Part 5

What an extraordinary woman! thought Harold, and it occurred to him that he was learning more from her than he was from Paul. It was she who was giving him his first lessons in worldliness and he did not sense anything tangible in the manner of these lessons which he could resent. He found himself less aggressive, less inclined to obstinacy, chip more off shoulder, and back more flexible, than he had found himself with Drains. Paul seemed decent enough, he admitted, but he did not feel quite natural with Paul, quite ready to relax in his presence. With Campaspe, on the other hand, he already seemed acquainted; she awakened his sympathy. Part of this readier acceptance was doubtless due to his early environment. He knew women and trusted them. In spite of his college years, perhaps because of them, he never felt quite comfortable with men.... He was left to himself. The four in the back of the car were conversing in an animated manner about matters with which he had no concern. There was, however, he perceived, no rudeness in connection with this exclusion. He did not have the feeling, which had come to him so many times at college, that he was being ignored. It was rather as though these people considered him already enough of a friend so that they might talk freely in his presence without making any mechanical attempt to draw him in. Presently, he discovered that the motor of a Rolls-Royce heats the feet mercilessly. He spoke of this to the chauffeur, who opened an aperture near Harold’s ankles, permitting a draught to blow across them.

There is something pathetic about the young, the suffering of a young man trying to adjust himself to circumstances which he does not understand. Harold presently began to miss the compassion assuredly due him, and his mood shifted. In spite of the friendly attitude of his companions, he began to pity himself, as he sat silent and alone on the little seat beside the driver of the Rolls-Royce, which was breaking all the speed laws, as it burst forward down the Long Island turnpike. Houses, farms, trees, Socony signs: a monotonous prospect. Harold, saddened a little, it is presumable, by Bacardi rum, thought of himself as helplessly immeshed in a kind of life which he certainly did not understand and which he felt sure he never could like. Helpless! From his earliest childhood he had been accustomed to accepting, unquestioningly, the arrangements others had made for him. He remembered how he had been brought up like a girl, with long curls which had not been clipped until he was nearly seven years old. He recalled, with shame, the day on which he had been permitted to discard his kilts for a boy’s proper apparel, and how at the time, he had been ashamed, rather, to make the change. He thought of his college days, one long struggle at hopeless compromise. He had not been a particularly good student, and the external activities of his fellow-students had proved utterly alien to his taste. How many times he had walked alone across the campus! How many nights he had remained alone in his room! His vacations were a repetition of his childhood: Aunt Sadi, _dear_ Aunt Sadi, he thought today, Persia Blaine, Miss Perkins; riding, swimming, reading, the quiet, easy security of farm life, safe but unrevealing.... That extraordinary interview with his father: whatever happened he could never forget that. Then Alice Blake, who reminded him of Persia Blaine and Aunt Sadi, and who was young and beautiful besides, had passed his way, had been swept from his vision, and nothing remained but this new life, this incomprehensible and silly life, compounded of cocktails and chatter and music, which in its dissonances sounded almost obscene to him. In spite of Campaspe, he felt that he would never be able to cope with it. Why didn’t he break away and find himself? That seemed to be the most impossible procedure of all.

At last the towers and minarets and wheels and scenic railways of Coney Island came into view in the sonorous light; then, the wide strip of ocean, the beach strewn with refuse and bathers, fat Jewesses, and flashy young clerks from Broadway shops. There was a curious confusion of artificial and natural odours: the fishy, salty smell of the sea; the aroma of cooking-food, steaming clams, sausages, frying pork. A mechanical piano wailed out Say it with music a quarter tone off key. Barkers everywhere: Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour to present this afternoon this little lady here on my right, the Princess Sesame, considered by many to be the GREATEST LIVING EXPONENT of oriental harem dancing. The little lady will perform for you here this afternoon, INSIDE THIS TENT, a feat hitherto unattempted by any of the world’s great terpsichorean marvels, NAMELY, the Sicilian shimmy dagger dance!... Balloons, captive and toy, elongated and round, purple, green, and red. Ferris wheels, airplane swings, merry-go-rounds, tinsel and marabou, hula dolls, trap-drummers, giant coasters, gyroplanes, dodge ’ems, maelstroms, frolics, wonderlands, poses plastiques, pig slides, barbecues, captive aeros, witching waves, whirlpools, whips, chute the chutes, Venetian canals, fun houses, targets, shooting galleries, popcorn, cracker-jack, pretzels, soft drinks, eskimo pies, ice-cream cones: all the delights of the greatest of American amusement parks.

Campaspe clapped her hands. It’s superb! she cried. Just what I imagined. I’ll never have to see anything again. It’s all of life and most of death: sordid splendour with a touch of immortality and middle-class ecstasy. This is Ella Wheeler Wilcox, and Thomas Hardy, and Max Beerbohm, and Bret Harte, and even James Joyce. It’s a parable; it’s an allegory; it’s the pagan idea of heaven, and the Christian conception of hell. It burns and it freezes. It is clamour and it is silence. It is both home and the house of prostitution. It is what you want and what you want to escape. It is--she turned to Harold--complete experience. It is your education.

Harold was dazzled by her enthusiasm, but he certainly had no idea what she was talking about.

What shall we do first? asked Paul, rather languidly. They had descended from the motor and were walking along the beach.

I’m hungry, struck up Bunny.

Get Bunny a hot dog, suggested John Armstrong.

I could eat a smoked Pom, was Bunny’s riposte.

Presently, they were all munching sausages laid in between two strips of bun, larded with mustard.

Buy me a balloon and a kewpie, John, cried the ravished Campaspe. Can you find me a geranium balloon?... No, they’re all off-colour. I’ll take a blue one. Harold, come here! Stay with me and you’ll enjoy yourself. John, the other side for you. I find you charming, John. There’s something so fresh and wholesome about you Wall Street men after a week-end in the country. The country is so perverse, nothing normal about it at all. The boy who took care of the cows had jaundice.

You’re a duck, Cam--Mrs. Lorillard, John laughed. Let’s do a scenic railway in the same seat.

Game! This long one. She pointed to a great structure, waving up and down cross country on incredibly tall stilts. They entered the gateway and booked places. As they swung and pitched down the headlong descents, she grasped him first by the arms, then round the shoulders, leaning against him, and, while he was only mildly thrilled by the motion--he had been an ace in the army--, her magnetic propinquity proved more unsettling. At the end of the ride, she removed the withered geraniums from her belt and tossed them away.

I’ll get you some more: Harold was beside her again.

No more flowers today, she announced decisively, but thank you, Harold.... She turned to John: With you next to me, I’d like to do that over.

Game! he echoed her earlier refrain.

She laughed. We’ll try another sport.

They stood before a small, brightly decorated wooden structure, in front of which, stretched on ropes, a dozen rudely painted banners informed passers-by of the nature of the attractions to be viewed within. It was a sideshow, a congress of freaks, an assemblage of strange people. There were, the posters promised, a sword-swallower, a tattooed lady, giants and pigmies, a three-legged man, a bearded gentlewoman, a man with an iron tongue, a fellow with a revolving head, a wild man of Borneo, an armless man; in short, an auspicious miscellany. The barker, standing on a low platform, was functioning, waving his hands and shouting to the curious crowd which had assembled.

Within, he declared, we have the greatest collection of abnormal human beings ever exhibited together under one roof. Where else can you see the little lady only two feet high, who is ninety years of age? Where else can you gaze upon a death-defying demon who eats sharp knives and thrives on fire? He swallows the burning flames as you and I swallow our bread and meat. His throat is the wonder of science. See the Rrrrrrrrussian cossack who carries thousands of pounds in weights on a hook passed through his tongue! The man with the iron tongue! See the little lady with her snakes. This little lady, a picture of female beauty, is only sixteen years old, and yet she wraps a forty-pound boa constrictor around her waist and defies him to crrrrrush her. The most terrifying spectacle you can observe on the entire island.

That settles it, exclaimed Campaspe. I adore snakes, and so they passed the entrance. A few others followed them in, but the greater part of the crowd lingered outside to stare at the huge, crudely painted banners, and to listen to the gifted barker.

Inside, a series of platforms circled the small room, and on these platforms were ranged the strange people, the midgets, the tall men, the sword-swallowers, and ladies bearded and tattooed. Some of them looked merely bored, but most of them wore a superior expression of conscious pride, considering themselves, indubitably, of some importance in the world, contemptuous of that part of the public which did not share their peculiar perfections. Their costumes ran to red and blue and gold and pink, tricked out with tinsel and machine-made lace. All were retailing photographs of their strange selves, and a few sold booklets. Occasionally, these favoured folk conversed with one another, spoke a few words, casual and solemn at best, for it could be seen that they had nothing of importance to say to one another or to the world, nothing, save: Here I am; look at me; I am a brilliant exception on this sphere where you are conspicuously and defectively normal. You have only two legs, the three-legged man seemed to assert sneeringly, while the lady with The Last Supper tattooed on her back and Rock of Ages on her belly was obviously a trifle impatient with such women as were forced to wear mere clothes by way of decorating their bodies.

Campaspe noted these impressions, while the barker was introducing the little ladies and the wild men. Now he stood before a platform on which was seated a girl who immediately drew the attention of Campaspe’s group. She was assuredly an exception, a special jewel. She had the delicate features of a beauty from the Caucasus or an aristocratic Levantine Jewess. Her fragile nose, her exquisitely formed lips, her high cheek-bones had been modelled by an artist. She was a girl, evidently, for whom God had determined to do his best. Short and slender, her body was rhythmic and full of grace. Her head was set above her shoulders in a piquant, bird-like way, while a mass of fluffy brown hair surrounded her pale face and her great green eyes with a delicious shadow. She wore a costume of spangled crimson, cut off at the knees, with a low neck and no sleeves, and on her head a skull-cap fashioned entirely of purple sequins, and surmounted by a feather almost as tall as herself. Her stockings were the colour of the blue-jay’s feathers.

What a lovely creature! cried Campaspe.

She’s beautiful, said Paul.

Even Harold regarded the girl with curiosity, as she stood up to go through with her act without any of the abandon of the other performers. Ill at ease in her costume and out of place in the show, still it could be seen that she was lacking in self-consciousness. There was no rouge on her face, no paint on her lips.

This little lady to the right, announced the barker, is the bravest little lady in the show. Only sixteen years of age, she handles the fiercest and most dangerous rrreptiles with the carelessness of a farmhand petting a tame calf. She has visited the jungle and brought back with her vipers with fangs so deadly that one dart would kill a buffalo, boa constrictors who could fold a full-grown African lion in their coils and crrrush him to death, the deadly poisonous Indian cobra, more dreaded by the natives than the man-eating tiger! And to make her act more dangerous, it is our custom to feed these venomous reptiles only once a month. They are hungry now. They have not been fed for three weeks. Show the ladies and gentlemen what you can do, Zimbule.

As a hurdy-gurdy groaned out a melancholy rendering of I hear you calling me, the little lady stooped over a great chest, painted bright pink and studded with brass-headed nails, and raised the cover. From the gaping box one gathered a confused impression of a nest of lethargic serpents. One, more active than the rest, elevated his great jewelled head, with its staring, beaded eyes, and protruded his forked tongue. With a lack of relish, an active distaste, indeed, which must have been apparent even to the small boys present, the little lady lifted the huge, scaly monster out of the chest and disposed his heavy iridescent folds around her torso. Up to a certain point, the snake submitted with an easy grace and a seeming lassitude. Quite suddenly, however, with a quick brilliant movement, which in its intricacy baffled the beholder, he coiled himself securely three or four times about her waist in an embrace which constantly grew more perilous, while, with his head pointing vertically straight upward from her abdomen, he darted what might be called forked kisses at her chin. The girl’s face assumed a pallor which gave to her beauty an even greater delicacy. Her lips quivered; immediately, only the whites of her eyes were visible; her body collapsed, and she fell heavily to the floor. The serpent, alarmed, perhaps, by this new game, swiftly unrolled himself and glided back into his box.

Quick! Campaspe whispered to John. Quick! Get the child!

Armstrong vaulted to the platform, caught Zimbule in his arms and, descending, made his way through the group, too astonished to question or oppose him, out to the open air. Thence Campaspe and the others followed him.

That’s right! the barker approved. Take her out! Give her the air!

It’s criminal. She’s only a baby ... Campaspe exclaimed.

They all have to begin, said the barker. It’s her first show here, but she swore she was on. These kids lie like hell.

To a little plot of grass behind the show-building John had borne her, laying her gently on the sward, while Campaspe and the others swiftly surrounded her and kept the crowd from surging too close. Paul had found some water which he dashed in her face. Presently, she opened her great green eyes.

Who are you? she asked, and Campaspe was relieved to discover that a rather common voice and accent offered the proper contrast to the refined beauty of her features.

Don’t talk, suggested Campaspe. Wait till you feel better.

The amateur snake-charmer glanced searchingly into the faces of her new friends; presently, she smiled.

Well, I was game.

What did you do it for? demanded Campaspe.

Coin. You gotta eat.

Hungry?

Ain’t had a good feed for a week.

Where do you live?

No place.

Where’s your family?

In hell, I guess.

Any friends?

Don’t kid me.

Campaspe turned to John again. Carry her to the car, she directed.

He bent over to lift her once more, but the child, now resting her chin on the palm of her left hand, and half sitting up, rejected his offer of assistance.

Say, I can walk.

Come with us. We’ll get you something to eat, Campaspe explained. She slipped a five dollar bill into the palm of the barker, with the words, She doesn’t belong here.

The barker grinned. Glad to get rid of her, lady, so easy. I couldn’t leave her do another show.

The group, pressing close about to protect her from the still curious crowd, made their way slowly to the spot where the motor was parked. Once in the car, Campaspe directed her chauffeur to drive to a hotel further down the beach. The girl slid into the cushions, between John and Campaspe. The others found places.

As the car started, the girl’s distrust awakened. Say, she cried, what’s the idea?

You’re hungry, aren’t you?

I sure am.

Want something to eat?

God, yes.

Well, you’re going to get it. Keep quiet for a while. You’re not strong enough to talk yet.

The child offered no further resistance, but at the entrance to the dining-room of the hotel, Campaspe met with a new form of opposition. It was early, and the room was practically empty, but the costume of the young lady! Campaspe sent for the head-waiter.

You know Mr. Lorillard?

Certainly, madame.

Well, I am Mrs. Lorillard. This is the Duchess of Manchester. She is studying Coney Island for her book on America, and it is her fancy to dress like this.... Shall we go to the...? She named another hotel nearby.

Certainly not, Mrs. Lorillard. The man became obsequious at once. Come right in here, of course. He led them to a table near the window.

What do you want to eat? asked Paul.

Steak, pork chops, ham and eggs.... Whether from lack of breath or lack of imagination the girl did not make the list longer.

Campaspe turned to the waiter. Bring her a glass of milk and some toast and be quick about it. The girl is starving. Then to the pseudo-enchantress of serpents: You can’t have everything you want now. You’re not strong enough to eat it. It would make you ill. Now don’t talk any more till you’ve swallowed some food.

The girl obeyed and remained silent, but her great green eyes wandered curiously from face to face. When, after a very short interval, the waiter returned with the order, she drank the milk at a single gulp, and crunched the toast between her strong young jaws with an intensity which betokened anxiety lest the food should be removed before she could dispatch it. Campaspe and the boys were sipping glasses of orange juice, into which Paul had dexterously inserted drops from the field-glass cases which Ki had prepared.

Feel better now, kid? asked John Armstrong.

I feel all right.

What is your name? Campaspe asked.

Wotschures?

Campaspe Lorillard.

Zimbule O’Grady.

Zimbule O’Grady, exclaimed Paul, with delight.... Zim--

The girl misunderstood his tone. Don’t you like it? she flared.

Paul was quick to aver that he adored it.

Bunny, whose mind, as usual, was wandering, accidentally saved the situation. He was sitting with his back to the corner, facing the entrance. Idly watching people coming in, his attention was attracted by a pair just about to sit down at a table across the room.

My God! ’paspe, he cried, look at Cupid!

Campaspe and the others turned to gaze across the long, vine-hung and trellised room, at a short, fat man, slightly bald, who stood beside a massive blonde, wearing a black dress, quivering with jet, an enormous hat, trembling with paradise plumes, and from whose wrists dangled enough gold-bags, vanity-cases, bracelets, chains, gold pencils, and bangles to set a minor Sixth Avenue merchant up in business.

Campaspe smiled. What abominable taste Cupid has in women, she remarked. He looks like an olive on a holiday. Then: I think we’d better start back. We’ve had our adventure.

What about dinner? asked John Armstrong.

We’ll stop somewhere else for that.

Why not go back to the apartment? Paul suggested. Ki can run out for some cold cuts and a salad.

Kalter Aufschnitt! Just the thing! cried Campaspe, delighted, and no danger of seeing vulgar people!

Can he get some ham? Zimbule demanded hopefully.

Yes, and you will be ready to eat it then.

For the drive back, certain rearrangements of position were effected. Bunny attempted to slip into the back seat beside Zimbule, but, with some dexterity, Campaspe pushed John Armstrong between herself and the girl, and, as Harold and Paul already occupied the strapontins, Bunny was forced to take the seat by the chauffeur. He sulked. Harold was feeling altogether confused and uncomfortable. Paul was highly amused.

Zimbule now seemed as strong as a young ox, as alert as a wren searching for worms. She had completely forgone her momentary distrust, and was behaving as only a young animal, bereft of self-consciousness, can behave. In the restaurant, she and Bunny, from their positions of propinquity, had indulged in quaint plays of words and hands. They had even been a little rough at times. Now she called out to him, and occasionally reached over to poke him in the back or to pull his hair. Campaspe, for some curious and secret reason, was concentrating her attention on John Armstrong, flattering the handsome stock-broker with overt suavities until he responded with some of the clumsy intuition of a Newfoundland dog. Bunny, too, found that his feet were getting hot. These Rolls-Royces! But what a burrrrrrrrrrrrrrr for a tone-poem! Inns and trees flew past. Farmhouses and fields, aqueducts, railroad embankments. At last (it was late twilight), the illuminated city, the tall gloomy towers, their pinnacles gleaming, the serrated silhouette of Manhattan. John Armstrong ventured to take Campaspe’s hand in his. She made no objection.

Ki opened the door with his habitual enigmatic smile, and when bidden to seek refreshments, he smiled more blandly than ever. While Ki laid the table, Paul was shaking cocktails, assisted by Harold, who cracked the ice and squeezed the oranges. Zimbule was sitting on Bunny’s lap.

Oh, Ki! cried Campaspe, I forgot to tell Ambrose I wouldn’t need him any more. Run down and tell him not to wait. I’ll walk home. Well--she turned to the spread table--here we are again. As for you, young lady, you go home with me, of course.

What will Cupid say? from Bunny.

Whatever he likes.

A dubious expression lurked between Zimbule’s eyebrows, and Bunny crossed his fingers. The girl seemed as comfortable as if she had been accustomed to pass every evening in Paul’s apartment, showing no curiosity. She was, Campaspe noted, oblivious to surroundings. Things, in themselves, meant nothing to her. Harold, she saw, was too self-conscious and embarrassed to eat.

After supper, Campaspe settled herself on a couch, with John Armstrong on the floor beneath her.

Lucky I came today, ’paspe. I thought I should never see you again. It’s been six months since we met for the first time.

You really like me?

I adore you, ’paspe.

That’s right.... You Wall Street men! So substantial! No jaundice.

Paul turned to Harold: There won’t be many days like this.

It doesn’t matter. Father said....

Oh! I know. Strange bird, your father. I don’t mind telling you I’m not wise.

What kind of women do you like? Campaspe was hailing Harold.

I like you. He was very much in earnest.

Very good for an amateur. You shall have your day, but this is John’s night.