A Top-Floor Idyl

  CHAPTER III

  I WATCH AN INFANT

  It was all very well for Frieda to tell Mrs. Milliken that, if I had noobjection to that baby, no one else could resent its presence. Sheassumes too much. If I had really belonged to the order of vertebrates Ishould have objected most strenuously, for its presence is disturbing.It diverts my attention from literary effort. But of course, since I amas spineless as a mollusk, I sought to accept this heaven-sentvisitation with due resignation. My endeavor to continue that story wasa most pitiful farce. Four times, in reading over a single page, I foundthe word _baby_ inserted where I had meant to write _dog_ or one of thefew available synonyms. I wondered whether it was owing to lack of sleepthat my efforts failed and threw myself upon the bed, but my seeking forbalmy slumber was more ghastly than my attempt at literature. Never inall my life had I been more arrantly wakeful. A desperate resolve cameto me and I flipped a quarter. Heads and I would sit down and playsolitaire; tails and I would take a boat to Coney Island, a place Iabhor. The coin rolled under the bed, and I was hunting clumsily for itwith a stick when a tremendous knock came at the door, followed by theimmediate entrance of the washerwoman's sister, whom I afterwards knewas Eulalie Carpaux.

  I explained my position, half under the bed, feeling that she had caughtme in an attitude lacking in dignity, but the good creature sympathizedwith me and discovered my money at once, after which she insisted ontaking my whiskbroom and vigorously dusting my knees.

  "I have come, Monsieur," she informed me, "to ask if your door may beleft open. The heat is terrible and the poor, dear lamb has perspirationon her forehead. I know that currents of air are dangerous, butsuffocation is worse. What shall I do?"

  "You will open as many doors as you please," I answered meekly.

  "Thank you. One can see that Monsieur has a good heart, but then anyfriend of Mademoiselle Frieda must be a good man. She is adorable anduses a great deal of linen. May I ask who does Monsieur's washing?"

  "A Chinaman," I answered shortly. "He scrubs it with cinders and ironsit with a nutmeg grater. I keep it in this closet on the floor."

  "My sister," she informed me, "has four children and washes beautifully.I am sure that if Monsieur allowed me to take his linen, he would begreatly pleased."

  "Take it," I said, and waved my hand to signify that the interview wasclosed, whereupon she mopped her red face, joyfully, with her apron andwithdrew.

  Here was a pretty kettle of fish. Immediately the most gorgeous ideasfor my story crowded my brain and the language came to me, beautiful andtouching. But the Murillo-woman's door was open and so was mine. SinceEulalie had ventured to leave the room, it was most probable that hercharge was sleeping. The typewriter, of course, would awaken her atonce. Was that infant destined to deprive me of a living, to snatch thebread from my mouth? But I reflected that temperatures of ninety in theshade were inconstant phenomena. It would be but a temporary annoyanceand the best thing I could do, since I was driven out of house and home,was to take my hat and go to the beach for a swim. The die was cast andI moved to the door, but had to return to place a paperweight on loosesheets littering my desk, whereupon my eyes fell on the old pack ofcards and I threw the hat upon the bed and began solitaire. My plansoften work out in such fashion. Ten minutes later I was electrified by acry, a tiny squeak that could hardly have disturbed Herod himself. Butit aroused my curiosity and I tiptoed along the hallway, suspecting thatthe woman Eulalie might not be attending properly to her duties,whatever they were. Everything was still again, and the unjustlymistrusted party was rocking ponderously, with an amorphous bundle inher lap. She smiled at me, graciously. Upon the bed I caught a glimpseof wonderful chestnut hair touched by a thread of sunlight streamingtenuously from the side of a lowered blind; also, I saw a rounded arm.Eulalie put a fat finger to rubicund lips and I retired, cautiously.

  How in the world could I have been bothering my head about a trumperyand impossible dog? In that room Nature was making apologetic amends. Awoman had obeyed the law of God and man, which, like all other laws,falls heaviest on the weak. She was being graciously permitted to forgetpast misery and, perchance, dream of happier days to come, while DavidCole, scrub coiner of empty phrases, bemoaned the need of keeping quietfor a few hours. I decided that I ought to be ashamed of myself. "TheProfessor at the Breakfast Table" was at my hand and I took it up, thevolume opening spontaneously at the "Story of Iris," and I lost myselfin its delight.

  An hour later came a light step, swiftly, and the little doctorappeared. He is as tall as I, but looks so very young that he seemssmall to me. He entered my room, cheerfully, looking as fresh and niceas if rosy dreams had filled his night.

  "Well! How are things wagging?" he inquired breezily.

  He was fanning himself with his neat straw hat, and I asked him to sitdown for a moment.

  "Sure! But only for a minute or two. I have a throat clinic to attend atone o'clock. There's just time for this visit, then a bite at Childs'and a skip to Bellevue."

  I looked at my watch and found he had allowed himself just fifty minutesfor these various occupations.

  "Don't let me detain you, my dear boy," I told him. "I--I just wanted tosay that I haven't the least idea whether--whether that young creaturein the other room has a cent to bless herself with. It seems to me--Ithink that she should have every care, and I shall be glad if you willconsider me responsible--er--within the limits of a moderate income."

  "Thanks," he said, "that's very kind of you."

  His eyes strayed on my desk, and he pounced upon a copy of "The City'sWrath."

  "Tell you what," he said, "that's a tip-top book. I borrowed my mother'scopy and read it all night. The fellow who wrote it knows somethingabout the slender connection between body and soul, in this big city.He's looked pretty deep into people's lives."

  No compliments I ever received, with the exception of Frieda's, gave megreater pleasure than the appreciation of this honest, strong lad.

  "Will you kindly give me your full name?" I asked him.

  "Thomas Lawrence Porter," he answered.

  I took the volume and wrote it down on the first page, adding kindestregards and my signature, and handed it to him, whereat he stared at me.

  "D'ye mean to say you're the chap who wrote that book," he said, andwrung my hand, painfully. "I'm proud to meet you. If you don't mind, I'dlike to come in some time and--and chat about things with you, anyevening when you're not busy. You know an awful lot about--aboutpeople."

  "My good friend," I told him, "don't permit youthful enthusiasm to runaway with you. But I shall be delighted to have you drop in. And now,since your time is so limited, you had better go and see your patient."

  He tucked his book under his arm and went down the hallway. Afterremaining in the room for perhaps a quarter of an hour, he came outagain, cheerfully.

  "Doing exceedingly well," he called to me. "By-by; see you again verysoon, I hope."

  He vanished down the stairs, and I took up my book again, holding it inone hand while I went to the windows, intending to draw down a blindagainst the sunlight that was streaming in. The heat was entering ingusts and, for a second, a sparrow sat on my window ledge with headdrooping, as if it were about to succumb. Then I drew down the blindsand immediately let them up again, reflecting that in the room oppositemine they were lowered for the sake of darkness and air and that myaction would lessen the latter. So I sponged off my cranium and panted.It was being revealed to me that babies, whatever their otherqualifications, were exquisitely complicated nuisances.

  Yet an Arab, I told myself, refuses to step on a piece of paper, lestupon it might be written the name of the Deity, while some Hindoos carrylittle brooms and sweep the path before them, that they may not treadupon one of Buddha's creatures. Who knows whether divinity does notleave its signature on every infant, and who can reasonably doubt thatinfinite goodness possesses an equity in prospective men and women.Shall I be less civil than a sand-washed Bedouin or the monk of aBenares shrine?
It behooves me to welcome a chance to acquire merit byshowing patience.

  The book I held was as charming as ever, of course, but since I knew thestory by heart I dropped it on my knees and waged a losing fight againsta fly, which persisted in perching itself on my brow. Before me flittedthe idea that a skull-cap made of sticky fly-paper might be patentableand sell by the million, combining protection and revenge; I must lookinto the matter. Finally hunger troubled me and I decided to go out forrefreshment. Before my neighbor's door I stopped for an instant, my eyesseeking to penetrate the dimness. Eulalie came to me at once and beganto whisper.

  "Would Monsieur be so very kind as to remain here for a few moments andwatch?" she said. "I am going to run over to my sister's and tell her tobuy a chicken and make broth. It will be very good for our poor, dearlady. In ten minutes I will be back."

  Man's freedom of action is apparently a mere academic concept.Theoretically, I was entirely at liberty to refuse, to look down uponthis woman from the superior height of my alleged intellectuality andinform her that my soul craved for an immediate glass of iced tea andsome poached eggs on toast. I could have asserted that I did not purposeto allow myself to be bulldozed by an infant seven hours and ten minutesold. As a matter of fact, I was helpless and consented, Eulalie shakingthe stairs during her cautious, down-ward progress. It was with some ofthe feelings of an apprentice in the art of lion-taming that I enteredthe room. Would the proceeding be tranquil and dignified, or accompaniedby roars?

  I sat down upon the rocker just vacated by Eulalie and gazed on thehorsehair sofa as if the package resting on it were explosive, with afuse alight. I had feared that it would be thrust upon my lap, but it islikely that my competency had been justifiably suspected. I dared notmove the chair, fearing to make a noise, and could see nothing of thewhite arms or the Murillo face. Suddenly, an orgy of steam-whistlingbegan, rousing my apprehensions while recalling workers to theirfactories. It proved but a false alarm and stillness prevailed in thetop-floor back, for at least three minutes, when the dreaded wailarose.

  "Please, Eulalie," came a husky, low voice. "Give me my baby."

  It was then that my already damp brow began to stream. She wanted herbaby and wouldn't be happy till she got it. My duty, I realized, was togo to the sofa and pick up the animated and noisy parcel. It would thenhave to be conveyed to the bed! Nervously, I prepared to obey.

  "Eulalie has gone out for a few minutes," I explained, in the subduedtones I deemed suitable to a sickroom. "Here--here is the bundle. Ithink it wriggles."

  "Thank you ever so much and--and please turn him the other way--yes,those are the feet. And would you pull up the shade a little bit, Ithink I would have more air."

  I raised the thing, letting in a flood of light, and feasted my eyes inutter liberty. Poor child, she must have a cold, for she suffers fromhoarseness. She paid little more heed to me than did the ancient Romanladies to the slaves they refused to recognize as men. I realized mysmall importance when she tenderly pushed aside the little folds andrevealed diminutive features over which she sighed, contentedly, while Idrew my chair a little nearer to the bed. Since a Murillo was on freeexhibition, I might as well gaze upon it and admire. That faint littlewailing had stopped at once.

  "Don't you think he is ever so good and well-behaved?" she asked me,after a while.

  I assented, forbearing to tell her that his existence had not yet beensufficiently long to prove him entirely free from all taint of originalsin.

  "It's such a comfort," she assured me.

  Already, by the saintly grace of a mother's heart, she was endowing heroffspring with all the virtues. The wondrous optics of motherhoodrevealed beauty, wisdom, good intent, the promise of great things tocome, all concentrated in this tabloid form of man. So mote it be!

  The tiny head rested on her outstretched rounded arm and she closed hereyes once more. The plentiful chestnut hair had been braided tight andpinned at the top of her head.

  "I wish Gordon McGrath could see her," I told myself. "No, Friedawouldn't do the picture justice. She would seek to improve on Nature'shandiwork; she would etherealize it, make it so dainty that it wouldbecome poetry instead of the beautiful plain language the universalmother sometimes speaks. Gordon would paint something that lived andbreathed. He would draw real flesh and blood, recognizing that truthunadorned is often very splendid."

  At this time I bethought myself of the baby's father. The man was overthere, taking his part in the greatest tragedy ever enacted. At thisvery moment, perhaps, he was engaged in destroying life and knew nothingof this little son. I pitied him. Ye Gods! But for the strength andinsolence of some of the mighty ones of this earth he would have been inthis room, and I should have been quietly engaged in consuming poachedeggs. He would have been appeasing the hunger of his eyes and thelonging of his soul with the sight of the picture now before me, in thesolemn happiness that must surely come to a man at such a time. Afeeling of chilliness came over me as I inopportunely remembered aninterview I had some months ago with a fellow called Hawkins. I was inhis office downtown when the telephone rang, and he took down thereceiver.

  "A son," he called back. "Good enough! I was afraid it might be anothergirl!"

  Then he dictated a short letter to his stenographer and calmly picked uphis hat.

  "Come along, Cole," he said. "They tell me I have a boy. Let's go outand have a highball."

  Knowing Hawkins as I do, I am certain he would have had the drinkanyway. This new-born offspring of his merely served him as a pegwhereon to hang the responsibility for his tipple. The great andwonderful news really affected him little.

  But why was I thinking of such monsters? The father of this little baby,I am sure, must be a decent and normal man. He would have come in,hatless and breathless, and thrown himself upon his knees to worship andadore. The very first clumsy touch upon the tiny cheek would have sent athrill through him, and tears would have welled up in his eyes!

  Such were my thoughts when I remembered that, as a delver in fiction, itwas probably becoming my second nature to exaggerate a little. To me,after all, a recent father was perhaps like the mule whose story hadbrought the check. My notions in regard to them were of pureimagination, and I only knew them as potentially picturesque ingredientsof literary concoctions. Yet, on further reflection, I conceded tomyself the right to imagine newly made fathers as I saw fit. Millions ofthem are produced every year and among them must be some counterparts ofmy special conception of the type.

  I was thus comforting myself when I heard a familiar wheezy breathing onthe stairs. It was Frieda, who presently irrupted into the room.

  "David," she commanded, "you go right out and have something to eat. I'msure you are starving. I will stay here till that woman comes back. Ileft her at the corner, carrying a fowl to her sister's, and she told meI would find you here."

  She deposited voluminous parcels on the sofa, handled the infant withabsolute confidence in her ability, and waved me out of the room. Somemen are born meek and lowly, while others become monarchs and janitors;my place was to obey, after I had caught the smile suddenly come to theMurillo-woman's pale features. Frieda, I know, sees more affectionategrins than any one in Greater New York. Her presence suffices to makethem sprout and grow. Mrs. Dupont had also smiled at me, true enough,but I think it was but a ray of sunshine really intended for the baby,and I had found myself in the same general direction and intercepted atrivial beam of it.

  Downstairs, Mrs. Milliken met me with a frown, but her features relaxedwhen I handed her my week's rental and board, which I seldom partake of.Seeing her in such a happy disposition, I hastened to the door.

  "I'm going upstairs to take a look at it," she announced gloomily.

  I thanked Providence that Frieda was on guard and felt that I had nocause for worry. The landlady, after all, is undeniably a woman and Ibelieve she is the erstwhile mother of several. Her asperity must surelybe smoothed down by the sight of the baby's face.

  As I put my hand u
pon the door, the old lady appeared.

  "How is that baby?" she shouted, putting a hard-rubber contrivance toher ear.

  "Doing splendidly and endowed with all the virtues," I clamored in theinstrument.

  "I'd give him sugared water for it," she responded severely.

  I rushed out. Dr. Porter had strictly forbidden the stuff, calling it afount of potential colic. I must say that I felt a sneaking sympathywith the old lady's view. Why refuse a bit of sweetness to a tinyinfant, perhaps destined to taste little of it in afterlife? But,fortunately, the realization of my ineptitude came uppermost. Thatsilly, romantic tendency of mine was leading me to think more of futureprivations than immediate pains in a diminutive stomach. I wonderedwhether I should ever become a practical member of society. The doctor'sorders must and shall be obeyed, or my name is not David Cole!