IX

—— Hospital,

St. Louis.

Dear Wilfred:

I came here because it was a good way off, and I wanted to make a clean

break with everything.

Besides, I was attracted by the reputation of Dr. Shales, whom they call

the greatest surgeon in the world; the superhuman butcher. He’s the

bright, particular star of this institution. It was rather a let-down to

discover that dozens of other girls from all parts of the country had

had the same idea. They flock here in droves. The majority are quickly

sent home with fleas in their ears. But I was accepted. I suppose you’d

say, you idealist, that there was something fine in this crusade of

women to serve under the banner of pure intelligence and skill. But

that’s not the half of it, dearie. There’s sex in it too. But not in my

case. There’s sex in everything, isn’t there, like those horrid little

bugs under damp wood. You’d understand what I mean if you could hear the

nurses talking amongst themselves. Our God, the doctor, is the sole

topic. But not much about his intelligence and skill. Not that you’d

notice! Oh well, I suppose he’s only human. If you were to believe them,

he’s a monster! Thank God! I’m no idealist! I’ve got no illusions to be

shattered.

My family as you may guess, kicked up a horrid clamor at the idea of my

entering for training here. The poor dears! I suppose it _was_ a shock!

As usual, I was called absolutely hard, unfeeling, etc. However, they

did not say the final word to prevent my coming, suspecting perhaps, an

alternative even more dreadful. I didn’t tell them until my bag was

packed, and I was ready to walk out of the house. Thus the scene was

confined to one tempestuous half hour. I hadn’t told a soul else. Of

course I have been getting letters in sheaves since I arrived.

Sickening, isn’t it, how people give themselves away when they take

their pens in hand? One or two of my friends wrote praising me for the

step I had taken. Those letters infuriated me. I mean, that anybody

should have the cheek to impute pious motives to me. I wrote

deliberately insulting replies. Yet I suppose you’d call them my best

friends. You don’t need to tell me that I am acting a bad part. I know

it. How can I help myself? I have heard nothing from you. Perhaps you

didn’t know where I was, since it has been kept out of the papers.

As a probationer they have set me to work cleaning up the diet kitchens,

dispensaries, etc. I have learned to scrub. Actually! Right down on my

marrow bones with brush and pail. If the Avenue could see me now! We

work from seven to seven. It’s a ghastly grind, because they

deliberately overwork us at first in order to weed out the weak sisters.

Well, I’m strong. I can stand it, but I’m getting as gaunt as an alley

cat. On my afternoons off, I dress up in my most flaunting clothes, and

rouge my cheeks, and sally forth.—And then I come back again! Never let

anybody persuade you that there’s any dignity in filthy labor! Nor that

it conduces to serenity of mind! I wouldn’t mind if there was any _use_

in it. Oh, God! how I hate this place! I can’t imagine why I ever came

here. I can’t give it up either, after all the fuss that everybody has

kicked up. The girls of my lot here have made a sort of hero out of me.

They’re poor creatures. This is bad for me, because it leads me into a

swagger. I’ve been in hot water more than once. I can’t stomach these

head nurses, etc. Take a barren, starved woman, and give her authority

over a lot of blooming, sniggering girls, and the result is hellish.

Life seems to lead us into one trap after another. You notice I blame

life. I’m so damn conceited. I suppose that’s what the matter with me.

In my heart I still think there’s nobody in the world quite like me. Yet

I hate myself too! You shook me a little, and I can’t thank you for it.

Didn’t shake me hard enough, I guess. It hasn’t done any good; it’s only

made life infinitely harder. I wish I’d never met you! Of course I don’t

quite mean that. Once I was happy. Lord! what rosy illusions I had about

life and love and playing the game. That was my slogan: To Play the

Game! I never noticed that I was apt to make the rules to fit my own

desires. Now I have flopped into a sort of sink where everything is

smeary. . . . I grind my teeth and snarl. I have discovered that I am

cowardly, too. That’s the bitterest pill of all. For if I could, I’d

shut my eyes and eat lotuses. I would! I would! I’d crawl back into my

fool’s paradise on any terms, only the crystal dome is busted. I know

there is no escape _that_ way, and I can’t face the other.

Burn this Old Top, and forget me.

Yours,

Elaine.

South Washington Square.

Dear Elaine:

When I read your letter my impulse was to jump on the first train. The

pull was awful! A cry for help from _you_! Very likely you would deny

now that it was a cry for help. You carefully avoided mentioning the

things that were at the back of your mind. But I could read them. Don’t

worry; I’m not going to drag them into the light. Call it just a cry of

pain, then. I know what the pressure must have been that forced it from

your lips.

But you see I have not come; and I am not coming. From the first my

better sense warned me that it would only make things worse. If I saw

you I would only lose my head, and babble weak, emotional stuff that

would humiliate me, and disgust you. That’s the writer’s penalty. It is

my business to express vicarious feelings. When my own heart froths up I

am helpless. That arouses your contempt. What you do not consider is,

that at the center of all this flutter there may be a firm core, worthy

of your respect. I suffer horribly from the inability to express my

feelings thoughtlessly. By staying away from you, perhaps I can remain a

sort of fixed point in your confused horizon. The fact that you wrote to

me at such a time shows that you regard me in some such light. I must

take what satisfaction I can out of the assurance that you could not

have let yourself go with anybody else like that. You know these things

already. The ghastly part is, that knowing them doesn’t alter the

situation. All we can do is to make private signals to each other across

the gulf. So I am not coming. To see you now; to have you shrink from my

touch, would about finish me. I am glad you let yourself go by letter,

and not in speech. I could not have endured that! If I grovelled and

stammered at your feet, your last illusion, which is me, would be gone.

I tried to write you last night, but I was too much confused. I was

blind. I am not the one to help you. The only way I can help you is by

being baldly honest. I had to force myself to think. Do not despise the

man who is forced to stop and think when his feelings are rushing him

away. It is the need of my nature. It is the one thing I have to hang on

to in this whirling chaos. And the feelings are not necessarily any the

less genuine. At least I am never finally deceived by the sound of my

own roaring.

I walked all night. I don’t know that I’m any clearer in my mind this

morning because of it, but I’m dog tired. I’m beyond the point of

considering what I say. I tore up half a dozen letters last night. This

one has just got to go, and God help us both. Whatever I say, or do not

say, it will not mend the situation. One things stands out starkly: the

touch of my hand revolts you. You made that fatally clear. Therefore,

I’ve got to stay away from you. What did you write to me for? I can’t

help you. I’m a man, the same as that other. I can’t be your confessor.

You are contemptuous of my manhood. I’m not even going to try to give

you any advice. Coming from me it would sound hollow. If you did what I

told you to, you would just blame me for all the pain which followed.

There’s got to be pain anyway. You’ve got to make up your mind what to

do, and swallow the pain; just as I’ve got to swallow my pain. We

haven’t had the best of luck, either of us. Well, I won’t die of it, and

neither will you. I am in a deeper hell at this moment than you will

ever know. You, at least, have kept yourself taut, while I have been

wallowing. With no excuse; no excuse! Your letter coming at such a

moment—Oh, well, I’ve said enough. I loathe myself.

Wilfred.

It was Wilfred’s newspaper that informed him of the romantic sudden

marriage in St. Louis of Miss Elaine Sturges to Mr. Joseph Kaplan, both

of New York. The popular society belle (so the account ran) tiring of

the empty round of gaiety, and determined to do something useful in

life, had gone to St. Louis without telling any of her friends of her

intention, and had quietly entered the —— Hospital as a nurse. It was

rumored that family opposition to the Boy Wonder of Wall Street may have

had something to do with her sudden decision. The Sturgeses were one of

the proudest families in New York, whereas young Mr. Kaplan was very

much the self-made man, as everybody knew.

However that might be, Mr. Kaplan had finally learned of the whereabouts

of his lost lady, and applying the same downright methods that had

characterized his meteoric rise to fortune, had taken the first train to

St. Louis. When he called at the Hospital, he had been refused

permission to see Miss Sturges, since she was on duty. Nothing daunted,

he refused to leave the place until she was produced, and the

authorities were forced to yield. Miss Sturges was called out of the

ward. A few rapid whispered words were sufficient. All in her nurse’s

uniform as she was, Mr. Kaplan bundled her into a taxicab, and they were

driven to the nearest preacher. . . . And so on, and so on, for a column

or more. . . . All the world loves a lover! . . . The honeymoon was

being spent in Southern Pines. Later the happy pair would sail for

Italy. . . .

Wilfred felt no surprise upon reading this, nor any strong emotion. He

had been through that. Just a bitter sickness of heart. “So _that_ is

what it comes to!” he said to himself. Well, I suppose I may consider

myself cured.

X

Upon his return to town in September, one of the first persons Wilfred

met was Jessie Dartrey. She belonged to the Fifty-Ninth street crowd,

though she herself had no pretensions either artistic or literary. She

and Frances Mary Lore were great friends. Not exactly a pretty girl,

Jessie had a highly individual charm. Long, dark eyes, and a crooked

mouth of great sweetness. Wilfred liked her she was “such a little

woman.” What was the right word for her; doughty? peppery? At any rate,

discourse with her was stimulating. Wilfred had the impression that she

cherished a particular scorn for himself; but he did not mind, it was so

amusingly expressed. When Jessie was roused, she talked purest Saxon.

He met her on the Avenue as he was returning from a fruitless call at

Frances Mary’s flat. He had found the glass in the door dusty; and a

faded card still in place, with the tenant’s summer address.

“Hello!” said Wilfred. “I’ve just been up to see if Frances Mary was

back.”

Jessie’s expressive mouth tightened for a flash at the mention of her

friend’s name, and Wilfred wondered what was up. Had the two quarreled?

“No,” said Jessie, readily. “She won’t be back for another month. The

hills are too fine to leave, she writes. And her work is coming well.”

“Hard on us,” he said lightly.

Again that flicker of intense disapproval across Jessie’s face.

“Come and have tea somewhere,” urged Wilfred. “I’m just back myself. I’m

starving for a little town talk.”

“So even I will do?” she said with heavy sarcasm.

Is she jealous? thought Wilfred. What a rum start that would be! “Your

reasoning is faulty as usual,” he said. “There is great virtue in an

accidental encounter. It has changed the fate of Kingdoms!”

“Sorry, I can’t give you the change to prove it,” said Jessie. “I’m

booked for tea at a house in Forty-Seventh street. You can walk to the

door with me if you want.”

He turned around, and accompanied her.

Presently she said with a sharp, sidelong glance of the sloe-black eyes:

“You’re changed since I saw you.”

“How?” he asked, agreeably flattered.

“More conceited than ever!” said Jessie, suddenly changing her mind.

That was Jessie’s way. She had decided to conceal her real thought. In

order to raise a dust, she rattled on: “You always look at me as much as

to say: ‘Oh, mumma! look what the cat’s brought in!’”

Wilfred laughed, and felt uneasy. What had she seen? Was his face thus

easily to be read in the afternoon sunshine of the Avenue? He made haste

to give Jessie a humorous account of the boarding-house in the country

that he had discovered for himself, and could not recommend. Jessie

punctuated the story with scornful little snorts of laughter, shooting

glances of her bright eyes into his face, that fairly snapped with some

feeling mysterious to Wilfred.

Arriving before the house where she was expected, they paused at the

foot of the steps. Said Wilfred, concluding his story:

“Above all, avoid a high-brow boarding-house. Intellectual table-talk is

no compensation for watery hash.”

At that Jessie exploded. It was not a loud explosion, but it had force.

“You make me sick, Wilfred! Does that reach you? I’d like to smack your

grinning face . . . !”

“Why . . . go ahead!” said Wilfred, astonished, but grinning still.

“Don’t speak to me! Or you’ll make me say something I’ll regret! You’re

a fool, do you hear? All men are fools, and you’re the greatest! Oh, I’d

like to take you down a peg! I’d like to do something that would really

_hurt_ you! But you’ve got no feelings! You’re just a conceited grinner!

Stand there and laugh at me, do! Your mouth’s too big; why stretch it

wider? Oh, you’re such a fool it’s past all bearing!”

And with that, she scampered up the steps without a backward look.

Wilfred walked home thoughtfully. He was not in the least angered at

Jessie, for her tirade had touched no sore spot. There had been

something beautiful in it; a human who could let all fly like that. Oh,

Jessie was as sound as an apple! He supposed that her scorn would do him

good; there was no tinge of contempt in it. But what on earth was biting

her? He was obliged to reject the imputation of jealousy. She had

rejoiced in showing him that he had no power over _her_. He carefully

went over her words, but without obtaining any clue. Her speech had the

quality of pure vituperation, which bears no relation to the thing at

issue. “Fool” was simply a generic term for one who utterly disgusted

you.

Then a light began to break over Wilfred, and he became more thoughtful

still. How strange if it should be _that_! he thought. . . . He slipped

into a dream.