Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  Instead of smoking, he found in a pocket of his overcoat a little pamphlet with a printed list of the “Duumvir’s” passengers, and entertained himself with it for a time, first looking to see if his own name had been properly spelled. He found it, “Mr. Laurence Ogle,” correct, and he repeated it inaudibly several times, wondering how many of his fellow voyagers were interested, or perhaps even a little excited, to find that name upon the list. Probably some of the more intelligent of them were already trying to identify him among the passengers, and although he smiled at his own vanity, the picture pleased him, as well it might. For, although he did not realize it, this thought was a decisive symptom of recovery; he was almost himself again.

  What somewhat modified his pleasure was the fact that his name appeared at the bottom of a page. The list was in alphabetical order and he understood that no slight had been intended; but from “Abbott” to “Yountze” he was unable to discover any prestige of celebrity comparable to his own, and although he was sensible enough to understand that of course it was unimportant where a name appeared upon a page, whether at the top, the bottom, or in the middle, still it did seem to him that a little thought might have arranged matters better. Most of the other names were a mere wilderness of the commonplace in which the eye wandered without interest.

  There were exceptions, however; — he found one of them not far above “Mr. Laurence Ogle”; and this particular exception arrested his attention as if with a faint strain of music played upon foreign and unfamiliar instruments. “Momoro” was the name; “Mme. Momoro,” and, underneath it, “Mr. Hyacinthe Momoro.” Ogle murmured “Momoro” over to himself several times, “Momoro — Madame Momoro; Hyacinthe Momoro — Madame Momoro, Hyacinthe Momoro — Momoro.” Momoro was the most romantic name he had ever encountered, he thought; a name operatic in flavour and suggestive of high performances in history or even antique legend. Moreover, it might be a name of practical value to him; for if he should ever make use of French “characters” in a play he could call one of them “Momoro.” Indeed, Momoro so fascinated him that, letting the list drop in his lap, he began dreamily to construct some cobwebbings of plot about a charming central figure, “Madame Momoro — Madame la Marquise de Momoro,” he would call her, perhaps. One of his reasons for being aboard the “Duumvir” was his belief that he would do well to get away from plays and the theatre for a while; but the dramatist’s habit of mind prevailed: “Momoro” began to wind him up as if he had been clockwork. He lay back in his chair, languidly watching the rhythmic ascent and descent of the rail against green sea and blue sky; and before long he was selecting a cast for “Momoro” which he decided would be an excellent title. Elsie Grennell, that beautiful brunette, would play “Madame de Momoro;” — of course a heroine of that name should be dark.

  As the afternoon wore on, the ship’s motion became steadily less emphatic; the January sharpness of the air grew gentler over the softer sea, yet remained bracing; more passengers gained confidence enough to forget their introspections, trusted themselves upon their feet and set forth upon a brisker and brisker promenading; the stricken, no longer limp, began to sit up and look about them; laughter was heard along the decks. Then, since everywhere this blither spirit seemed to breathe, Ogle felt it and forgot his play building. “By George!” he said to himself. “I believe I knew what I was about, after all.” And with that he began to feel sorry for his friends in wintry New York, unfortunate people bound down to desks or to nightly work in the theatre, going about through snow in jolting, dirty taxicabs and drinking poisons to alleviate the natural oppression of so dull a life.

  He lighted a cigarette, found it fragrant, and, observing with pleasure that of four lively girls passing his chair in a group three were comely and all prettily dressed for sea voyaging, he believed his health almost entirely restored. Earlier in the day these damsels would have had no comeliness in his eyes; he would have looked upon them with distaste; but now, all at once, he thought them charming. He tossed off his rug, and after only a moment of uncertainty as he rose, began to pace the deck like an old hand, experienced in many crossings of the sea.

  At least that was his air, convincingly worn; for he had a sometimes burdensome self-consciousness and was anxious to avoid the curious ignominy that attaches to new apprenticeship or to the doing of almost anything for the first time. What he thought of as “gaucheries” were abhorrent to him; he was determined to exhibit none and to be no parvenu either at sea or in the strange land beyond. Thus, during his protracted promenading, as he encountered and re encountered the four lively girls, who were going round the deck in the opposite direction, he gave them an opportunity to think a little about the indifferent and easy yet sure-footed stride of an old traveller to whom sea-legs were virtually second nature. Reproductions of his photographs had been printed frequently in periodicals and “rotogravure sections” of late; and he thought it possible that the four damsels had already identified him. If they had, perhaps they had also seen the article about him that called him “the most sophisticated of all our new playwrights”; an article he was glad someone had been discriminating enough to write. Naturally, anybody familiar with it would suppose that a sophisticated playwright like Laurence Ogle had “crossed” three or four times a year during most of his life.

  Unmistakably the lively girls took note of him; the elaboration with which they seemed unaware of him and concerned solely with their own private gayeties proved their awareness. Indeed, they could not well lack it; for his good looks were unusual, though he was not impressive in figure, being short and slight. Probably the promenading young women overlooked this defect, if it were one; some quality of knowingness in movement and attire may have successfully atoned in their eyes for a deficiency in height, breadth, and muscular power. Moreover, his symmetrical shapings of feature and pleasant harmonies of dark hair and skin, and his notable, shadowed eyes were all made more significant by those delicate markings that blend into the expression of the attribute young maidenhood most appreciates in the male. One of these maidens mentioned it just after they had come face to face with him for the second time. “He certainly has gobs of distinction,” she said. “I adore burning, reserved eyes like that; especially with one of those tiny moustaches. Bet you anything he turns out to be a young Spanish poet in English clothes!”

  Other passengers were beginning to notice and estimate their fellow-voyagers, even to venture upon speech with strangers among them; for the “Duumvir” was not a hurried North Atlantic “ferry” merely hustling preoccupied crowds to and fro between commercial and fashion capitals; this was a voyage of pleasure, although its opening pleasantries had been of a humour too rough for its victims to perceive the joke. But with the increasing amenity of the sea and the recovery of something less capricious underfoot and something dependable within themselves, the pleasure-seekers began to catch their first glimpses of what they sought. They dispersed themselves over the ship, taking the air high and low upon all the decks; pulling at weights in the gymnasium; reading or talking in corners of the big salons; contemplating cards or liquor in the smoking-room; or, bending over the little French desks in the writing-room, they began their diaries, and scribbled letters, both diaries and letters opening with accounts of a hurricane at sea, written by the survivors. But at a little after four o’clock most of them were listening to the excellent Italian orchestra in the enormous lounge.

  This was the greatest of the great public rooms of the steamer, a tapestried and walnut-panelled room into which a New England village church of fair size might have been squeezed with a little inconvenience to the steeple; and here, as the music began to be heard, the convalesced travellers came to seat themselves in easy chairs grouped about small tables pleasantly accoutred in napery and silver for tea.

  Then a prevailing characteristic became apparent in the assembly: the colour of the hair of these adventurers to Africa and Spain and Italy was predominantly gray or white; only here and there did a dark young head
or a blonde one enliven the eye of youth looking the place over, hopeful of companions.

  In good truth, the pleasure-seekers were elderly, most of them long coupled in marriage; though some were widows, some were spinsters, and a few were worn but hardened bachelors and widowers, travelling in mildly jovial small groups. Their like could have been found in the hotels of California, of Florida, of Georgia and of Virginia and the Carolinas at this season, with youth there as here not much in evidence among them. For youth must be at school or in college, or earning its living, and younger middle age must be providing and storing for the future; but these were people who had provided and stored comfortably enough to grant themselves at least a winter’s pleasuring, and now sallied bravely forth to enjoy their own and the earth’s fruitions. They were from everywhere in the country, and most of them were wondering a little who the others might be.

  From a doorway Ogle looked in upon them thoughtfully. He had a mind to drink a cup of tea and ascertain what music the orchestra might be expected to offer; but they were playing Puccini; nothing intelligently modern was to be hoped of them, he feared; and among the gray heads he saw little to cheer him. These people were well enough dressed and no doubt well enough mannered too, he thought; but their general caste was as discouragingly evident as their age. Successful bourgeoisie, merchants, bankers, brokers, manufacturers, and members of the unsophisticate professions; most of them retired, or else able to leave their businesses or offices to the care of sons and junior partners; — thus the keen young dramatist in the doorway appraised and assorted them, finding them and their wives and the few daughters and young sons who sat among them a dreary spectacle.

  Indeed, they oppressed him; he would have none of them, not even though he desired tea; and so, turning away, he walked aft through a corridor and ascended to the smoking-room upon the deck above. He had a friend on board, and there was where he would most probably find him, Ogle was sure; for there was a bar in the smoking-room.

  III

  WHEN HE OPENED the door his first impression was that someone had been burning incense. It seemed an odd thing to do in a room that had a bar and a barkeeper in it; but these were inconspicuous, the bar being a short one of lustreless dark wood in a corner and the barkeeper a studious young man enclosed, as it might be, in a library alcove, for he was intent upon a serious-looking book High-backed chairs and deep leather divans permitted the tops of a few heads to be seen; but there was audible not even a murmur of conversation, and in the centre of the room three ladies and a youth were playing bridge with the noiseless contemplation appropriate to their pastime; — to Ogle’s surprise this appeared to be the quietest place on the whole boat. Windows of stained glass sent amber and azure and ruby filtrations of sunshine to swing slowly to and fro upon the walls of dull blackish wood; and the smell of incense seemed not so misplaced after all.

  It was traceable, however, not to a censer, but to the bridge table and a cigarette in a remarkable holder of yellow ivory and green jade poised in the interesting long white hand of one of the players. Ogle had never felt anything except pitying amazement for a person who smoked scented cigarettes; but his first glance at this lady destroyed a lifelong prejudice against them; she was instantly of so compelling a presence.

  In the dark-walled room with its dark furniture she was as conspicuous as a tall lady in a Sargent portrait. She had a long face, long limbs, a long body; but all with a slender amplitude and no meagreness. Her long aquiline face was not thin, but sleekly contoured, like her vivid hair which seemed to be composed of long, pale bronze threads laid close to one another and polished to a soft brilliancy. And with her length she had grace; her long gestures, as she played, were exquisitely accurate and restrained — Ogle immediately found the word “musical” to describe them — and she sat beautifully poised in her chair, neither resting against its back nor leaning forward to the card table. Moreover, he was as pleased with what she wore as with her grace and lengthiness; a high distinction being marked by that, too, he thought. In a whole shipload of tailors’ woollen “sport clothes,” here was a Parisian afternoon gown of bronze green and black and silver, silk and metal and a little lace, worn by one who quietly knew herself to be above both the ordinary conception of maritime utilities and the advice of fashion journals. Her independenc went so far as to treat the smoking-room to a kind of intimacy; no hat covered the polished pale bronze hair; beyond question this was a woman who would need to know a better reason for doing anything than that other women did it.

  Never, Ogle felt, had he known that badgered word “elegance” so vividly expressed to a glance of the eye; though he took more than a glance. She had no definite age; she might have been a marvellous forty or twenty-five; but the latter would have been precocious, the pleased and impressed young dramatist concluded. For no one under thirty could be so completely what he thought the picture of the perfect woman of the world; and, deciding that she must surely be French, he found it appropriate to describe her to himself in her own tongue. In spite of the difficulty lately attending his steward’s attempt to communicate with him in that language, he sometimes used French phrases as the only ones that would fully express his meaning; so now he felt that “woman of the world” was but a pale definition of the Parisian exquisite before him, and in his mind repeated, “Femme du monde” — and added further Gallicism to that: “Femme du monde parfaitement et parfaitement Parisienne!”

  She seemed entirely occupied with the cards before her, or else, absently, with the long tube of ivory and jade and the perfumed little cigarette it held; but Ogle nevertheless had the impression that she might be aware of him and of his almost startled interest in her; for although she did not glance at all in his direction she had the cool and competent air of a person whom nothing whatever escapes. So, after standing near the doorway a moment or two longer, pretending to be looking in a general way over the whole room, which was not of the heroic dimensions displayed in the great salons below, he walked on, seeking his friend.

  Passing round a high-backed double divan, he came upon two lounging young men deeply sunk in soft leather cushions and languidly preoccupied with amber liquids. Each held a tall glass in his hand, sipping at intervals in a communion probably satisfying, since neither showed any other sign of life; but as Ogle appeared one of them became slightly animated. He was a frail-bodied, fair young man, with a long, pale nose, a faint chin, eye-glasses over greenish twinklings, and, for the semblance of a moustache, a few tiny spikes apparently of fine hay.

  “Laurence Ogle!” he said, bestirring himself to extend a hand. “I was wondering when you’d show up. Have something? Anyhow, sit down with us, won’t you? This is Mr. Macklyn — George Wilmer Macklyn — you ought to know each other. I was just telling him you were on board.”

  “He didn’t need to tell me,” Mr. Macklyn said, as Ogle took a chair facing the divan. “This idiot of an Albert Jones thinks all other people are idiots because he is. I saw that you were to be on the ‘Duumvir’ in the theatrical notes of a newspaper the morning before we sailed. Naturally I was interested, because I’d seen your new play only the night before. I considered it a very impressive piece of work.”

  The blond Mr. Jones laughed. “You can believe Macklyn means it, Laurence,” he was kind enough to say. “Macklyn is one of those fearful people who are always honest. You know his work, don’t you?”

  “Ah” — Ogle said, and then after a moment, risked a lie of courtesy. “Oh, yes — yes, indeed.”

  Mr. Macklyn shook his head, frowning. He was a serious-looking, bushy-browed, swarthy young man; and although for the moment his attitude might be languid his expression was earnest, even severe, seeming to be so habitually. “I fear you say that out of mere kindness, Mr. Ogle. My work is not well known. Necessarily it can be for only the few. I should much prefer to write frankly for the many as you do; but I doubt if I’d know how. It requires another technique, one that I admire none the less. I don’t underrate the importance
of any man who can reach the mob, Mr. Ogle. The rewards are enormous and the art can be sincere where perhaps it can’t always be searching.”

  “‘Searching’?” Ogle said inquiringly; and with no very hearty approval he looked upon this friend of his friend and wondered how Mr. Macklyn happened upon the particular word. “Searching” was precisely what his new play had been called by all of the five most intelligent critics he knew. Not one of them had omitted it, and with so emphatic a corroboration he looked upon searchingness as pretty much his accepted specialty. “You write, yourself, Mr. Macklyn?” he inquired, a little coldly.

  “Macklyn’s a poet,” Mr. Jones informed him. “I thought you wouldn’t know his things. Nobody does. He tries to make people notice him by using no punctuation and omitting capital letters; but it hasn’t got him very far. I think I’ll leave frames off my pictures and see if somebody won’t write a few more articles about them.”

  “You’d do well whether the articles were written or not,” the serious Macklyn said. “Does life frame its pictures? Does nature? Albert speaks flippantly of my method, Mr. Ogle; but he knows well enough why I deliberately use it, though it costs me all but a few readers and even some of them read me only to mock. He paints his pictures with the loose stroke of a Gauguin and the colour of a Picasso, knowing that he, too, can reach but one here, another there, and never the mob; and yet he chaffs me for assuming the same privilege. I write poems that have no rhymes, no metre and no punctuation because I am expressing my searchings in that way.”

  ‘“Searchings’?” Ogle said. “There might be several definitions of that word. What kind of searchings do you mean?”

  “Within myself. Within life. Within this formlessness we call the universe. Do you find capital letters and metres and semi-colons in passion, in desire, in the disturbing’ and despairing deep wonder that besets us as we succumb to this shapelessness we call life? Why, even you, Mr. Ogle, popular playwright as you are — you at least broke away from the old, stupid rigidities imposed by the dead art of yesterday when you closed your play without concluding it, so to speak. I thought that was very fine. You not only resisted the temptation for the detestable ‘happy ending,’ you bravely left your characters just where they were — groping, getting nowhere, caught in the relentlessness of their own blind desires and deafened by the clashings of a remorseless chance from which there was no escape. You showed them struggling, entangled, prompted by only the two primal impulses of sex and greed, as we all are; and you left them to go on helplessly and drearily and wonderingly realizing their own tragic condition, but unable to escape from it. Gorki and Turgeniev and Dostoieffsky would applaud you. It was like some great, gloomy, keyless fugue played upon an organ with no cheap and pretty sounds at the command of the stops. I’m glad of the opportunity to give you my opinion of ‘The Pastoral Scene,’ Mr. Ogle. I thought it ‘popular,’ I admit it. ‘Popular,’ yes; but nevertheless magnificent. It expressed for the many the same ideologism — if I may say so — that I attempt in my own work for the few.”