The Day of Days: An Extravaganza

by Louis Joseph Vance

  VI

  SPRING TWILIGHT

  When he had shaved (with particular care) and changed his linen(trimming collar and cuffs to a degree of uncommon nicety) and resumedhis coat (brushing and hating it simultaneously and with equalferocity, for its very shabbiness) P. Sybarite sought out a pipe oldand disreputable enough to be a comfort to any man, and sat down bythe one window of his room (top floor, hall, back) to smoke andconsider the state of the universe while awaiting the dinner gong.

  The window commanded an elevated if non-exhilarating view of backyards, one and all dank, dismal, and littered with the debris of along, hard winter. Familiarity, however, had rendered P. Sybariteimmune to the miasma of melancholy they exhaled; the trouble in hispatient blue eyes, the wrinkles that lined his forehead, owned anothercause.

  In fact, George had wrought more disastrously upon his temper than P.Sybarite had let him see. His hints, innuendoes, and downrightassertions had in reality distilled a subtle poison into the littleman's humour. For in spite of his embattled incredulity and the clearreasoning with which he had overborne George's futile insistence,there still lingered in his mind (and always would, until he knew thetruth himself) a carking doubt.

  Perhaps it was true. Perhaps George had guessed shrewdly. PerhapsMolly Lessing of the glove counter really was one and the same withMarian Blessington of the fabulous fortune.

  Old Brian Shaynon was a known devil of infinite astuteness; it wouldbe quite consistent with his character and past performances if,despairing of gaining control of his ward's money by urging her intounwelcome matrimony with his son, he had contrived to over-reach herin some manner, and so driven her to become self-supporting.

  Perhaps hardly likely: the hypothesis was none the less quiteplausible; a thing had happened, within P. Sybarite's knowledge ofBrian Shaynon....

  Even if George's romance were true only in part, these were wretchedcircumstances for a girl of gentle birth and rearing to adopt. It wasreally a shocking boarding-house. P. Sybarite had known it intimatelyfor ten years; use had made him callous to its shortcomings; but hewas not yet so far gone that he could forget how unwholesome anddepressing it must seem to one accustomed to better things. He couldremember most vividly how he had loathed it for weeks, months, andyears after the tide of evil fortunes had cast him upon its crumblingbrownstone stoop (even in that distant day, crumbling).

  Now, however ... P. Sybarite realised suddenly that habit hadinstilled into his bosom a sort of mean affection for the grim andsordid place. Time had made him sib to its spirit, close to itsniggard heart. Scarcely a nook or corner of it with which he was noton terms of the most intimate acquaintance. In the adjoining room adeserted woman had died by her own hand; her moans, filtered throughthe dividing wall, had summoned P. Sybarite--too late. The doublefront room on the same floor harboured an amiable couple whosesempiternal dissensions only his tact and persistence ever served tostill. The other hall-bedroom had housed for many years a dipsomaniacwhose periodic orgies had cost P. Sybarite many a night of bedsidevigil. On the floor below lived a maiden lady whose quenchless hopesstill centred about his amiable person. Downstairs in the clammyparlour he had whiled away unnumbered hours assisting at dreary"bridge drives," or playing audience to amateur recitals on the agedand decrepit "family organ." For an entire decade he had occupied thesame chair at the same table in the basement dining-room, feasting onbeef, mutton, Irish stew, ham-and-beans, veal, pork, orjust-hash--according to the designated day of the week....

  The very room in which he sat was somehow dear to him; upon it hewasted a sentiment in a way akin to that with which one regards thegrave of a beloved friend; it was, in fact, the tomb of his own youth.Its narrow and impoverished bed had groaned with the restless weightof him all those many nights through which he had lain wakeful, inimpotent mutiny against the outrageous circumstances that made him aprisoner there. Its walls had muted the sighs in which the desires ofyouth had been spent. Its floor matting was worn threadbare with theimpatient pacings of his feet (four strides from door to window: swingand repeat _ad libitum_). Its solitary gas-jet had, with begrudgedillumination, sicklied o'er the pages of those innumerable borrowedbooks with which he had sought to dull poignant self-consciousness....

  A tomb!... Bitterly he granted the aptness of that description of hiscubicle: mausoleum of his every hope and aspiration, sepulchre of allhis ability and promise. In this narrow room his very self had beenextinguished: a man had degenerated into a machine. Everything thatcaught his eye bore mute witness to this truth: the shabby tin alarmclock on the battered bureau was one of a dynasty that had roused himat six in the morning with unfailing regularity three hundred andsixty-five times per year (Sundays were too rare in his calendar andtoo precious to be wasted abed). From an iron hook in the window framedangled the elastic home-exerciser with which it was his unfailinghabit to perform a certain number of matutinal contortions, to keephis body wholesome and efficient. Beneath the bed was visible the rimof a shallow English tub that made possible his subsequent spongebath....

  A machine; a fixture; creature of an implacable routine; a spiritimmolated upon the altar of habit: into this he had degenerated in tenyears. Such was the effect of life in this melancholy shelter for thehomeless wage-slave. He was no lonely victim. In his term he had seenmany another come in hope, linger in disappointment, leave only to goto a meaner cell in the same stratum of misfortune.

  Was this radiant spirit of youth and gentle loveliness (who might, forall one knew to the contrary, be Marian Blessington after all) to besuffered to become one of that disconsolate crew?

  What could be done to prevent it?

  Nothing that the wits of P. Sybarite could compass: he was asinefficient as any gnat in any web....

  Through the halls resounded the cacophonous clangour of a cracked gongannouncing dinner. Sighing, P. Sybarite rose and knocked the ashesdelicately from his pipe--saving the dottle for a good-night whiffafter the theatre.

  Being Saturday, it was the night of ham-and-beans. P. Sybarite loathedham-and-beans with a deathly loathing. Nevertheless he ate his dole ofham-and-beans. He sat on the landlady's right, and was reluctant tohurt her feelings or incur her displeasure. Besides, he was hungry:between the home-exerciser and the daily walks to and from theBrooklyn Bridge, his normal appetite was that of an athlete in pink oftraining.

  Miss Lessing sat on the same side of the main dining-table, but half adozen chairs away. P. Sybarite couldn't see her save by craning hisneck. He refused to crane his neck: it might seem ostentatious.

  Violet and her George occupied adjoining chairs at another and smallertable. Their attendance was occasionally manifested through the mediumof giggles and guffaws. P. Sybarite envied them: he had it in hisheart to envy anybody young enough to be able to see a joke at thatdinner table.

  By custom, the landlady relinquished her seat some minutes in advanceof any guest. When P. Sybarite left the room he found her establishedat a desk in the basement hallway. Pausing, he delivered unto her themajor portion of his week's wage. Setting aside another certain amountagainst the cost of laundry work, tobacco, and incidentals, he hadfive dollars left....

  He wondered if he dared risk the extravagance of a modest supper afterthe theatre; and knew he dared not--knew it in wretchedness of spirit,cursing his fate....

  There remained half an hour to be killed before time to start for thetheatre. George Bross joined him on the stoop. They smoked pensively,while the afterglow faded from the western sky and veil after veil ofshadow crept stealthily out of the east, masking the rectangular,utilitarian ugliness of the street, deepening its dusk to darkness.Street lamps, touched by the flame-tipped wand of a belatedlamplighter, bourgeoned spasmodically like garish flowers of themetropolitan night. Across the way gas-lit windows glowed like squareson some great, blurred checker-board. The roadway teemed withshrieking children. Somewhere--near at hand--a pianola lost its temperand whaled the everlasting daylights out of an inoffensive melody from"The Pink Lady." Other,
more diffident instruments tinkledapologetically in the distance. Intermittently, across the gauntscaffolding of the Ninth Avenue L, at one end of the block, roaringtrains flashed long chains of lights. On the other hand, Eighth Avenuebuzzed resonantly in stifling clouds of incandescent dust. The airsmelt of warm asphalt....

  And it was Spring: the tenth Spring P. Sybarite had watched from thatself-same spot.

  Discontent bred in him a brooding despondency. He felt quite sure thatthe realists were right about Life: it wasn't worth living, after all.

  The prospect of the theatre lost its attraction. He was sure hewouldn't enjoy it. Such silly romantical nonsense was out of tune withthe immortal Truth about Things, which he had just discovered: Lifewas a poor Joke....

  At his side, George Bross, on his behalf, was nursing his private andpersonal grouch. Between them they manufactured an atmosphere of gloomthat would have done credit to a brace of dumb Socialists.

  But presently Miss Prim and Miss Lessing appeared, and changed allthat in a twinkling.