THE BOLT
"And by the way," asked Gordon, a few days later, "how's Frieda getting
along?"
"Very well," I answered. "I think she's painting nymphs and angels, as
usual."
"Angels, eh? The natural history of such fowl is interesting."
I had met him in the middle of Bryant Park as I was on the way to the
Public Library to look up information in regard to feminine garb of the
Revolutionary period. It appeared that he was returning from an
interview with a Fifth Avenue picture dealer. At once we sought a bench
and found seats between a doubtfully-clean young gentleman, reading the
sporting page of a dilapidated paper, and an old lady, with rheumy eyes,
who watched a ragged urchin.
I nodded, much interested, and he pursued the subject.
"You may have noticed that the very first angels all belonged to the
masculine persuasion and you are, perhaps, also aware that it was rather
late in the world's growth before women were accorded the possession of
a soul. Hence, at the time, there could be no female angels, either
worthy or evil. To-day, we have changed all that, as Moliere said. In
order to flatter the feminine taste people began to talk of little boy
angels, because women think more of boy babies than of girl ones. The
time arrived when men forgot about the women, the dogs and the walnut
trees and, instead of taking a club to the ladies, they began to write
sonnets to them. It is evident that no one can rhyme words without
everlastingly trying to gild the lily. To call a spade a spade, or a
woman a woman, became scant courtesy, and, hence, the poets devised
female angels. The painters and sculptors naturally pounced upon them,
for their decorative effect, and the she-angel took a firmly-established
place in art and fiction. Let me see, I think you said that your Murillo
lady describes her little sprout as an angel. This merely shows her to
be a normal creature of her sex."
"You are entirely wrong, if by normal you mean just average," I
retorted reproachfully. "Frieda declares that she is the most beautiful
thing she ever saw."
"Frieda is a waddling and inspired goose, whose goslings are all swans,"
he asserted disrespectfully. "Through her unbecoming goggles humanity
assumes pink and mauve colors instead of remaining drab. It may be good
for Frieda and enables her to turn out some very attractive stuff, but
it isn't the real thing. Well, I'll have to run away! Couple of fellows
waiting to drive me over to Long Beach. By-by!"
He was gone with his usual startling suddenness, and I went off to the
library, pondering. When Gordon is talking to me, I can hardly help
believing him. Indeed, if the man had been a life insurance agent he
would have made a fortune. At first, one feels absolutely compelled to
accept all his statements, and it is only after he departs that I begin
to wonder whether some flaws can't be picked in his arguments. I
occasionally discover a few, I am quite sure. Humanity is no more drab
than the flowers of the field, except in terms of the million. There is
but slight beauty in violets by the ton, as I have seen them in
Southern France, brought in cartloads to the perfume factories. They
become but a strongly-scented mass of color. I desire to pick mine as I
wander afield, one at a time, and admire the petals, while making myself
believe that they grew for my pleasure. Gordon would scoff at the idea
and declare it an accidental meeting, but what does he know of the
forces that may direct our footsteps? There is comfort in the Mohammedan
belief that everything is written before-hand.
The particular book I wanted was being read by a snuffy old gentleman,
seated at the long table in the Department of History. I wondered why he
should be interested in the frocks and flounces of a past century, and
asked for a volume on Charles the Great, a ponderous tome I carried
reverently to the big oaken table.
It was exceedingly warm, and flies were buzzing drowsily. A big handsome
girl was extracting wisdom from a dusty folio and taking notes on sheets
of yellow paper. I remember that her face was finely colored and her
lashes long. Three chairs away, on the opposite side, a little deformed
man looked up from his book, stealthily, and glanced at her. She never
saw him, I am very certain, nor was she ever conscious of the deep-set
and suffering eyes that feasted on her beauty. To him she could be no
more than a splendid dream, something as far from his reach as the
Koh-i-noor might be from mine. But I wondered whether such visions may
not be predestined parts of life, making for happiness and charm. The
young women at Mrs. Milliken's, who sell candy, will hand you out
material sugar-plums, yet even those have but an evanescent flavor and
become only memories.
Frieda has returned my twenty-dollar bill, which I stuffed in my pocket.
"One has to be very careful about such things," she told me. "Neither of
us would offend the poor thing for any consideration. I have found out
that she has a little money, but it cannot be very much because she was
very anxious about the doctor's fee and how much Eulalie would charge.
But I didn't think it best to proffer any help just now, saving such as
we can render by making her feel that she has a friend or two in the
world. Isn't it hot?"
I assured her that it was and said I was very glad that Mrs. Dupont was
not quite destitute. By this time the baby was a week old and most
reasonably silent. Mrs. Milliken felt reassured, and the two young women
who sold candy had come up, one evening, to admire the infant. From the
goodness of their hearts they had brought an offering of gummy sweets,
which I subsequently confiscated and bestowed upon Eulalie for her
sister's children, who, she assures me, are to be envied in the
possession of iron stomachs. The commercial young men have instinctively
slammed their doors less violently, and the deaf old lady, precluded by
age from ascending to top floors, sent up a pair of microscopic blue and
white socks and a receipt for the fashioning of junket, which, I
understand, is an edible substance.
"Tell you what!" exclaimed Frieda. "You might take me to Camus this
evening. Dutch treat, you know. I insist on it. I'm tired to-day and
don't want to wrestle with my gas-stove. Besides, I want to talk to you
about Kid Sullivan."
"I'm afraid I'm unacquainted with the youthful Hibernian," I said. "Is
it another baby that you take a vicarious interest in?"
"No, he would have been the lightweight champion, but for his losing a
fight, quite accidentally," she explained. "He told me exactly how it
happened, but I don't remember. At any rate, it was the greatest pity."
"My dear Frieda," I told her, "no one admires more than I a true
democracy of acquaintance and catholicity of friendship, but don't you
think that consorting with prizefighters is a little out of your line?"
"Don't talk nonsense," she said, in her decided way. "I just had to get
a model for Orion, and he's my janitress's brother. The most beautiful
lad you ever saw. He already has a wife and two little children, and his
shoulders are a dream!"
"So far," I told her, "I have fought shy of the squared circle in my
literary studies and know little about it. But I surmise that, if your
Orion continues his occupation, he is likely to lose some of his good
looks. Be sure and paint his face first, Frieda, while the painting is
still good, and before his nose is pushed askew and he becomes adorned
with cauliflower ears."
"I know nothing of such things," she answered, "and he's a delight to
paint."
"But for that perfectly accidental defeat, the man would have refused to
appear as a demigod," I asserted. "A champion would think himself too
far above such an individual."
"That's neither here nor there," she asserted, impatiently. "When I try
to talk, you're always wandering off into all sorts of devious paths.
What I wanted to say was that, if any of your acquaintances happen to
require a very competent truck-driver, the Kid is out of a job. Of
course I can't afford to pay him much. He poses for me to oblige his
sister."
"The youth appears to have several strings to his bow," I remarked,
wondering why Frieda should ever think I could possibly know people in
need of truck-drivers. But then, she never leaves a stone unturned, when
she seeks to help more or less deserving people.
In my honor she put on her most terrific hat, and we went arm in arm to
Camus, where she revelled in olives and radishes and conscientiously
went through the bill of fare.
"Do you know, Frieda, I am thanking goodness for the advent of that
baby," I told her. "It has permitted me to enjoy more of your company
than I have for months and months. Every minute I can feel that you are
growing nearer and dearer to me."
She showed her fine teeth, laughing heartily. She delights in having
violent love made to her by some one who doesn't mean it. To her it
constitutes, apparently, an excruciatingly funny joke. Also to me, when
I consider her hat, but, when she is bareheaded, I am more serious, for,
then, she often looks like a real woman, possessing in her heart the
golden casket wherein are locked the winged passions. _Quien sabe?_ She
is, perhaps, fortunate in that filmy goddesses and ethereal youths have
so filled her thoughts that a mere man, to her, is only the gross
covering of something spiritual that has sufficed for her needs. Poor,
dear, fat Frieda! A big gold and crimson love bursting out from beneath
the varnish covering her hazy pigments would probably appal and frighten
her.
"Will you have some of the _sole au vin blanc_?" she asked, bringing me
down to earth again.
I thanked her and accepted, admiring the witchery whereby the Widow
Camus can take a vulgar flounder and, with magic passes, translate it
into a fair imitation of a more heavenly fish. One nice thing about
Frieda is that she never appears to think it incumbent upon her
companion to devote every second of his attention to her. If I chance to
see a tip-tilted nose, which would serve nicely in the description of
some story-girl, and wish to study it carefully and, I hope,
unobtrusively, she is willing to let her own eyes wander about and enjoy
herself, until I turn to her again. I was observing the details of a
very fetching and merry little countenance, when a girl rose from an
adjoining table and came up to Frieda.
"I happened to turn my head and see you," she exclaimed. "So I just had
to come over and say howdy. I'm so glad to see you. I have my cousin
from Mackville with me and am showing him the town."
She was a dainty thing, modestly clad, crowned with fluffy auburn, and
with a face pigmented with the most genuine of cream and peaches.
Frieda presented me, and she smiled, graciously, saying a few bright
nothings about the heat, after which she rejoined her companion, a
rather tall and gawky youth.
"She posed for me as Niobe two years ago," said my friend. "At present,
she teaches physical culture."
"What!" I exclaimed, "that wisp of a girl."
"Yes, I don't know how many pounds she can lift; ever so many. She's a
perfect darling and looks after an old mother, who still deplores
Mackville Four Corners. Her cousin is in safe hands."
I took another look at the six-footer with her, who smoked a cigarette
with evident unfamiliarity.
"Would," I said, "that every youth, confronted by the perils of New York
for the first time, might be guided in such security. She is showing him
the revelry of Camus and has proved to him that a slightly Bohemian
atmosphere is not incompatible with personal cleanliness and a soul kept
white. It will broaden his horizon. Then she will take him home at a
respectable hour, after having demonstrated to him the important fact
that pleasure, edible viands and a cheerful atmosphere may be procured
here out of a two-dollar bill, leaving a little change for carfare."
"If I were a man," said Frieda, "I should fall in love with her."
"If you were a man, my dear, you would fall in love a dozen times a
day."
"Gordon McGrath says it's the only safe way," she retorted.
"Don't be quoting him to me," I advised her. "To him it is a mere
egotistic formula. Like yourself, he has always been afraid to descend
from generalities. I don't like the trait in him, whereas, in you, I
admire it, because, with you, it is the mere following of a tendency to
wholesale affection for your fellow-beings. Yet it is a slightly curious
and abnormal condition."
"Like having to wear spectacles," she helped me out.
"Just so, whereas in Gordon it is simply the result of a deliberate
policy, a line of conduct prepared in advance, like a chess-opening.
Some day, in that game of his, a little pawn may move in an unexpected
way, and he will be hoist with his own petard."
"I hope so," she answered cheerfully. "It will probably be very good for
him."
"But it might also break his heart," I suggested.
"Don't get gloomy," Frieda advised me. "What about yourself? Here you
are abusing your friends because they fight shy of the archer godling. I
should like to know what you have done to show any superiority."
"Well, if my memory serves me right, I have proposed to you, once or
twice."
"O dear no! You may have meant to, perhaps, but never really got to the
point," she answered, laughing. "I haven't the slightest doubt that once
or twice you came to my flat all prepared for the sacrifice. But,
suddenly, you doubtless became interested in some other trifling matter.
Give me three lumps of sugar in my coffee, and don't let them splash
down. This is my best gown."
We left Camus and returned together to Mrs. Milliken's. Frieda had a
curious notion to the effect that, as she hadn't seen the baby since
several hours, something very fatal might happen to it, if she failed
to run in again. My landlady and her ancient male relative were sitting
on the steps, fanning themselves and discussing the price of coal. By
this time, the woman ate right out of Frieda's hand, although the latter
does not seem to be aware that she has accomplished the apparently
impossible. The old night-watchman informed us that he was enjoying a
week's holiday from the bank. He was spending it, cheerfully, dividing
his leisure between the front steps and the backyard. He also told us of
a vague and ambitious project simmering in his mind. He was actually
planning to go all the way to Flatbush and see a niece of his. For
several years he had contemplated this trip, which, he apprised us,
would take at least an hour each way. I bade him good courage, and we
went upstairs. While Frieda went into Mrs. Dupont's room, I turned on
the gas in mine and sat before my window, with my feet on the ledge,
smoking my calabash.
"Has Monsieur looked upon his bed?" Eulalie startled me by asking
suddenly.
Now, in order to respond with decent civility, I was compelled to remove
my feet from their resting place, to take the pipe from my mouth and
turn in my chair. Women can sometimes be considerable nuisances.
"No," I answered, "I have not looked upon the bed. Why should I? A bed
is the last resource of the weary and afflicted, it is one of the things
one may be compelled to submit to without becoming reconciled to it. I
take good care never to look at it so long as I can hold a book in my
hand or watch passers-by in the street."
"Very well, Monsieur," she answered placidly. "It is all there, and I
have darned the holes in the socks."
This was highly interesting and I hastily rose to inspect her handiwork.
She had placed my washing on the coverlet and the result looked like an
improvement on Celestial efforts. I took up the topmost pair of socks
and gazed upon it, while a soft and chastened feeling stole over me.
"Thank you, Eulalie," I said, with some emotion. "It is exceedingly
nice; I am glad you called my attention to it. In the future I shall be
obliged, if you will stuff it in the chiffonier. Had I first seen all
this on going to bed, I am afraid I should have pitched it on the
floor, as usual, and been sorry for it next morning."
She smilingly complied at once with my request and withdrew, bidding me
a good night, while I sat again, feeling great contentment. I had now
discovered that a man, if lucky, might have his socks darned without
being compelled to take a wife unto himself, with all the uncomfortable
appurtenances thereof. It was a new and cheering revelation. No sooner
had I begun to cogitate over the exquisiteness of my fate than I was
disturbed again, however. Frieda partly obeyed conventionality by
knocking upon my open door and walking in.
"Frances Dupont wants me to thank you ever so much for the pretty roses,
David," she told me. "It was really very kind of you to bring them. I
have snipped the stems and changed the water and put them on the window
sill for the night."
"Yes," I explained, "I had to change that twenty-dollar bill, and there
was a hungry-looking man at the corner of Fourteenth Street, who offered
them to me for a quarter. So we had to go over to the cigar store to get
the note broken up into elementals. The fellow really looked as if he
needed money a great deal more than roses, so I gave him a dollar."
"But then why didn't you take a dollar's worth of flowers?" asked
Frieda, high-priestess of the poetic brush, who is a practical woman, if
ever there was one.
"Never thought of it," I acknowledged; "besides, he had only three
bunches left."
"And so you didn't want to clean out his stock in trade. Never mind,
Dave, it was very sweet of you."
She hurried away, and, finally, I heard the front door closing, after
which I made a clean copy of that dog story, flattering myself that it
had turned out rather neatly. It was finished at two o'clock, and I went
to bed.
The next morning was a Sunday. I dawdled at length over my dressing and
sallied forth at eleven, after Mrs. Milliken had knocked at my door
twice to know if she could make the room. If I were an Edison, I should
invent an automatic room-making and womanless contrivance. These great
men, after all, do little that is truly useful and practical.
My neighbor's door was open. I coughed somewhat emphatically, after
which I discreetly knocked upon the doorframe.
"Come in, Mr. Cole," said a cheery, but slightly husky, voice. "Come in
and look at the darling."
"That was my purpose, Madame Dupont," I said most veraciously.
"Eulalie has gone out again," I was informed, after the infant had been
duly exhibited, as it slept with its two fists tightly closed. "She has
gone for a box of Graham crackers and the Sunday paper."
I smiled, civilly, and opined that the day's heat would not be so
oppressing.
"Don't you want to sit down for a moment?" she asked me.
I was about to obey, when I heard the elephantine step of the
washerwoman's sister, who entered, bearing her parcels and the _Courrier
des Etats Unis_.
"Excuse me for just a second," said the husky little voice.
I bowed and looked out of the window, upon yards where I caught the
cheery note of a blooming wisteria.
Suddenly, there came a cry. The bedsprings creaked as the young woman,
who had raised herself upon one elbow, fell back inertly.
"_Oh, mon Dieu!_" bellowed Eulalie, open-mouthed and with helpless arms
hanging down.
I rushed to the bed, with some vague idea of bringing first aid. In the
poor little jar of roses I dipped my handkerchief and passed it over
Mrs. Dupont's brow, scared more than half to death. Presently, she
seemed to revive a little. She breathed and sighed, and then came a
flood of tears. She stared at me with great, deep, frightened eyes, and
with a finger pointed to a column of the paper. I took it from her and
held it out at a convenient distance from my eyes, about two feet away.
There was a printed list referring to reservists gone from New York. For
many weeks, doubtless, she had scanned it, fearing, hopeful, with
quick-beating heart that was only stilled when she failed to find that
which she tremblingly sought.
I caught the name, among other announcements of men fallen at the front.
--Paul Dupont--
I also looked at her, open-mouthed, stupidly. She stared again at me,
as if I could have reassured her, sworn that it was a mistake, told her
not to believe her eyes.
Then, she rose again on her elbow and turned to the slumbering mite at
her side, but, although the salty drops of her anguish fell on the
baby's face, he continued to sleep on.