11
Floyd had an insane desire to smash things. He threw a bottle of wine into the glass and china on the table, overturning the electric candles; the fuse burnt out, putting the room in darkness. He laughed hysterically. He was on a ship, in a terrible storm, the ground was slipping away, billows were rising on all sides.
“Hey there, steward, damn it, where’s my cabin?”
The haughty Swede lifted him like a child, carried him into the elevator which took them up to the servants’ quarters, unlocked a small door at the extreme end of the hall; it was an unused room, with one lamp hanging from the ceiling. He put Floyd on the sofa, lit the lamp, and carefully shut the door—he didn’t want the “master’s” ravings to be heard. The caterer’s men were still in the house. Some might inform; a raid would lose him his place.
When Floyd awoke, the lamp sputtered in fitful gleams. His head was like lead, his tongue parched; there was a sense of deep humiliation, waves of shame, higher than the ocean. He looked about the room. It was in disorder—boxes piled up in a corner, a large desk strewn with papers; at the door stood the Swede.
“Where am I? Whose room is this?”
“This is a room we keep closed, sir.”
“Why?”
“The master killed himself here, the mistress locked the door and gave me the key; she ordered me not to open it until she came again. She didn’t come.”
“Where is she?”
“In Paris, sir.”
“He killed himself and she went to Paris?”
“Yes sir, shot himself. He was a fine man, sir, a very fine man. When I came in to announce dinner, he was lying on that sofa where you are, the blood pouring out.”
Floyd was on his feet, quite sober now. There were heavy dark stains on the gray rep. The man answered Floyd’s questioning look.
“That’s blood, sir, and this and this.” The gray rug was stained in dark red; there were splashes of it on the white wall.
“Why did you put me in here?”
“Because the house was full of strange people. I didn’t want them to see you like that.”
“Thank you, I’m much obliged to you.”
“Shall I bring you a little whiskey and soda?”
“No thank you, I’m not a drinker.”
“I see that, sir,” said the man. “A cup of strong black coffee will set you all right.”
“Thank you.”
Floyd looked about the room. On the desk there was a box half filled with cigars, stationery, postage stamps, everything just as the unhappy man had left them. The Swede came in with some strong black coffee which Floyd swallowed.
“Colonel Garland told me to give you this when you came to.” It was a large legal envelope; Floyd took it mechanically, flung it on the desk.
“When you are ready, sir, I’ll lock up here.”
Floyd stood fascinated. It was the only room in that big house that meant something more than wood—marble—The desk was littered, the pigeon-holes stuffed with papers, the deep armchairs, the heavy draperies belonged to former days, the man must have had trouble with his wife about it; she had put him and his “old sticks” in the garret.
The legal envelope was lying on the desk where he had thrown it. He took out a typewritten document. The little house was in his wife’s name. The Colonel had suggested it as a wedding gift. “It was only a matter of form, it was the custom for a man to put the home in the wife’s name,” Floyd laughingly assented. What did it matter? All he had was hers, himself included. Here it was in black and white, sold on easy terms to Hippolyte; at the bottom was written in her large clear hand, Julie Abravanel Gonzola Garrison; she had done it without consulting him; she had the right.
The monotonous voice of the Swede broke the silence.
“He was a very fine man, sir—and a liberal man. She was a beauty; that’s her picture.”
On the desk was a colored print of a woman in bridal costume, all lace, satin-orange blossoms, an enormous bouquet half hiding her face; it was like the wax models one sees in a show window.
The Swede took a photo out of his pocket and handed it to Floyd.
“This is the master; I asked him for it the night before he died. I was very fond of him,” his voice broke.
Floyd knew that care-lined face: “The man who sweated blood.” He shivered. He tried to pull himself together; the horror of it struck him down. He staggered against the desk; on it lay an open letter, crushed together, as if thrown there in haste; his eye caught unconsciously what was written.
It’s over. I’ve made superhuman efforts; everything is gone. I was afraid to tell you the last time you demanded money, throwing up to me I hadn’t made good. I told you this house would ruin us, but you didn’t care! What’s the good of a man who can’t pay out? I’ve begged and begged; this is the last time! You said you couldn’t be poor, and there are others. That’s always in my ears! I see now what a fool I’ve been! I’ve spent my best years scheming for money, and you took it and flung it in the air. I’ve had nothing from my life! nothing! It’s too late to commence again. Come back! Come back!
Floyd shuddered. He looked again at the blood stains; he saw the man with a pistol in his hand. It wasn’t a fair exchange—his soul for her body. He sat in the big chair; that other man must have crouched there with the pistol in his hand. He had usurped a sanctuary, bought with money what another had built with blood.
“I’m ready to lock up the room, sir.”
He staggered to his feet, thrust the legal envelope in his pocket, went downstairs and into the street.
The sedans rolled up and down the avenue. People stepped out in front of brilliantly lit residences, a happy care-free crowd, or were they like him, a lie?
He moved mechanically, elbowing his way through the mass of theatre-goers, gradually getting down into the business district, quiet, dark. He stood before his old home, huddled together as if shrinking away from the giant buildings on either side, unlocked the door; there was an odor like a crypt. He struck a match, lit the half-burnt candle on the hall stand, held it high, peering into the corners, through open doors, taking in every well-known detail—the straight-back mahogany chairs covered with mulberry velvet, the “tidies.” He could see the shuttle in his mother’s delicate fingers dancing in and out of the white thread—the rag rugs made by his grandmother. People were hunting for them in little country villages; antiquarians were reproducing them by thousands; but these were his rags. He went slowly up the narrow stairs; the creaking of the boards used to anger him when his mother was ill. He looked out at the desolate garden through little glass panes, just large enough for a boy’s face. He saw himself again gloating over the first snow-storm, running down to the cellar for his sled, his feet dancing impatiently whilst Prudence tied the soft warm shawl she had knitted for him about his head and neck.
He stopped at the first landing. The old clock was covered with dust; he found the key inside, wound it, set it right; its ticking echoed through the house; it seemed to him like a human thing whose heart had stopped for fright, then commenced to beat again in glad relief. He opened the door of the bedroom. Here he had brought his bride, here his boy was born, here he had watched Martin holding his wife in his arms. On the dressing-table was a faded rose; it fell to pieces in his hand. He went up to his father’s workshop; the images took on life in the flicker of the candle light—the Negro, the Italian shoe boy, his mother clasping him in her arms, an unfinished bust of his father, Rip Van Winkle with his head smashed—he took it all in; a life picture, the background stretching out in the full sunlight of generations, an old landscape. He was framed in it—he himself—that self, simple, sentimental, ideal, old-fashioned—the self that was not cynical, reckless, material, and all the things we call “modern.” He scented the smell of fallen plaster, felt the shaking of timbers; the wreckers had him under the hammer, destroying his foundations.
The table was littered with old newspapers and rags used in modelling; he stood for a moment motionless, like a man offering a sacrifice on the altar of his domestic gods, then he dropped the candle. Little flames started here, there, grew bigger; the illumination cast a glow over his mother’s face. She smiled at him. He shut the door, groping his way downstairs; at the gate he stopped to listen to the clear chime of the clock as it struck one, two, three....
There was no trace of the night orgy in the Park Avenue mansion. He went up to his wife’s room; she was in bed sleeping quietly. The soft-shaded lamp which burnt through the night—she had a horror of darkness—cast a soft rosy glow. “Was this beautiful creature lying there, his wife? No! No!—a legalized mistress, and he, a sensualist.”
In that moment passion burnt up in him—the body of love, the Idol, fell in ashes. He took the bill of sale from his pocket, put it beside her on the bed, then went slowly up to his room, shut the door, and burst into a loud laugh.