All the way up Broadway he kept up his good-natured tirade, railing at
the extravagance of the age, at the costly dinners, equipages, dress
of the women, until we reached the foot of the dilapidated flight of
brown-stone steps leading to the front door of his home on Fifteenth
Street. Here a flood of gas light from inside a shop in the basement
brought into view the figure of a short, squat, spectacled little man
bending over a cutting-table, a pair of shears in his hand.
“Isaac is still at work,” he cried. “If we were not so late we'd go in
and have a word with him. Now there's a man who has solved the problem,
my boy. Nobody will ever coax Isaac Cohen up to Fifth Avenue and into
a 'By appointment to His Majesty' kind of a tailor shop. Just pegs away
year after year--he was here long before I came--supporting his family,
storing his mind with all sorts of rare knowledge. Do you know he's one
of the most delightful men you will meet in a day's journey?”
“No--never knew anything of the kind. Thought he was just plain tailor.”
“And an intimate friend of many of the English actors who come over
here?” continued Peter.
“I never heard a word about it” I answered meekly; Peter's acquaintances
being too varied and too numerous for me to keep track of. That he
should have a tailor among them as learned and wise as Solomon, and with
friends all over the globe, was quite to be expected.
“Well, he is,” answered Peter. “They always hunt him up the first thing
they do. He lived in London for years and made their costumes. There's
no one, I assure you, I am more glad to see when he makes an excuse to
rap at my door. You'll come up, of course, until I read my letters.”
“No, I'll keep on to my rooms and meet you later at the club.”
“You'll do nothing of the kind, you restless mortal. You'll come
upstairs with me until I open my mail. It's really like touching the
spring of a Jack-in-the-box, this mail of mine--all sorts of things pop
out, generally the unexpected. Mighty interesting, I tell you,” and
with a cheery wave of the hand to his friend Isaac, whose eyes had been
looking streetward at the precise moment, Peter pushed me ahead of him
up the worn marble steps flanked by the rust-eaten iron railing which
led to the hallway and stairs, and so on up to his apartment.
It was just the sort of house Peter, of all men in the world, would have
picked out to live in--and he had been here for twenty years or more.
Not only did the estimable Isaac occupy the basement, but Madame
Montini, the dress-maker, had the first floor back; a real-estate agent
made free with the first floor front, and a very worthy teacher of
music, whose piano could be heard at all hours of the day, and far into
the night, was paying rent for the second, both front and back. Peter's
own apartments ran the whole length of the third floor, immediately
under the slanting, low-ceiled garret, which was inhabited by the good
Mrs. McGuffey, the janitress, who, in addition to her regular duties,
took especial care of Peter's rooms. Adjoining these was a small
apartment consisting of two rooms, connecting with Peter's suite by
a door cut through for some former lodger. These were also under
Mrs. McGuffey's special care and very good care did she take of them,
especially when Peter's sister, Miss Felicia Grayson, occupied them for
certain weeks in the year.
These changes had all taken place in the time the old fellow had mounted
the quaint stairs with the thin mahogany banisters, and yet Peter stayed
on. “The gnarled pear tree in the back yard is so charming,” he would
urge in excuse, “especially in the spring, when the perfume of its
blossoms fills the air,” or, “the view overlooking Union Square is so
delightful,” or, “the fireplace has such a good draught.” What mattered
it who lived next door, or below, or overhead, for that matter, so that
he was not disturbed--and he never was. The property, of course, had
gone from bad to worse since the owner had died; the neighborhood had
run down, and the better class of tenants down, up, and even across the
street--had moved away, but none of these things had troubled Peter.
And no wonder, when once you got inside the two rooms and looked about!
There was a four-post bedstead with chintz curtains draped about
the posts, that Martha Washington might have slept in, and a chintz
petticoat which reached the floor and hid its toes of rollers, which the
dear lady could have made with her own hands; there was a most ancient
mahogany bureau to match, all brass fittings. There were easy chairs
with restful arms within reach of tables holding lamps, ash receivers
and the like; and rows and rows of books on open shelves edged with
leather; not to mention engravings of distinguished men and old
portraits in heavy gilt frames: one of his grandfather who fought in the
Revolution, and another of his mother--this last by Rembrandt Peale--a
dear old lady with the face of a saint framed in a head of gray hair,
the whole surmounted by a cluster of silvery curls. There were quaint
brass candelabra with square marble bases on each end of the mantel,
holding candles showing burnt wicks in the day time and cheery lights at
night; and a red carpet covering both rooms and red table covers and
red damask curtains, and a lounge with a red afghan thrown over it; and
last, but by no means least--in fact it was the most important thing
in the sitting-room, so far as comfort was concerned--there was a big
open-hearth Franklin, full of blazing red logs, with brass andirons and
fender, and a draught of such marvellous suction that stray scraps of
paper, to say nothing of uncommonly large sparks, had been known
more than once to have been picked up in a jiffy and whirled into its
capacious throat.
Just the very background for dear old Peter, I always said, whenever
I watched him moving about the cheery interior, pushing up a chair,
lighting a fresh candle, or replacing a book on the shelf. What a
half-length the great Sully would have made of him, with his high
collar, white shirt-front and wonderful neck-cloth with its pleats and
counterpleats, to say nothing of his rosy cheeks and bald head, the
high light glistening on one of his big bumps of benevolence. And what a
background of deep reds and warm mahoganys with a glint of yellow brass
for contrast!
Indeed, I have often thought that not only Peter's love of red, but much
of Peter's quaintness of dress, had been suggested by some of the old
portraits which lined the walls of his sitting-room--his grandfather,
by Sully, among them; and I firmly believe, although I assure you I have
never mentioned it to any human being before, that had custom permitted
(the directors of his bank, perhaps), Peter would not only have indulged
in the high coat-collar and quaint neck-cloths of his fathers, but would
also have worn a dainty cue tied with a flowing black ribbon, always
supposing, of course, that his hair had held out, and, what is more
important, always supposing, that the wisp was long enough to hold on.
The one article, however, which, more than any other one thing in his
apartment, revealed his tastes and habits, was a long, wide, ample
mahogany desk, once the property of an ancestor, which stood under
the window in the front room. In this, ready to his hand, were drawers
little and big, full of miscellaneous papers and envelopes; pigeon-holes
crammed full of answered and unanswered notes, some with crests on them,
some with plain wax clinging to the flap of the broken envelopes; many
held together with the gum of the common world. Here, too, were bundles
of old letters tied with tape; piles of pamphlets, quaint trays holding
pens and pencils, and here too was always to be found, in summer or
in winter, a big vase full of roses or blossoms, or whatever was in
season--a luxury he never denied himself.
To this desk, then, Peter betook himself the moment he had hung his gray
surtout on its hook in the closet and disposed of his hat and umbrella.
This was his up-town office, really, and here his letters awaited him.
First came a notice of the next meeting of the Numismatic Society of
which he was an honored member; then a bill for his semi-annual dues at
the Century Club; next a delicately scented sheet inviting him to dine
with the Van Wormleys of Washington Square, to meet an English lord and
his lady, followed by a pressing letter to spend Sunday with friends
in the country. Then came a long letter from his sister, Miss Felicia
Grayson, who lived in the Genesee Valley and who came to New York every
winter for what she was pleased to call “The Season” (a very remarkable
old lady, this Miss Felicia Grayson, with a mind of her own, sections of
which she did not hesitate to ventilate when anybody crossed her or her
path, and of whom we shall hear more in these pages), together with the
usual assortment of bills and receipts, the whole an enlivening
record not only of Peter's daily life and range of taste, but of the
limitations of his purse as well.
One letter was reserved for the last. This he held in his hand until he
again ran his eye over the pile before him. It was from Holker Morris
the architect, a man who stood at the head of his profession.
“Yes, Holker's handwriting,” he said as he inserted the end of the paper
cutter. “I wonder what the dear fellow wants now?” Here he ran his eye
over the first page. “Listen, Major. What an extraordinary man... He's
going to give a dinner, he says, to his draughtsmen... in his offices
at the top of his new building, six stories up. Does the rascal think I
have nothing to do but crawl up his stairs? Here, I'll read it to you.”
“'You, dear Peter:' That's just like Holker! He begins that way when he
wants me to do something for him. 'No use saying you won't come, for I
shall be around for you at seven o'clock with a club--'No, that's not
it--he writes so badly--'with a cab.' Yes, that's it--'with a cab.' I
wonder if he can drive me up those six flights of stairs? 'There'll
be something to eat, and drink, and there will be fifty or more of my
draughtsmen and former employees. I'm going to give them a dinner and a
house-warming. Bring the Major if you see him. I have sent a note to his
room, but it may not reach him. No dress suit, remember. Some of my men
wouldn't know one if they saw it.”
As the letter dropped from Peter's hand a scraping of feet was heard at
the hall door, followed by a cheery word from Mrs. McGuffey--she had her
favorites among Peter's friends--and Holker Morris burst into the room.
“Ah, caught you both!” he cried, all out of breath with his run
upstairs, his hat still on his head. No one blew in and blew out
of Peter's room (literally so) with the breeze and dash of the
distinguished architect. “Into your coats, you two--we haven't a moment
to spare. You got my letter, of course,” he added, throwing back the
cape of his raincoat.
“Yes, Holker, just opened it!” cried Peter, holding out both hands to
his guest. “But I'm not going. I am too old for your young fellows--take
the Major and leave me behind.”
The architect grabbed Peter by the arm. “When did that mighty idea crack
its way through that shell of yours, you tottering Methusaleh! Old!
You're spryer than a frolicking lamb in March. You are coming, too,
Major. Get into your coats and things!”
“But Isaac is pressing my swallow-tail.”
“I don't mean your dress-coat, man--your OVERCOAT! Now I am sure you
didn't read my letter? Some of my young fellows haven't got such a
thing--too poor.”
“But look at YOURS!”
“Yes, I had to slip into mine out of respect to the occasion; my boys
wouldn't like it if I didn't. Sort of uniform to them, but they'd be
mighty uncomfortable if you wore yours. Hurry up, we haven't a minute to
lose.”
Peter had forced the architect into one of the big chairs by the fire
by this time, and stood bending over him, his hands resting on Morris's
broad shoulders.
“Take the Major with you, that's a good fellow, and let me drop in about
eleven o'clock,” he pleaded, an expression on his face seen only when
two men understand and love each other. “There's a letter from Felicia
to attend to; she writes she is coming down for a couple of weeks, and
then I've really had a devil of a day at the bank.”
“No, you old fraud, you can't wheedle me that way. I want you before
everybody sits down, so my young chaps can look you over. Why, Peter,
you're better than a whole course of lectures, and you mean something,
you beggar! I tell you” (here he lifted himself from the depths of the
chair and scrambled to his feet) “you've got to go if I have to tie
your hands and feet and carry you downstairs on my back! And you, too,
Major--both of you. Here's your overcoat--into it, you humbug!... the
other arm. Is this your hat? Out you go!” and before I had stopped
laughing--I had refused to crowd the cab--Morris had buttoned the
surtout over Peter's breast, crammed the straight-brimmed hat over his
eyes, and the two were clattering downstairs.