They call me carpenter, p.5
They Call Me Carpenter, page 5
There was another five minutes of silence; and then the picture magnate stopped, with a look of horror on his face. “My Gawd! He's cryin'!” Sure enough, there were two large tears trickling, one down each cheek of the stranger, and dropping on the bread he was putting into his mouth!
“Look here, Mr. Carpenter,” protested T-S. “Is it dem strikers?”
“I'm sorry; you see—”
“Now, honest, man, vy should you spoil your dinner fer a bunch o' damn lousy loafers—”
“Abey, vot a vay to talk at a dinner-party!” broke in Maw.
And then suddenly Mary Magna spoke. It was a strange thing, though I did not realize it until afterwards. Mary, the irrepressible, had hardly said one word since we left the beauty parlors! Mary, always the life of dinner parties, was sitting like a woman who had seen the ghost of a dead child; her eyes following Carpenter's, her mind evidently absorbed in probing his thoughts.
“Abey!” said she, with sudden passion, of a sort I'd never seen her display before. “Forget your grub for a moment, I have something to say. Here's a man with a heart full of love for other people—while you and I are just trying to see what we can get out of them! A man who really has a religion—and you're trying to turn him into a movie doll! Try to get it through your skull, Abey!”
The great man's eyes were wide open. “Holy smoke, Mary! Vot's got into you?” And suddenly he almost shrieked. “Lord! She's cryin' too!”
“No, I'm not,” declared Mary, vialiantly. But there were two drops on her cheeks, so big that she was forced to wipe them away. “It's just a little shame, that's all. Here we sit, with three times as much food before us as we can eat; and all over this city are poor devils with nothing to eat, and no homes to go to—don't you know that's true, Abey? Don't you know it, Maw?”
“Looka here, kid,” said the magnate; “you know vot'll happen to you if you git to broodin' over tings? You git your face full o' wrinkles—you already gone and spoilt your make-up.”
“Shucks, Abey,” broke in Maw, “vot you gotta do vit dat? Vy don't you mind your own business?”
“Mind my own business? My own business, you say? Vell, I like to know vot you call my business! Ven I got a contract to pay a girl tirty-five hunded dollars a veek fer her face, and she goes and gits it all wrinkles, I ask any jury, is it my business or ain't it? And if a feller vants to pull de tremulo stop fer a lot o' hoboes and Bullsheviki, and goes and spills his tears into his soup—”
It sounded fierce; but Mary apparently knew her Abey; also, she saw that Maw was starting to cry. “There's no use trying to bluff me, Abey. You know as well as I do there are hungry people in this city, and no fault of theirs. You know, too, you eat twice what you ought to, because I've heard the doctor tell you. I'm not blaming you a bit more than I do myself—me, with two automobiles, and a whole show-window on my back.” And suddenly she turned to Carpenter. “What can we do?”
He answered: “Here, men gorge themselves; in Russia they are eating their dead.”
T-S dropped his knife and fork, and Maw gave a gulp. “Oh, my Gawd!”
“There are ten million people doomed to starve. Their children eat grass, and their bellies swell up and their legs dwindle to broom-sticks; they stagger and fall into the ditches, and other children tear their flesh and devour it.”
“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!” wailed Maw; and the diners at Prince's began to stare.
“Now looka here!” cried T-S, wildly. “I say dis ain't no decent way to behave at a party. I say it ain't on de level to be a feller's guest, and den jump on him and spoil his dinner. See here, Mr. Carpenter, I tell you vot I do. You be good and eat your grub, so it don't git vasted, and I promise you, tomorrow I go and hunt up strike headquarters, and give dem a check fer a tousand dollars, and if de damn graftin' leaders don't hog it, dey all git someting to eat. And vot's more, I send a check fer five tousand to de Russian relief. Now ain't dat square? Vot you say?”
“What I say is, Mr. T-S, I cannot be the keeper of another man's conscience. But I'll try to eat, so as not to be rude.”
And T-S grunted, and went back to his feeding; and the stranger made a pretense of eating, and we did the same.
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It happens that I was brought up in a highly conscientious family. To my dear mother, and to her worthy sisters, there is nothing in the world more painful than what they call a “scene”—unless possibly it is what they call a “situation.” And here we had certainly had a “scene,” and still had a “situation.” So I sat, racking my brains to think of something safe to talk about. I recalled that T-S had had pretty good success with his “Tale of Two Cities” as a topic of conversation, so I began:
“Mr. Carpenter, the spectacle you are going to see this evening is rather remarkable from the artistic point of view. One of the greatest scenic artists of Paris has designed the set, and the best judges consider it a real achievement, a landmark in moving picture work.”
“Tell me about it,” said Carpenter; and I was grateful for his tone of interest.
“Well, I don't know how much you know about picture making—”
“You had better explain everything.”
“Well, Mr. T-S has built a large set, representing a street scene in Paris over a century ago. He has hired a thousand men—”
“Two tousand!” broke in T-S.
“In the advertisements?” I suggested, with a smile.
“No, no,” insisted the other. “Two tousand, really. In de advertisements, five tousand.”
“Well,” said I, “these men wear costumes which T-S has had made for them, and they pretend to be a mob. They have been practicing all day, and by now they know what to do. There is a man with a megaphone, shouting orders to them, and enormous lights playing upon them, so that men with cameras can take pictures of the scene. It is very vivid, and as a portrayal of history, is truly educational.”
“And when it is done—what becomes of the men?”
Utterly hopeless, you see! We were right back on the forbidden ground! “How do you mean?” I evaded.
“I mean, how do they live?”
“Dey got deir five dollars, ain't dey?” It was T-S, of course.
“Yes, but that won' last very long, will it? What is the cost of this dinner we are eating?”
The magnate of the movies looked to the speaker, and then burst into a laugh. “Ho, ho, ho! Dat's a good vun!”
Said I, hastily: “Mr. T-S means that there are cheaper eating places to be found.”
“Well,” said Carpenter, “why don't we find one?”
“It's no use, Billy. He thinks it's up to me to feed all de bums on de lot. Is dat it, Mr. Carpenter?”
“I can't say, Mr. T-S; I don't know how many there are, and I don't know how rich you are.”
“Vell, dey got five million out o' verks in this country now, and if I vanted to bust myself, I could feed 'em vun day, maybe two. But ven I got done, dey vouldn't be nobody to make pictures, and somebody vould have to feed old Abey—or maybe me and Maw could go back to carryin' pants in a push cart! If you tink I vouldn't like to see all de hungry fed, you got me wrong, Mr. Carpenter; but vot I learned is dis—if you stop fer all de misery you see in de vorld about you, you vouldn't git novhere.”
“Well,” said Carpenter, “what difference would that make?”
The proprietor of Eternal City really wanted to make out the processes of this abnormal mind. He wrinkled his brows, and thought very hard over it.
“See here, Mr. Carpenter,” he began at last, “I tink you got hold o' de wrong feller. I'm a verkin' man, de same as any mechanic on my lot. I verked ever since I vas a liddle boy, and if I eat too much now, maybe it's because I didn't get enough ven I vas liddle. And maybe I got more money dan vot I got a right to, but I know dis—I ain't never had enough to do half vot I vant to! But dere's plenty fellers got ten times vot I got, and never done a stroke o' vork fer it. Dey're de vuns y'oughter git after!”
Said Carpenter: “I would, if I knew how.”
“Dey's plenty of 'em right in dis room, I bet.” And Mary added: “Ask Billy; he knows them all!”
“You flatter me, Mary,” I laughed.
“Ain't dey some of 'em here?” demanded T-S.
“Yes, that's true. There are some not far away, who are developing a desire to meet Mr. Carpenter, unless I miss the signs.”
“Vere are dey at?” demanded T-S.
“I won't tell you that,” I laughed, “because you'd turn and stare into their faces.”
“So he vould!” broke in Maw. “How often I gotta tell you, Abey? You got no more manners dan if you vas a jimpanzy.”
“All right,” said the magnate, grinning good naturedly. “I'll keep a-eatin' my dinner. Who is it?”
“It's Mrs. Parmelee Stebbins,” said I. “She boasts a salon, and has to have what are called lions, and she's been watching Mr. Carpenter out of the corner of her eye ever since he came into the room—trying to figure out whether he's a lion, or only an actor. If his skin were a bit dark, she would be sure he was an Eastern potentate; as it, she's afraid he's of domestic origin, in which case he's vulgar. The company he keeps is against him; but still—Mrs. Stebbins has had my eye three times, hoping I would give her a signal, I haven't given it, so she's about to leave.”
“Vell, she can go to hell!” said T-S, keeping his promise to devote himself to his dinner. “I offered Parmelee Stebbins a tird share in 'De Pride o' Passion' fer a hunded tousand dollars, and de damn fool turned me down, and de picture has made a million and a quarter a'ready.”
“Well,” said I, “he's probably paying for it by sitting up late to buy the city council on this new franchise grab of his; and so he hasn't kept his date to dine with his expensive family at Prince's. Here is Miss Lucinda Stebbins; she's engaged to Babcock, millionaire sport and man about town, but he's taking part in a flying race over the Rocky Mountains tonight, and so Lucinda feels bored, and she knows the vaudeville show is going to be tiresome, but still she doesn't want to meet any freaks. She has just said to her mother that she can't see why a person in her mother's position can't be content to meet proper people, but always has to be getting herself into the newspapers with some new sort of nut.”
“My Gawd, Billy!” cried Maw. “You got a dictaphone on dem people?”
“No, but I know the type so well, I can tell by their looks. Lucinda is thinking about their big new palace on Grand Avenue, and she regards everyone outside her set as a burglar trying to break in. And then there's Bertie Stebbins, who's thinking about a new style of collar he saw advertised to-day, and how it would look on him, and what impression it would make on his newest girl.”
It was Mary who spoke now: “I know that little toad. I've seen him dancing at the Palace with Dorothy Doodles, or whatever her name is.”
“Well,” said I, “Mrs. Stebbins runs the newer set—those who hunt sensations, and make a splurge in the papers. It costs like smoke, of course—” And suddenly I stopped. “Look out!” I whispered. “Here she comes!”
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I heard Maw catch her breath, and I heard Maw's husband give a grunt. Then I rose. “How are you, Billy?” gurgled a voice—one of those voices made especially for social occasions. “Wretched boy, why do you never come to see us?”
“I was coming to-morrow,” I said—for who could prove otherwise? “Mrs. Stebbins, permit me to introduce Mrs. Tszchniczklefritszch.”
“Charmed to meet you, I'm sure,” said Mrs. Stebbins. “I've heard my husband speak of your husband so often. How well you are looking, Mrs.—”
She stopped; and Maw, knowing the terrors of her name, made haste to say something agreeable. “Yes, ma'am; dis country agrees vit me fine. Since I come here, I've rode and et, shoost rode and et.”
“And Mr. T-S,” said I.
“Howdydo, Mr. T-S?”
“Pretty good, ma'am,” said T-S. He had been caught with his mouth full, and was making desperate efforts to swallow.
A singular thing is the power of class prestige! Here was Maw, a good woman, according to her lights, who had worked hard all her life, and had achieved a colossal and astounding success. She had everything in the world that money could buy; her hair was done by the best hair-dresser, her gown had been designed by the best costumer, her rings and bracelets selected by the best jeweller; and yet nothing was right, no power on earth could make it right, and Maw knew it, and writhed the consciousness of it. And here was Mrs. Parmelee Stebbins, who had never done a useful thing in all her days—except you count the picking out of a rich husband; yet Mrs. Stebbins was “right,” and Maw knew it, and in the presence of the other woman she was in an utter panic, literally quivering in every nerve. And here was old T-S, who, left to himself, might have really meant what he said, that Mrs. Stebbins could go to hell; but because he was married, and loved his wife, he too trembled, and gulped down his food!
Mrs. Stebbins is one of those American matrons who do not allow marriage and motherhood to make vulgar physical impressions upon them. Her pale blue gown might have been worn by her daughter; her cool grey eyes looked out through a face without a wrinkle from a soul without a care. She was a patroness of art and intellect; but never did she forget her fundamental duty, the enhancing of the prestige of a family name. When she was introduced to a screen-actress, she was gracious, but did not forget the difference between an actress and a lady. When she was introduced to a strange man who did not wear trousers, she took it quite as an everyday matter, revealing no trace of vulgar human curiosity.
There came Bertie, full grown, but not yet out of the pimply stage, and still conscious of the clothes which he had taken such pains to get right. Bertie's sister remained in her seat, refusing naughtily to be compromised by her mother's vagaries; but Bertie had a purpose, and after I had introduced him round, I saw what he wanted—Mary Magna! Bertie had a vision of himself as a sort of sporting prince in this movie world. His social position would make conquests easy; it was a sort of Christmas-tree, all a-glitter with prizes.
I was standing near, and heard the beginning of their conversation. “Oh, Miss Magna, I'm so pleased to meet you. I've heard so much about you from Miss Dulles.”
“Miss Dulles?”
“Yes; Dorothy Dulles.”
“I'm sorry. I don't think I ever heard of her.”
“What? Dorothy Dulles, the screen actress?”
“No, I can't place her.”
“But—but she's a star!”
“Well, but you know, Mr. Stebbins—there are so many stars in the heavens, and not all of them visible to the eye.”
I turned to Bertie's mamma. She had discovered that Carpenter looked even more thrilling on a close view; he was not a stage figure, but a really grave and impressive personality, exactly the thing to thrill the ladies of the Higher Arts Club at their monthly luncheon, and to reflect prestige upon his discoverer. So here she was, inviting the party to share her box at the theatre; and here was T-S explaining that it couldn't be done, he had got to see his French revolution pictures took, dey had five tousand men hired to make a mob. I noted that Mrs. Stebbins received the “advertising” figures on the production!
The upshot of it was that the great lady consented to forget her box at the theatre, and run out to the studios to see the mob scenes for the “The Tale of Two Cities.” T-S hadn't quite finished his dinner, but he waved his hand and said it was nuttin', he vouldn't keep Mrs. Stebbins vaitin'. He beckoned the waiter, and signed his magic name on the check, with a five-dollar bill on top for a tip. Mrs. Stebbins collected her family and floated to the door, and our party followed.
I expected another scene with the mob; but I found that the street had been swept clear of everything but policemen and chauffeurs. I knew that this must have meant rough work on the part of the authorities, but I said nothing, and hoped that Carpenter would not think of it. The Stebbins car drew up by the porte-cochere; and suddenly I discovered why the wife of the street-car magnate was known as a “social leader.” “Billy,” she said, “you come in our car, and bring Mr. Carpenter; I have something to talk to you about.” Just that easily, you see! She wanted something, so she asked for it!
I took Carpenter by the arm and put him in. Bertie drove, the chauffeur sitting in the seat beside him. “Beat you to it!” called Bertie, with his invincible arrogance, and waved his hand to the picture magnate as we rolled away.
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As it happened, we made a poor start. Turning the corner into Broadway, we found ourselves caught in the jam of the theatre traffic, and our car was brought to a halt in front of the “Empire Varieties.” If you have been on any Broadway between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, you can imagine the sight; the flaring electric signs, the pictures of the head line artists, the people waiting to buy tickets, and the crowds on the sidewalk pushing past. There was one additional feature, a crowd of “rah-rah boys,” with yellow and purple flags in their hands, and the glory of battle in their eyes. As our car halted, the cheer-leader gave a signal, and a hundred throats let out in unison:
“Rickety zim, rickety zam,
Brickety, stickety, slickety slam!
Wallybaloo! Billybazoo!
We are the boys for a hullabaloo—Western City!”
It sounded all the more deafening, because Bertie, in the front seat, had joined in.
“Hello!” said I. “We must have won the ball-game!”
“You bet we did!” said Bertie, in his voice of bursting self-importance.
“Ball-game?” asked Carpenter.
“Foot-ball,” said I. “Western City played Union Tech today. Wonder what the score was.”
The cheer leader seemed to take the words out of my mouth. Again the hundred voices roared:
