The room itself is in messy disorder. On the table is a dish of fruit, which is real but appears artificial. Around it are grouped an ominous assortment of decanters, glasses, and heaped ash-trays, the latter still raising wavy smoke-ladders into the stale air—the effect on the whole needing but a skull to resemble that venerable chromo, once a fixture in every “den, ” which presents the appendages to the life of pleasure with delightful and awe-inspiring sentiment.
After a while the sprigbtly solo of the supercricket is interrupted rather than joined by a new sound—the melancholy wail of an erratically fingered flute. It is obvious that the musician is practising rather than performing, for from time to time the gnarled strain breaks off and, after an interval of indistinct mutterings, recommences.
Just prior to the seventh false start a third sound contributes to the subdued discord. It is a taxi outside. A minute’s silence, then the taxi again, its boisterous retreat almost obliterating the scrape of foot-steps on the cinder walk. The door-bell shrieks alarmingly through the house.
From the kitchen enters a small, fatigued Japanese, hastily buttoning a servant’s coat of white duck. He opens the front screen-door and admits a handsome young man of thirty, clad in the sort of well-intentioned clothes peculiar to those who serve mankind. To his whole personality clings a well-intentioned air: his glance about the room is compounded of curiosity and a determined optimism; when he looks at Tana the entire burden of uplifting the godless Oriental is in his eyes. His name is
FREDERICK E. PARAMORE
. He was at Harvard with
ANTHONY
, where because of the initials of their surnames they were constantly placed next to each other in classes. Aftagmentary acquaintance developed—but since that time they have never met.
Nevertheless,
PARAMORE
enters the room with a certain air of arriving for the evening.
Tana is answering a question.
TANA:
(Grinning with ingratiation)
Gone to Inn for dinnah. Be back half-hour. Gone since ha’ past six.
PARAMORE:
(Regarding the glasses on the table)
Have they company?
TANA: Yes. Company. Mistah Caramel, Mistah and Missays Barnes, Miss Kane, all stay here.
PARAMORE: I see.
(Kindly)
They’ve been having a spree, I see.
TANA: I no un‘stan’.
PARAMORE: They’ve been having a fling.
TANA: Yes, they have drink. Oh, many, many, many drink.
PARAMORE:
(Receding delicately from the subject)
Didn’t I hear the sounds of music as I approached the house?
TANA:
(With a spasmodic giggle)
Yes, I play.
PARAMORE: One of the Japanese instruments.
(He is quite obviously a subscriber to the “National Geographic Magazine. ”)
TANA: I play flu-u-ute, Japanese flu-u-ute.
PARAMORE: What song were you playing? One of your Japanese melodies?
TANA:
(His brow undergoing preposterous contraction)
I play train song. How you call?—
railroad
song. So call in my countree. Like train. It go so-o-o; that mean whistle; train start. Then go so-o-o; that mean train go. Go like that. Vera nice song in my countree. Children song.
PARAMORE: It sounded very nice.
(It is apparent at this point that only a gigantic effort at control restrains
TANA
from rushing up-stairs for his post-cards, including the six made in America.)
TANA: I fix high-ball for gentleman?
PARAMORE: No, thanks. I don’t use it.
(He smiles.)
(TANA
withdraws into the kitchen, leaving the intervening door slightly ajar. From the crevice there suddenly issues again the melody of the Japanese train song—this time not a practice, surely, but a performance, a lusty, spirited performance.
The phone rings.
TANA,
absorbed in his harmonics, gives no heed, so
PARAMORE
takes up the receiver.)
PARAMORE: Hello.... Yes.... No, he’s not here now, but he’ll be back any moment.... Butterworth? Hello, I didn’t quite catch the name.... Hello, hello, hello. Hello! ... Huh!
(The phone obstinately refuses to yield up any more sound.
PARAMORE
replaces the receiver.
At this point the taxi motif re-enters, wafting with it a second young man; he carries a suitcase and opens the front door without ringing the bell.)
MAURY:
(In the hall)
Oh, Anthony! Yoho!
(He comes into the large room and sees
PARAMORE.) How do?
PARAMORE:
(Gazing at him with gathering intensity)
Is this—is this Maury Noble?
MAURY: That’s it.
(He advances, smiling, and holding out his hand)
How are you, old boy? Haven’t seen you for years.
(He has vaguely associated the face with Harvard, but is not even positive about that. The name, if he ever knew it, he has long since forgotten. However, with a fine sensitiveness and an equally commendable charity PARAMORE recognizes the fact and tactfully relieves the situation.)
PARAMORE: You’ve forgotten Fred Paramore? We were both in old Unc Robert’s history class.
MAURY: No, I haven’t, Unc—I mean Fred. Fred was—I mean Unc was a great old fellow, wasn’t he?
PARAMORE:
(Nodding his head humorously several times)
Great old character. Great old character.
MAURY:
(After a short pause)
Yes—he was. Where’s Anthony?
PARAMORE: The Japanese servant told me he was at some inn. Having dinner, I suppose.
MAURY:
(Looking at his watch)
Gone long?
PARAMORE: I guess so. The Japanese told me they’d be back shortly.
MAURY: Suppose we have a drink.
PARAMORE: No, thanks. I don’t use it.
(He smiles.)
MAURY: Mind if I do?
(Yawning as be helps himself from a bottle)
What have you been doing since you left college?
PARAMORE: Oh, many things. I’ve led a very active life. Knocked about here and there.
(His tone implies anything from lion-stalking to organized crime.)
MAURY: Oh, been over to Europe?
PARAMORE: No, I haven’t—unfortunately.
MAURY: I guess we’ll all go over before long.
PARAMORE: Do you really think so?
MAURY: Sure! Country’s been fed on sensationalism for more than two years. Everybody getting restless. Want to have some fun.
PARAMORE: Then you don’t believe any ideals are at stake?
MAURY: Nothing of much importance. People want excitement every so often.
PARAMORE:
(Intently)
It’s very interesting to hear you say that. Now I was talking to a man who’d been over there—
(During the ensuing testament, left to be filled in by the reader with such phrases as “Saw with his own eyes,” “Splendid spirit of France, ” and “Salvation of civilization,
” MAURY
sits with lowered eyelids, dispassionately bored.)
MAURY:
(At the first available opportunity)
By the way, do you happen to know that there’s a German agent in this very house?
PARAMORE:
(Smiling cautiously)
Are you serious?
MAURY: Absolutely. Feel it my duty to warn you.
PARAMORE:
(Convinced)
A governess?
MAURY:
(In a whisper, indicating the kitchen with his thumb) Tana!
That’s not his real name. I understand he constantly gets mail addressed to Lieutenant Emile Tannenbaum.
PARAMORE:
(Laughing with hearty tolerance)
You were kidding me.
MAURY: I may be accusing him falsely. But, you haven’t told me what you’ve been doing.
PARAMORE: For one thing—writing.
MAURY: Fiction?
PARAMORE: No. Non-fiction.
MAURY: What’s that? A sort of literature that’s half fiction and half fact?
PARAMORE: Oh, I’ve confined myself to fact. I’ve been doing a good deal of social-service work.
MAURY: Oh!
(An immediate glow of suspicion leaps into his eyes. It is as though
PARAMORE
had announced himself as an amateur pickpocket.)
PARAMORE: At present I’m doing service work in Stamford. Only last week some one told me that Anthony Patch lived so near.
(They are interrupted by a clamor outside, unmistakable as that of two sexes in conversation and laughter. Then there
enter
the room in a body
ANTHONY, GLORIA, RICHARD CARAMEL, MURIEL KANE, R.ACHAEL BARNES
and
RODMAN BARNES,
her husband. They surge about
MAURY,
illogically replying
“Fine!” to his
general
“Hello.” ... ANTHONY,
meanwhile, approaches his other guest.)
ANTHONY: Well, I’ll be darned. How are you? Mighty glad to see you.
PARAMORE: It’s good to see you, Anthony. I’m stationed in Stamford, so I thought I’d run over.
(Roguishly)
We have to work to beat the devil most of the time, so we’re entitled to a few hours’ vacation.
(In an agony of concentration
ANTHONY
tries to recall the name. After a struggle of parturition his memory gives up the fragment
“Fred,”
around which he hastily builds the sentence
“Glad you did, Fred!”
Meanwhile the slight hush prefatory to an introduction has fallen upon the company.
MAURY,
who could help, prefers to look on in malicious enjoyment.)
ANTHONY:
(In desperation)
Ladies and gentlemen, this is—this is Fred.
MURIEL:
(With obliging levity)
Hello, Fred!
(RICHARD CARAMEL
and
PARAMORE
greet each other intimately by their first names, the latter recollecting that
DICK
was one of the men in his class who had never before troubled to speak to him.
DICK
fatuously imagines that
PARAMORE
is some one he has previously met in
ANTHONY’S
house.
The three young women go up-stairs.)
MAURY:
(In an undertone to
DICK)
Haven’t seen Muriel since Anthony’s wedding.
DICK: She’s now in her prime. Her latest is
“I’ll say so!”
(ANTHONY
struggles for a while with
PARAMORE
and at length attempts to make the conversation general by asking every one to have a drink.)
MAURY: I’ve done pretty well on this bottle. I’ve gone from “Proof” down to “Distillery.”
(He indicates the words on the label.)
ANTHONY: (To PARAMORE) Never can tell when these two will turn up. Said good-by to them one afternoon at five and darned if they didn’t appear about two in the morning. A big hired touring-car from New York drove up to the door and out they stepped, drunk as lords, of course.
(In an ecstasy of consideration
PARAMORE
regards the cover of a book which he holds in his hand.
MAURY
and
DICK
exchange a glance.)
DICK :
(Innocently, to
PARAMORE) You work here in town?
PARAMORE: No, I’m in the Laird Street Settlement in Stamford. (
To
ANTHONY) You have no idea of the amount of poverty in these small Connecticut towns. Italians and other immigrants. Catholics mostly, you know, so it’s very hard to reach them.
ANTHONY:
(Politely)
Lot of crime?
PARAMORE: Not so much crime as ignorance and dirt.
MAURY: That’s my theory: immediate electrocution of all ignorant and dirty people. I’m all for the criminals—give color to life. Trouble is if you started to punish ignorance you’d have to begin in the first families, then you could take up the moving-picture people, and finally Congress and the clergy.
PARAMORE:
(Smiling uneasily)
I was speaking of the more fundamental ignorance—of even our language.
MAURY:
(Thoughtfully)
I suppose it is rather hard. Can’t even keep up with the new poetry.
PARAMORE: It’s only when the settlement work has gone on for months that one realizes how bad things are. As our secretary said to me, your finger-nails never seem dirty until you wash your hands. Of course we’re already attracting much attention.
MAURY:
(Rudely)
As your secretary might say, if you stuff paper into a grate it’ll burn brightly for a moment.
(At this point
GLORIA,
freshly tinted and lustful of admiration and entertainment, rejoins the party, followed by her two friends. For several moments the conversation becomes entirely fragmentary.
GLORIA
calls
ANTHONY
aside.)
GLORIA: Please don’t drink much, Anthony.
ANTHONY: Why?
GLORIA: Because you’re so simple when you’re drunk.
ANTHONY: Good Lord! What’s the matter now?
GLORIA:
(After a pause during which her eyes gaze coolly into his)
Several things. In the first place, why do you insist on paying for everything? Both those men have more money than you!
ANTHONY: Why, Gloria! They’re my guests!
GLORIA: That’s no reason why you should pay for a bottle of champagne Rachael Barnes smashed. Dick tried to fix that second taxi bill, and you wouldn’t let him.
ANTHONY: Why, Gloria—
GLORIA : When we have to keep selling bonds to even pay our bills, it’s time to cut down on excess generosities. Moreover, I wouldn’t be quite so attentive to Rachael Barnes. Her husband doesn’t like it any more than I do!
ANTHONY: Why, Gloria—
GLORIA:
(Mimicking him sharply)
“Why, Gloria!” But that’s happened a little too often this summer—with every pretty woman you meet. It’s grown to be a sort of habit, and I’m not going to stand it! If you can play around, I can, too.
(Then, as an afterthought)
By the way, this Fred person isn’t a second Joe Hull, is he?