it would break down as it always did; but to let
the occasion use him. While he was still distracted between these inner
voices, the talk started of itself.
Said Stanny: “When I came down-town to-night, I saw that they had taken
away the female figures leading up to the Dewey Arch on either side.
Charlotte Marshall posed for those figures. She comes here sometimes.”
“I’ve seen her,” said Wilfred. “What a strange creature!”
Stanny smiled at him good-naturedly, in a way that made Wilfred feel
very young. Of course! thought Wilfred. I was trying to be wise. I
_will_ be natural!
“All legs,” grumbled Jasper.
“Well, that’s the sculptor’s ideal,” said Stanny.
“The degenerate sculptor’s ideal!”
“Anyhow, it looks a lot better without them—or her,” said Stanny. “I
like it, though it’s been damaged a bit by the weather, and by the hubs
of the busses driving through. Wish you could have seen the pair of
drivers I saw to-night, racing through abreast, licking their horses
like the chariot race in Ben-Hur.”
“It’s not really good,” said Jasper. “Just a lot of miscellaneous
architecture.”
“Well, you ought to know, old Goat and Compasses!”
“I like to look at it,” said Wilfred shyly. “Just because it was run up
for a sort of festival. It was a damn fool thing to spend all that money
on a monument of lath and plaster. That’s why I like it. Everything else
is so damned useful. . . .”
He suddenly became aware that both young fellows were listening to him.
Self-consciousness supervened, and his tongue began to stumble. They
listen! he thought. I can talk too.
“Do you paint?” asked Stanny.
Wilfred shook his head. “I’m only a millionaire’s office boy,” he said,
trying to carry it off with a grin.
“That’s nothing,” said Stanny quickly. “I make line drawings for James
Gordon Bennett, and Jasper here, draws plans for a millionaire
jerry-builder.”
“Some day I hope to write,” Wilfred said. In that moment his resolution
was formed.
“That so?” said Stanny with interest. “We haven’t got a writer in our
bunch.”
Wilfred’s heart almost burst out of his breast. Did he mean anything by
that? . . . But probably not.
Thenceforward, talk never failed.
The three youths left the restaurant together. A despair had seized upon
Wilfred. There was nothing further he could do to prolong the occasion.
He had no place where he could ask them to come. This was the end! They
paused on the sidewalk.
“Which way you go?” asked Stanny, offhand.
“I live in Eleventh street.”
“Walk around by the Avenue with us.”
So he obtained five minutes reprieve. At the Eleventh street corner they
paused again. Wilfred’s heart was low. His tongue clave to his palate.
Stanny said in the forthright manner that became his doughty self so
well: “Look here; I’ve got a garret up on Fourteenth street. Jasper’s
coming up. Would you like to come and look at my stuff?”
Would he! Wilfred could scarcely reply. “Oh yes!” he murmured. “I was
hoping you would ask me.”
Both lads looked at him with quick pleasure. Without knowing it, he had
said exactly the right thing. They marched up-town three abreast.
“Got anything to drink?” mumbled Jasper.
“Divil a drop, you sponge!”
“I . . . I wish you’d let me . . . stand treat,” stammered Wilfred. With
his fingers, he made sure of the limp dollar bill in his trousers
pocket. That was for lunches the balance of the week, but . . . !
“All right,” said Stanny. “We’ll go round by Maria’s, and get a bottle
of Nebiola . . .”