II

von Robert W. Chambers

The next morning, Thomas, the bellboy, brought me the *Herald* along with some news. The church next door had been sold. I felt a wave of relief wash over me, not because I had any issue with the congregation, being a Catholic myself, but because my nerves had been frayed by a loud preacher whose voice boomed through the church like it was echoing in my own apartment. His exaggerated pronunciation of the letter “r” grated on my every nerve.

Then there was the organist, a true menace, who butchered the grand old hymns with his own peculiar interpretations. I found myself wishing harm upon anyone who could play the doxology with those jarring minor chords that reminded me of a group of overly eager college students. I believed the minister was a good man, but when he thundered, “And the Lord said unto Moses, the Lord is a man of war; the Lord is His name. My wrath shall wax hot, and I will kill you with the sword!” I couldn’t help but wonder how many centuries of purgatory it would take to atone for such a sin.

“Who bought the property?” I asked Thomas.

“Not sure, sir. They say the guy who owns these Hamilton flats was looking at it. He might build more studios.”

I walked over to the window and spotted the young man with the unhealthy face standing by the churchyard gate. Just seeing him filled me with the same overwhelming disgust.

“By the way, Thomas,” I said, “who is that guy down there?”

Thomas sniffed. “That worm? He’s the night watchman for the church. Makes me tired just watching him sit there all night, staring at you like that. I’d have punched him, sir—sorry, sir—”

“Go on, Thomas.”

“One night, coming home with Harry, the other English boy, I saw him sitting there on the steps. We had Molly and Jen with us, the two girls from the tray service, and he looked at us so insultingly that I said, ‘What are you looking at, you fat slug?’—sorry, sir, but that’s how I said it. He didn’t say anything, so I added, ‘Come out and I’ll punch that pudding head.’ Then I opened the gate and went in, but he just kept looking at me like that. I hit him once, but ugh! His head was so cold and mushy it made me sick to touch him.”

“What did he do then?” I asked, intrigued.

“Nothing.”

“And you, Thomas?”

The young man flushed with embarrassment and smiled awkwardly.

“Mr. Scott, sir, I’m not a coward, but I can’t explain why I ran. I was in the 5th Lancers, sir, a bugler at Tel-el-Kebir, and I got shot by the wells.”

“You don’t mean to say you ran away?”

“Yes, sir; I ran.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I want to know, sir. I grabbed Molly and ran, and the others were just as scared as I was.”

“But what were they scared of?”

Thomas hesitated, but my curiosity about the repulsive young man below pushed me to press him. Three years in America had not only softened Thomas’ Cockney accent but had also instilled in him a fear of ridicule typical of Americans.

“You won’t believe me, Mr. Scott, sir?”

“Yes, I will.”

“You’ll laugh at me, sir?”

“Nonsense!”

He hesitated again. “Well, sir, it’s the truth that when I hit him, he grabbed my wrists, and when I twisted his soft, mushy fist, one of his fingers came off in my hand.”

The sheer disgust and horror on Thomas’ face must have mirrored my own, for he added, “It’s awful, and now when I see him, I just walk away. He makes me ill.”

Once Thomas left, I returned to the window. The man stood by the church railing, both hands on the gate, but I quickly retreated to my easel, feeling sickened and horrified. I noticed that the middle finger of his right hand was missing.

At nine o’clock, Tessie appeared and dashed behind the screen with a cheerful, “Good morning, Mr. Scott.” When she reemerged and took her pose on the model stand, I started a new canvas, much to her delight. She stayed quiet while I worked, but as soon as I finished with the charcoal and picked up my fixative, she began to chatter.

“Oh, I had such a lovely time last night. We went to Tony Pastor’s.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” I asked.

“Oh, Maggie, Mr. Whyte’s model, and Pinkie McCormick—we call her Pinkie because of her beautiful red hair that you artists love so much—and Lizzie Burke.”

I sprayed the canvas with fixative and said, “Well, go on.”

“We saw Kelly and Baby Barnes, the skirt dancer, and all the rest. I made a mash.”

“Then you’ve gone back on me, Tessie?”

She laughed and shook her head.

“He’s Lizzie Burke’s brother, Ed. He’s a perfect gentleman.”

I felt the need to give her some parental advice about mashing, which she accepted with a bright smile.

“Oh, I can handle a strange mash,” she said, examining her chewing gum, “but Ed is different. Lizzie is my best friend.”

Tessie told me about Ed’s return from the stocking mill in Lowell, Massachusetts. He had come back to find her and Lizzie all grown up. She spoke of how accomplished he had become, casually spending half a dollar on ice cream and oysters to celebrate his new job as a clerk in the woolen department at Macy’s.

As she chatted, I began to paint, and she resumed her pose, smiling and chattering like a little bird. By noon, I had made good progress on the painting, and Tessie came to check it out.

“That’s better,” she said, and I agreed.

Feeling satisfied, I enjoyed my lunch. Tessie set her meal on a drawing table across from me, and we shared a bottle of claret, lighting our cigarettes from the same match. I was quite fond of Tessie. I had watched her transform from a frail, awkward child into a slender, beautifully formed woman. She had been my model for the past three years, and among all my subjects, she was my favorite.

It would have troubled me greatly if she had become “tough” or “fly,” as people said, but I never noticed any change in her demeanor. Deep down, I felt she was doing just fine. We never discussed morals, and I had no intention of starting. Partly, it was because I didn’t have any myself, and partly because I knew she would do what she wanted regardless of my opinions. Still, I hoped she would avoid any complications. I genuinely wished her well, and selfishly, I wanted to keep my best model.

I understood that “mashing,” as she called it, didn’t mean much to girls like Tessie, and that relationships in America were nothing like those in Paris. Yet, I also knew that someday someone would take Tessie away, one way or another. Although I told myself that marriage was nonsense, I secretly hoped that, in her case, there would be a priest waiting at the end of the road. I was a Catholic, after all. When I attended mass, when I signed myself, everything felt brighter, and confession always lifted my spirits. A man who lives as alone as I do needs someone to confess to. Plus, Sylvia was Catholic, which was reason enough for me.

But I was talking about Tessie, which was a different matter entirely. Tessie was also Catholic and far more devout than I was. So, overall, I had little fear for my lovely model until she fell in love. At that point, I knew fate would take over, and I silently prayed that it would keep her away from men like me, guiding her instead toward good guys like Ed Burkes and Jimmy McCormicks. Bless her sweet face!

Tessie sat there, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling and tinkling the ice in her glass.

“Did I tell you I had a dream last night?” I asked.

“Not about that guy,” she laughed.

“Exactly. It was a dream similar to yours, but much worse.”

It was thoughtless of me to say it, but painters often lack tact. “I must have fallen asleep around ten,” I continued. “After a while, I dreamt that I woke up. I could hear the midnight bells, the wind rustling through the branches, and the distant whistles of steamers from the bay so clearly that even now, I can hardly believe I wasn’t awake.

I felt like I was lying in a box with a glass top. I could dimly see the street lamps as I passed by. The box I was in seemed to be on a cushioned wagon that jolted me over a bumpy road. Eventually, I grew impatient and tried to move, but the box was too narrow. My hands were crossed over my chest, so I couldn’t lift them to help myself. I listened and tried to call out, but my voice was gone. I could hear the horses pulling the wagon and even the driver’s breathing.

Then I heard another sound, like a window being opened. I managed to turn my head a little and realized I could see not just through the glass top of my box but also through the glass sides of the covered wagon. I saw houses, empty and silent, with no lights or signs of life—except for one. In that house, a window was open on the first floor, and a figure dressed in white was looking down into the street. It was you.”

Tessie turned her face away from me and leaned on the table with her elbow.

“I could see your face,” I continued, “and it looked very sad. Then we moved on and turned into a narrow, dark lane. The horses stopped, and I waited, closing my eyes in fear and impatience, but everything was silent as the grave. After what felt like hours, I began to feel uncomfortable. The sense that someone was close made me open my eyes. Then I saw the pale face of the hearse driver looking at me through the coffin lid—”

A sob escaped from Tessie, and she trembled like a leaf. I realized I had made a mistake and tried to fix it.

“Tess,” I said, “I only shared that to show you how much your story could influence someone else's dreams. You don’t really think I lay in a coffin, do you? Why are you trembling? Can’t you see that your dream and my silly dislike for that harmless church watchman just got my mind racing as soon as I fell asleep?”

She rested her head on her arms and sobbed as if her heart might break. What a fool I had made of myself! But I was determined not to let it end there. I walked over and wrapped my arm around her.

“Tessie, I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have scared you with such nonsense. You’re too sensible, too good a Catholic to believe in dreams.”

Her hand tightened around mine, and her head fell back against my shoulder, but she still trembled. I stroked her hair and tried to comfort her.

“Come on, Tess, open your eyes and smile.”

Her eyes opened slowly, meeting mine, but the look in them was so strange that I hurried to reassure her again.

“It’s all nonsense, Tessie; you can’t really think any harm will come to you because of that.”

“No,” she replied, though her scarlet lips quivered.

“Then what’s wrong? Are you scared?”

“Yes. Not for myself.”

“For me, then?” I asked playfully.

“For you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I—I care for you.”

At first, I wanted to laugh, but as I grasped her meaning, a shock coursed through me, and I felt frozen. This was the height of foolishness on my part. In the brief moment between her confession and my response, I considered a thousand ways to react. I could laugh it off, misunderstand her and assure her I was fine, or simply point out that it was impossible for her to love me. But my reply came faster than my thoughts, and now I could only think about it after I had kissed her.

That evening, I took my usual walk in Washington Park, reflecting on the day’s events. I was all in now—there was no turning back. I faced the future head-on. I wasn’t a good person, not even particularly scrupulous, but I had no intention of deceiving either myself or Tessie. The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of Brittany. Was it buried forever? Hope cried, “No!” For three years, I had listened to Hope’s voice, waiting for a familiar footstep at my door. Had Sylvia forgotten me? “No!” Hope insisted.

I admitted I wasn’t a good person, and that was true, but I wasn’t exactly a villain from a comic opera either. I had lived a carefree, reckless life, indulging in whatever pleasures came my way, often regretting the consequences. There was only one thing I took seriously, aside from my painting, and that was something hidden, if not lost, in the Breton forests.

It was too late for me to regret what had happened that day. Whatever it was—whether it was pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the more brutal instinct of vanity—it didn’t matter now. Unless I wanted to hurt an innocent heart, my path was clear. The fire and strength, the depth of passion in a love I had never even suspected, left me no choice but to either respond or push her away.

I wasn’t sure if it was my cowardice about causing pain to others or if I simply lacked the gloomy Puritan spirit, but I hesitated to deny responsibility for that thoughtless kiss. In fact, I didn’t have time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood of her emotions poured out. Others, who always did their duty and found a grim satisfaction in making themselves and everyone around them unhappy, might have resisted. I couldn’t. I dared not.

Once the storm of feelings had calmed, I told her that she might have been better off loving Ed Burke and wearing a simple gold ring, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I thought that as long as she had chosen to love someone she couldn’t marry, it might as well be me. At least I could offer her an intelligent affection, and whenever she grew tired of her infatuation, she could walk away without any harm done. I was determined about that, even though I knew it would be difficult.

I remembered how most Platonic relationships ended and how disgusted I felt whenever I heard about one. I understood I was taking on a lot for someone as unscrupulous as I was, and I envisioned the future, but never for a moment did I doubt that she was safe with me. If it had been anyone but Tessie, I wouldn’t have bothered with scruples. It didn’t even cross my mind to sacrifice Tessie as I would have done with a woman of the world.

I faced the future squarely and saw the possible outcomes of our situation. She might tire of it all or become so unhappy that I would either have to marry her or leave. If I married her, we would both be unhappy—me with a wife who wasn’t right for me, and her with a husband unsuitable for any woman. My past hardly qualified me for marriage. If I left, she might fall ill, recover, and marry some Eddie Burke, or she might recklessly do something foolish. On the other hand, if she grew tired of me, her whole life would still lie ahead, filled with beautiful possibilities of Eddie Burkes, wedding rings, children, and who knows what else.

As I strolled through the trees by the Washington Arch, I decided that she would find a solid friend in me, and the future could take care of itself. Then I went inside and put on my evening dress, for the faintly perfumed note on my dresser read, “Have a cab at the stage door at eleven,” signed “Edith Carmichel, Metropolitan Theatre.”

That night, Miss Carmichel and I had supper at Solari’s, and as dawn began to gild the cross on the Memorial Church, I entered Washington Square after leaving Edith at the Brunswick. The park was empty as I walked along the tree-lined path from the Garibaldi statue to the Hamilton Apartment House. But as I passed the churchyard, I noticed a figure sitting on the stone steps. A chill crept over me at the sight of the pale, puffy face, and I quickened my pace to get past.

Then he muttered something that might have been directed at me or just a mumble to himself, but a sudden, furious anger flared up inside me at the thought of such a creature addressing me. For a moment, I felt like turning around and smashing my cane over his head, but I kept walking and entered the Hamilton, heading to my apartment.

For a while, I tossed and turned in bed, trying to shake the sound of his voice from my mind, but it lingered. That muttering filled my head like thick, oily smoke or the stench of decay. As I lay there, the voice became clearer, and I began to understand the words he had muttered. They came to me slowly, as if I had forgotten them, until I could finally make sense of the sounds. It was this:

“Have you found the Yellow Sign?”

“Have you found the Yellow Sign?”

“Have you found the Yellow Sign?”

I was furious. What did he mean by that? With a curse directed at him and his words, I rolled over and went to sleep. But when I awoke later, I looked pale and haggard, for I had dreamed the same dream as the night before, and it troubled me more than I wanted to admit.

I dressed and went down to my studio. Tessie was sitting by the window, but as I entered, she stood up and wrapped her arms around my neck for an innocent kiss. She looked so sweet and delicate that I kissed her again before sitting down in front of the easel.

“Hey! Where’s the study I started yesterday?” I asked.

Tessie looked a bit uneasy but didn’t say anything. I started rummaging through the stacks of canvases, urging her, “Come on, Tess, get ready. We need to make the most of the morning light.”

After a while, I gave up searching among the other canvases and turned to scan the room for the missing study. That’s when I noticed Tessie standing by the screen, still fully dressed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes.”

“Then hurry up.”

“Do you want me to pose like I always have?”

In that moment, I realized the complication. I had lost the best nude model I’d ever had. I looked at Tessie, her face flushed bright red. Oh, how the innocence of our earlier days felt like a distant memory now.

I must have shown my disappointment because she added, “I’ll pose if you want. The study is behind the screen where I left it.”

“No,” I replied. “Let’s start something new.” I went to my wardrobe and pulled out a Moorish costume that shimmered with tinsel. It was a genuine piece, and Tessie disappeared behind the screen, clearly excited.

When she stepped out again, I was taken aback. Her long black hair was adorned with a turquoise circlet, and the ends curled around her sparkling waist. She wore embroidered pointed slippers, and the skirt of her costume, intricately designed with silver arabesques, fell gracefully to her ankles. The deep metallic blue vest, embroidered with silver, and the short Mauresque jacket, embellished with turquoise, suited her perfectly. She approached me, her face lit up with a smile. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a gold chain with a cross, and draped it over her head.

“It’s yours, Tessie.”

“Mine?” she asked, surprised.

“Yours. Now go and pose.” With a bright smile, she dashed back behind the screen and soon returned holding a small box that had my name written on it.

“I was going to give this to you tonight when I went home,” she said, “but I can’t wait.”

I opened the box to find a clasp made of black onyx, with a strange symbol inlaid in gold. It didn’t resemble Arabic or Chinese, and later I discovered it didn’t belong to any known script.

“It’s all I had to give you as a keepsake,” she said shyly.

I felt a twinge of annoyance, but I told her how much I would treasure it and promised to wear it always. She fastened it to my coat beneath the lapel.

“How silly, Tess, to buy me something so beautiful,” I said.

“I didn’t buy it,” she laughed.

“Where did you get it?”

She explained how she had found it one day while walking back from the Aquarium in the Battery, how she had tried to find the owner by placing ads and checking the papers, but eventually gave up.

“That was last winter,” she said. “It was the same day I had that awful dream about the hearse.”

I recalled my own dream from the night before but kept quiet. Soon, my charcoal was flying across a new canvas, and Tessie stood still on the model stand, ready to pose.