How long ago it seems, that spring noonshine when two young men (we will
call them Dactyl and Spondee) set off to plunder the golden bag of Time.
These creatures had an oppressive sense that first Youth was already
fled. For one of them, in fact, it was positively his thirtieth
birthday; poor soul, how decrepitly he flitted in front of motor trucks.
As for the other, he was far decumbent in years, quite of a previous
generation, a perfect Rameses, whose senile face was wont to crack into
wrinklish mirth when his palsied cronies called him the greatest poet
born on February 2, 1886.
It was a day--well, it is fortunate that some things do not have to be
described. Suppose one had to explain to the pallid people of the
thither moon what a noonday sunshine is like in New York about the Nones
of May? It could not be done to carry credence. Let it be said it was a
Day, and leave it so. You have all known that gilded envelopment of
sunshine and dainty air.
These pitiful creatures arose from the subway at Fourteenth Street and
took the world in their right hands. From this revolving orb, said they,
they would squeeze a luncheon hour of exquisite satisfactions. They
gazed sombrely at Union Square, and uttered curious reminiscences of the
venerable days when one of them had worked, actually toiled for a
living, upon the shores of that expanse. Ten years had passed (yes, at
least ten--_O edax rerum!_). Upon a wall these observant strollers saw a
tablet to the memory of William Lloyd Garrison. Strange, said they, we
never noticed this before. Ah, said one, this is hallowed ground. It was
near here that I used to borrow a quarter, the day before pay-day, to
buy my lunch. The other contributed similar recollections. And now,
quoth he, I am grown so prosperous that when I need money I can't afford
to borrow less than two hundred dollars.
They lunched (one brushes away the mist of time to recall the details)
where the bright sunlight fell athwart a tablecloth of excellent
whiteness. They ate (may one be precise at so great a distance?)--yes,
they ate broiled mackerel to begin with; the kind of mackerel called
(but why?) Spanish. Whereupon succeeded a course of honeycomb tripe,
which moved Dactyl to quoting Rabelais, something that Grangousier had
said about tripes. Only by these tripes is memory supported and made
positive, for it was the first time either had tackled this dish.
Concurrent with the tripes, one inducted the other into the true mystery
of blending shandygaff, explaining the first doctrine of that worthy
draught, which is that the beer must be poured into the beaker before
the ginger ale, for so arises a fatter and lustier bubblement of foam.
The reason whereof they leave no testament. While this portion of the
meal was under discussion their minds moved free, unpinioned, with airy
lightness, over all manner of topics. It seemed no effort at all to
talk. Ripe, mellow with long experience of men and matters, their
comments were notable for wisdom and sagacity. The waiter, overhearing
shreds of their discourse, made a private notation to the effect that
these were Men of Large Affairs. Then they embarked upon some salty
crackers, enlivened with Camembert cheese and green-gage jam. By this
time they were touching upon religion, from which they moved lightly to
the poems of Louise Imogen Guiney. It is all quite distinct as one looks
back upon it.
[Illustration]
Issuing upon the street, Dactyl said something about going back to the
office, but the air and sunlight said him nay. Rather, remarked Spondee,
let us fare forward upon this street and see what happens. This is ever
a comely doctrine, adds the chronicler. They moved gently, not without a
lilac trailing of tobacco fume, across quiet stretches of pavement. In
the blue upwardness stood the tower of the Metropolitan Life Building, a
reminder that humanity as a whole pays its premiums with decent
regularity. They conned the nice gradations of tint in the spring
foliage of Gramercy Park. They talked, a little soberly, of thrift, and
of their misspent years.
Lexington Avenue lay guileless beneath their rambling footfalls. At the
corner of Twenty-second Street was a crowd gathered, and a man with the
customary reverted cap in charge of a moving picture machine. A swift
car drew up before the large house at the southeast corner. Thrill upon
thrill: something being filmed for the movies! In the car, a handsome
young rogue at the wheel, and who was this blithe creature in shiny
leather coat and leather cap, with crumpling dark curls cascading
beneath it? A suspicion tinkled in the breast of Spondee, in those days
a valiant movie fan. Up got the young man, and hopped out of the car. Up
stood the blithe creature--how neatly breeched, indeed, a heavenly
forked radish--and those shining riding boots! She dismounted--lifted
down (so unnecessarily it seemed) by the rogue. She stood there a moment
and Spondee was convinced. DOROTHY GISH, said he to Dactyl. Miss Gish
and her escort darted into the house, the camera man reeling busily. At
an upper window of the dwelling a white-haired lady was looking out,
between lace curtains, with a sort of horror. Query, was she part of the
picture, or only the aristocratic owner of the house, dismayed at
finding her home suddenly become part of a celluloid drama? Spondee had
always had a soft spot in his heart for Miss Dorothy, esteeming her a
highly entertaining creature. He was disappointed in the tranquil
outcome of the scene. He had hoped to see leaping from windows and all
manner of hot stuff. Near by stood a coloured groom with a horse. The
observers concluded that Miss Gish was to do a little galloping shortly.
Dactyl and Spondee moved away. Spondee quoted a poem he had once written
about Miss Dorothy. He recollected only two lines:
She makes all the rest seem a shoal of poor fish
So _we_ cast _our_ ballot for Dorothy Gish.
Peering again into the dark backward and abysm, it seems that the two
rejuvenated gossips trundled up on Lexington Avenue to Alfred
Goldsmith's cheerful bookshop. Here they were startled to hear Mr.
Goldsmith cry: "Well, Chris, here are some nice bones for you." One of
these visitors assumed this friendly greeting was for him, but then it
was explained that Mr. Goldsmith's dog, named Christmas, was feeling
seedy, and was to be pampered. At this moment in came the postman with a
package of books, arrived all the way from Canada. One of these books
was "Salt of the Sea," a volume of tales by Morley Roberts, and upon
this Spondee fell with a loud cry, for it contained "The Promotion of
the Admiral," being to his mind a tale of great virtue which he had not
seen in several years. Dactyl, meanwhile, was digging out some volumes
of Gissing, and on the faces of both these creatures might have been
seen a pleasant radiation of innocent cheer. Mr. Goldsmith also
exhibited (it is still remembered) a beautiful photo of Walt Whitman,
which entertained the visitors, for it showed old Walt with his
coat-sleeve full of pins, which was ever Walt's way.
How long ago it all seems. Does Miss Dorothy still act for the pictures?
Does Chris, the amiable Scots terrier, still enjoy his bones? Does old
Dactyl still totter about his daily tasks? Queer to think that it
happened only yesterday. Well, time runs swift in New York.