The next morning, Thomas, the bell-boy, brought me the Herald along with a piece of news.
“The church next door has been sold, sir.”
I thanked Heaven for it. Being a Catholic, I had nothing against the people who worshipped there. What I hated was their preacher. His voice came booming through the walls as though he were shouting inside my own apartment. Worse still, he had an unbearable habit of stretching every “r” through his nose.
And then there was the organist—a man who seemed determined to murder every great old hymn ever written. I could have cheerfully killed him whenever he played the doxology with strange minor chords that sounded as though they had been invented by a group of very young college students.
I suppose the minister was a good man. But whenever he thundered,
“And the Lorrrd said unto Moses, the Lorrrd is a man of war! The Lorrrd is His name! My wrath shall wax hot, and I will kill you with the sworrrd!”
I used to wonder how many centuries in purgatory would be needed to pay for such an offense against music.
“Who bought the property?” I asked Thomas.
“Nobody that I knows of, sir. They do say the gent what owns these ’ere ’Amilton flats was lookin’ at it. Might be he’s goin’ to build more studios.”
I walked over to the window.
The pale young man with the unhealthy-looking face was standing beside the churchyard gate. The instant I saw him, that same powerful feeling of disgust swept over me.
“By the way, Thomas,” I said, “who is that fellow down there?”
Thomas sniffed.
“That there worm, sir? ’E’s the night-watchman of the church. Makes me tired, sittin’ out there all night on them steps, starin’ at you so insultin’. I’d have punched ’is ’ead, sir—beg pardon, sir—”
“Go on, Thomas.”
“One night I was comin’ home with ’Arry, the other English boy. We ’ad Molly and Jen with us, sir—the two girls from the tray service. That fellow was sittin’ on them steps, and he looked at us so insultin’ that I up and says, ‘What you lookin’ at, you fat slug?’ Beg pardon, sir, but that’s what I said.”
“And then?”
“He didn’t say nothin’. So I says, ‘Come out and I’ll punch that puddin’ ’ead.’ Then I opened the gate and went in. Still didn’t say a word. Just kept lookin’ at us.”
“And you hit him?”
“I did. I hit ’im once.”
Thomas shuddered.
“But, ugh! His ’ead was so cold and mushy. It would make you sick just touchin’ ’im.”
“What did he do?”
“Him? Nothin’.”
“And what did you do, Thomas?”
The young fellow flushed and looked embarrassed.
“Mr. Scott, sir, I ain’t no coward. I can’t understand why I ran. I was in the Fifth Lancers, sir. Bugler at Tel-el-Kebir. I was even shot there by the wells.”
“You mean you ran away?”
“Yes, sir. I ran.”
“Why?”
“That’s exactly what I want to know, sir. I grabbed Molly and ran, and the others were just as frightened as me.”
“But what frightened you?”
Thomas refused to answer for a while. By then my curiosity about the repulsive young man downstairs had grown too strong, and I kept pressing him.
Three years in America had softened Thomas’s Cockney accent considerably. It had also given him the American fear of being laughed at.
“You won’t believe me, Mr. Scott, sir?”
“Yes, I will.”
“You won’t laugh at me?”
“Nonsense.”
He hesitated.
“Well, sir, it’s the honest truth. When I hit ’im, ’e grabbed both my wrists. I twisted ’is soft, mushy hand, and one of ’is fingers came off in me ’and.”
The look of horror and disgust on Thomas’s face must have appeared on mine as well.
“It’s awful,” he whispered. “Now whenever I see ’im, I just go away. ’E makes me sick.”
After Thomas left, I returned to the window.
The man was standing beside the church railing with both hands resting on the gate.
I immediately stepped back to my easel, horrified.
The middle finger of his right hand was missing.
At nine o’clock Tessie arrived.
“Good morning, Mr. Scott!” she called cheerfully as she disappeared behind the screen.
When she came out and took her place on the model stand, I began a new canvas. She stayed quiet while I worked on the drawing. But as soon as I stopped scraping the charcoal and reached for the fixative, she began talking.
“Oh, I had such a lovely time last night. We went to Tony Pastor’s.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” I asked.
“Maggie, of course. You know, Mr. Whyte’s model. And Pinkie McCormick—we call her Pinkie because she has that beautiful red hair artists like so much. And Lizzie Burke.”
I sprayed the fixative over the canvas.
“Well, go on.”
“We saw Kelly, and Baby Barnes, the skirt dancer, and everybody else. I made a mash.”
“So 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 obliged to give her a little fatherly advice about making mashes. She listened with a bright smile.
“Oh, I can take care of a strange mash,” she said, examining her chewing gum. “But Ed is different. Lizzie is my best friend.”
Then she told me all about Ed.
He had come back from a stocking mill in Lowell, Massachusetts, and found that she and Lizzie had grown up. He was an ambitious young man, too. He had just become a clerk in the wool department at Macy’s, and thought nothing of spending fifty cents on ice cream and oysters to celebrate his new position.
By the time she finished, I had started painting again. Tessie resumed her pose, smiling and chattering like a sparrow.
By noon, I had the study fairly well blocked in, and Tessie came over to look at it.
“That’s better,” she said.
“I think so too.”
I ate lunch feeling pleased with the morning’s work.
Tessie spread her lunch on a drawing table opposite mine. We drank claret from the same bottle and lit our cigarettes from the same match.
I was very fond of Tessie.
I had watched her grow from a thin, awkward child into a slender and beautifully formed young woman. She had posed for me for three years, and of all my models, she was my favorite.
It would have troubled me deeply if she had become what people called “tough” or “fly.” But I had never seen any sign of that. As far as I could tell, she was still a good girl.
We never discussed morals. I had no particular right to lecture her, and I knew perfectly well that she would do as she pleased anyway.
Still, I hoped she would avoid trouble. I cared about her. And, selfishly, I wanted to keep the best model I had ever had.
I knew that “mashing,” as Tessie called it, meant very little with girls like her. In America, such flirtations were nothing like the affairs I had seen in Paris.
But I had lived long enough to know that someone would eventually take Tessie away from me, one way or another.
Although I told myself that marriage was foolish, I sincerely hoped that if she ever married, there would be a priest waiting at the end of the road.
I was a Catholic.
Whenever I attended high mass and made the sign of the cross, I felt that the whole world—including myself—became brighter. Confession did me good too. A man who lived as much alone as I did needed someone to confess to.
And Sylvia had been Catholic as well. That alone was reason enough for me.
But I was speaking of Tessie.
That was entirely different.
Tessie was Catholic too, and much more devout than I was. So, all things considered, I had little reason to worry about her—at least until she fell in love.
Then I knew that fate would decide what happened to her.
I silently prayed that fate would keep men like me away from her and put nothing but men like Ed Burke and Jimmy McCormick in her path.
Tessie sat by the window, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling and idly moving the ice in her glass.
“Do you know I had a dream last night too?” I said.
“Not about that man?” she laughed.
“Exactly. Something like your dream, only much worse.”
It was foolish of me to say it. Painters are not always blessed with good judgment.
“I must have fallen asleep around ten,” I continued. “After a while I dreamed that I woke up. I could hear the midnight bells, the wind moving through the branches, and the steamers blowing their whistles out on the bay. It was so real that even now I can hardly believe I wasn’t awake.”
I paused.
“I seemed to be lying inside a box with a glass lid. I could dimly see the street lamps passing overhead. The box was inside a padded wagon that was jolting along over a stone pavement.”
Tessie had stopped smiling.
“After a while I became impatient and tried to move. But the box was too narrow. My hands were crossed over my chest, so I couldn’t lift them.”
I continued.
“I listened and tried to call out. But I had no voice. I could hear the horses pulling the wagon. I could even hear the driver breathing.”
Tessie turned her face away.
“Then I heard another sound, almost like someone raising a window. I managed to turn my head a little. I could see through the glass lid of the box, and also through the glass windows of the covered wagon.”
I looked at her.
“I saw houses along the street. They were all dark and silent. No light. No movement. Except one.”
She was now leaning on the table, her face turned away from me.
“The first-floor window of that house was open. A figure dressed completely in white stood there, looking down into the street.”
I stopped for a moment.
“It was you.”
Tessie lowered her head.
“I could see your face,” I said. “You looked terribly sad.”
She did not move.
“Then the wagon went on. We turned into a narrow, black lane. The horses stopped.”
I swallowed.
“I waited. And waited. I closed my eyes because I was frightened and impatient. Everything was as silent as a grave.”
Tessie began to tremble.
“After what seemed like hours, I started feeling uncomfortable. I had the sense that someone was close to me. So I opened my eyes.”
Her shoulders shook.
“And then I saw the white face of the hearse driver looking down at me through the coffin lid—”
A sob broke from Tessie.
She was trembling violently.
I immediately realized what a fool I had been and tried to undo the damage.
“Why, Tess, I only told you that to show you how your dream might have affected someone else’s dreams. You don’t think I was really lying in a coffin, do you?”
She covered her face.
“What are you trembling for? Don’t you see? Your dream, together with my strange dislike of that harmless church watchman, simply got into my head before I fell asleep.”
Tessie buried her head in her arms and sobbed as if her heart were breaking.
What an absolute idiot I had been.
And then, instead of stopping, I managed to make things even worse.
I went over and put my arm around her.
“Tessie, dear, forgive me,” I said. “I had no right to frighten you with such nonsense. You’re too sensible a girl—and too good a Catholic—to believe in dreams.”
She squeezed my hand and rested her head against my shoulder.
But she was still trembling.
I gently tried to comfort her.
“Come on, Tess. Open your eyes and smile.”
Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked at me.
There was something so strange in her expression that I hurried to reassure her.
“It’s all nonsense, Tessie. Surely you don’t think anything bad is going to happen to you because of that dream.”
“No,” she whispered.
Her lips trembled.
“Then what’s wrong? Are you frightened?”
“Yes.”
“Of what?”
“Not for myself.”
“For me, then?” I asked lightly.
“For you,” she whispered.
She lowered her eyes.
“I—I care for you.”
At first I almost laughed.
Then I understood.
A shock went through me, and I sat there as still as stone.
This was the final and greatest mistake I had made.
In the few seconds before I answered, a thousand possible replies flashed through my mind.
I could laugh it off.
I could pretend I had misunderstood her.
I could reassure her that there was nothing wrong with my health.
I could tell her plainly that she could not possibly love me.
But my actions were faster than my thoughts.
I kissed her.
That evening I walked through Washington Park, thinking about everything that had happened.
There was no turning back now. I had to face the future.
I was not a good man. I was not even particularly scrupulous. But I had no intention of deceiving either myself or Tessie.
The one great passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests of Brittany.
Was it buried forever?
Hope answered, “No.”
For three years I had listened to that voice.
For three years I had waited for footsteps outside my door.
Had Sylvia forgotten me?
“No,” Hope whispered again.
I said I was no good, and that was true. But I was not some melodramatic villain either.
I had lived an easy, reckless life. I took whatever pleasures came my way and then regretted the consequences afterward.
Apart from painting, there was only one thing I had ever taken seriously.
And that thing lay hidden, perhaps even lost, in the forests of Brittany.
There was no point regretting what had happened that day.
Whether it had been pity, sudden tenderness, or simply the satisfaction of knowing that someone desired me, the result was the same.
If I did not want to break an innocent girl’s heart, I had only two choices: return her love or send her away.
Perhaps I was too much of a coward to hurt someone. Perhaps I simply lacked the grim Puritan streak that makes some people proud of making themselves miserable.
Whatever the reason, I could not deny responsibility for that foolish kiss.
In truth, I had not even had the chance.
The moment Tessie’s heart opened, everything inside it came pouring out.
A man who spent his life doing what he believed was his duty might have resisted.
I did not.
I could not.
Later, when the storm had finally passed, I told her that she would have been better off loving Ed Burke and wearing a plain gold wedding ring.
She refused to listen.
And I thought that if she was determined to love a man she could not marry, perhaps it was better that the man should be me.
At least I could treat her with intelligence and affection. And when she eventually outgrew her infatuation, she would not be ruined by it.
I was determined about that, though I knew how difficult it would be.
I had seen how supposedly “Platonic” relationships usually ended. I had always been disgusted whenever I heard about them.
I knew I was taking on a great responsibility for a man as unscrupulous as myself.
I imagined all sorts of futures.
But I never doubted for a moment that Tessie was safe with me.
Had it been anyone else, I might not have cared about such scruples.
But Tessie was different.
I could never treat her as I might have treated a worldly woman.
I looked at the possible endings.
She might eventually grow tired of me.
Or she might become so unhappy that I would have to marry her or leave.
If I married her, we would both be miserable. I would have a wife who did not suit me, and she would have a husband who was unsuitable for any woman. My past hardly qualified me for marriage.
If I left, she might become ill, recover, and marry some decent man like Ed Burke.
Or she might deliberately—or recklessly—do something foolish.
But if she simply grew tired of me, her whole life would open before her again.
There would be Ed Burkes, wedding rings, children, a comfortable home in Harlem, and Heaven knew what else.
As I walked beneath the trees near the Washington Arch, I decided that, whatever happened, I would at least be a loyal and dependable friend to Tessie.
The future would take care of itself.
Then I went home and put on my evening clothes.
A small, faintly perfumed note was waiting on my dresser.
It said:
“Have a cab at the stage door at eleven.”
It was signed:
“Edith Carmichel, Metropolitan Theatre.”
That night Miss Carmichel and I had supper at Solari’s—or rather, we had supper together.
By the time I left her at the Brunswick and returned to Washington Square, dawn was just beginning to turn the cross on the Memorial Church golden.
The park was empty.
I walked beneath the trees along the path from the Garibaldi statue toward the Hamilton Apartment House.
As I passed the churchyard, I saw someone sitting on the stone steps.
Despite myself, a chill ran through me when I saw that white, swollen face.
I hurried past.
Then he said something.
I could not tell whether he was speaking to me or merely muttering to himself.
A sudden, furious anger rose inside me at the thought of such a creature addressing me.
For a moment I wanted to turn around and smash my walking stick over his head.
Instead, I kept walking.
I entered the Hamilton and went up to my apartment.
For a long time I tossed restlessly in bed, trying to drive the sound of his voice from my mind.
I couldn’t.
The muttering filled my head like thick, greasy smoke from a rendering plant—or the stench of something rotten.
The longer I lay there, the clearer the voice became.
Slowly, I began to understand what he had said.
The words came back to me as if I had forgotten them.
At last they became clear.
“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?
I cursed him and everything connected with him, rolled over, and finally fell asleep.
But when I woke later, my face was pale and exhausted.
I had dreamed the same dream as the night before.
And it disturbed me more than I wanted to admit.
I dressed and went down to my studio.
Tessie was sitting by the window.
When I entered, she stood up, put both arms around my neck, and gave me an innocent kiss.
She looked so sweet and delicate that I kissed her again before sitting down at the easel.
“Hello. Where’s the study I started yesterday?”
Tessie looked embarrassed but said nothing.
I began searching through the stacks of canvases.
“Hurry up, Tess. Get ready. We have to make use of the morning light.”
I searched through one canvas after another.
Finally I gave up and looked around the room.
Then I noticed Tessie standing beside the screen, still fully dressed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Don’t you feel well?”
“Yes.”
“Then hurry.”
She hesitated.
“Do you want me to pose as—as I always have?”
Then I understood.
A new complication.
I had lost the finest nude model I had ever had.
I looked at Tessie.
Her face was scarlet.
Alas.
We had eaten from the tree of knowledge.
Eden and natural innocence were gone forever—or at least they were gone for Tessie.
She must have noticed my disappointment.
“I’ll pose if you want me to,” she said. “The study is behind the screen. That’s where I put it.”
“No,” I said. “We’ll start something new.”
I went to my wardrobe and pulled out a Moorish costume that glittered with tinsel.
It was an authentic costume.
Tessie disappeared behind the screen with it, delighted.
When she emerged, I was astonished.
Her long black hair was gathered above her forehead with a circlet of turquoise stones. The ends of her hair curled around a glittering belt.
Embroidered pointed slippers covered her feet.
Her skirt was decorated with intricate silver arabesques and fell to her ankles.
The deep metallic-blue vest, embroidered with silver, and the short Moorish jacket, covered in turquoise ornaments, suited her perfectly.
She came toward me smiling and lifted her face.
I reached into my pocket and took out a gold chain with a cross hanging from it.
I placed it around her neck.
“It’s yours, Tessie.”
“Mine?” she whispered.
“Yours. Now go and pose.”
She smiled radiantly and disappeared behind the screen.
A moment later she returned carrying a small box with my name written on it.
“I meant to give this to you when I went home tonight,” she said. “But I can’t wait.”
I opened the box.
Inside, resting on pink cotton, was a black onyx clasp.
Set into it was a strange symbol—or perhaps a letter—in gold.
It was not Arabic.
It was not Chinese.
And, as I later discovered, it belonged to no human writing system at all.
“It’s all I had to give you as a keepsake,” she said shyly.
I was annoyed that she had gone to such trouble, but I told her how much I would treasure it.
“I’ll always wear it,” I promised.
She fastened it to my coat beneath the lapel.
“How foolish of you, Tess, to buy me something this beautiful.”
“I didn’t buy it,” she laughed.
“Then where did you get it?”
She told me that she had found it one day while returning from the Aquarium in the Battery.
She had advertised for the owner and watched the newspapers for a long time, but eventually she had given up hope of finding whoever had lost it.
“That was last winter,” she said. “The very day I had my first horrible dream about the hearse.”
I remembered my dream from the night before.
But I said nothing.
A moment later my charcoal was moving across the new canvas, while Tessie stood perfectly still on the model stand.