CHAPTER XXIII
One quiet evening Deane and Martin walked down to a street Exhibit in the Village. Since Roberts’ visit to Martin, Deane had felt a melancholy restlessness about the man she loved; and on this evening, with small stationary clouds in the west prolonging the summer twilight, she tried with careful intrigue to bring him back again.
They walked the long way—past odd, forsaken streets; past streets with checkered, foreign signs; past junk shops, curio shops; past streets where old furniture, silverware and books were on display within the dusty, ill-kept windows; past lending libraries; past a little half-street with quiet, mysterious houses; past streets that wandered helplessly about until, faced with some busy thoroughfare, they paused abruptly, bewildered, and of necessity came to their end. There was one street built like a dagger, with a single row of trees across it for its hilt. There were crooked streets, dirty streets, smart streets; streets attempting to be gay and failing miserably; streets falling over themselves; scrambled streets; streets running pell-mell at last into Greenwich Square.
The Exhibit centered around Eighth Street and meandered, after various aimless shambles, along MacDougal Street and into the somewhat limited security of MacDougal Alley. Countless easels which held oils or studies in crayon, finished or unfinished, were scattered about the sidewalks. Odd bits of craftsmanship hung on the walls of buildings or were placed for sale on the curbs. Caricaturists and cut-out artists in their batik smocks were hawking their talents to the crowd, not with the loud, raucous voices of sideshow barkers at a fair, but with proud and careful gestures, and an occasional remark about art in general which most of the crowd took seriously.
At the end of MacDougal Alley a hard, slim man who looked like Popeye was daubing wildly at his canvas. Martin grinned and pulled Deane back by her elbow, stopping her suddenly.
“Look at that old boy,” he said under his breath, all his melancholy abstraction leaving him in an instant. “He’s mad as a hatter, and dreaming of a Dutch ship he took one time out of Sumatra. See, honey?” Martin grew more excited and pointed to the painting. “She’s built like a sabot—equally stable in the North Sea or the South Pacific. The Hollanders knew how!” He nodded wisely. “By God! I have a little of their blood in my own veins,” he continued with pride. “The painting’s bad. But the thing’s there, all right. The man has memories.” He jigged Deane’s arm again. “I’m going to tell the oldchap I’m a steamship man. Watch him blow up.Henever sailed under anything but canvas.”
Deane grew concerned.
“Don’t make him angry, Martin,” she said, holding back.
“I won’t. Come on, darling,” and pulling her after him, he walked up casually behind the old seaman.
“Ah!” said Martin, as though speaking to Deane, “there’sa fine ship!”
“Ye don’t know her stem from her stern,” said the painter, turning round to observe the speaker, then dabbing a ferocious spot of sea under his ship’s bow.
“She’s beautiful,” insisted Martin. “That is—she would be, if she had just a touch of steam.” He paused for a second. “There’s nothing like steam in a calm, or if you need a head in the wind.”
The brush dropped out of the painter’s hand and his face turned the color of brick.
“Steam!” he snorted. “Iwent round the Horn with just me hat spread, boy!” He picked up his brush, wiped it carefully and jabbed at the canvas again. “I took me own ship round the Cape durin’ a gale! There was less time than you’ll get in your liner—and it gave me a belly at fiftyyou’llnever see at thirty!”
Martin nodded.
“Canvas had its points, all right,” he agreed.
“Steam!” repeated the old master scornfully, not in the least mollified, and spat upon the ground.
“Well,” persisted Martin, “I wish I could have tried your square-riggers. I never quite trusted steam, myself.” His voice sounded a little regretful.
The old master looked at him, suspicion in his eyes. Suddenly he stepped nearer and brought his face up close to Martin’s.
“Do ye know where the Scylla Deeps be?” he asked mysteriously.
“A sea no sailor has found, sir,” answered Martin.
The old master continued to peer at him with mistrust.
“Where did me best rope hang, boy?”
“From the yardarm, sir.” Martin gave him a slow smile. “And it’s not all that hung from there, sir,” he added, knowingly.
The master’s face turned into a series of amused lines and crevices. He grabbed Martin’s arm and his white lips puckered into laughter.
“If I could’ve had ye as cabin boy, me lad, ye might’ve made a sailor!—But no more steamship gab!” he warned, shaking his finger. He turned once more to the painting. “Now ain’t she a beauty?” He pointed with pride to the ship and over his ravaged face came a sorrowful and faraway expression. “She was trim as a herring,” he said, so low they could scarcely hear. “Trim as a herring, me boy.”
Martin spoke soberly, with an infinite respect.
“She was, sir. And she is. I’m glad you’re bringing her alive.”
The old master stared at him. His eyes seemed flaked with salt and he brushed one rough hand across them.
Martin took Deane’s arm once more.
“Good-by, sir. A good trip, sir,” he said, pulling Deane along. But the old master just kept staring as the two walked away.
“Why did he look like that?” Deane whispered, her own eyes full of tears.
“That ship went down, honey—and the master, also,” answered Martin.
On the next corner, standing in an erect, unnatural posture, was a man with a full red beard. In one hand the man held a comb which occasionally he used on his chin with a gesture at once contemptuous and desperate. In the other hand there was a ragged paper upon which something was written—and this, he wore as though it were a part of him. When any passed too close he would draw back the manuscript, hastily covering the words, the beer stains and perhaps tears with his palm. His bold chin under its red blanket would jut angrily; he would hunch his shoulders, and his eyes, which were a little blurred, would narrow in agony and hatred. Martin, ashamed for all mankind that it had shamed this artist and his work, walked by with an impassive glance, understanding full well the torment of beauty which must be held within itself. But the man, sensing some kinship within Martin, or feeling some belligerent contempt, held out to him the sheaf of paper containing all the goldenwords born of himself in adoration, hunger and distrust. His speech was rapid, barely articulate.
“Twenty-five cents,sir?” he called out mockingly. “A block of my heart for twenty-five cents!”
Deane pressed against Martin and he knew that she was frightened. He tried, without speaking, to tell her not to be, and walked on with a strolling deliberation, eyes ahead without expression, minimizing as far as possible the high chain of laughter behind them. He visualized the rotten teeth—the long hysteria——
And then they came upon a flower man, a small Sicilian with an olive skin and a charming, wistful face. He was standing by his little cart, his hands down by his side as though in a mild passion with his lot among the flowers. There were cornflowers and mignonette; crisp French marigolds and early cosmos. Deane made her choice.
“Buy me the marigolds,” she asked of Martin. “You remember?—they were your first gift to me.”
The little olive gentleman bowed and smiled; and carefully selecting the freshest marigolds from his stock, twisted a strip of tinfoil around their stems before handing them to Deane.
Shortly after they left him, Deane looked back. He was standing by his little cart, still smiling, his hands down by his side in gentle obsequiousness.
Touched deeply by this profound and infinite patience, Deane thought of all the things she had seen that day—one man with a phantom ship, one with a poem, andone—She glanced sideways at Martin, and suddenly, unnoticed by him, the tiny bunch of marigolds which she was clutching fell from her grasp....
Later, in the soft candlelight within the apartment, Martin sat on the arm of Deane’s chair, quietly twisting the ring upon his finger. The small red stone on its field of black looked at him speculatively. The tender perception which had been Deane’s all that evening now gave way to a definite and fearful prescience.
“What is it, darling?” she asked, for Martin had not spoken in some time.
“I love you,” he said simply.
“I love you, too. But what disturbs you, Martin?”
He avoided her eyes.
“It was only a dream,” he said at last. “But it has worried me. I dreamt I died and found myself at the crossroads of Heaven and Hell—there to make my decision as to which path I should walk.”
“What? A dream—worry you?” Deane sighed with relief and ran her hand across his cheek. Then she arose and led him to the divan. One by one the candles had gone out and like a specter, the pallid light of the full summer moon crept into the apartment. “Go on, my darling,” she whispered, half closing her eyes and stretching luxuriously against him.
“I died,” he repeated. “And I found myself at the crossroads of Heaven and Hell. I was undecided as towhich road to take. Then suddenly I knew the answer. I knew they diverged only for a time.”
“What do you mean?” In Deane’s voice was a note of dismay.
“I knew that whichever road I took, it would end in pain.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yes, I knew that the end would be the same; so, impudently, I took the road markedHEAVEN. I walked for days among winding mountain paths. Giant trees sang to me in the wind, and the air was fragrant with pine and wild rose. Little creeks ran past me, twisting over mossy rocks; and there were narrow falls of water spinning white and silver. In shadowy places where the water eddied dark green and gold, I stopped to rest and drink. A long time I walked through this country. By day, the sun struck blindly through the limbs of trees; and at night, a moon showed. Then I came to a valley where I saw broad fields of grain, shining yellow, and checkerboards of green pasture and plowed field. I was confused by the intermittent sound of bells which rang through the air.
“On one block of green pasture there was a great multitude. I went down the trail, leaving the forest behind, and descended into the lowland. As I approached the congregation, I saw to my amazement that they were all children. I wondered at their quietness. They were sosilent and unmoving that I would have thought them dead had it not been that they were facing me, a sweet, desperate expression on their faces. The macabre quality in these little ones gave me an unpleasant thrill. No murmur sounded from this congress of children—no movement of arm, knee or head.
“Full of a presentiment of evil, I walked closer and looked down into their eyes. Row after row of these spectral organisms were before me, reaching, it seemed, to the horizon. Thousands of bright, curly heads shone faintly in the haze of the sun. Their wide eyes, blue or brown, were directed at me.
“My mouth was hot. I tried to smile.
“‘Have I reached Heaven?’ I asked them.
“The answer seemed to be projected from a thousand throats, but it reached my ears as a whisper. This tired wind, blowing so, held only compassion. It was unbearable. And it said—‘We love you.’”
Martin’s face became severe and rigid as he told this.
“Go on, Martin,” Deane urged.
“I can’t.”
“It was a dream, Martin. Finish the dream.”
“It was destiny!” he cried. “I murdered ten thousand innocents! I asked them if I was in Heaven, and they answered that they loved me. To wheedle, to coax a smile into their weakening, passive faces, I asked a question....
“They told me that they loved me,” Martin repeated tiredly, and once more, Deane felt a prescience of terror.
“I wanted to raise my hand,” Martin went on. “I wanted to shout, to jump into the air, to sing a song—anything to dissipate the irrevocable impression of death that carved each face into the appearance of a dying flower.
“I was desperate and I felt that I was wrong.
“‘Children,’ I said, ‘I have hurt you. Tell me the poison, the action, or the mood that has brought you this pain.’
“I can’t explain how they looked. It wasn’t sadness, nor was it condemnation. It was a death’s joke and I was horrified. Again the wind of their minds moved restlessly in my ears.
“‘Pain you prophesied,’ it said.
“‘It was a prophecy of pain for myself,’ I told them. ‘I didn’t mean to condemn you.’
“This time,” said Martin, “there was no answer; no audible answer. But for the first time the children moved, dropping gently on their knees. They lowered their eyelids, accentuating the pallor of their faces.
“I cried out to them. I begged their forgiveness. I cursed myself, tore open my shirt and looked for a weapon, reasoning that my death would bring life to the children.”
As Martin said this, he caught his breath and projecteda swift pain into the woman. Deane held him gladly—drawing in his venom—half fainting.
But Martin, pressing deeper into his mind, continued furiously.
“At each of my gestures—at each syllable, the children sank closer to the grass. Their eyes closed with precision until only the fringe of lash showed where the eyes had been. Watching this slow death of thousands, I stopped speaking and stood rigid, my jaws locked. I glared at them. I saw each movement become fainter until each tortured flower-face lay on the ground, their chins propped up to me. Their cheeks were like wilted petals, their white, reedy arms were extended above them, and each child-finger was pointed toward me.”
Martin stopped speaking. Deane lay quiet within his arms. She felt his face against her throat, felt her own arms pinioned and her agony intensified. Compassionately she kissed the thick perspiration from his forehead.