“And what became of the second guy?”
“Oh-ho-ho-ho! . . . Gee it was rich! You shoulda seen that other guy get out of there! Say! He almost tore the door down in his hurry—oh-ho-ho-ho!”
Such were the various members of this family as Eugene came to know about them: each of them in his own way was marked by a decisive individuality and independence of spirit which told of their lives of combat, toil and struggle in the city streets, and yet, although indelibly marked, scarred and hardened by his life, none of them had been brutalized by it. In fact, as Eugene thought of all these people later, an extraordinary quality in them became evident. It was this: here was a family of poor East Side Jews, the children of an immigrant and thriftless shoemaker and an old orthodox Jewish woman. These children had all had to make their own way, to fight and struggle bitterly for a living: now some of them were tough, rugged and unlettered merchants, traders and mechanics, some were successful milliners and designers, and some were talented musicians, students of science, people of extraordinary intelligence and ability. And all of them, even the most unlettered, seemed to have a completely natural unaffected interest and respect for the arts or for scholarly and intellectual attainment. This circumstance—this remarkable fusion in one poor Jewish family of elements which would have seemed almost incredible in the families of poor labouring or country people Eugene had known before—this combination of the manual, the commercial, the artistic and the scholarly in one poor family—seemed so natural both to him and to them that Eugene never found it strange or wonderful until years later.
LVI
June had brought with it a blessed respite from his classes at the university. Now the summer drew on towards its close—the brutal and weary New York summer with its swelter of dead wet heats, its death of hope, its sorrow of a timeless memory. And yet, in the city’s summer nights there was a kind of solemn joy, a hush of peace and light and human resignation that was so different from the wild and nameless joy and pain of spring, the sorrow of autumn, the winter’s grim and stern protraction of the soul. THEN—in these nights of waning summer—more than at any other season of the year, the immense and murmurous sound of time was audible. It was above one and around one, it was near and far, it was immense and omnipresent, and it was indefinable. It seemed to hover somewhere in the upper air, above the city’s steep canyons, the giant explosions of her thousand towers, the swarming millions of her tortured and uneasy life for ever waging their desperate, ugly and unprofitable strife in all her hot and tangled mazes. And that voice of time, above the ugly clamour of that tormented life, was imperturbable; immense, remote and murmurous, it seemed to have resumed into itself all of the rumours of the earth, and to comprise, out of the bitter briefness of man’s days, the essence of his own eternity, and to be itself eternal, fixed, and everlasting, no matter what men lived or died.
The people of the city heard this sound of time, and on these evenings of the waning summer their lives were subject to its spell. For the first time in many months one heard the sounds of quiet laughter in the streets at night, the voices of the people as they passed were strangely hushed, the sounds of life were immense, all murmurous as time itself.
This sense of peace, of resignation, of a quiet and tranquil sorrow and joy was everywhere; it may have been some quality of the summer air that imposed on all the violence of the city’s life a kind of muted harmony, but the spirit of this peace seemed to have entered the very flesh and spirit of the city, somehow to have tranquillized the feverish blood and nervous and exacerbated bodies of its people. For the first time in months their eyes were quiet and thoughtful and had lost their look of hatred and suspicion, hostility and mistrust. Their faces had lost their strained, hard, and hurried look, even their tongues had lost some of their strident, rasping, and abusive violence.
That immense and murmurous hush of time and sorrowful acceptance had touched even the life of youth. At night one still saw groups of young men walking through the streets, but even they had somehow been subdued and chastened by this spell of time. And in these bands of youth—these straggling bands of young men who struggle through the city streets at night in groups of six or eight, and who have become so much a part of our familiar experience and the city’s life that they no longer seem curious to us—the change that this great spell of time had wrought was perhaps more evident than anywhere else.
Where were the songs of youth upon those city streets? Where the laughter, the wild spontaneous mirth, the passion, warmth and golden poetry of youth? Where was the great boy Jason looking for brothers in the fellowship of that inspired adventure of man’s youth—the proud, deathless image of what all of us desire when young: where was it? Where were the noble thoughts and ardours of young men, the fierce and bitter desperation and the proud and foolish hopes, the grand dreams and the music of the fleeting and impossible reveries—all that makes youth lovely and desirable, and that keeps man’s faith—where was it among these young men on the city streets?
It was not there. Poor sallow, dark, swarthy creatures that they were, with rasping tongues, loose mouths and ugly jeering eyes, this infamous band of youth was death-in-life itself. It had been brought still-born from its mother’s womb into a world of city streets and corners, into all the waning violence of the tenement, bitterly to try to root its meagre life into the rootless rock, meagrely to struggle in its infamous small phlegm along the pavements, feebly to imitate the feeble objects of its base idolatry—of which the most heroic was a gangster, the most sagacious was a pimp, the most witty was some Broadway clown.
How often, have we seen them, heard them, turned away from them with weariness and disgust, as they straggled along at night, a meagre shirt-sleeved band of gangling sizes, each fearful and uneasy in the other’s eye, kicking the ash-cans over as feats of derring-do, trying for approbation with a hoarse call and a pitiable and mirthless striving after repartee, of which the more glittering fragments ran like this:
“Hey-y . . . Eddy! . . . Holy Jeez! . . . Hey-y, youse guys! . . . Cuh-mahn!”
“Ah-h, what’s yer hurry? . . . Hey-y! Youse udah guys! . . . Joe’s in a hurry . . . Who’s goin’ t’ pay duh taxi-ride?”
“Holy JEEZ! What’s keepin’ yuh! . . . Youse guys, cuh-mahn!”
“Ah-h, guh-wahn. . . . What’s t’ hurry? Where’s duh fire?”
Now in these nights of waning summer, even these raucous voices, the pitiable sterility of these feeble jests, that meagre and constricted speech consisting almost wholly of a few harsh cries and raucous imprecations that recurred intolerably, incredibly through all the repercussions of an idiotic monotony—all of the rootless, fearful, and horrible desolation of these young pavement lives—was somehow caught up in this great and tragic hush and spell of time, transmuted by it, until even their vast unloveliness of youth was given a sorrowful quality of pity and regret.
August came, and with it already a faint and troubling premonition of the autumn—a breath, a fragrance, and an odour—that somehow spoke of summer’s ending, the premonitory thrill and promise of the voyage. What was it? It was one of those very strange and troubling odours known here in America, of which our lives are all compact, which we have lived and breathed and known with our blood, and for which we have no language. It is, somehow—the odour of cities, cities, cities—at the hour of evening, the scorched end of every expiring day—the smell of evening hush and peace and of the sea in harbours. It is the smell of old worn woods, warm, resinous, sultry, getting into our very entrails somehow with its strange and nameless fragrance of sorrow and delight; the smell of the wooden baseball bleachers, of the old worn plankings of an amusement park, passed over by a million feet since morning; and it is the smell of street-cars, car-barns, the faded day-coach plush of trains, the smell of bridges and of old wharves and piers, of hot tarred roofing, and of tar out in the streets, of summer’s fatigue, quietness, and summer’s ending, the quiet and tranquil sorrow of memory as we remember youth, our father’s voice upon the nighttime summer porch, the smell of the grape-vines and the ripened grapes, the grinding screech and halt of a street-car on the hill above our father’s house, and the knowledge that all this is lost, our father dead, our childhood gone, another year, our first in the great man-swarm of the city, ended—and this, the knowledge of the bitter briefness of out days, is somehow mixed with the smell of the sea in harbours, the freshening breeze of evening, the call of ships, and, somehow, God knows how, with the intolerable thrill and promise of the unknown voyage.
And with this breath of autumn and the promise of the voyage there came to Eugene the news that Starwick was at that moment in the city—would stop there briefly on his way to Europe. At this time, also, Joel Pierce turned up and Eugene renewed an acquaintance that had begun in Cambridge and lapsed during the interim.
LVII
He had never met any of Joel Pierce’s family, but one night towards seven o’clock when he had just returned to his room from the university, Joel telephoned him, and, saying that his father was in town, asked him if he would go to dinner and to the theatre with them. He found Joel and his father waiting for him in the lobby. Mr. Pierce was a man of fifty years, comfortably dressed for the hot weather in a black mohair suit, and with a kind of stately yet spacious dignity of linen that was agreeably old-fashioned and that evoked a picture of an older and more leisurely generation. He was quite deaf—so deaf, in fact, that he made use of a small ear- phone—but his speech and manners, like his dress, were easy, friendly, and yet touched with an air of distinguished authority.
He took the two boys to the Lafayette for dinner, and ordered generously and with the easy and comforting assurance of a man of the world who gives everyone around him a happy feeling of security and well-being. For Eugene, it was a memorable experience.
The fine restaurant—it was perhaps the finest he had yet seen—the French waiters, the delicious food, the beautiful women, the well- dressed, prosperous and worldly-looking men and the pleasant weary languor of fading day, the huge nameless thrill and prophecy of oncoming night touched him with a feeling of joy and nameless anticipation. He felt, as he had never felt before, that strange, seductive promise which the city has at evening, at the end of a day of terrible summer’s heat, and which is so strangely mixed of sorrow and delight, of desolation and the promise of a wild and nameless joy.
And suddenly, all the horror, heat and desolation of the day were forgotten. He forgot the blind horror of the man-swarm thrusting through the mazes of the furious streets. He forgot the drowning flood of humid flesh, the pale, wet, suffering faces that thrust from nowhere out of sweltering heat, that were engulfed again into the heat-hazed distances of swarming streets in which man’s life seemed more uncountable than the sands of the sea, and more blind, lost and horribly forsaken than the lives of those eyeless crawls and gropes that scuttle blindly and for ever through murky ooze upon the sea’s vast floor.
The old red light of evening filled his heart again with its wild prophecy, its huge and secret joy, and the great stride of oncoming night revived again, in all their magic, his childhood dreams of the enchanted city, the city of great men and glorious women, the city of unceasing joy, of power, triumph and success, and of the fortunate, good, and happy life.
As Mr. Pierce sat there with his air of quiet and urbane authority, studying the menu with a little frowning smile through the lenses of a pince-nez that dangled fashionably and casually from a black silk cord when he was not using it, the boy felt an indescribable sense of wealth and power and prosperous ease. It seemed to him that everything in the world was his for the asking, and the suave service of the waiter, hovering over Mr. Pierce with poised pencil and an attitude of devoted respect, the rich designs of snowy linen, the heavy silver, the thick carpets, the handsome women and distinguished-looking men, all added to this feeling of wealth and happiness.
Mr. Pierce kept studying the menu with an air of good-natured seriousness, quizzing his son from time to time with gruff but genial banter:
“Joel,” he would say, “what do you want? Have you any preference of your own or will you leave it to me to decide?”
“Gosh!” Joel answered in his soft, eager tone. “I don’t care, Pups. Whatever you say goes with me! You know, it’s all the same to me, anyway. I can eat anything you order. Only,” he added laughing, “I’d prefer it if there’s no meat. I’d like it much better if you ordered vegetables.”
Mr. Pierce knocked the pince-nez from his nose, and turning to Eugene with an air of agreeable confidence, said:
“What’s wrong with a boy who takes no more interest in his food than that? Can you make it out? It strikes me as the most astonishing thing,” he went on in a gruff, distinguished way, “to see a healthy young man who has no interest in his belly. Really Joel,” he went on, turning to his son and regarding him with a kind of quizzical but good-humoured sarcasm, “I’d feel so much better about you if you only liked food more. It’s really tragic to see a boy of your age deliberately throwing away one of the greatest pleasures in life. Don’t you think so?” he demanded, turning to the other boy again with his air of friendly confidence. “Or have you turned vegetarian, too?”
“Gosh, no!” Joel said, laughing his hushed eager, immensely agreeable laugh. “He’ll agree with every word you say, Pups. He likes food even more than you do.”
“Then I’m glad to hear it!” said Mr. Pierce approvingly. “I had begun to fear that this younger generation had gone utterly to hell. But if the symptoms are only local—” he frowned humorously at his son for a moment—“perhaps it’s not as bad as I thought.”
“You and Pups should get along together beautifully,” said Joel to Eugene. “He loves to eat—he’s a wonderful cook—you should come up to Rhinekill sometime and let him cook one of his meals for you.”