Babylon Revisited and Other Stories

  “Now,” continued Peter easily, “may I ask why you gentlemen prefer to lounge away your leisure hours in a room which is chiefly furnished, as far as I can see, with scrubbing brushes. And when the human race has progressed to the stage where seventeen thousand chairs are manufactured on every day except Sunday—” he paused. Rose and Key regarded him vacantly. “Will you tell me,” went on Peter, “why you choose to rest yourselves on articles intended for the transportation of water from one place to another?”

  At this point Rose contributed a grunt to the conversation.

  “And lastly,” finished Peter, “will you tell me why, when you are in a building beautifully hung with enormous candelabra, you prefer to spend these evening hours under one anemic electric light?”

  Rose looked at Key; Key looked at Rose. They laughed; they laughed uproariously; they found it was impossible to look at each other without laughing. But they were not laughing with this man—they were laughing at him. To them a man who talked after this fashion was either raving drunk or raving crazy.

  “You are Yale men, I presume,” said Peter, finishing his highball and preparing another.

  They laughed again.

  “Na-ah.”

  “So? I thought perhaps you might be members of that lowly section of the university known as the Sheffield Scientific School.”

  “Na-ah.”

  “Hm. Well, that’s too bad. No doubt you are Harvard men, anxious to preserve your incognito in this—this paradise of violet blue, as the newspapers say.”

  “Na-ah,” said Key scornfully, “we was just waitin’ for somebody.”

  “Ah,” exclaimed Peter, rising and filling their glasses, “very interestin’. Had a date with a scrublady, eh?”

  They both denied this indignantly.

  “It’s all right,” Peter reassured them, “don’t apologize. A scrublady’s as good as any lady in the world. Kipling says ‘Any lady and Judy O’Grady under the skin.’ ”

  “Sure,” said Key, winking broadly at Rose.

  “My case, for instance,” continued Peter, finishing his glass. “I got a girl up there that’s spoiled. Spoildest darn girl I ever saw. Refused to kiss me; no reason whatsoever. Led me on deliberately to think sure I want to kiss you and then plunk! Threw me over! What’s the younger generation comin’ to?”

  “Say tha’s hard luck,” said Key—“that’s awful hard luck.”

  “Oh, boy!” said Rose.

  “Have another?” said Peter.

  “We got in a sort of fight for a while,” said Key after a pause, “but it was too far away.”

  “A fight?—tha’s stuff!” said Peter, seating himself unsteadily. “Fight ’em all! I was in the army.”

  “This was with a Bolshevik fella.”

  “Tha’s stuff!” exclaimed Peter, enthusiastic. “That’s what I say! Kill the Bolshevik! Exterminate ’em!”

  “We’re Americans,” said Rose, implying a sturdy, defiant patriotism.

  “Sure,” said Peter. “Greatest race in the world! We’re all Americans! Have another.”

  They had another.

  At one o’clock a special orchestra, special even in a day of special orchestras, arrived at Delmonico’s, and its members, seating themselves arrogantly around the piano, took up the burden of providing music for the Gamma Psi Fraternity. They were headed by a famous flute-player, distinguished throughout New York for his feat of standing on his head and shimmying with his shoulders while he played the latest jazz on his flute. During his performance the lights were extinguished except for the spotlight on the flute-player and another roving beam that threw flickering shadows and changing kaleidoscopic colors over the massed dancers.

  Edith had danced herself into that tired, dreamy state habitual only with débutantes, a state equivalent to the glow of a noble soul after several long highballs. Her mind floated vaguely on the bosom of the music; her partners changed with the unreality of phantoms under the colorful shifting dusk, and to her present coma it seemed as if days had passed since the dance began. She had talked on many fragmentary subjects with many men. She had been kissed once and made love to six times. Earlier in the evening different undergraduates had danced with her, but now, like all the more popular girls there, she had her own entourage—that is, half a dozen gallants had singled her out or were alternating her charms with those of some other chosen beauty; they cut in on her in regular, inevitable succession.

  Several times she had seen Gordon—he had been sitting a long time on the stairway with his palm to his head, his dull eyes fixed at an infinite speck on the floor before him, very depressed, he looked, and quite drunk—but Edith each time had averted her glance hurriedly. All that seemed long ago; her mind was passive now, her senses were lulled to trance-like sleep; only her feet danced and her voice talked on in hazy sentimental banter.

  But Edith was not nearly so tired as to be incapable of moral indignation when Peter Himmel cut in on her, sublimely and happily drunk. She gasped and looked up at him.

  “Why, Peter!”

  “I’m a li’l’ stewed, Edith.”

  “Why, Peter, you’re a peach, you are! Don’t you think it’s a bum way of doing—when you’re with me?”

  Then she smiled unwillingly, for he was looking at her with owlish sentimentality varied with a silly spasmodic smile.

  “Darlin’ Edith,” he began earnestly, “you know I love you, don’t you?”

  “You tell it well.”

  “I love you—and I merely wanted you to kiss me,” he added sadly.

  His embarrassment, his shame, were both gone. She was a mos’ beautiful girl in whole worl’. Mos’ beautiful eyes, like stars above. He wanted to ’pologize—firs’, for presuming try to kiss her; second, for drinking—but he’d been so discouraged ’cause he had thought she was mad at him—

  The red-fat man cut in, and looking up at Edith smiled radiantly.

  “Did you bring any one?” she asked.

  No. The red-fat man was a stag.

  “Well, would you mind—would it be an awful bother for you to—to take me home to-night?” (this extreme diffidence was a charming affectation on Edith’s part—she knew that the red-fat man would immediately dissolve into a paroxysm of delight).

  “Bother? Why, good Lord, I’d be darn glad to! You know I’d be darn glad to.”

  “Thanks loads! You’re awfully sweet.”

  She glanced at her wrist-watch. It was half-past one. And, as she said “half-past one” to herself, it floated vaguely into her mind that her brother had told her at luncheon that he worked in the office of his newspaper until after one-thirty every evening.

  Edith turned suddenly to her current partner.

  “What street is Delmonico’s on, anyway?”

  “Street? Oh, why Fifth Avenue, of course.”

  “I mean, what cross street?”

  “Why—let’s see—it’s on Forty-fourth Street.”

  This verified what she had thought. Henry’s office must be across the street and just around the corner, and it occurred to her immediately that she might slip over for a moment and surprise him; float in on him, a shimmering marvel in her new crimson opera cloak and “cheer him up.” It was exactly the sort of thing Edith revelled in doing—an unconventional, jaunty thing. The idea reached out and gripped at her imagination—after an instant’s hesitation she had decided.

  “My hair is just about to tumble entirely down,” she said pleasantly to her partner; “would you mind if I go and fix it?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re a peach.”

  A few minutes later, wrapped in her crimson opera cloak, she flitted down a side-stairs, her cheeks glowing with excitement at her little adventure. She ran by a couple who stood at the door—a weakchinned waiter and an over-rouged young lady, in hot dispute—and opening the outer door stepped into the warm May night.

  The over-rouged young lady followed her with a brief, bitter glance—then turned again to the
weak-chinned waiter and took up her argument.

  “You better go up and tell him I’m here,” she said defiantly, “or I’ll go up myself.”

  “No, you don’t!” said George sternly.

  The girl smiled sardonically.

  “Oh, I don’t, don’t I? Well, let me tell you I know more college fellas and more of ’em know me, and are glad to take me out on a party, than you ever saw in your whole life.”

  “Maybe so——”

  “Maybe so,” she interrupted. “Oh, it’s all right for any of ’em like that one that just ran out—God knows where she went—it’s all right for them that are asked here to come or go as they like—but when I want to see a friend they have some cheap, ham-slinging, bring-me-a-doughnut waiter to stand here and keep me out.”

  “See here,” said the elder Key indignantly, “I can’t lose my job. Maybe this fella you’re talkin’ about doesn’t want to see you.”

  “Oh, he wants to see me all right.”

  “Anyways, how could I find him in all that crowd?”

  “Oh, he’ll be there,” she asserted confidently. “You just ask anybody for Gordon Sterrett and they’ll point him out to you. They all know each other, those fellas.”

  She produced a mesh bag, and taking out a dollar bill handed it to George.

  “Here,” she said, “here’s a bribe. You find him and give him my message. You tell him if he isn’t here in five minutes I’m coming up.”

  George shook his head pessimistically, considered the question for a moment, wavered violently, and then withdrew.

  In less than the allotted time Gordon came down-stairs. He was drunker than he had been earlier in the evening and in a different way. The liquor seemed to have hardened on him like a crust. He was heavy and lurching—almost incoherent when he talked.

  “ ’Lo, Jewel,” he said thickly. “Came right away. Jewel, I couldn’t get that money. Tried my best.”

  “Money nothing!” she snapped. “You haven’t been near me for ten days. What’s the matter?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “Been very low, Jewel. Been sick.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me if you were sick. I don’t care about the money that bad. I didn’t start bothering you about it at all until you began neglecting me.”

  Again he shook his head.

  “Haven’t been neglecting you. Not at all.”

  “Haven’t! You haven’t been near me for three weeks, unless you been so drunk you didn’t know what you were doing.”

  “Been sick, Jewel,” he repeated, turning his eyes upon her wearily.

  “You’re well enough to come and play with your society friends here all right. You told me you’d meet me for dinner, and you said you’d have some money for me. You didn’t even bother to ring me up.”

  “I couldn’t get any money.”

  “Haven’t I just been saying that doesn’t matter? I wanted to see you, Gordon, but you seem to prefer your somebody else.”

  He denied this bitterly.

  “Then get your hat and come along,” she suggested.

  Gordon hesitated—and she came suddenly close to him and slipped her arms around his neck.

  “Come on with me, Gordon,” she said in a half whisper. “We’ll go over to Devineries’ and have a drink, and then we can go up to my apartment.”

  “I can’t, Jewel,——”

  “You can,” she said intensely.

  “I’m sick as a dog!”

  “Well, then, you oughtn’t to stay here and dance.”

  With a glance around him in which relief and despair were mingled, Gordon hesitated; then she suddenly pulled him to her and kissed him with soft, pulpy lips.

  “All right,” he said heavily. “I’ll get my hat.”

  When Edith came out into the clear blue of the May night she found the Avenue deserted. The windows of the big shops were dark; over their doors were drawn great iron masks until they were only shadowy tombs of the late day’s splendor. Glancing down toward Forty-second Street she saw a commingled blur of lights from the all-night restaurants. Over on Sixth Avenue the elevated, a flare of fire, roared across the street between the glimmering parallels of light at the station and streaked along into the crisp dark. But at Forty-fourth Street it was very quiet.

  Pulling her cloak close about her Edith darted across the Avenue. She started nervously as a solitary man passed her and said in a hoarse whisper—“Where bound, kiddo?” She was reminded of a night in her childhood when she had walked around the block in her pajamas and a dog had howled at her from a mystery-big back yard.

  In a minute she had reached her destination, a two-story, comparatively old building on Forty-fourth, in the upper windows of which she thankfully detected a wisp of light. It was bright enough outside for her to make out the sign beside the window—the New York Trumpet. She stepped inside a dark hall and after a second saw the stairs in the corner.

  Then she was in a long, low room furnished with many desks and hung on all sides with file copies of newspapers. There were only two occupants. They were sitting at different ends of the room, each wearing a green eye-shade and writing by a solitary desk light.

  For a moment she stood uncertainly in the doorway, and then both men turned around simultaneously and she recognized her brother.

  “Why, Edith!” He rose quickly and approached her in surprise, removing his eye-shade. He was tall, lean, and dark, with black, piercing eyes under very thick glasses. They were far-away eyes that seemed always fixed just over the head of the person to whom he was talking.

  He put his hands on her arms and kissed her cheek.

  “What is it?” he repeated in some alarm.

  “I was at a dance across at Delmonico’s, Henry,” she said excitedly, “and I couldn’t resist tearing over to see you.”

  “I’m glad you did.” His alertness gave way quickly to a habitual vagueness. “You oughtn’t to be out alone at night though, ought you?”

  The man at the other end of the room had been looking at them curiously, but at Henry’s beckoning gesture he approached. He was loosely fat with little twinkling eyes, and, having removed his collar and tie, he gave the impression of a Middle-Western farmer on a Sunday afternoon.

  “This is my sister,” said Henry. “She dropped in to see me.”

  “How do you do?” said the fat man, smiling. “My name’s Bartholomew, Miss Bradin. I know your brother has forgotten it long ago.”

  Edith laughed politely.

  “Well,” he continued, “not exactly gorgeous quarters we have here, are they?”

  Edith looked around the room.

  “They seem very nice,” she replied. “Where do you keep the bombs?”

  “The bombs?” repeated Bartholomew, laughing. “That’s pretty good—the bombs. Did you hear her, Henry? She wants to know where we keep the bombs. Say, that’s pretty good.”

  Edith swung herself around onto a vacant desk and sat dangling her feet over the edge. Her brother took a seat beside her.

  “Well,” he asked, absent-mindedly, “how do you like New York this trip?”

  “Not bad. I’ll be over at the Biltmore with the Hoyts until Sunday. Can’t you come to luncheon to-morrow?”

  He thought a moment.

  “I’m especially busy,” he objected, “and I hate women in groups.”

  “All right,” she agreed, unruffled. “Let’s you and me have luncheon together.”

  “Very well.”

  “I’ll call for you at twelve.”

  Bartholomew was obviously anxious to return to his desk, but apparently considered that it would be rude to leave without some parting pleasantry.

  “Well”—he began awkwardly.

  They both turned to him.

  “Well, we—we had an exciting time earlier in the evening.”

  The two men exchanged glances.

  “You should have come earlier,” continued Bartholomew, somewhat encouraged. “We had a regular vaude
ville.”

  “Did you really?”

  “A serenade,” said Henry. “A lot of soldiers gathered down there in the street and began to yell at the sign.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “Just a crowd,” said Henry, abstractedly. All crowds have to howl. They didn’t have anybody with much initiative in the lead, or they’d probably have forced their way in here and smashed things up.”

  “Yes,” said Bartholomew, turning again to Edith, “you should have been here.”

  He seemed to consider this a sufficient cue for withdrawal, for he turned abruptly and went back to his desk.

  “Are the soldiers all set against the Socialists?” demanded Edith of her brother. “I mean do they attack you violently and all that?”

  Henry replaced his eye-shade and yawned.

  “The human race has come a long way,” he said casually, “but most of us are throw-backs; the soldiers don’t know what they want, or what they hate, or what they like. They’re used to acting in large bodies, and they seem to have to make demonstrations. So it happens to be against us. There’ve been riots all over the city to-night. It’s May Day, you see.”

  “Was the disturbance here pretty serious?”

  “Not a bit,” he said scornfully. “About twenty-five of them stopped in the street about nine o’clock, and began to bellow at the moon.”

  “Oh”—She changed the subject. “You’re glad to see me, Henry?”

  “Why, sure.”

  “You don’t seem to be.”

  “I am.”

  “I suppose you think I’m a—a waster. Sort of the World’s Worst Butterfly.”

  Henry laughed.

  “Not at all. Have a good time while you’re young. Why? Do I seem like the priggish and earnest youth?”

  “No—” She paused, “—but somehow I began thinking how absolutely different the party I’m on is from—from all your purposes. It seems sort of—of incongruous, doesn’t it?—me being at a party like that, and you over here working for a thing that’ll make that sort of party impossible ever any more, if your ideas work.”

  “I don’t think of it that way. You’re young, and you’re acting just as you were brought up to act. Go ahead—have a good time.”