She closed her eyes and her fingers picked at the covers. “Do you remember,” she began again—“the day you first saw me?”
He recalled it. She was wandering along the gutter of Essex Street, mumbling to herself, stooping now and then to pick up a cigar butt, a bit of paper, a rag, and slip it into a sack.
“Yes, Aunt Albertina—I remember.”
“You stopped and shook hands with me and asked me to come to a meeting, and gave me a card. I never came. I was too busy—too busy drinking myself to death.” She paused and muttered, in German, “Ach, Gott, I thought I would never accomplish it. But at last—” Then she went on in English, “But I remembered you. I asked about you. They all knew you. ‘The giant’ they call you. You are so strong. They lean on you—all these people. You do not know them or see them or feel them, but they lean on you.”
“But I am weak, Aunt Albertina. I am a giant with a pigmy soul—a little soul.”
“Yes, I know what pigmy means.” The wrinkles swirled and crackled in what was meant to be a smile. “I had a ‘von’ in my name in Germany, and perhaps something before it—but no matter. Yes, you are weak. So was he—the man in the picture—and I also. We tempted each other. He left his post, his wife, all. We came to America. He died. I was outcast. I danced in a music-hall—what did I care what became of me when he was gone? Then I sat at the little tables with the men, and learned what a good friend drink is. And so—down, down, down——” she paused to shut her eyes and pick at the covers.
“But,” she went on, “drink always with me as my friend to make me forget, to make me content wherever I was—the gutter, the station-house, the dance-hall. If he could have seen me among the sailors, tossing me round, tearing at my clothes, putting quarters in my stockings—for drinks afterwards—drinks!”
There was a squirming among the rags where her old bones were hidden. Stanhope shuddered and the sweat stood in beads on his white face. “But that is over, and you’ve repented long ago,” he said hurriedly, eager to get away.
“Repent?” The old woman looked at him with jeering smile. “Not I! Why? With drink one thing’s as good as another, one bed as another, one man as another. The idealissmus soon passes. Ach, how we used to talk of our souls—Gunther and I. Souls! Yes, we were made for each other. But—he died, and life must be lived. Yes, I know what pigmy means. I had a von in my name over there and something in front. But no soul—just a body.”
“What else can I do for you, Aunt Albertina?” He spoke loudly as her mind was evidently wandering.