Part 4

Godard never noticed Ulick's reserved manner. He bubbled over when he met the critic as he bubbled over Lilli's Isolde, as he bubbled over Otero's dancing at Koster and Bial's. Paul admired all manifestations à la mode. His judgments were Mr. Everyman's. In the same breath he could praise Degas and Meissonier, Meyerbeer and Debussy. The absence of discriminating values in his conversation would send Ulick into a cold rage. He didn't like Paul's openly expressed admiration of Easter. Madame Lehmann had questioned her as to her plans, and, unasked, Paul had made some suggestions. "Now, there's Trabadello in Paris. I fancy he is the man for you. Or Mathilde Marchesi." What infernal impudence, thought Ulick. A stranger butting in like that. Lehmann, hearing the name of Frida Ash, approved, adding, "But my dear young lady, you musn't stay in New York too long. Your formative years should be spent in Europe, in Paris, in Berlin, in Milan. Some day you should try to sing at Baireuth if only the humblest rôles. You know that I was one of the Rhine-Daughters there at the first performance of the Ring in 1876. But if you go to Germany next Summer come to see me. Perhaps--if your voice--you have an excellent stage presence--who knows?" Paul Godard became ecstatic. "Ah, who knows?" he echoed like a parrot--so Ulick called him; "lucky Miss Brandès--Oh, I wonder if you are any relative of the divine Marthe--" "There he goes again with that damfool question," said Ulick to himself. "She ought to change her name." As they went away Ulick overheard Lilli say: "Yes, very effective. Cold temperament. Brilliant, but hard. She will push herself." He quickly glanced at the girl, who acted as if she hadn't heard this frank criticism. The enthusiasm which was like a halo when she had entered the presence of La Diva had quite disappeared. She was composed when she parted, after thanking Madame Lehmann for her kindness. Then and there Ulick made note that whenever anyone was polite to Easter she assumed a patronizing air. You can't have too much pride, advises Nietzsche. Ulick doubted the soundness of this axiom. Decidedly, Easter was too self-confident, too conceited, and pride goeth before a fall.

To his disappointment, when they were in the street, she began asking questions about Godard. Ulick had hoped she would be overwhelmed by the unexpected reception accorded her by Lehmann. She did not refer to the singer except to call her "a nice but condescending old lady." Paul Godard was another matter. Was he rich? Wasn't he handsome, a fascinating young man, and so witty, wise and helpful! Didn't Ulick notice how sensible were his suggestions? Who is Trabadello? Does he teach Wagner rôles? Marchesi can't. She's for such ornamental singers as Melba and Eames. That sort of singing didn't interest her. Flute-playing--nothing stirring or dramatic. She meant to be a Wagner singer, an extraordinary Isolde and Brunnhilde. Keep your Marguerites, your Gildas, Juliettes, yes, even your Carmens. I must conquer Wagner, she triumphantly asserted. Ulick exploded. Possibly the allusions to Godard got on his nerves, anyhow, it was the proper time to put this braggart in her place. "You and your Wagner," he testily exclaimed. "Are you so silly and ignorant as to fancy that you can step out of Madame Ash's solfeggi class straight to the footlights? You are enormously ignorant--don't interrupt me. Frida has told me. Your voice is remarkable, and so is your musical memory. But you have no style, no personality--yes, don't get angry, Easter"--he paused, but her face was averted, and he couldn't tell if she were angry at the familiar address--"personality, I mean in your art; you have enough in life, too much," he ventured. She didn't reply and then they had gone to Moretti's. When they parted she seemed in good humour.

But as she strolled up Irving Place en route to her lesson her expression was far from contented. He had scratched her vanity and she felt unforgiving. What was Ulick to her? He wasn't a music-critic, he wouldn't be so useful as Stone. Yet, he had a lot of influence. She could see that, and then hadn't he brought her to Lilli and mightn't that meeting decide her artistic fate? She made up her mind that it should. Already New York was a drag on her spirit and she a resident only a few weeks. No, she would follow Lilli to Berlin and study with her no matter what Ulick, or Stone, or Ash said to the contrary. And the money? Where in the world was it to come from? She calmly turned over in her mind the possibilities of Paul Godard. That wouldn't do, she decided, and rejected the idea, not however because of its inherent immorality. She began thinking of Allie Wentworth and her set. Allie was an Ash pupil and Easter played her accompaniments. An intimacy ensued. Allie was an heiress. Old Wentworth was the Olive-Oil King, or some such idiotic title, and he had money to burn, Easter reflected. There might be something in that direction. Paul was nice, his eyes had measured every inch of her, and those eyes had eloquently related their admiration. What if she played for a bigger stake? this notion she also reflected as improbable of execution; besides, she would' never marry. Marriage. Stupid slavery for an ambitious woman.... Her thought poised lightly on Ulick and despite herself she coloured ... he is a charming boy, but so self-opinionated. She was late and had to mollify Madame Frida. Luckily the pupil she had kept waiting was Miss Wentworth. She chatted with her at the end of the lesson. Allie was a masculine creature, who affected a mannish cut of clothes. She wore her hair closely cut and sported a hooked walking stick. Her stride and bearing intrigued Easter, who had never seen that sort before. All of Wentworth's friends were of the sporting order. All smoked, and, a shocking deviation from the conventionality of that time, they drove their own motor-cars. Easter thought them rather free in their speech, and too familiar. Allie was always hugging her when alone. She drank liqueurs with her coffee and wasn't ashamed to avow the habit. She invited Easter to visit her and Madame Frida gave her consent. They are immensely wealthy, she confided to her pupil and may be of use to you some day. Allie is a crazy-cat but a jolly girl.

When Easter told her of Lehmann's suggestion Madame was amazed. "What! You a chit who only have a a voice and a pretty face to go to Lehmann before you know how to sing? If Lilli heard you once she wouldn't be so generous with her invitation. Why, child, you must stay with me two or three years, then it may be time to think of Isolde. Lilli and her Grünewald villa!" Easter drawled out that she proposed singing for Lehmann after the Christmas holidays so that Lilli wouldn't be buying a pig in a poke. Again, consternation on the part of Ash. Well, if you sing for Lilli suppose we get to work on some Bach. Easter loathed Bach, although she knew that his music was necessary to the formation of a sound vocal style. So she didn't demur, and presently she was delivering an old chorale, accompanying herself, and singing with such tonal richness and exaltation of feeling that the tears came unbidden to the eyes of the veteran teacher. Afterwards she told Stone that the girl was a torment but--a genius. Yes, the word was spoken. Why, she eats the words out of my mouth, cried Madame Frida. She anticipates me. Conceited? Yes. She has a good right to be. At the present rate--she will be singing Wagner in a couple of years ... Alfred, you think she has no temperament? She is bursting with it. When she kicks over the traces, I shouldn't like to be in the coach behind. But sly--selfishly sly. After this psychological diagnosis Madame emitted a sigh of satisfaction.

IV

Stone still stuck to his post as vis-à-vis to Easter at dinner. But since the return of Ulick the table was too small for three, and, as Ulick couldn't very well be shaken off by Stone--who faintly hoped that Easter entertained the same idea--they had asked Papa Felicé for a larger table and were given a round one in the centre of the room. The Felicés were glad to see that the men were beginning to cluster about the Southern girl. As long as proprieties were outwardly observed no questions were asked in the Maison; they might have proved awkward. Wedding rings did not abound there, yet what a delightful oasis it was in the big, noisy city. A good dinner, cooked by an Alsatian chef, excellent wines, if you cared to order them, and a nice tight little game till any hour you cared to lose your money; it was a proverb in the Maison that Yankee guile, no matter the cards, could not prevail against the skill of the patron and his urbane wife. In sooth, it seldom did. Stone played when in funds and always cursed the house, his luck, when he lost. Ulick didn't know how to play cards, or, indeed, any games indoor or out-door. He agreed with Huysmans, who wrote that a monument should be erected to the memory of the inventor of playing cards, for had he not done something toward the suppression of free-speech among imbeciles? He forgot the women, said Ulick. They always gabble, even on their death bed.

Ulick adored the lunar sex, minions of the moon, subject in the profoundest tides of their being to our attendant planets' influence. Apart from his studies nothing interested him like sex. Sex is the salt of life, he had declared one night in the presence of his companions. Stone growled, but Easter gave him a long, penetrating look and he went hot and cold, and was all gooseflesh in a minute. "Presently," chimed in Stone, "you will be quoting Walt Whitman's The Woman that Waits for Me." "What did she wait for?" eagerly inquired the girl. Ulick groaned and put his hands to his ears. "All is lacking, if sex is lacking, or if the moisture of the right man is lacking! There you have it, Easter." She steadily regarded Ulick, who was blushing. "Who is this Walt Whitman? Isn't he a dirty-minded person, or is he an ex-medical student?" "He was an old woman and a windbag," answered Alfred. "I knew him well when I was in Philadelphia writing for the 'Evening Bulletin.'" He boasted of a virility he never had." "I hear the eunuchs singing and trilling," interrupted Ulick who was fond of Heine.... "No, I won't say that," continued Stone dispassionately; "Whitman wasn't a eunuch, at least, not mentally...." "Oh! what's the use of talking so much about the horrid thing?" broke in Easter. "Actions speak louder than words. When a man begins boasting about past performances--Alfred there's a jockey phrase for you--make up your mind that man's through with women, whether he is a poet or a policeman...." "Easter!" exclaimed in unison the two young men. She had succeeded in shocking both the student and the cynic. Easter laughed at their hypocritical expression.

They went to Invern's rooms. Her lungs were too full of food to sing, she said, so she drummed some Chopin nocturnes and valses. Stone lolled at length on the couch and studied the Albrecht Dürer Melancolia which hung level with his gaze. He appreciated the artistic tastes of his friend and often wondered over his future. The easy-going friendship of Ulick and the girl didn't disturb him; she was hail-fellow-well-met with every man she knew; yet he also knew that no one presumed too much with her. Invern re-appeared. They gossiped. And then came a discreet tapping on the glass door. All three simultaneously said "damn!" They were in no receptive mood for strangers. Ulick peevishly cried: "Entrez." It was Paul Godard. Without allowing a moment to elapse Paul blithely sped into the room, made a mock-reverence before Easter, said "hallo!" to Stone, and beamed on the annoyed Ulick, who politely but frigidly, bade his unwelcome guest be seated. Paul paid no attention to the request. He faced the girl. "Don't mind my entering in this rude fashion, do you? Madame told me you were all here and she audibly wondered if you were having a little game. I informed her in turn that Invern hated poker too much to run a rival establishment under the same roof. Ha! ha! Now, good people, what I've come here to propose is this: I've a new touring-car, a jolly big one. It's moonlight, and the roads are fairly clear of snow, my fellow says. Let's all go for a ride in the park and stop at Delmonico's for a little supper afterwards." The other men frowned. Behind Godard, Ulick shook his head in significant negation at Easter. But she was entranced by the invitation. Delmonico's and champagne. And a real motor-car, novel enough in those days. The name was music in her ears. From a child she had heard of, had read of, Delmonico's. In the little Virginian town where she was born Harvey's at Washington had been the shibboleth of the provincial epicures. But in Richmond they said Delmonico and Harvey. Fashionable weddings and banquets took place under the roof of the famous restaurant only a couple of blocks distant. The snob, which lurks under the skin of every woman, came to life with the beckoning words of Paul Godard. Would she go? She at once accepted and went upstairs to get a warm wrap and to prink up, although she wore her best and only dinner-gown. Let the others do what they pleased. She wouldn't miss a chance like that, no, not even if she had to go alone. Alone? She looked at her image in the glass of her dressing table. Alone! No, that wouldn't do. She must have a chaperone. That was inevitable. But where to find the treasure--a blind, dumb, deaf, sleepy chaperone. Easter realized the difficulties of the campaign ahead of her. She resigned herself to the superfluous presence of Stone or Invern, or horrors, to the pair of them.

She hurried downstairs. To her astonishment there was no light in Invern's room. She shook the door. It was locked. She flared-up at once. Her watch told her that she hadn't been dressing more than a quarter of an hour--a generous fifteen or twenty minutes. This looked like a planned insult. Were those two boys jealous because Mr. Godard had invited her? Thoroughly ruffled she marched through the drawing-room determined to go for a walk, when she heard Paul's voice: "Miss Brandès, Miss Brandès. Come to this door, the car is waiting." Aglow, his handsome face betrayed his joy at having her near him. She looked blank. "Oh! Invern and Stone have gone on the job, as they put it. I presume to some theatre or concert. But," he lightly assured her, not without a tinge of malice, "I think they are both huffed because they can't come along with us." Easter didn't pause. In the car speeding under a frosty moon, she said: "Of course, they are mad. There is no opera or theatre to write about tonight. They are quite free. That was an excuse." "Aren't some men small potatoes?" cried Paul as he cuddled as closely as he dared.

V

... Ulick went with Stone to the opera, but he didn't enjoy himself. It was repetition night of "Les Huguenots" with the celebrated cast: Melba, Nordica, the two De Reszkes, Maurel, Plançon; but Meyerbeer --who was surely a syndicate--had ceased to interest the young man. His companion seldom sat in the "Chanticleer's" seats, consoling himself with cigarettes in the press-room. Ulick wandered about the lobby dodging De Vivo and other ghosts from the musical past who could give you all the famous casts of the opera since it was produced. He chatted with Max Hirsh and Tom Bull, shook Maurice Grau by the hand and no longer able to endure the heated house he strolled out into Broadway and irresolutely stood at the corner. A drinking man would have passed the time more agreeably; neither a smoker nor a drinker he was bored to death. Past eleven o'clock and nowhere to go but home. Why not? Tomorrow was to be a busy day. He had to write his Sunday screed. Ibsen again. No one else to write about. The New York theatre was simply disgusting. Poor plays reeking with greasy sensuality thinly varnished with sloppy sentimentality. That's your theatre-goer for you, he said to himself as he slowly walked down Broadway to 25th Street; either filth or tears, or both. But, then, sentimental souls are only one remove from sensuality; they call it "sensuousness" in fiction, but it's plain, everyday eroticism. I wonder what that girl is doing now? It was like an aching nerve, this question.

From the moment when they left Paul Godard, Ulick had not ceased to think of Easter. Her insensibility to the finer shades had irritated him before this. Her manners were superficially good. She was not a "noisy" girl, though evidently little restrained by convention in the matter of speech; she would blurt out the most appalling sentences, and with composed features. Is she on the other side of good and evil, as Nietzsche, his favorite philosopher phrased it? And how selfishly she had acceded to that snob Godard simply because he was rich and owned a motor-car. Of course, he would make love to her and, of course, she knew how to take care of herself. No doubt as to that. But Delmonico's and champagne. Oceans of it. What then? Where could they go afterwards? Would Easter be foolish enough to visit Godard's apartment--he had a swell suite on upper Madison Avenue. Surely not. But, added Ulick in a resigned mood, you never can tell with the rotten artistic temperament; always the excuse this same temperament to kick the decalogue in the midriff. Despite his grouchy humor he smiled at his acute attack of virtue.

It was within a half hour of midnight on the Hoffman House clock when he reached his street. Delmonico's was brilliantly illuminated. He paused and wondered whether he should cross, go into the café and eat a rabbit, but he feared meeting Godard. The young men hadn't parted amiably. Ulick naturally thought Paul a bit of a cad to invade his room and carry off his guest without a by-your-leave! Was he in love with Easter himself? Or was it only an itching curiosity to discover her feelings concerning a certain mysterious event? He didn't know, yet it was with mixed feelings that he saw Godard's motor-car in front of the Maison Felicé, the chauffeur on guard, smoking. So they're back, he said. No doubt in the drawing-room, or, perhaps, Godard has been drawn into the poker game. Mounting the steps that led to the second entrance, Ulick found himself in the hall at the end of which was his apartment. As he passed he peeped into the drawing-room. It was empty and as mournful as ever. He could hear the poker players in Madame's room, but he had no stomach for cards and he went to his own glass door. The lights had been extinguished in the music-room. The place, however, was faintly illuminated. Confused noises reached his ears. Voices, indistinct, unmistakably those of a man and a woman, startled him so that he stood arrested on the threshold. A struggle of some sort was under way. A man's voice pleaded. The woman's was suppressed as if with rage. At times there were outbursts and threats. A heavy object fell somewhere. Ulick's indignation boiled over. Turning up the lights at the switch he hastened into his bedroom. There he saw Easter in a half-sitting posture on the bed her strong arms outstretched against the assaulting male. She was fully dressed though her skirt was rolled above her knees, revealing her lithe legs encased in black silk stockings. Her features were discomposed by emotion. Her hair deranged. She was not agreeable to contemplate.

"Don't you dare!" she was gasping as Ulick entered. At once the action of the drama halted. Half-drunk, Paul stared at Ulick. He began babbling an excuse when he was violently shoved from the room and soon found himself in the hall. He didn't resist for he knew the grip of Ulick, saw his broad, deep chest, and was aware that the other was the stronger. "My chauffeur," he began, but was swiftly propelled to the street door. "You mean brute. Only because I don't want to make a scandal I'd kick you into the gutter. You cad. You rotter. Trying to assault a girl in my room--" "You want her for yourself," giggled Paul in drunken fashion. He was expelled without undue gentleness and staggered into the arms of his chauffeur. A minute later Ulick heard the honk of a horn as the machine sped toward Fifth Avenue. He returned to his room inwardly rejoicing that no one had witnessed the row.

Easter lay sprawling, her hat crushed over her eyes, her arms helpless. She was asleep and slightly snoring. Her red face proclaimed a certain congestion. She's drunk, too, exclaimed Ulick. What should he do now? Summon Madame Felicé? No, not to be thought of. The Madame never demanded a wedding certificate, but in the matter of behaviour she was inflexible. A half-drunken man was looked upon as a matter of course; a drunken woman, however, was invited to leave the house after the first transgression. The Maison Felicé was eminently respectable, and, thriving hotel as it was, the police had never been called in because of a recalcitrant guest. Ulick remembered that. Nevertheless, he shivered. The snoring of the girl increased in volume and intensity. He lifted her head and put a pillow under it; he feared she would strangle with her head so pushed into her neck. He pulled down her dress, but noted the generous proportions of the young woman who in her stupour was at his mercy. But such a temptation never came to him. His rage was not yet appeased over the ungentlemanly tactics of a clubman, who took a defenceless girl out, got her drunk because of her inexperience, and then had the insolence to bring her into the apartment of another man and attempt to rape her. What else was it? She was, thanks to her condition, nearly overpowered when he had entered. Ulick became almost heroic in his own eyes. Rescued from the ravisher--that vulgar cad! But what was he going to do with the lady? She looked as if she expected to spend the night in his bed. A pretty mess, this. Then he heard her voice:

"Ulick, darling man, my darling husband," she muttered, and opened her arms as if to embrace him. The champagne is telling the truth--at last, he thought, and lost no time in lying beside her and taking her in his arms. "Yes, you poor, dear Easter. How glad I am to be near you, I love you so"--he did love her as he felt her splendid body close to him. He kissed her on the mouth, but the champagne odor was repugnant. Easter, her eyes closed, returned his ardent hug. Suddenly she burst into hysterical laughter. Ulick relaxed his hold thinking it was the effects of the champagne. He became alarmed. Someone might hear this maniacal laughter. Sitting up he placed his hand over her mouth. She gasped and struggled pointing all the while at something. He looked in the open bath-room door. Nothing. Her laughter was become uncontrollable. Cursing his luck, for he had almost achieved felicity, Ulick dashed to the washstand and drew a glass of water. That would revive her and stop the damnable noise. She waved him away, chuckling: "Ulick, Ulick, look at yourself in the glass. Jewel, you've been making love to me all this time with your hat on. Oh! Jewel, I'll die over this joke"--fresh peals ensued. Chagrined, he touched his head. His silk hat was jammed over his ears. In his excitement he hadn't noticed it. With an oath he dropped the glass and turning to the bed was about to warn her that if she didn't stop he would turn her out. For the moment he hated her. What a sight he must have been. But too his consternation she was again in deep slumber. To hell with her! he exclaimed and went into the music-room where he turned on the lights and seated himself on a comfortable couch. He could not sleep. She snored on.... Stiff, in the dull morning, he found himself in the same spot. He tip-toed into the bedroom. Easter had gone. Mechanically he gazed into the mirror. The hat was still on his head....

VI