Robert W. Chambers
Between Friends
I
Like a man who reenters a closed and darkened house and lies down; lying there, remains conscious of sunlight outside, of bird-calls, and the breeze in the trees, so had Drene entered into the obscurity of himself.
Through the chambers of his brain the twilit corridors where cringed his bruised and disfigured soul, there nothing stirring except the automatic pulses which never cease.
Sometimes, when the sky itself crashes earthward and the world lies in ruins from horizon to horizon, life goes on.
The things that men live throughand live!
But no doubt Death was too busy elsewhere to attend to Drene.
He had become very lean by the time it was all over. Gray glinted on his temples; gray softened his sandy mustache: youth was finished as far as he was concerned.
An odd idea persisted in his mind that it had been winter for many years. And the world thawed out very slowly for him.
But broken trees leaf out, and hewed roots sprout; and what he had so long mistaken for wintry ashes now gleamed warmly like the orange and gold of early autumn. After a while he began to go about more or lesslittle excursions from the dim privacy of mind and souland he found the sun not very gray; and a south wind blowing in the world once more.
Quair and Guilder were in the studio that day on business; Drene continued to modify his composition in accordance with Guilders suggestions; Quair, always curious concerning Drene, was becoming slyly impudent.
And listen to me, Guilder. What the devils a woman between friends? argued Quair, with a malicious side glance at Drene. You take my best girl away from me
But I dont, remarked his partner dryly.
For the sake of argument, you do. What happens? Do I raise hell? No. I merely thank you. Why? Because I dont want her if you can get her away. That, he added, with satisfaction, is philosophy. Isnt it, Drene?
Guilder intervened pleasantly:
I dont think Drene is particularly interested in philosophy. Im sure Im not. Shut up, please.
Drene, gravely annoyed, continued to pinch bits of modeling wax out of a round tin box, and to stick them all over the sketch he was modifying.
Now and then he gave a twirl to the top of his working table, which revolved with a rusty squeak.
If you two unusually intelligent gentlemen ask me what good a woman the world began Quair.
But we dont, interrupted Guilder, in the temperate voice peculiar to his negative character.
Anyway, insisted Quair, heres what I think of em
My model, yonder, said Drene, a slight shrug of contempt, happens to be feminine, and may also be human. Be decent enough to defer the development of your rather tiresome theory.
The girl on the model-stand laughed outright at the rebuke, stretched her limbs and body, and relaxed, launching a questioning glance at Drene.
All right; rest a bit, said the sculptor, smearing the bit of wax he was pinching over the sketch before him.
He gave another twirl or two to the table, wiped his bony fingers on a handful of cotton waste, picked up his empty pipe, and blew into the stem, reflectively.
Quair, one of the associated architects of the new opera, who had been born a gentleman and looked the perfect bounder, sauntered over to examine the sketch. He was still red from the rebuke he had invited.
Guilder, his senior colleague, got up from the lounge and walked over also. Drene fitted the sketch into the roughly designed group, where it belonged, and stood aside, sucking meditatively on his empty pipe.
After a silence:
Its all right, said Guilder.
Quair remarked that the group seemed to lack flamboyancy. It is true, however, that, except for Guilders habitual restraint, the celebrated firm of architects was inclined to express themselves flamboyantly, and to interpret Renaissance in terms of Baroque.
Shes some girl, added Quair, looking at the lithe, modeled figure, and then half turning to include the model, who had seated herself on the lounge, and was now gazing with interest at the composition sketched in by Drene for the facade of the new opera.
Carpeaux and his eternal groupits the murderous but inevitable standard of comparison, mused Drene, with a whimsical glance at the photograph on the wall.
Carpeaux has nothing on this young lady, insisted Quair flippantly; and he pivoted on his heel and sat down beside the model. Once or twice the two others, consulting before the wax group, heard the girls light, untroubled laughter behind their backs gaily responsive to Quairs wit. Perhaps Quairs inheritance had been humor, but to some it seemed perilously akin to mother-wit.
The pockets of Guilders loose, ill-fitting clothes bulged with linen tracings and rolls of blue-prints. He and Drene consulted over these for a while, semi-conscious of Quairs bantering voice and the girls easily provoked laughter behind them. And, finally:
All right, Guilder, said Drene briefly. And the firm of celebrated architects prepared to evacuate the studioQuair exhibiting symptoms of incipient skylarking, in which he was said to be at his best.
Drop in on me at the office some time, he suggested to the youthful model, in a gracious tone born of absolute self-satisfaction.
For luncheon or dinner? retorted the girl, with smiling audacity.
You may stay to breakfast also
Oh, come on, drawled Guilder, taking his colleagues elbow.
The sculptor yawned as Quair went out: then he closed the door then celebrated firm of architects, and wandered back rather aimlessly.
For a while he stood by the great window, watching the pigeons on neighboring roof. Presently he returned to his table, withdrew the dancing figure with its graceful, wide flung arms, set it upon the squeaky revolving table once more, and studied it, yawning at intervals.
The girl got up from the sofa behind him, went to the model-stand, and mounted it. For a few moments she was busy adjusting her feet to the chalk marks and blocks. Finally she took the pose. She always seemed inclined to be more or less vocal while Drene worked; her voice, if untrained, was untroubled. Her singing had never bothered Drene, nor, until the last few days, had he even particularly noticed her blithe trillingas a man a field, preoccupied, is scarcely aware of the wild birds gay irrelevancy along the way.
He happened to notice it now, and a thought passed through his mind that the country must be very lovely in the mild spring sunshine.
As he worked, the brief visualization of young grass and the faint blue of skies, evoked, perhaps, by the girls careless singing, made for his dull concentration subtly pleasant environment.
May I rest? she asked at length.
Certainly, if its necessary.
Ive brought my lunch. Its twelve, she explained.
He glanced at her absently, rolling a morsel of wax; then, with slight irritation which ended in a shrug, he motioned her to descend.
After all, girls, like birds, were eternally eating. Except for that, and incessant preening, existence meant nothing more important to either species.
He had been busy for a few moments with the group when she said something to him, and he looked around from his abstraction. She was holding out toward him a chicken sandwich.
When his mind came back from wool gathering, he curtly declined the offer, and, as an afterthought, bestowed upon her a wholly mechanical smile, in recognition of a generosity not welcome.
Why dont you ever eat luncheon? she asked.
Why should I? he replied, preoccupied.
Its bad for you not to. Besides, you are growing thin.
Is that your final conclusion concerning me, Cecile? he asked, absently.
Wont you please take this sandwich?
Her outstretched arm more than what she said arrested his drifting attention again.
Why the devil do you want me to eat? he inquired, fishing out his empty pipe and filling it.
You smoke too much. Its bad for you. It will do very queer things to the lining of your stomach if you smoke your luncheon instead of eating it.
He yawned.
Is that so? he said.
Certainly its so. Please take this sandwich.
He stood looking at the outstretched arm, thinking of other things and the girl sprang to her feet, caught his hand, opened the fingers, placed the sandwich on the palm, then, with a short laugh as though slightly disconcerted by her own audacity, she snatched the pipe from his left hand and tossed it upon the table. When she had reseated herself on the lounge beside her pasteboard box of luncheon, she became even more uncertain concerning the result of what she had done, and began to view with rising alarm the steady gray eyes that were so silently inspecting her.
But after a moment Drene walked over to the sofa, seated himself, curiously scrutinized the sandwich which lay across the palm of his hand, then gravely tasted it.
This will doubtless give me indigestion, he remarked. Why, Cecile, do you squander your wages on nourishment for me?
It cost only five cents.
But why present five cents to me? I gave ten to a beggar this morning.
Why?
I dont know.
Was he grateful?
He seemed to be.
This sandwich is excellent; but if I feel the worse for it, Ill not be very grateful to you. But he continued eating.
The woman tempted me, she quoted, glancing at him sideways.
After a moments survey of her:
Youre one of those bright, saucy, pretty, inexplicable things that throng this town and occasionally flit through this professionarent you?
Am I?
Yes. Nobody looks for anything except mediocrity; youre one of the surprises. Nobody expects you; nobody can account for you, but you appear now and then, here and there, anywhere, even everywherea pretty sparkle against the gray monotony of life, a momentary flash like a golden moat afloat in sunshineand what then?
She laughed.
What then? What becomes of you? Where do you go? What do you turn into?
I dont know.
You go somewhere, dont you? You change into something, dont you? What happens to you, petite Cigale?
When?
When the sunshine is turned off and the snow comes.
I dont know, Mr. Drene. She broke her chocolate cake into halves and laid one on his knee.
Thanks for further temptation, he said grimly.
You are welcome. Its good, isnt it?
Excellent. Adam liked the apple, too. But it raised hell with him.
She laughed, shot a direct glance at him, and began to nibble her cake, with her eyes still fixed on him.
Once or twice he encountered her gaze but his own always wandered absently elsewhere.
You think a great deal, dont you? she remarked.
Dont you?
I try not totoo much.
What? he asked, swallowing the last morsel of cake.
She shrugged her shoulders:
Whats the advantage of thinking?
He considered her reply for a moment, her blue and rather childish eyes, and the very pure oval of her face. Then his attention flagged as usualwas wanderingwhen she sighed, very lightly, so that he scarcely heard itmerely noticed it sufficiently to conclude that, as usual, there was the inevitable hard luck story afloat in her vicinity, and that he lacked the interest to listen to it.
Thinking, she said, is a luxury to a tranquil mind and a punishment to a troubled one. So I try not to.
It was a moment or two before it occurred to him that the girl had uttered an unconscious epigram.
It sounded like somebodyprobably Montaigne. Was it? he inquired.
I dont know what you mean.
Oh. Then it wasnt. Youre a funny little girl, arent you?
Yes, rather.
On purpose?
Yes, sometimes.
He looked into her very clear eyes, now brightly blue with intelligent perception of his not too civil badinage.
And sometimes, he went on, youre funny when you dont intend to be.
You are, too, Mr. Drene.
What?
Didnt you know it?
A dull color tinted his cheek bones.
No, he said, I didnt know it.
But you are. For instance, you dont walk; you stalk. You do what novelists make their gloomy heroes doyou stride. Its rather funny.
Really. And do you find my movements comic?
She was a trifle scared, now, but she laughed her breathless, youthful laugh:
You are really very dramatica perfect story-book man. But, you know, sometimes they are funny when the author doesnt intend them to be.... Please dont be angry.
Why the impudence of a model should have irritated him he was at a loss to understandunless there lurked under that impudence a trace of unflattering truth.
As he sat looking at her, all at once, and in an unexpected flash of self-illumination, he realized that habit had made of him an actor; that for a whilea long whilea space of time he could not at the moment conveniently computehe had been playing a role merely because he had become accustomed to it.
Disaster had cast him for a part. For a long while he had been that part. Now he was still playing it from sheer force of habit. His tragedy had really become only the shadow of a memory. Already he had emerged from that shadow into the everyday outer world. But he had forgotten that he still wore a somber makeup and costume which in the sunshine might appear grotesque. No wonder the world thought him funny.
Glancing up from a perplexed and chagrined meditation he caught her eyeand found it penitent, troubled, and anxious.
Youre quite right, he said, smiling easily and naturally; I am unintentionally funny. And I really didnt know itdidnt suspect ituntil this moment.
Oh, she said quickly. I didnt meanI know you are often unhappy
Nonsense!
You are! Anybody can seeand you really do not seem to be very old, eitherwhen you smile
Im not very old, he said, amused. Im not unhappy, either. If I ever was, the truth is that Ive almost forgotten by this time what it was all about
A woman, she quoted, between friendsand checked herself, frightened that she had dared interpret Quairs malice.
He changed countenance at that; the dull red of anger clouded his visage.
Oh, she faltered, I was not saucy, only sorry.... I have been sorry for you so long
Who intimated to you that a woman ever played any part in my career?
Its generally supposed. I dont know anything more than that. But Ive beensorry. Love is a very dreadful thing, she said under her breath.
Is it? he asked, controlling a sudden desire to laugh.
Dont you think so?
I have not thought of it that way, recently.... I havent thought about it at allfor some years.... Have you? he added, trying to speak gravely.