WE TAKE AN EXCURSION
The day was a hot one. In Gordon's studio a slight breeze had blown in
and mingled with the scent of the flowers with which his table was
adorned, and the behavior of my collar had been of the best. The ladies,
secure in the absence of starched things such as we men throttle
ourselves with, had been pictures of comfortable coolness. But in the
street I plunged in an atmosphere of sodden heat and refused to obey the
instinct that usually leads me to walk whenever I am not pressed for
time. This happens often, for the productive hours of a writer are few,
leaving many to be employed in alleged thoughts. Of these the most
harrowing lie in the fact that a laborer can dig for eight hours a day,
whereas helplessness comes to me after writing a few pages.
I took the car, turning in my mind the observations I had made in the
studio. Several times I had heard Miss Van Rossum call my friend by his
first name, and the mother had manifested no surprise. They are probably
old acquaintances. I think he once told me that he had first met them in
Paris. For aught I know, however, he may have dandled her on his knees
when she was a child. The process now would be lacking in comfort, for
she outweighs him by a good thirty pounds. Her forearms seem larger and
just as hard as those of Frieda's pugilistic model. And then, Gordon is
a misogynist and considers the feminine form divine from a chilly,
artistic standpoint. From this I judged that Miss Van Rossum is a young
lady who calls every man she meets two or three times by his first name.
Gordon certainly doesn't mind it, but then, he got five thousand for the
portrait, a sum that excuses some lack of formality.
The young woman's looks are undeniable. She's an utterly handsome
creature and, as far as I have been able to see, accepts the fact as she
does the family fortune. It is something due to a Van Rossum, and she is
too ladylike to boast of such advantages. This serves to make her very
simple and natural. Like many of the mortals built on a generous scale
she is good tempered. I wondered that she had asked so few questions in
regard to the model of the picture she had seen. Practically, she had
come, looked and turned away to the contemplation of scrambled eggs with
truffles, followed by squabs. True, she had inquired whether the baby
belonged to the model. To Pygmalion his sculptured beauty came to life,
but from the young lady's standpoint I think that the purchased beauty
that is to be changed into limned or chiselled grace must be already
considered to have turned to paint or stone. If I had declared that a
model was probably a thing of pulsing blood and quivering nerves, it is
likely that she would have opened her fine blue eyes in surprise. But
then, most of us, subconsciously, are apt to feel that those we deem
beneath us in position or talent or virtue can really possess but the
outward semblance of humanity.
The foregoing platitudes came to me, I think, because I actually
resented the scanty attention they had paid to Frances. They had looked
at the "Mother and Child," and approved. The signature made it a
valuable work of art and, as such, had awakened a polite interest. But
then, after all, it was worth but a few thousand dollars, and a Van
Rossum couldn't very well go into ecstasies over an article of such
moderate worth.
Poor Frances! She has come down to the rank of the women who stand
behind counters till ready to drop; of those who toil in spite of aching
heads and weary limbs. It is appalling to think of men by the million
considered as food for cannon, but it seems just as cruel on the part of
fate to designate women in equal numbers as carriers of burdens,
destined for most of their lives to bear pain and weariness and the
constant effort to smile in spite of these.
And then, Frances is further punished on account of that little child.
It hangs about her neck, a heavy treasure. She has fulfilled the most
glorious purpose of womanhood, and, for the time being, her reward lies
in the fact that she can scarce find an occupation that will keep body
and soul together. There is no room for sprouting manhood in workrooms,
in offices, in any of the places wherein only the ripe are of avail to
be squeezed into the vintage of the prosperity destined to a few. Her
gift of voice and her inheritance of beauty have served but to bring
bitterness. Had she possessed a shrill voice and ordinary looks, there
would have been no going abroad, no love for a kindred artistic soul, no
tiny infant to weep over. By this time she might have been a nice
schoolmarm, conscious of superiority over the small flock in her care
and tranquil in the expectation of a modest salary. Also, there might
have been dreams of a plush-covered parlor in a little home, some day,
when honest John or Joe should at last decide to let her teach little
pupils of her own providing. I suppose that such dreams must come to
all. Even the little cripple in the library, the other day, who was
looking at the fine girl who never noticed him, indulges in them, and
who shall say that they do not brighten some of his hours even if, at
other times, they deepen his darkness.
Gordon seems to me like the only exception I know to the rule I have
just formulated. He has the brain of an artist, but the soul of an
actuary, and, sometimes, I wish I were not so fond of him. The way he
speaks of Frances actually revolts me. For another week or two he may,
perhaps, make use of her, forsooth! But he must not indulge such
weakness too long, for fear he may be considered as a man of one model.
He has plucked the flower of her beauty and spread it on canvas,
destined to bring forth admiration and dollars. But now, like squeezed
out paint tubes and worn out brushes she may be discarded. He has
obliged me, and made a good speculation. Next week he will be playing
golf and cultivating damsels and dowagers who may desire immortality in
paint. On the putting-green he may obtain commissions, and in the tennis
court inveigle some white-flanneled banker into leaving his facial
characteristics to posterity. I could have forgiven him, if he had shown
a little real enthusiasm in his model and deplored his inability to
employ her further. After all, she has inspired him to great
accomplishment and he is a cold-blooded opportunist, in spite of our
mutual fondness. The last word I heard from him as he saw me to the door
was a whispered one, as he jerked his head towards the studio, where we
had left the ladies.
"I'm going to do the old girl this fall," he said.
The man has put all of his art and wonderful taste into his picture of
Frances. Just as hard he will toil over the fat face of the good lady he
thus disrespectfully alluded to. It may, perhaps, pay him better. The
man's temperature, if my young friend Porter took it, would probably
turn out to be that of a fish.
My thoughts made me forget the heat, but I arrived home in a dilapidated
state of moisture and with a face thoroughly crimsoned. As soon as I
reached my room I changed my stiff shirt and collar for a softer and
lighter garment of alleged silk, purchased at a bargain sale. When I
came out, Frances's door was opened and I looked in. She was sitting in
the armchair, with the baby in her lap, and the smile she greeted me
with could do little to conceal the fact that she had been a prey to
unhappy thoughts.
"Isn't it hot?" I observed, with scant originality.
"It is dreadful," she answered, "and--and I wonder if Baby suffers from
it. Do you think he is looking pale?"
At once, I inwardly decided that he was. The idea would probably not
have entered my head without her suggestion, but an uneasy feeling came
over me, born probably of reading something in the paper about infant
mortality. I took a blessed refuge in prevarication.
"He is looking splendidly," I told her. "But they take sick babies and
give them long jaunts out on the bay, with nurses and doctors. If that
sort of thing can cure an ailing infant, it must make a healthy one feel
like a fighting-cock. Get ready, and we'll take the boat to Coney Island
and spend a couple of hours at sea. It will put better color in the
little man's cheeks and do no harm to your own. I'm craving for the
trip, come along and hurry up!"
She began the usual objections, to which I refused any attentions. I
suspect I have a little of the bully in my nature. At any rate we
sallied forth, soon afterwards, and went to the Battery, where we
percolated through the crowd into a couple of folding seats on the upper
deck.
"Oh! It is such a blessed relief," she said, after the boat had started
and made a breeze for us, since, on the water, none but the tiniest
flaws rippled the surface. I called her attention to the remarkable
sight of Manhattan fading away behind us in a haze that softened the
lines, till they appeared to be washed in with palest lavenders and
pinks.
"The insolence of wealth and the garishness of its marts are
disappearing," I told her. "Our moist summer air, so worthless to
breathe and cruel to ailing babes, is gilding a pill otherwise often
hard to swallow. All about us are people, most of whom live away from
the splendors we behold. Some of them, like ourselves, burrow in
semi-forgotten streets and some dwell on the boundary where humanity
rather festers than thrives. They are giving themselves up to the
enjoyment of a coolness which, an hour ago, appeared like an
unrealizable dream. Let us do likewise."
Frances smiled at me, indulgently. Like all really good women, she has
an inexhaustible patience with the vagaries and empty remarks of a mere
man. Women are more concerned with the practicalities of life. About us
the fairer sex was apparently in the majority and the discussions
carried on around us concerned garments, the price of victuals and the
evil ways of certain husbands. Young ladies, provided with male escorts,
sprinkled poetry, or at least doggerel, over the conversation of more
staid matrons. Their remarks and exclamations seldom soared to lofty
heights, but in them there was always the undertone of present pleasure
and anticipated joys. One thin little thing, who had mentioned a
ribbon-counter, looked up with something akin to awe at a broad-faced
and pimply youth, who spoke hungrily of a potential feast of Frankfurter
sausages. I have no doubt that to her he represented some sort of Prince
Charming. Close to her a buxom maiden addressed a timid-looking giant,
all arms and legs, and described the bliss of shooting the chutes. It
was evident that he aspired to the dignity and emoluments of a gay
suitor, but was woefully new or incompetent at the game. She was helping
him to the best of her ability, with a perseverance and courage
entitling her to my respect. In her companion she must have discerned
the makings of a possible husband or, at least, the opportunity to
practise a talent of fascination she thinks ought not to lie fallow.
"And how is Baby Paul enjoying himself?" I asked my companion.
"For the time being, he is asleep," she answered, "and so, I suppose, is
having an excellent time. He's an exceedingly intelligent child and of
the happiest disposition. I'm sure he is aware that he has a mother to
love him, and that's enough to keep him contented."
"Of course," I assented. "That somewhere there is a good woman to love
him is all that a baby or a grown man needs to know in order to enjoy
perfect bliss. Those who are fortunate enough to reach such a
consummation are the elect of the world."
She looked at me with a smile, and I saw a question hanging on her lips.
It was probably one I had heard very often. Frieda and some others, when
hard put to it for a subject of conversation, are apt to ask me why I
don't get married. I tell them that the only proof of the pudding is the
eating and that, strangely enough, all the good wives I know are already
wedded. Moreover, I know that very few women would deign to look with
favor upon me. I have always deemed myself a predestined bachelor, a
lover of other people's children and a most timid venturer among
spinsters.
Frances, however, permitted the question to go unasked, which showed
much cleverness on her part. She recognized the obviousness of the
situation. As we went on, she gazed with admiration upon the yachts,
many of which were lying becalmed, but picturesque. The big tramps at
anchor awakened in her the wonder we all feel at the idea of sailing for
faraway shores where grow strange men and exotic fruits. Then, when the
steamer had turned around the great point of the island and her eyes
caught the big open sea, I saw them filling, gradually. She was thinking
of the gallant lad who had fallen for his first and greatest mother.
Recollections came to her of sailing away with him, with hopes and
ambitions rosier than the illumined shores before us, that were kissed
by the sun under a thin covering veil of mist. She remembered the days
of her toil, rewarded at last by the ripening of her divine gift, and
the days of love crowned by the little treasure on her lap. But now, all
that had been very beautiful in her life was gone, saving the tiny one
to whom she could not even sing a lullaby and whose very livelihood was
precarious.
I knew that when she was in this mood it was better to say nothing or
even appear to take no notice. Suddenly, a child running along the deck
fell down, a dear little girl I ran to and lifted in my arms.
Confidingly, she wept upon my collar which, fortunately, was a soft one.
A broad shouldered youth made his way towards me.
"Hand her over, Mister," he said, pleasantly, "she's one o' mine."
He took the child from me, tenderly, and I looked at him, somewhat
puzzled, but instant recognition came to him.
"Say," he declared, breezily, "you's the guy I seen th' other day when I
wuz havin' me picture took."
He extended a grateful hand, which I shook cordially, for he was no less
a personage than Kid Sullivan, who would have been champion, but for his
defeat. On my last call upon Frieda at her studio I had seen him in the
lighter garb of Orion, with a gold fillet about his brow, surmounted by
a gilt star. I bade him come with me, but a couple of steps away, to
where Frances sat, and I had left a small provision of chocolate drops.
"This," I said, "is my friend Mr. Sullivan. The child belongs to him,
and I have come to see whether I cannot find consolation for her in the
box of candy."
Frances bowed pleasantly to him, and he removed his cap, civilly.
"Glad to meet ye, ma'am," he said. "Thought I'd take the wife and kids
over to the Island. The painter-lady found me a job last week. It's only
a coal wagon, but it's one o' them five-ton ones with three horses.
They're them big French dappled gray ones."
I looked at Frances, fearing that this mention of his steeds might bring
back to her the big Percherons of Paris, the omnibuses climbing the
Montmartre hill or rattling through the Place St. Michel, that is the
throbbing heart of the Latin Quarter. But she is a woman, as I may have
mentioned a hundred times before this. Her interest went out to the
child, and she bent over to one side and took a little hand within hers.
"I hope you were not hurt," she said, tenderly.
At the recollection of the injury the little mouth puckered up for an
instant. Diplomatically, I advanced a chocolate and the crisis was
averted.
"She's a darling, Mr. Sullivan," ventured Frances.
"Yes'm, that's what me and Loo thinks," he assented. "But you'd oughter
see Buster. Wait a minute!"
About ten seconds later he returned with a slightly bashful and very
girlish little wife, who struggled under the weight of a ponderous
infant.
"Mr. Cole, Loo," the Kid introduced me, "and--and I guess Mrs. Cole."
"No," I objected, firmly. "There is no Mrs. Cole. I beg to make you
acquainted with Mrs. Dupont. Please take my chair, Mrs. Sullivan, you
will find it very comfortable. My young friend, may I offer you a
cigar?"
"I'm agreeable, sir," said the young man, graciously. "I've give up the
ring now, so I don't train no more."
The two of us leaned against the rail, while the women entered upon a
pleasant conversation. At first, Frances was merely courteous and kindly
to the girl with the two babies, but in a few minutes she was
interested. From a fund of vast personal experience little Mrs.
Sullivan, who looked rather younger than most of the taller girls one
sees coming out of the public schools, bestowed invaluable information
in regard to teething. Later, she touched upon her experience in a
millinery shop.
"I seen you was a lady, soon as I peeped at yer hat," she declared, in a
high-pitched, yet agreeable, voice. "There's no use talking, it ain't
the feathers, not even them egrets and paradises, as make a real hat.
It's the head it goes on to."
As she made this remark, I stared at the youthful mother. She was
unconscious of being a deep and learned philosopher. She had stated a
deduction most true, an impression decidedly profound. The hat was the
black one bought in Division Street, where the saleswomen come out on
the sidewalk and grab possible customers by the arm, so Frieda told me.
Frances smiled at her. In her poor, husky voice she used terms of
endearment to Mrs. Sullivan's baby. It was eleven months and two weeks
old, we were informed, and, therefore, a hoary-headed veteran as
compared to Baby Paul. Had they been of the same age, there might have
been comparisons, and possibly some trace of envy, but in the present
case there could be nothing but mutual admiration.
"Is you folks going ashore?" asked the Kid.
"We were thinking of remaining on the boat," I told him.
"Say, what's the matter with goin' on the pier and sittin' down for a
while? 'Tain't as cool as the boat, but it's better'n town, and the
later ye gets back, the cooler it'll be."
Mrs. Sullivan confirmed her husband's statements. I looked enquiringly
at Frances, who listened willingly to the words of experience. In a few
minutes we landed and found a comfortable seat.
Suddenly, as we were chatting pleasantly, there passed before us Mr.
O'Flaherty, of the second floor back. He wore a cap surmounted by
goggles and an ample gray duster, and with him walked several other
large and florid-looking gentlemen. His eyes fell on Frances and then
upon me. I thanked goodness that her head was turned so that she could
not possibly have seen the odious wink and the leer he bestowed upon me.
"Say," whispered Mr. Sullivan, in my ear. "D'ye see that big guy look at
ye? Made ye mad, didn't he? For two cents I'd have handed him one."
"My good friend," I whispered back, "none of us are beyond reach of the
coarse natured."
"That's so," he answered, "but a wallop in the jaw's good for 'em."
An hour later we took the boat back. The little girl slept all the way
home, in her father's arms. Frances gazed dreamily on the water. Little
Mrs. Sullivan sat on a chair very close to her husband, with the baby
secure on her lap. Her head soon rested on the young prizefighter's
shoulder, and she dozed off. I am sure he endured exquisite discomfort
with pins and needles rather than disturb her.
And I, like a fool, worried on account of a man perpetually scented with
gasoline and spotted with transmission grease who had taken the infernal
liberty of winking at me because of my being with poor Frances, taking
the air on a proletarian pier.
"The world," Gordon had told me, one day, "utterly refuses to permit a
man and woman to be merely good friends. Since the days of Noah's Ark,
it has been recognized as an impossibility, and, therefore, society has
ever frowned down upon any attempt in so foolish a direction."
I replied hotly that the world was evil-minded, at times, and he
retorted that the world was all right, but some men were jackasses. He
remarked that Carlyle had been too lenient when he declared that his
countrymen were mostly fools. But then, Carlyle was insular, after all,
and unduly favored the inhabitants of his isle, as any British subject
would. Nearly all men all over the world were fools, Gordon asserted.
Coyotes and foxes had an instinctive dread of traps, but men walked into
them so innocently that merely to behold them was enough to drive a man
to drink.
After all, I don't care what O'Flaherty and such cattle think! As long
as I can save Frances, or any other good woman, from shedding one more
tear than has been ordained for her, I shall do so. I refuse to be
envious of the intelligence of foxes and coyotes, and I will always
resent uncouthness and mean thoughts.
She looked rather tired when we came down the steps of the elevated
road. I begged her to let me take Baby Paul in my arms, and she finally
consented, after first declining. It did not awaken him, and we reached
the house in becoming tranquillity. Some of our fellow lodgers were on
the steps and greeted us civilly. They were the three young men and the
two girls. Thank goodness they appeared to be too unversed in the
wickedness of this world to entertain such ideas as must have passed
through the bullet-head of O'Flaherty!
* * * * *
On the next day, I went up to Gordon's studio, and I confess it was with
the purpose of looking again at that picture. He was superintending the
packing of his suit cases and a trunk. I told him something of my
experience, my indignation throbbing in my throat.
"You're a donkey, Dave," he consoled me. "What right or title have you
to the belief that the millennium has come? I suppose the poor girl is
entitled to some commiseration, for her troubles are in the nature of a
series of accidents and misfortunes which no one could foresee. Yours,
on the other hand, are simply due to congenital feebleness of some parts
of your gray matter. By-by, old fellow, my taxi's waiting for me!"