THE WORK LOST
However platitudinous it may sound, I am compelled to remark how the
time flies. From the calendar's standpoint there are but three weeks to
come before the advent of Spring, and I trust the sprite will be better
clad than she is in one of Frieda's pictures. In this particular
latitude March is not very apt to temper the wind to such a shorn lamb
as smiles out of that painting, clad with Cupid-like garments of
infinite grace, but questionable warmth. She should have worn a heavy
sweater.
Day by day I have watched the growth of Baby Paul, but it is only on
Sundays that I have been able to see much of his mother, who comes home
rather weary, as a rule, and always has ever so much sewing to do after
her return. I have heard her discuss ways and means with Frieda, till I
felt my small allowance of brains positively addling. Together they have
been planning tiny garments for the babe and larger ones for
themselves, while I sat there conscious of my inferiority and looking at
them admiringly, but with something of the understanding of an average
lap-dog. I find them very indulgent, however.
Dear me! What a time we had of it at Christmas. My midday meal took
place at my sister's, in Weehawken, but the dinner was at Frieda's,
where I was permitted to contribute the turkey. It could not be made to
penetrate the exiguous oven of the little gas-stove, but we bribed the
janitress to cook it for us. I had been in grave consultation with my
dear old friend in regard to the toys I might purchase for Baby Paul,
being anxious that his first experience of the great day should be a
happy one, but Frieda frowned upon woolly lambs, teddy bears and Noah's
Arks.
"If you will insist, Dave," she told me, "you can go and buy him a
rubber elephant or some such thing, but he is altogether too young to
play games. I know you have a sneaking desire to teach him checkers. If
you will persist in wasting your money on presents, give me a
five-dollar bill and I'll go around and buy him things he really needs.
I'll put them in a box and send them with your best love."
"What about Frances?" I asked.
"A good pair of stout boots would be wisest," she informed me, "but
perhaps you had better make it flowers, after all. More useful things
might remind her too much of present hardship and poverty. A few
American Beauties will give her, with their blessed fragrance, some
temporary illusion of not being among the disinherited ones of the
earth. I--I can give her the boots."
And so we had that dinner, just the three of us together, with Baby Paul
just as good as gold and resting on Frieda's sofa. There was a box of
candy sent by Kid Sullivan to his benefactress, and, although the
contents looked positively poisonous, they came from a grateful heart,
and she appreciated them hugely. I had brought a little present of
flowers in a tiny silver vase, and they graced the table. I wore a
terrible necktie Frieda had presented me with. It was a splendid
refection.
The little dining-room was a thing of delight. From the walls hung many
pictures, mostly unframed. They were sketches and impressions that had
met favor from their gifted maker and been deemed worthy of the place.
The table was covered with a lovely white cloth, all filmy with lace,
and there was no lack of pretty silver things holding bonbons and buds.
It all gave me a feeling of womanly refinement, of taste mingled with
the freedom of an artistic temperament unrestrained by common metes and
bounds.
Frances had one of my roses pinned to her waist, and often bent down to
inhale its fragrance. When will some profound writer give us an essay on
the Indispensability of the Superfluous?
Again we had a feast on New Year's eve, in my room. Gordon, who was
going to a house-party at Lakewood, lent me his chafing-dish. I'll say
little about the viands we concocted; at least they were flavored with
affection and mutual good wishes, with the heartiest hopes for good
things to come. It was not very cold, that night, and on the stroke of
twelve I threw my window wide open. We listened to the orgy of sound
from steam-whistles and tin horns. There floated to us, through the din,
a pealing of faraway chiming bells. When I closed the window again,
Frieda took the chafing-dish for a housewifely cleaning. Baby Paul had
been sleeping on my bed and Frances was kneeling beside him, looking at
the sleeping tot. For a moment she had forgotten us and the trivialities
of the entertainment, and was breathing a prayer for her man-child.
Thus passed the New Year's eve, and on the next morning Frances was up
early, as usual, and went off to work. I pottered idly about my room
till Mrs. Milliken chased me out. On the afternoon of the first Sunday
of the year Gordon came in again.
Until last Autumn he had invaded my premises perhaps once in a couple of
months, but, now, he is beginning to come as regularly as Frieda
herself. He gives me the impression of being rather tired, and I explain
this by the fact that he leads too active a life and takes too much out
of himself. I am sure few men ever painted harder than he does. When I
watch him at his work, it looks very easy, of course, but I know better.
His is powerful, creative work, such as no man can accomplish without
putting all his energy into his toil. I am often exhausted after a few
hours of writing, and I am sure that Gordon also feels the drag and the
travail of giving birth to the children of his soul. Then, after a day
of this sort of thing, he goes out to the theatres or the Opera and
prolongs the night at the club and delves into books, for he is a great
reader, especially of what he terms modern thought and philosophy. The
first rays of good working light find him again at his canvas, sometimes
pleased and sometimes frowning, giving me often the impression of a
latter-day Sisyphus.
"I'm getting there," he said to me, one morning, in his studio. "Last
year I made thirty-five thousand and this year I'll do better than that.
The time is coming soon when I won't have to go around as a sort of
drummer for myself. They'll be coming to me and begging me to paint
them. I'll do it for six or seven months a year, and, during the
remainder of the time, I'll take life easily. My plans are all cut and
dried."
"I am glad to hear it, Gordon. You deserve your success. But----"
"Go on," he snapped at me, "I know that everything must be paid for."
"I'm not so sure of that. I was merely about to say that I don't know
whether you can be so very sure of being able to take life in such a
leisurely way as you hope to."
"Don't you worry, old man," he answered. "I know what's best for me and
how to go to work to obtain it."
"I trust you do," I replied. "Well, I'll be going now. See you next
Sunday."
"Why next Sunday?" he asked sharply.
"Simply because you've lately acquired the excellent habit of calling on
that day."
"I'll not be there," he declared. "I have other fish to fry."
I took my leave, somewhat surprised. But three days later, as we were
taking our habitual Sabbatical refection of tea and biscuits, he
appeared again, bearing a box of what he calls the only chocolates in
New York fit to eat. But he came in a taxi, for he wouldn't be seen
carrying anything but his cane and gloves. For a second, as I looked at
him, he seemed slightly embarrassed, although I may have erred in so
thinking.
Frieda seized upon the chocolates, greedily. She is one of those dear
stout people, who assure you that they hardly ever eat anything and whom
one always finds endowed with a fine appetite.
"It's too bad about Baby Paul," she said. "He is yet too young to be
stuffed with sweets or amused with toys."
"I presume that a nursling is the only really normal human being,"
remarked Gordon. "He possesses but the most natural desires, has no
ambitions unconnected with feeding and sleeping, and expresses his
emotions without concealment. Affectation is foreign to him, and his
virtues and vices are still in abeyance."
"Paul," declared Frances, indignantly, "is extremely intelligent and has
no vices at all."
"I stand corrected, Mrs. Dupont. He is the exception, of course, and I
only spoke in general. Frieda, my dear, won't you be so obliging as to
open the piano and play something for us? I don't suppose it will awaken
the baby, will it?"
"He just loves music," asserted his mother. "When I play, he often opens
his eyes and listens quietly, ever so long. I know that it pleases him,
ever so much. His--oh! He must have music in his soul! How--how could it
be otherwise?"
Frieda hurried to the piano and opened it, after giving the stool a
couple of turns. She began with some Mendelssohn. Frances was holding
her baby in her arms, her wonderful head bent towards the little one,
with a curve of her neck so graceful that it fascinated me. Gordon was
also looking at her with a queer, eager look upon his features. He knew
as well as I that she had heard again some vibrant music of former days,
had felt the sound-waves that trembled in her own soul, and that, to
her, the child represented something issued from wondrous melodies, a
swan's song uplifted to the heavens and bearing with it the plaint of a
lost happiness.
"Oh! Frieda, some--something else," she cried. "I--I--Just play some
Chopin."
At once Frieda complied. Where on earth does the woman find the ability
to play as she does? She tells me that she hardly ever practises, and,
in my many visits to her, I have never chanced to find her at the piano,
though she possesses a very fair instrument. But I think I understand;
what I mistake for technique must chiefly be her wonderful sentiment and
the appreciation of beauty that overshadows some faults of execution.
Frieda's real dwelling place is in a heaven of her own making, that is
all beauty and color and harmony. From there come her painting and her
music, which evidently enter her being and flow out at the finger-tips.
I have always thought that if her color-tubes had not possessed such an
overwhelming attraction for her, she might have become one of the most
wonderful musicians of the world.
Gradually, Frances raised her head again, until it finally rested on the
back of the armchair, with the eyes half-closed under the spell of
Frieda's playing. By this time she had perhaps forgotten the memories
evoked by the "Songs Without Words," that had for a moment brought back
to her the masterful bow that had made her heart vibrate, for the first
time, with the tremulousness of a love being born. Chopin did not affect
her in the same way, and she was calm again. Frieda came to the end of
the "_Valse Brillante_" and took up the "_Berceuse_." Then the young
mother closed her eyes altogether. The melody brought rest to her, and
sweetness with a blessed peace of soul.
When I looked at Gordon, he was still staring, and by this time I
thought I knew the reason of his visits. Beyond a peradventure Frances
was the lodestone that attracted him. Did her wonderful features suggest
to him a new and greater picture? Was he ruminating over the plan of
some masterpiece and seeking inspiration from her? It seemed probable
indeed. When the idea comes to me for a novel, I am apt to moon about,
searching the recesses of my mind, digging in the depths of my
experience, staring into a vacancy peopled only by faint shadows that
begin to gather form and strength and, finally, I hope, some attributes
of humanity. At such times I often fail to recognize friends on the
street or, even, I may attempt to read books upside down. Is it possible
that Gordon suffers from similar limitations and needs to muse and toil
and delve before he can bring out the art that is in him?
Only yesterday I saw in the paper that he led a cotillon at the Van
Rossums. Moreover, at the Winter Exhibition I had the shock of my life.
I hurried there to see again the "Mother and Child," instead of which I
found his signature on the portrait of a railroad president. The papers
spoke of it as a wonderful painting, and one of them reproduced it. I
freely acknowledge that it deserves all the encomiums lavished upon it,
for it is a bold and earnest piece of work. But he has never done
anything like the picture of Frances.
I met him there and looked at him, questioningly. He understood me at
once.
"I'll get half the financial big guns now," he told me coolly, and left
me to greet a millionaire's bride.
I am not so foolish as to think he can be in love with Frances, and I
doubt very much whether he is in love with any one else, in spite of the
gossip that has reached me. No, he must simply be thinking of some great
composition with which he expects, in his own good time, to take the
world by storm. And yet, what if I should be mistaken? The mere idea
makes me feel very cold and uncomfortable, for no reason that I know of.
When he finally took his leave, he thanked Frieda for playing to us, and
said good-by to Frances as perfunctorily as he does everything else. We
began to clean up the teacups, and Frieda folded the frivolous little
tablecloth she has contributed to my outfit and put it away, while
Frances and I quarreled.
"I am not going," she said firmly.
"You are utterly mistaken," I insisted, "and you're a bold, mad,
rebellious creature. You will go at once and put on your best hat, and
your cloak, and dab powder on your nose, if it will make you happy, and
come along like a good child."
"But what is the use of my paying board to Mrs. Milliken and then having
you spend money for dinners at restaurants?" she objected.
"The use is obvious. It affords us the joy of permitting ourselves, once
in a blue moon, to behave like spendthrifts; it allows us to indulge in
the company of the young and ambitious, as well as of the old and
foolish. Moreover, an occasional change of diet was recommended by
Hippocrates. Who are you to rebel against the most ancient and
respectable medical authority, pray?"
"It is utterly wrong," she persisted. "I am always accepting your
kindnesses, and Frieda's, and there is nothing I can do in return,
and--and----"
She seemed to choke a little. Her voice came hoarse and muffled as ever,
and I fear that Dr. Porter's ministrations are doing her little, if any,
good.
"My dear Frances," said Frieda, "we both understand you, perfectly. It
is the most splendid thing for a woman to keep her self-respect and
refuse to be a drag upon her friends. But when she can give them
genuine pleasure by accepting a trifling thing like this, now and then,
she ought to be loath to deprive them. David says that the company
downstairs rather stifles his imagination, and he further alleges that
dining alone at Camus is a funereal pleasure. Now go and get ready.
There is plenty of time, and I'll come in and hook up your waist, if you
want me to."
So Frances ran away to her room, with Baby Paul on her arm. She often
rebels like this, yet generally succumbs to our wiles. The pair of us,
fortunately, is more than she can successfully contend against.
Frieda followed her to her room, and I rummaged among the Sunday papers,
finding the French daily. Frances likes to look at it and I have ordered
the newsman at the corner to deliver me the Sunday number regularly. But
to-day she has been busy with a lot of mending so that it remained
unopened. My first glance revealed a column giving a list of unclaimed
letters in the hands of the French Consul. There was one for Madame Paul
Dupont, it appeared.
I seized the paper and ran with it to the door of her room. My hand was
already lifted to knock, when I bethought myself that a delay of a few
minutes would be unimportant, and that it was best to run no chances of
interfering with Baby Paul's entertainment. I returned to my room and
paced up and down the worn Brussels. She had often told me how sorry she
was that she had never heard from her late husband's parents. This
letter, in all probabilities, was from them. If I told Frances about it
immediately, she would worry over it until next day. Why not wait at
least until our return from Camus, or even until the morning? If she
knew about it, she would probably not have a wink of sleep. I determined
to postpone the announcement.
Poor child! She will be harrowed by that letter. It will give her such
details as the old people have been able to obtain and bring the tragedy
back to her. She will read the lines breathlessly. The months that have
gone by have assuaged her pain a little, I think, but, now, it will
return in full force, as poignant as ever. I am sorry that I looked at
that paper. If I had put it aside as I often do, without even looking at
it, I should never have known anything about that letter and it might
have been better for her peace of mind. Now, of course, I feel bound to
let her know, but, at least, I will let her have a tranquil night!
How keen and shrewd women are! No sooner did they return to my room, all
primped up and ready to go, with Baby Paul clad in his best, than Frieda
innocently asked what was the matter with me. Frances also asked if I
were angry. Had she made me wait too long?
I was compelled to declare that my feelings were in apple-pie order,
that happiness reigned in my bosom and that I enjoyed waiting, before
they were satisfied. I wish my emotions did not show so plainly on my
face. It is for this reason, I suppose, that Gordon once adjured me
never to learn the ancient game of draw-poker. He said that fleecing me
would be child's play for the merest beginner.
We went down and directed our steps towards Madame Felicie Smith's shop.
One can get in, even on Sundays, since the good woman lives there. She
is always delighted to mind Paul for a couple of hours, and this
arrangement is far superior to the old one, which entailed a long
westerly jaunt to the home of the washerlady, besides the climbing of
many stairs.
The folding baby carriage was left at home, for the walk is but a short
one and Frances loves to carry her little one. My offer to assume the
charge was at once rejected, Frieda complaining that even she was
considered somewhat unreliable as a beast of burden. Frances laughed,
cheerfully, but held on to her treasure. She is no longer nervous and
fretful when leaving Baby Paul for a couple of hours, knowing that, if
he happens to awaken, there will be soothing words of affection for him.
We had to ring a tinkling bell for admittance and Felicie, buxom and of
high color, welcomed us all. Certainly she would care for the angel;
most evidently she would look after the precious lamb; with not the
slightest doubt she would love and cherish the little cabbage. While I
remained in the penumbra of the half darkened shop, it took the three of
them to see the baby properly installed on the bed in the back room.
Frances and Frieda heard the solemn promise made to them, to the effect
that there would be no adventitious aid to happiness such as a lump of
sugar tied in a rag, and presently we sallied forth.
Lest my readers be already weary of Camus, I can only say that I am one
of those individuals who stick to old friends, either through an inborn
sense of faithfulness or, more probably, because of a tendency to
slothfulness, which makes me consider it exceedingly troublesome to
wander afield and search for pastures new. We had our dinner in quiet
enjoyment and felt, as we came out again, that the world was a very fair
sort of a dwelling-place. We had enjoyed the food and I fancy that,
under the table, my foot had beaten time to the melody eked out by the
orchestra. The fiddler, I am glad to say, is looking somewhat stouter.
The good meals provided by the widow may be responsible for this. At any
rate, I rejoice to think so, since it would go to show that a dinner at
Camus is not only a pleasant, but also a hygienic, pursuit.
For an instant our enjoyment of the music was interrupted by the clang
and clatter of passing fire engines. We looked about us, perfunctorily,
and decided that the conflagration was neither under our chairs nor
above our rafters and continued to sip our coffee with the contempt due
to a New Yorker's familiarity with steam-pumps and water towers. A
couple of minutes later we left and, reaching Sixth Avenue, found it
somewhat crowded. A block further we came to a panting engine and
hurried on. Cars were blocked by a line of hose stretched across the
street. Frances caught my arm, nervously, and a look of terror came over
her. Then we ran, Frieda puffing behind. The fire was in the middle of
the block and streams of water crashed through windows. Ladders were
going up and the firemen, conscious that it was but a moderate blaze,
from their standpoint, worked calmly and effectively.
"You stay there!" I shouted to my two companions and elbowed my way
through the crowd, which was being pushed back by policemen. One of them
seized me and threatened to use his locust on my cranium if I advanced
any farther. I drew back and dashed through another opening till I
reached Felicie's door, entering the place and nearly falling over a
large osier basket in which were piled up a lot of tangled garments.
"Take de handle!" commanded the good woman.
"The baby! Little Paul!" I shouted.
"Under the silk dress. Take de handle," she repeated.
We issued from the place, meeting with a policeman who suspected us of
unworthy motives. We had to exhibit the infant and establish our
identity before he would let us proceed with the huge basket. It was
about time! Firemen bearing a length of pipe dashed by us and entered
the cleaning establishment. The fire, it appeared, was in the restaurant
next door and threatened to invade Felicie's premises.
My two friends were wringing their hands as they dashed towards us, and
upon their heads their hats were awry.
"Paul is all right!" I assured them. "But they took us for robbers."
Frances picked her infant out of the basket, hysterically. She had tried
to follow me and had wrestled with a sinewy policeman, who had defeated
her. We reached Mrs. Milliken's, where Paul was deposited on his
mother's bed, soundly sleeping, and the basket, which it had taxed the
good woman's strength and mine to carry upstairs, was placed on the
floor. After this, Frieda threw her fat arms around my neck and called
me a hero. Frances would have followed suit but, being forestalled, had
to content herself with embracing the cleaning lady who, puffing, soon
disengaged herself and fanned herself with a newspaper.
"The brigands," she declared, "will soak everything with water, but I
have saved most of my customers' things."
She finally went off to spend the night at Eulalie's sister's, leaving
the plunder in our care. On the next morning, when Frances went off to
work, she found that the fire had invaded a part of the shop, that the
plate-glass window was broken and chaos reigned. Felicie was there and
deplored the fact that, until insurance matters were adjusted and
repairs made, all business would have to be suspended.
The poor girl came home to throw herself on her knees beside little
Paul. Then, she bethought herself of me and knocked at my door,
hurriedly. I opened it. My face, unfortunately, was covered with lather.
"I--I'm out of work. It--it will be several weeks before Felicie can
open the shop again. Oh! What shall I do?"
"My dear child," I said, "you will, for the time being, return to little
Paul and let me finish scraping my face. You will also please remember
that you have some good friends. As soon as I am shaved, we will hold a
session and form ourselves into a Committee of Ways and Means. In the
meanwhile remember about the little sparrow falling to the ground."
"I--I'm afraid a cat often gets him," she said sadly, and went back to
her room.