It was Paul's afternoon to appear before the faculty of the Pittsburgh High School to
account for his various misdemeanours. He had been suspended a week ago, and his father
had called at the Principal's office and confessed his perplexity about his son. Paul
entered the faculty room suave and smiling. His clothes were a trifle outgrown and the tan
velvet on the collar of his open overcoat was frayed and worn; but for all that there was
something of the dandy about him, and he wore an opal pin in his neatly knotted black
four-in-hand, and a red carnation in his buttonhole. This latter adornment the faculty
somehow felt was not properly significant of the contrite spirit befitting a boy under the
ban of suspension.
Paul was tall for his age and very thin, with high, cramped shoulders and a narrow
chest. His eyes were remarkable for a certain hysterical brilliancy and he continually
used them in a conscious, theatrical sort of way, peculiarly offensive in a boy. The
pupils were abnormally large, as though he were addicted to belladonna, but there was a
glassy glitter about them which that drug does not produce.
When questioned by the Principal as to why he was there, Paul stated, politely enough,
that he wanted to come back to school. This was a lie, but Paul was quite accustomed to
lying; found it, indeed, indispensable for overcoming friction. His teachers were asked to
state their respective charges against him, which they did with such a rancour and
aggrievedness as evinced that this was not a usual case. Disorder and impertinence were
among the offences named, yet each of his instructors felt that it was scarcely possible
to put into words the real cause of the trouble, which lay in a sort of hysterically
defiant manner of the boy's; in the contempt which they all knew he felt for them, and
which he seemingly made not the least effort to conceal. Once, when he had been making a
synopsis of a paragraph at the blackboard, his English teacher had stepped to his side and
attempted to guide his hand. Paul had started back with a shudder and thrust his hands
violently behind him. The astonished woman could scarcely have been more hurt and
embarrassed had he struck at her. The insult was so involuntary and definitely personal as
to be unforgettable. In one way and another, he had made all his teachers, men and women
alike, conscious of the same feeling of physical aversion. In one class he habitually sat
with his hand shading his eyes; in another he always looked out of the window during the
recitation; in another he made a running commentary on the lecture, with humorous
His teachers felt this afternoon that his whole attitude was symbolized by his shrug
and his flippantly red carnation flower, and they fell upon him without mercy, his English
teacher leading the pack. He stood through it smiling, his pale lips parted over his white
teeth. (His lips were continually twitching, and he had a habit of raising his eyebrows
that was contemptuous and irritating to the last degree.) Older boys than Paul had broken
down and shed tears under that baptism of fire, but his set smile did not once desert him,
and his only sign of discomfort was the nervous trembling of the fingers that toyed with
the buttons of his overcoat, and an occasional jerking of the other hand that held his
hat. Paul was always smiling, always glancing about him, seeming to feel that people might
be watching him and trying to detect something. This conscious expression, since it was as
far as possible from boyish mirthfulness, was usually attributed to insolence or
As the inquisition proceeded, one of his instructors repeated an impertinent remark of
the boy's, and the Principal asked him whether he thought that a courteous speech to have
made a woman. Paul shrugged his shoulders slightly and his eyebrows twitched.
"I don't know," he replied. "I didn't mean to be polite or impolite,
either. I guess it's a sort of way I have of saying things regardless."
The Principal, who was a sympathetic man, asked him whether he didn't think that a way
it would be well to get rid of. Paul grinned and said he guessed so. When he was told that
he could go, he bowed gracefully and went out. His bow was but a repetition of the
scandalous red carnation.
His teachers were in despair, and his drawing master voiced the feeling of them all
when he declared there was something about the boy which none of them understood. He
added: "I don't really believe that smile of his comes altogether from insolence;
there's something sort of haunted about it. The boy is not strong, for one thing. I happen
to know that he was born in Colorado, only a few months before his mother died out there
of a long illness. There is something wrong about the fellow."
The drawing master had come to realize that, in looking at Paul, one saw only his white
teeth and the forced animation of his eyes. One warm afternoon the boy had gone to sleep
at his drawing-board, and his master had noted with amazement what a white, blue-veined
face it was; drawn and wrinkled like an old man's about the eyes, the lips twitching even
in his sleep, and stiff with a nervous tension that drew them back from his teeth.
His teachers left the building dissatisfied and unhappy; humiliated to have felt so
vindictive toward a mere boy, to have uttered this feeling in cutting terms, and to have
set each other on, as it were, in the grewsome game of intemperate reproach. Some of them
remembered having seen a miserable street cat set at bay by a ring of tormentors.
As for Paul, he ran down the hill whistling the Soldiers' Chorus from Faust
looking wildly behind him now and then to see whether some of his teachers were not there
to writhe under his light-heartedness. As it was now late in the afternoon and Paul was on
duty that evening as usher at Carnegie Hall, he decided that he would not go home to
supper. When he reached the concert hall the doors were not yet open and, as it was chilly
outside, he decided to go up into the picture galleryalways deserted at this
hourwhere there were some of Raffelli's gay studies of Paris streets and an airy
blue Venetian scene or two that always exhilarated him. He was delighted to find no one in
the gallery but the old guard, who sat in one corner, a newspaper on his knee, a black
patch over one eye and the other closed. Paul possessed himself of the place and walked
confidently up and down, whistling under his breath. After a while he sat down before a
blue Rico and lost himself. When he bethought him to look at his watch, it was after seven
o'clock, and he rose with a start and ran downstairs, making a face at Augustus, peering
out from the cast-room, and an evil gesture at the Venus of Milo as he passed her on the
When Paul reached the ushers' dressing-room half-a-dozen boys were there already, and
he began excitedly to tumble into his uniform. It was one of the few that at all
approached fitting, and Paul thought it very becomingthough he knew that the tight,
straight coat accentuated his narrow chest, about which he was exceedingly sensitive. He
was always considerably excited while he dressed, twanging all over to the tuning of the
strings and the preliminary flourishes of the horns in the music-room; but to-night he
seemed quite beside himself, and he teased and plagued the boys until, telling him that he
was crazy, they put him down on the floor and sat on him.
Somewhat calmed by his suppression, Paul dashed out to the front of the house to seat
the early comers. He was a model usher; gracious and smiling he ran up and down the
aisles; nothing was too much trouble for him; he carried messages and brought programmes
as though it were his greatest pleasure in life, and all the people in his section thought
him a charming boy, feeling that he remembered and admired them. As the house filled, he
grew more and more vivacious and animated, and the colour came to his cheeks and lips. It
was very much as though this were a great reception and Paul were the host. Just as the
musicians came out to take their places, his English teacher arrived with checks for the
seats which a prominent manufacturer had taken for the season. She betrayed some
embarrassment when she handed Paul the tickets, and a hauteur which subsequently
made her feel very foolish. Paul was startled for a moment, and had the feeling of wanting
to put her out; what business had she here among all these fine people and gay colours? He
looked her over and decided that she was not appropriately dressed and must be a fool to
sit downstairs in such togs. The tickets had probably been sent her out of kindness, he
reflected as he put down a seat for her, and she had about as much right to sit there as
When the symphony began Paul sank into one of the rear seats with a long sigh of
relief, and lost himself as he had done before the Rico. It was not that symphonies, as
such, meant anything in particular to Paul, but the first sigh of the instruments seemed
to free some hilarious and potent spirit within him; something that struggled there like
the Genius in the bottle found by the Arab fisherman. He felt a sudden zest of life; the
lights danced before his eyes and the concert hall blazed into unimaginable splendour.
When the soprano soloist came on, Paul forgot even the nastiness of his teacher's being
there and gave himself up to the peculiar stimulus such personages always had for him. The
soloist chanced to be a German woman, by no means in her first youth, and the mother of
many children; but she wore an elaborate gown and a tiara, and above all she had that
indefinable air of achievement, that world-shine upon her, which, in Paul's eyes, made her
a veritable queen of Romance.
After a concert was over Paul was always irritable and wretched until he got to sleep,
and to-night he was even more than usually restless. He had the feeling of not being able
to let down, of its being impossible to give up this delicious excitement which was the
only thing that could be called living at all. During the last number he withdrew and,
after hastily changing his clothes in the dressing-room, slipped out to the side door
where the soprano's carriage stood. Here he began pacing rapidly up and down the walk,
waiting to see her come out.
Over yonder the Schenley, in its vacant stretch, loomed big and square through the fine
rain, the windows of its twelve stories glowing like those of a lighted card-board house
under a Christmas tree. All the actors and singers of the better class stayed there when
they were in the city, and a number of the big manufacturers of the place lived there in
the winter. Paul had often hung about the hotel, watching the people go in and out,
longing to enter and leave school-masters and dull care behind him forever.
At last the singer came out, accompanied by the conductor, who helped her into her
carriage and closed the door with a cordial auf wiedersehen which set Paul to
wondering whether she were not an old sweetheart of his. Paul followed the carriage over
to the hotel, walking so rapidly as not to be far from the entrance when the singer
alighted and disappeared behind the swinging glass doors that were opened by a negro in a
tall hat and a long coat. In the moment that the door was ajar it seemed to Paul that he,
too, entered. He seemed to feel himself go after her up the steps, into the warm, lighted
building, into an exotic, a tropical world of shiny, glistening surfaces and basking ease.
He reflected upon the mysterious dishes that were brought into the dining-room, the green
bottles in buckets of ice, as he had seen them in the supper party pictures of the Sunday
World supplement. A quick gust of wind brought the rain down with sudden vehemence,
and Paul was startled to find that he was still outside in the slush of the gravel
driveway; that his boots were letting in the water and his scanty overcoat was clinging
wet about him; that the lights in front of the concert hall were out, and that the rain
was driving in sheets between him and the orange glow of the windows above him. There it
was, what he wantedtangibly before him, like the fairy world of a Christmas
pantomime, but mocking spirits stood guard at the doors, and, as the rain beat in his
face, Paul wondered whether he were destined always to shiver in the black night outside,
looking up at it.
He turned and walked reluctantly toward the car tracks. The end had to come sometime;
his father in his night-clothes at the top of the stairs, explanations that did not
explain, hastily improvised fictions that were forever tripping him up, his upstairs room
and its horrible yellow wall-paper, the creaking bureau with the greasy plush collar-box
and over his painted wooden bed the pictures of George Washington and John Calvin, and the
framed motto, "Feed my Lambs," which had been worked in red worsted by his
Half an hour later, Paul alighted from his car and went slowly down one of the side
streets off the main thoroughfare. It was a highly respectable street, where all the
houses were exactly alike, and where business men of moderate means begot and reared large
families of children, all of whom went to Sabbath-school and learned the shorter
catechism, and were interested in arithmetic; all of whom were as exactly alike as their
homes, and of a piece with the monotony in which they lived. Paul never went up Cordelia
Street without a shudder of loathing. His home was next to the house of the Cumberland
minister. He approached it to-night with the nerveless sense of defeat, the hopeless
feeling of sinking back forever into ugliness and commonness that he had always had when
he came home. The moment he turned into Cordelia Street he felt the waters close above his
head. After each of these orgies of living, he experienced all the physical depression
which follows a debauch; the loathing of respectable beds, of common food, of a house
penetrated by kitchen odours; a shuddering repulsion for the flavourless, colourless mass
of every-day existence; a morbid desire for cool things and soft lights and fresh flowers.
The nearer he approached the house, the more absolutely unequal Paul felt to the sight
of it all; his ugly sleeping chamber; the cold bath-room with the grimy zinc tub, the
cracked mirror, the dripping spiggots; his father, at the top of the stairs, his hairy
legs sticking out from his night-shirt, his feet thrust into carpet slippers. He was so
much later than usual that there would certainly be inquiries and reproaches. Paul stopped
short before the door. He felt that he could not be accosted by his father to-night; that
he could not toss again on that miserable bed. He would not go in. He would tell his
father that he had no car fare, and it was raining so hard he had gone home with one of
the boys and stayed all night.
Meanwhile, he was wet and cold. He went around to the back of the house and tried one
of the basement windows, found it open, raised it cautiously, and scrambled down the
cellar wall to the floor. There he stood, holding his breath, terrified by the noise he
had made, but the floor above him was silent, and there was no creak on the stairs. He
found a soap-box, and carried it over to the soft ring of light that streamed from the
furnace door, and sat down. He was horribly afraid of rats, so he did not try to sleep,
but sat looking distrustfully at the dark, still terrified lest he might have awakened his
father. In such reactions, after one of the experiences which made days and nights out of
the dreary blanks of the calendar, when his senses were deadened, Paul's head was always
singularly clear. Suppose his father had heard him getting in at the window and had come
down and shot him for a burglar? Then, again, suppose his father had come down, pistol in
hand, and he had cried out in time to save himself, and his father had been horrified to
think how nearly he had killed him? Then, again, suppose a day should come when his father
would remember that night, and wish there had been no warning cry to stay his hand? With
this last supposition Paul entertained himself until daybreak.
The following Sunday was fine; the sodden November chill was broken by the last flash
of autumnal summer. In the morning Paul had to go to church and Sabbath-school, as always.
On seasonable Sunday afternoons the burghers of Cordelia Street always sat out on their
front "stoops," and talked to their neighbours on the next stoop, or called to
those across the street in neighbourly fashion. The men usually sat on gay cushions placed
upon the steps that led down to the sidewalk, while the women, in their Sunday
"waists," sat in rockers on the cramped porches, pretending to be greatly at
their ease. The children played in the streets; there were so many of them that the place
resembled the recreation grounds of a kindergarten. The men on the stepsall in their
shirt sleeves, their vests unbuttonedsat with their legs well apart, their stomachs
comfortably protruding, and talked of the prices of things, or told anecdotes of the
sagacity of their various chiefs and overlords. They occasionally looked over the
multitude of squabbling children, listened affectionately to their high-pitched, nasal
voices, smiling to see their own proclivities reproduced in their offspring, and
interspersed their legends of the iron kings with remarks about their sons' progress at
school, their grades in arithmetic, and the amounts they had saved in their toy banks.
On this last Sunday of November, Paul sat all the afternoon on the lowest step of his
"stoop," staring into the street, while his sisters, in their rockers, were
talking to the minister's daughters next door about how many shirt-waists they had made in
the last week, and how many waffles some one had eaten at the last church supper. When the
weather was warm, and his father was in a particularly jovial frame of mind, the girls
made lemonade, which was always brought out in a red-glass pitcher, ornamented with
forget-me-nots in blue enamel. This the girls thought very fine, and the neighbours always
joked about the suspicious colour of the pitcher.
To-day Paul's father sat on the top step, talking to a young man who shifted a restless
baby from knee to knee. He happened to be the young man who was daily held up to Paul as a
model, and after whom it was his father's dearest hope that he would pattern. This young
man was of a ruddy complexion, with a compressed, red mouth, and faded, near-sighted eyes,
over which he wore thick spectacles, with gold bows that curved about his ears. He was
clerk to one of the magnates of a great steel corporation, and was looked upon in Cordelia
Street as a young man with a future. There was a story that, some five years agohe
was now barely twenty-sixhe had been a trifle dissipated but in order to curb his
appetites and save the loss of time and strength that a sowing of wild oats might have
entailed, he had taken his chief's advice, oft reiterated to his employees, and at
twenty-one had married the first woman whom he could persuade to share his fortunes. She
happened to be an angular schoolmistress, much older than he, who also wore thick glasses,
and who had now borne him four children, all near-sighted, like herself.
The young man was relating how his chief, now cruising in the Mediterranean, kept in
touch with all the details of the business, arranging his office hours on his yacht just
as though he were at home, and "knocking off work enough to keep two stenographers
busy." His father told, in turn, the plan his corporation was considering of putting
in an electric railway plant at Cairo. Paul snapped his teeth; he had an awful
apprehension that they might spoil it all before he got there. Yet he rather liked to hear
these legends of the iron kings, that were told and retold on Sundays and holidays; these
stories of palaces in Venice, yachts on the Mediterranean, and high play at Monte Carlo
appealed to his fancy, and he was interested in the triumphs of these cash boys who had
become famous, though he had no mind for the cash-boy stage.
After supper was over, and he had helped to dry the dishes, Paul nervously asked his
father whether he could go to George's to get some help in his geometry, and still more
nervously asked for car fare. This latter request he had to repeat, as his father, on
principle, did not like to hear requests for money, whether much or little. He asked Paul
whether he could not go to some boy who lived nearer, and told him that he ought not to
leave his school work until Sunday; but he gave him the dime. He was not a poor man, but
he had a worthy ambition to come up in the world. His only reason for allowing Paul to
usher was, that he thought a boy ought to be earning a little.
Paul bounded upstairs, scrubbed the greasy odour of the dish-water from his hands with
the ill-smelling soap he hated, and then shook over his fingers a few drops of violet
water from the bottle he kept hidden in his drawer. He left the house with his geometry
conspicuously under his arm, and the moment he got out of Cordelia Street and boarded a
downtown car, he shook off the lethargy of two deadening days, and began to live again.
The leading juvenile of the permanent stock company which played at one of the downtown
theatres was an acquaintance of Paul's, and the boy had been invited to drop in at the
Sunday-night rehearsals whenever he could. For more than a year Paul had spent every
available moment loitering about Charley Edwards's dressing-room. He had won a place among
Edwards's following not only because the young actor, who could not afford to employ a
dresser, often found him useful, but because he recognized in Paul something akin to what
churchmen term vocation.
It was at the theatre and at Carnegie Hall that Paul really lived; the rest was but a
sleep and a forgetting. This was Paul's fairy tale, and it had for him all the allurement
of a secret love. The moment he inhaled the gassy, painty, dusty odour behind the scenes,
he breathed like a prisoner set free, and felt within him the possibility of doing or
saying splendid, brilliant, poetic things. The moment the cracked orchestra beat out the
overture from Martha, or jerked at the serenade from Rigoletto, all stupid
and ugly things slid from him, and his senses were deliciously, yet delicately fired.
Perhaps it was because, in Paul's world, the natural nearly always wore the guise of
ugliness, that a certain element of artificiality seemed to him necessary in beauty.
Perhaps it was because his experience of life elsewhere was so full of Sabbath-school
picnics, petty economies, wholesome advice as to how to succeed in life, and the
unescapable odours of cooking, that he found this existence so alluring, these
smartly-clad men and women so attractive, that he was so moved by these starry apple
orchards that bloomed perennially under the lime-light.
It would be difficult to put it strongly enough how convincingly the stage entrance of
that theatre was for Paul the actual portal of Romance. Certainly none of the company ever
suspected it, least of all Charley Edwards. It was very like the old stories that used to
float about London of fabulously rich Jews, who had subterranean halls there, with palms,
and fountains, and soft lamps and richly apparelled women who never saw the disenchanting
light of London day. So, in the midst of that smoke-palled city, enamoured of figures and
grimy toil, Paul had his secret temple, his wishing carpet, his bit of blue-and-white
Mediterranean shore bathed in perpetual sunshine.
Several of Paul's teachers had a theory that his imagination had been perverted by
garish fiction, but the truth was that he scarcely ever read at all. The books at home
were not such as would either tempt or corrupt a youthful mind, and as for reading the
novels that some of his friends urged upon himwell, he got what he wanted much more
quickly from music; any sort of music, from an orchestra to a barrel organ. He needed only
the spark, the indescribable thrill that made his imagination master of his senses, and he
could make plots and pictures enough of his own. It was equally true that he was not stage
strucknot, at any rate, in the usual acceptation of that expression. He had no
desire to become an actor, any more than he had to become a musician. He felt no necessity
to do any of these things; what he wanted was to see, to be in the atmosphere, float on
the wave of it, to be carried out, blue league after blue league, away from everything.
After a night behind the scenes, Paul found the school-room more than ever repulsive;
the bare floors and naked walls; the prosy men who never wore frock coats, or violets in
their buttonholes; the women with their dull gowns, shrill voices, and pitiful seriousness
about prepositions that govern the dative. He could not bear to have the other pupils
think, for a moment, that he took these people seriously; he must convey to them that he
considered it all trivial, and was there only by way of a jest, anyway. He had autographed
pictures of all the members of the stock company which he showed his classmates, telling
them the most incredible stories of his familiarity with these people, of his acquaintance
with the soloists who came to Carnegie Hall, his suppers with them and the flowers he sent
them. When these stories lost their effect, and his audience grew listless, he became
desperate and would bid all the boys good-bye, announcing that he was going to travel for
a while; going to Naples, to Venice, to Egypt. Then, next Monday, he would slip back,
conscious and nervously smiling; his sister was ill, and he should have to defer his
voyage until spring.
Matters went steadily worse with Paul at school. In the itch to let his instructors
know how heartily he despised them and their homilies, and how thoroughly he was
appreciated elsewhere, he mentioned once or twice that he had no time to fool with
theorems; addingwith a twitch of the eyebrows and a touch of that nervous bravado
which so perplexed themthat he was helping the people down at the stock company;
they were old friends of his.
The upshot of the matter was that the Principal went to Paul's father, and Paul was
taken out of school and put to work. The manager at Carnegie Hall was told to get another
usher in his stead; the door-keeper at the theatre was warned not to admit him to the
house; and Charley Edwards remorsefully promised the boy's father not to see him again.
The members of the stock company were vastly amused when some of Paul's stories reached
themespecially the women. They were hard-working women, most of them supporting
indigent husbands or brothers, and they laughed rather bitterly at having stirred the boy
to such fervid and florid inventions. They agreed with the faculty and with his father
that Paul's was a bad case.
The east-bound train was ploughing through a January snow-storm; the dull dawn was
beginning to show grey when the engine whistled a mile out of Newark. Paul started up from
the seat where he had lain curled in uneasy slumber, rubbed the breath-misted window glass
with his hand, and peered out. The snow was whirling in curling eddies above the white
bottom lands, and the drifts lay already deep in the fields and along the fences, while
here and there the long dead grass and dried weed stalks protruded black above it. Lights
shone from the scattered houses, and a gang of labourers who stood beside the track waved
Paul had slept very little, and he felt grimy and uncomfortable. He had made the
all-night journey in a day coach, partly because he was ashamed, dressed as he was, to go
into a Pullman, and partly because he was afraid of being seen there by some Pittsburgh
business man, who might have noticed him in Denny & Carson's office. When the whistle
awoke him, he clutched quickly at his breast pocket, glancing about him with an uncertain
smile. But the little, clay-bespattered Italians were still sleeping, the slatternly women
across the aisle were in open-mouthed oblivion, and even the crumby, crying babies were
for the nonce stilled. Paul settled back to struggle with his impatience as best he could.
When he arrived at the Jersey City station, he hurried through his breakfast,
manifestly ill at ease and keeping a sharp eye about him. After he reached the
Twenty-third Street station, he consulted a cabman, and had himself driven to a men's
furnishing establishment that was just opening for the day. He spent upward of two hours
there, buying with endless reconsidering and great care. His new street suit he put on in
the fitting-room; the frock coat and dress clothes he had bundled into the cab with his
linen. Then he drove to a hatter's and a shoe house. His next errand was at Tiffany's,
where he selected his silver and a new scarf-pin. He would not wait to have his silver
marked, he said. Lastly, he stopped at a trunk shop on Broadway, and had his purchases
packed into various travelling bags.
It was a little after one o'clock when he drove up to the Waldorf, and after settling
with the cabman, went into the office. He registered from Washington; said his mother and
father had been abroad, and that he had come down to await the arrival of their steamer.
He told his story plausibly and had no trouble, since he volunteered to pay for them in
advance, in engaging his rooms; a sleeping-room, sitting-room and bath.
Not once, but a hundred times Paul had planned this entry into New York. He had gone
over every detail of it with Charley Edwards, and in his scrap book at home there were
pages of description about New York hotels, cut from the Sunday papers. When he was shown
to his sitting-room on the eighth floor, he saw at a glance that everything was as it
should be; there was but one detail in his mental picture that the place did not realize,
so he rang for the bell boy and sent him down for flowers. He moved about nervously until
the boy returned, putting away his new linen and fingering it delightedly as he did so.
When the flowers came, he put them hastily into water, and then tumbled into a hot bath.
Presently he came out of his white bath-room, resplendent in his new silk underwear, and
playing with the tassels of his red robe. The snow was whirling so fiercely outside his
windows that he could scarcely see across the street, but within the air was deliciously
soft and fragrant. He put the violets and jonquils on the taboret beside the couch, and
threw himself down, with a long sigh, covering himself with a Roman blanket. He was
thoroughly tired; he had been in such haste, he had stood up to such a strain, covered so
much ground in the last twenty-four hours, that he wanted to think how it had all come
about. Lulled by the sound of the wind, the warm air, and the cool fragrance of the
flowers, he sank into deep, drowsy retrospection.
It had been wonderfully simple; when they had shut him out of the theatre and concert
hall, when they had taken away his bone, the whole thing was virtually determined. The
rest was a mere matter of opportunity. The only thing that at all surprised him was his
own couragefor he realized well enough that he had always been tormented by fear, a
sort of apprehensive dread that, of late years, as the meshes of the lies he had told
closed about him, had been pulling the muscles of his body tighter and tighter. Until now,
he could not remember the time when he had not been dreading something. Even when he was a
little boy, it was always therebehind him, or before, or on either side. There had
always been the shadowed corner, the dark place into which he dared not look, but from
which something seemed always to be watching himand Paul had done things that were
not pretty to watch, he knew.
But now he had a curious sense of relief, as though he had at last thrown down the
gauntlet to the thing in the corner.
Yet it was but a day since he had been sulking in the traces; but yesterday afternoon
that he had been sent to the bank with Denny & Carson's deposit, as usualbut
this time he was instructed to leave the book to be balanced. There was above two thousand
dollars in checks, and nearly a thousand in the bank notes which he had taken from the
book and quietly transferred to his pocket. At the bank he had made out a new deposit
slip. His nerves had been steady enough to permit of his returning to the office, where he
had finished his work and asked for a full day's holiday to-morrow, Saturday, giving a
perfectly reasonable pretext. The bank book, he knew, would not be returned before Monday
or Tuesday, and his father would be out of town for the next week. From the time he
slipped the bank notes into his pocket until he boarded the night train for New York, he
had not known a moment's hesitation. It was not the first time Paul had steered through
How astonishingly easy it had all been; here he was, the thing done; and this time
there would be no awakening, no figure at the top of the stairs. He watched the snow
flakes whirling by his window until he fell asleep.
When he awoke, it was three o'clock in the afternoon. He bounded up with a start; half
of one of his precious days gone already! He spent more than an hour in dressing, watching
every stage of his toilet carefully in the mirror. Everything was quite perfect; he was
exactly the kind of boy he had always wanted to be.
When he went downstairs, Paul took a carriage and drove up Fifth Avenue toward the
Park. The snow had somewhat abated; carriages and tradesmen's wagons were hurrying
soundlessly to and fro in the winter twilight; boys in woollen mufflers were shovelling
off the doorsteps; the avenue stages made fine spots of colour against the white street.
Here and there on the corners were stands, with whole flower gardens blooming under glass
cases, against the sides of which the snow flakes stuck and melted; violets, roses,
carnations, lilies of the valleysomehow vastly more lovely and alluring that they
blossomed thus unnaturally in the snow. The Park itself was a wonderful stage winterpiece.
When he returned, the pause of the twilight had ceased, and the tune of the streets had
changed. The snow was falling faster, lights streamed from the hotels that reared their
dozen stories fearlessly up into the storm, defying the raging Atlantic winds. A long,
black stream of carriages poured down the avenue, intersected here and there by other
streams, tending horizontally. There were a score of cabs about the entrance of his hotel,
and his driver had to wait. Boys in livery were running in and out of the awning stretched
across the sidewalk, up and down the red velvet carpet laid from the door to the street.
Above, about, within it all was the rumble and roar, the hurry and toss of thousands of
human beings as hot for pleasure as himself, and on every side of him towered the glaring
affirmation of the omnipotence of wealth.
The boy set his teeth and drew his shoulders together in a spasm of realization; the
plot of all dramas, the text of all romances, the nerve-stuff of all sensations was
whirling about him like the snow flakes. He burnt like a faggot in a tempest.
When Paul went down to dinner, the music of the orchestra came floating up the elevator
shaft to greet him. His head whirled as he stepped into the thronged corridor, and he sank
back into one of the chairs against the wall to get his breath. The lights, the chatter,
the perfumes, the bewildering medley of colourhe had, for a moment, the feeling of
not being able to stand it. But only for a moment; these were his own people, he told
himself. He went slowly about the corridors, through the writing-rooms, smoking-rooms,
reception-rooms, as though he were exploring the chambers of an enchanted palace, built
and peopled for him alone.
When he reached the dining-room he sat down at a table near a window. The flowers, the
white linen, the many-coloured wine glasses, the gay toilettes of the women, the low
popping of corks, the undulating repetitions of the Blue Danube from the orchestra,
all flooded Paul's dream with bewildering radiance. When the roseate tinge of his
champagne was addedthat cold, precious, bubbling stuff that creamed and foamed in
his glassPaul wondered that there were honest men in the world at all. This was what
all the world was fighting for, he reflected; this was what all the struggle was about. He
doubted the reality of his past. Had he ever known a place called Cordelia Street, a place
where fagged-looking businessmen got on the early car; mere rivets in a machine they
seemed to Paul,sickening men, with combings of children's hair always hanging to
their coats, and the smell of cooking in their clothes. Cordelia StreetAh! that
belonged to another time and country; had he not always been thus, had he not sat here
night after night, from as far back as he could remember, looking pensively over just such
shimmering textures, and slowly twirling the stem of a glass like this one between his
thumb and middle finger? He rather thought he had.
He was not in the least abashed or lonely. He had no especial desire to meet or to know
any of these people; all he demanded was the right to look on and conjecture, to watch the
pageant. The mere stage properties were all he contended for. Nor was he lonely later in
the evening, in his loge at the Metropolitan. He was now entirely rid of his nervous
misgivings, of his forced aggressiveness, of the imperative desire to show himself
different from his surroundings. He felt now that his surroundings explained him. Nobody
questioned the purple; he had only to wear it passively. He had only to glance down at his
attire to reassure himself that here it would be impossible for anyone to humiliate him.
He found it hard to leave his beautiful sitting-room to go to bed that night, and sat
long watching the raging storm from his turret window. When he went to sleep it was with
the lights turned on in his bedroom; partly because of his old timidity, and partly so
that, if he should wake in the night, there would be no wretched moment of doubt, no
horrible suspicion of yellow wall-paper, or of Washington and Calvin above his bed.
Sunday morning the city was practically snow-bound. Paul breakfasted late, and in the
afternoon he fell in with a wild San Francisco boy, a freshman at Yale, who said he had
run down for a "little flyer" over Sunday. The young man offered to show Paul
the night side of the town, and the two boys went out together after dinner, not returning
to the hotel until seven o'clock the next morning. They had started out in the confiding
warmth of a champagne friendship, but their parting in the elevator was singularly cool.
The freshman pulled himself together to make his train, and Paul went to bed. He awoke at
two o'clock in the afternoon, very thirsty and dizzy, and rang for ice-water, coffee, and
the Pittsburgh papers.
On the part of the hotel management, Paul excited no suspicion. There was this to be
said for him, that he wore his spoils with dignity and in no way made himself conspicuous.
Even under the glow of his wine he was never boisterous, though he found the stuff like a
magician's wand for wonder-building. His chief greediness lay in his ears and eyes, and
his excesses were not offensive ones. His dearest pleasures were the grey winter twilights
in his sitting-room; his quiet enjoyment of his flowers, his clothes, his wide divan, his
cigarette and his sense of power. He could not remember a time when he had felt so at
peace with himself. The mere release from the necessity of petty lying, lying every day
and every day, restored his self-respect. He had never lied for pleasure, even at school;
but to be noticed and admired, to assert his difference from other Cordelia Street boys;
and he felt a good deal more manly, more honest, even, now that he had no need for
boastful pretensions, now that he could, as his actor friends used to say, "dress the
part." It was characteristic that remorse did not occur to him. His golden days went
by without a shadow, and he made each as perfect as he could.
On the eighth day after his arrival in New York, he found the whole affair exploited in
the Pittsburgh papers, exploited with a wealth of detail which indicated that local news
of a sensational nature was at a low ebb. The firm of Denny & Carson announced that
the boy's father had refunded the full amount of the theft, and that they had no intention
of prosecuting. The Cumberland minister had been interviewed, and expressed his hope of
yet reclaiming the motherless lad, and his Sabbath-school teacher declared that she would
spare no effort to that end. The rumour had reached Pittsburgh that the boy had been seen
in a New York hotel, and his father had gone East to find him and bring him home.
Paul had just come in to dress for dinner; he sank into a chair, weak to the knees, and
clasped his head in his hands. It was to be worse than jail, even; the tepid waters of
Cordelia Street were to close over him finally and forever. The grey monotony stretched
before him in hopeless, unrelieved years; Sabbath-school, Young People's Meeting, the
yellow-papered room, the damp dish-towels; it all rushed back upon him with a sickening
vividness. He had the old feeling that the orchestra had suddenly stopped, the sinking
sensation that the play was over. The sweat broke out on his face, and he sprang to his
feet, looked about him with his white, conscious smile, and winked at himself in the
mirror. With something of the old childish belief in miracles with which he had so often
gone to class, all his lessons unlearned, Paul dressed and dashed whistling down the
corridor to the elevator.
He had no sooner entered the dining-room and caught the measure of the music than his
remembrance was lightened by his old elastic power of claiming the moment, mounting with
it, and finding it all sufficient. The glare and glitter about him, the mere scenic
accessories had again, and for the last time, their old potency. He would show himself
that he was game, he would finish the thing splendidly. He doubted, more than ever, the
existence of Cordelia Street, and for the first time he drank his wine recklessly. Was he
not, after all, one of those fortunate beings born to the purple, was he not still himself
and in his own place? He drummed a nervous accompaniment to the Pagliacci music and looked
about him, telling himself over and over that it had paid.
He reflected drowsily, to the swell of the music and the chill sweetness of his wine,
that he might have done it more wisely. He might have caught an outbound steamer and been
well out of their clutches before now. But the other side of the world had seemed too far
away and too uncertain then; he could not have waited for it; his need had been too sharp.
If he had to choose over again, he would do the same thing to-morrow. He looked
affectionately about the dining-room, now gilded with a soft mist. Ah, it had paid indeed!
Paul was awakened next morning by a painful throbbing in his head and feet. He had
thrown himself across the bed without undressing, and had slept with his shoes on. His
limbs and hands were lead heavy, and his tongue and throat were parched and burnt. There
came upon him one of those fateful attacks of clear-headedness that never occurred except
when he was physically exhausted and his nerves hung loose. He lay still and closed his
eyes and let the tide of things wash over him.
His father was in New York; "stopping at some joint or other," he told
himself. The memory of successive summers on the front stoop fell upon him like a weight
of black water. He had not a hundred dollars left; and he knew now, more than ever, that
money was everything, the wall that stood between all he loathed and all he wanted. The
thing was winding itself up; he had thought of that on his first glorious day in New York,
and had even provided a way to snap the thread. It lay on his dressing-table now; he had
got it out last night when he came blindly up from dinner, but the shiny metal hurt his
eyes, and he disliked the looks of it.
He rose and moved about with a painful effort, succumbing now and again to attacks of
nausea. It was the old depression exaggerated; all the world had become Cordelia Street.
Yet somehow he was not afraid of anything, was absolutely calm; perhaps because he had
looked into the dark corner at last and knew. It was bad enough, what he saw there, but
somehow not so bad as his long fear of it had been. He saw everything clearly now. He had
a feeling that he had made the best of it, that he had lived the sort of life he was meant
to live, and for half an hour he sat staring at the revolver. But he told himself that was
not the way, so he went downstairs and took a cab to the ferry.
When Paul arrived at Newark, he got off the train and took another cab, directing the
driver to follow the Pennsylvania tracks out of the town. The snow lay heavy on the
roadways and had drifted deep in the open fields. Only here and there the dead grass or
dried weed stalks projected, singularly black, above it. Once well into the country, Paul
dismissed the carriage and walked, floundering along the tracks, his mind a medley of
irrelevant things. He seemed to hold in his brain an actual picture of everything he had
seen that morning. He remembered every feature of both his drivers, of the toothless old
woman from whom he had bought the red flowers in his coat, the agent from whom he had got
his ticket, and all of his fellow-passengers on the ferry. His mind, unable to cope with
vital matters near at hand, worked feverishly and deftly at sorting and grouping these
images. They made for him a part of the ugliness of the world, of the ache in his head,
and the bitter burning on his tongue. He stooped and put a handful of snow into his mouth
as he walked, but that, too, seemed hot. When he reached a little hillside, where the
tracks ran through a cut some twenty feet below him, he stopped and sat down.
The carnations in his coat were drooping with the cold, he noticed; their red glory all
over. It occurred to him that all the flowers he had seen in the glass cases that first
night must have gone the same way, long before this. It was only one splendid breath they
had, in spite of their brave mockery at the winter outside the glass; and it was a losing
game in the end, it seemed, this revolt against the homilies by which the world is run.
Paul took one of the blossoms carefully from his coat and scooped a little hole in the
snow, where he covered it up. Then he dozed a while, from his weak condition, seemingly
insensible to the cold.
The sound of an approaching train awoke him, and he started to his feet, remembering
only his resolution, and afraid lest he should be too late. He stood watching the
approaching locomotive, his teeth chattering, his lips drawn away from them in a
frightened smile; once or twice he glanced nervously sidewise, as though he were being
watched. When the right moment came, he jumped. As he fell, the folly of his haste
occurred to him with merciless clearness, the vastness of what he had left undone. There
flashed through his brain, clearer than ever before, the blue of Adriatic water, the
yellow of Algerian sands.
He felt something strike his chest, and that his body was being thrown swiftly through
the air, on and on, immeasurably far and fast, while his limbs were gently relaxed. Then,
because the picture making mechanism was crushed, the disturbing visions flashed into
black, and Paul dropped back into the immense design of things.