“—so, after he tried Bugs Brown, the poor nut asked Fat Gaspar to go with him and Fat said, ‘What do you ask me for?’ It serves him right if he couldn’t get anybody at all.”
It was the dismal but triumphant voice of Lewis Crum.
Up in his room, Basil found a package lying on his bed. He knew its contents and for a long time he had been eagerly expecting it, but such was his depression that he opened it listlessly. It was a series of eight color reproductions of Harrison Fisher girls “on glossy paper, without printing or advertising matter and suitable for framing.”
The pictures were named Dora, Marguerite, Babette, Lucille, Gretchen, Rose, Katherine and Mina. Two of them—Marguerite and Rose—Basil looked at, slowly tore up and dropped in the wastebasket, as one who disposes of the inferior pups from a litter. The other six he pinned at intervals around the room. Then he lay down on his bed and regarded them.
Dora, Lucille and Katherine were blonde; Gretchen was medium; Babette and Mina were dark. After a few minutes, he found that he was looking ofrenest at Dora and Babette and, to a lesser extent, at Gretchen, though the latter’s Dutch cap seemed unromantic and precluded the element of mystery. Babette, a dark little violet-eyed beauty in a tight-fitting hat, attracted him most; his eyes came to rest on her at last.
“Babette,” he whispered to himself—“beautiful Babette.”
The sound of the word, so melancholy and suggestive, like “Vilia” or “I’m happy at Maxims” on the phonograph, softened him and, turning over on his face, he sobbed into the pillow. He took hold of the bed rails over his head and, sobbing and straining, began to talk to himself brokenly—how he hated them and whom he hated—he listed a dozen—and what he would do to them when he was great and powerful. In previous moments like these he had always rewarded Fat Gaspar for his kindness, but now he was like the rest. Basil set upon him, pummeling him unmercifully, or laughed sneeringly when he passed him blind and begging on the street.
He controlled himself as he heard Treadway come in, but did not move or speak. He listened as the other moved about the room, and after a while became conscious that there was an unusual opening of closets and bureau drawers. Basil turned over, his arm concealing his tear-stained face. Treadway had an armful of shirts in his hand.
“What are you doing?” Basil demanded.
His roommate looked at him stonily. “I’m moving in with Wales,” he said.
“Oh!”
Treadway went on with his packing. He carried out a suitcase full, then another, took down some pennants and dragged his trunk into the hall. Basil watched him bundle his toilet things into a towel and take one last survey about the room’s new barrenness to see if there was anything forgotten.
“Good-by,” he said to Basil, without a ripple of expression on his face.
“Good-by.”
Treadway went out. Basil turned over once more and choked into the pillow.
“Oh, poor Babette!” he cried huskily. “Poor little Babette! Poor little Babette!”
Babette, svelte and piquant, looked down at him coquettishly from the wall.
Doctor Bacon, sensing Basil’s predicament and perhaps the extremity of his misery, arranged it that he should go into New York, after all. He went in the company of Mr. Rooney, the football coach and history teacher. At twenty Mr. Rooney had hesitated for some time between joining the police force and having his way paid through a small New England college; in fact he was a hard specimen and Doctor Bacon was planning to get rid of him at Christmas. Mr. Rooney’s contempt for Basil was founded on the latter’s ambiguous and unreliable conduct on the football field during the past season—he had consented to take him to New York for reasons of his own.
Basil sat meekly beside him on the train, glancing past Mr. Rooney’s bulky body at the Sound and the fallow fields of Westchester County. Mr. Rooney finished his newspaper, folded it up and sank into a moody silence. He had eaten a large breakfast and the exigencies of time had not allowed him to work it off with exercise. He remembered that Basil was a fresh boy, and it was time he did something fresh and could be called to account. This reproachless silence annoyed him.
“Lee,” he said suddenly, with a thinly assumed air of friendly interest, “why don’t you get wise to yourself?”
“What sir?” Basil was startled from his excited trance of this morning.
“I said why don’t you get wise to yourself?” said Mr. Rooney in a somewhat violent tone. “Do you want to be the butt of the school all your time here?”
“No, I don’t,” Basil was chilled. Couldn’t all this be left behind for just one day?
“You oughtn’t to get so fresh all the time. A couple of times in history class I could just about have broken your neck.” Basil could think of no appropriate answer. “Then out playing football,” continued Mr. Rooney “—you didn’t have any nerve. You could play better than a lot of ’em when you wanted, like that day against the Pomfret seconds, but you lost your nerve.”
“I shouldn’t have tried for the second team,” said Basil. “I was too light. I should have stayed on the third.”
“You were yellow, that was all the trouble. You ought to get wise to yourself. In class, you’re always thinking of something else. If you don’t study, you’ll never get to college.”
“I’m the youngest boy in the fifth form,” Basil said rashly.
“You think you’re pretty bright, don’t you?” He eyed Basil ferociously. Then something seemed to occur to him that changed his attitude and they rode for a while in silence. When the train began to run through the thickly clustered communities near New York, he spoke again in a milder voice and with an air of having considered the matter for a long time:
“Lee, I’m going to trust you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You go and get some lunch and then go on to your show. I’ve got some business of my own I got to attend to, and when I’ve finished I’ll try to get to the show. If I can’t, I’ll anyhow meet you outside.” Basil’s heart leaped up. “Yes, sir.”
“I don’t want you to open your mouth about this at school—I mean, about me doing some business of my own.”
“No, sir.”
“We’ll see if you can keep your mouth shut for once,” he said, making it fun. Then he added, on a note of moral sternness, “And no drinks, you understand that?”
“Oh, no, sir!” The idea shocked Basil. He had never tasted a drink, nor even contemplated the possibility, save the intangible and non-alcoholic champagne of his café dreams.
On the advice of Mr. Rooney he went for luncheon to the Manhattan Hotel, near the station, where he ordered a club sandwich, French fried potatoes and a chocolate parfait. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the nonchalant, debonair, blasé New Yorkers at neighboring tables, investing them with a romance by which these possible fellow citizens of his from the Middle-West lost nothing. School had fallen from him like a burden; it was no more than an unheeded clamor, faint and far away. He even delayed opening the letter from the morning’s mail which he found in his pocket, because it was addressed to him at school.
He wanted another chocolate parfait, but being reluctant to bother the busy waiter any more, he opened the letter and spread it before him instead. It was from his mother:
“Dear Basil: This is written in great haste, as I didn’t want to frighten you by telegraphing. Grandfather is going abroad to take the waters and he wants you and me to come too. The idea is that you’ll go to school at Grenoble or Montreux for the rest of the year and learn the languages and we’ll be close by. That is, if you want to. I know how you like St. Regis and playing football and baseball, and of course there would be none of that; but on the other hand, it would be a nice change, even if it postponed your entering Yale by an extra year. So, as usual, I want you to do just as you like. We will be leaving home almost as soon as you get this and will come to the Waldorf in New York, where you can come in and see us for a few days, even if you decide to s
tay. Think it over, dear.
“With love to my dearest boy,
“Mother.”
Basil got up from his chair with a dim idea of walking over to the Waldorf and having himself locked up safely until his mother came. Then, impelled to some gesture, he raised his voice and in one of his first basso notes called boomingly and without reticence for the waiter. No more St. Regis! No more St. Regis! He was almost strangling with happiness.
“Oh, gosh!” he cried to himself. “Oh, golly! Oh, gosh! Oh, gosh!” No more Doctor Bacon and Mr. Rooney and Brick Wales and Fat Gaspar. No more Bugs Brown and on bounds and being called Bossy. He need no longer hate them, for they were impotent shadows in the stationary world that he was sliding away from, sliding past, waving his hand. “Good-by!” he pitied them. “Good-by!”
It required the din of Forty-second Street to sober his maudlin joy. With his hand on his purse to guard against the omnipresent pickpocket, he moved cautiously toward Broadway. What a day! He would tell Mr. Rooney—why, he needn’t ever go back! Or perhaps it would be better to go back and let them know what he was going to do, while they went on and on in the dismal, dreary round of school.
He found the theater and entered the lobby with its powdery feminine atmosphere of a matinée. As he took out his ticket, his gaze was caught and held by a sculptured profile a few feet away. It was that of a well-built blond young man of about twenty with a strong chin and direct gray eyes. Basil’s brain spun wildly for a moment and then came to rest upon a name—more than a name—upon a legend, a sign in the sky. What a day! He had never seen the young man before, but from a thousand pictures he knew beyond the possibility of a doubt that it was Ted Fay, the Yale football captain, who had almost single-handed beaten Harvard and Princeton last fall. Basil felt a sort of exquisite pain. The profile turned away; the crowd revolved; the hero disappeared. But Basil would know all through the next hours that Ted Fay was here too.
In the rustling, whispering, sweet-smelling darkness of the theater he read the program. It was the show of all shows that he wanted to see, and until the curtain actually rose the program itself had a curious sacredness—a prototype of the thing itself. But when the curtain rose it became waste paper to be dropped carelessly to the floor.
ACT I. The Village Green of a Small Town near New York.
It was too bright and blinding to comprehend all at once, and it went so fast that from the very first Basil felt he had missed things; he would make his mother take him again when she came—next week—tomorrow.
An hour passed. It was very sad at this point—a sort of gay sadness, but sad. The girl—the man. What kept them apart even now? Oh, those tragic errors and misconceptions. So sad. Couldn’t they look into each other’s eyes and see?
In a blaze of light and sound, of resolution, anticipation and imminent trouble, the act was over.
He went out. He looked for Ted Fay and thought he saw him leaning rather moodily on the plush wall at the rear of the theater, but he could not be sure. He bought cigarettes and lit one, but fancying at the first puff that he heard a blare of music he rushed back inside.
ACT II. The Foyer of the Hotel Astor.
Yes, she was, indeed, like that song—a Beautiful Rose of the Night. The waltz buoyed her up, brought her with it to a point of aching beauty and then let her slide back to life across its last bars as a leaf slants to earth across the air. The high life of New York! Who could blame her if she was carried away by the glitter of it all, vanishing into the bright morning of the amber window borders or into distant and entrancing music as the door opened and closed that led to the ballroom? The toast of the shining town.
Half an hour passed. Her true love brought her roses like herself and she threw them scornfully at his feet. She laughed and turned to the other, and danced—danced madly, wildly. Wait! That delicate treble among the thin horns, the low curving note from the great strings. There it was again, poignant and aching, sweeping like a great gust of emotion across the stage, catching her again like a leaf helpless in the wind:
“Rose—Rose—Rose of the night, When the spring moon is bright you’ll be fair—”
A few minutes later, feeling oddly shaken and exalted, Basil drifted outside with the crowd. The first thing upon which his eyes fell was the almost forgotten and now curiously metamorphosed specter of Mr. Rooney.
Mr. Rooney had, in fact, gone a little to pieces. He was, to begin with, wearing a different and much smaller hat than when he left Basil at noon. Secondly, his face had lost its somewhat gross aspect and turned a pure and even delicate white, and he was wearing his necktie and even portions of his shirt on the outside of his unaccountably wringing-wet overcoat. How, in the short space of four hours, Mr. Rooney had got himself in such shape is explicable only by the pressure of confinement in a boys’ school upon a fiery outdoor spirit. Mr. Rooney was born to toil under the clear light of heaven and, perhaps half consciously, he was headed toward his inevitable destiny.
“Lee,” he said dimly, “you ought to get wise to y’self. I’m going to put you wise y’self.”
To avoid the ominous possibility of being put wise to himself in the lobby, Basil uneasily changed the subject.
“Aren’t you coming to the show?” he asked, flattering Mr. Rooney by implying that he was in any condition to come to the show. “It’s a wonderful show.”
Mr. Rooney took off his hat, displaying wringing-wet matted hair. A picture of reality momentarily struggled for development in the back of his brain.
“We got to get back to school,” he said in a somber and unconvinced voice.
“But there’s another act,” protested Basil in horror. “I’ve got to stay for the last act.”
Swaying, Mr. Rooney looked at Basil, dimly realizing that he had put himself in the hollow of this boy’s hand.
“All righ’,” he admitted. “I’m going to get somethin’ to eat. I’ll wait for you next door.”
He turned abruptly, reeled a dozen steps and curved dizzily into a bar adjoining the theater. Considerably shaken, Basil went back inside.
ACT III. The Roof Garden of Mr. Van Astor’s House. Night.
Half an hour passed. Everything was going to be all right, after all. The comedian was at his best now, with the glad appropriateness of laughter after tears, and there was a promise of felicity in the bright tropical sky. One lovely plaintive duet, and then abruptly the long moment of incomparable beauty was over.
Basil went into the lobby and stood in thought while the crowd passed out. His mother’s letter and the show had cleared his mind of bitterness and vindictiveness—he was his old self and he wanted to do the right thing. He wondered if it was the right thing to get Mr. Rooney back to school. He walked toward the saloon, slowed up as he came to it and, gingerly opening the swinging door, took a quick peer inside. He saw only that Mr. Rooney was not one of those drinking at the bar. He walked down the street a little way, came back and tried again. It was as if he thought the doors were teeth to bite him, for he had the old-fashioned Middle-Western boy’s horror of the saloon. The third time he was successful. Mr. Rooney was sound asleep at a table in the back of the room.
Outside again Basil walked up and down, considering. He would give Mr. Rooney half an hour. If, at the end of that time, he had not come out, he would go back to school. After all, Mr. Rooney had laid for him ever since football season—Basil was simply washing his hands of the whole affair, as in a day or so he would wash his hands of school.
He had made several turns up and down, when, glancing up an alley that ran beside the theater his eye was caught by the sign, Stage Entrance. He could watch the actors come forth.
He waited. Women streamed by him, but those were the days before Glorification and he took these drab people for wardrobe women or something. Then suddenly a girl came out and with her a man, and Basil turned and ran a few steps up the street as if afraid they would recognize him—and ran back, breathing as if with a heart attack—for the girl, a radian
t little beauty of nineteen, was Her and the young man by her side was Ted Fay.
Arm in arm, they walked past him, and irresistibly Basil followed. As they walked, she leaned toward Ted Fay in a way that gave them a fascinating air of intimacy. They crossed Broadway and turned into the Knickerbocker Hotel, and twenty feet behind them Basil followed, in time to see them go into a long room set for afternoon tea. They sat at a table for two, spoke vaguely to a waiter, and then, alone at last, bent eagerly toward each other. Basil saw that Ted Fay was holding her gloved hand.
The tea room was separated only by a hedge of potted firs from the main corridor. Basil went along this to a lounge which was almost up against their table and sat down.
Her voice was low and faltering, less certain than it had been in the play, and very sad: “Of course I do, Ted.” For a long time, as their conversation continued, she repeated “Of course I do” or “But I do, Ted.” Ted Fay’s remarks were too low for Basil to hear.
“——says next month, and he won’t be put off any more…. I do in a way, Ted. It’s hard to explain, but he’s done everything for mother and me…. There’s no use kidding myself. It was a fool-proof part and any girl he gave it to was made right then and there…. He’s been awfully thoughtful. He’s done everything for me.”
Basil’s ears were sharpened by the intensity of his emotion; now he could hear Ted Fay’s voice too:
“And you say you love me.”
“But don’t you see I promised to marry him more than a year ago.”
“Tell him the truth—that you love me. Ask him to let you off.”
“This isn’t musical comedy, Ted.”
“That was a mean one,” he said bitterly.
“I’m sorry, dear, Ted darling, but you’re driving me crazy going on this way. You’re making it so hard for me.”
“I’m going to leave New Haven, anyhow.”