light shining on his collar and his ugly but sensitive face, panted and
looked up for information. Hedger put down a reassuring hand.
“I don’t know. We can’t tell yet. It may not be so bad.”
He stayed on the roof until all was still below, and finally descended,
with quite a new feeling about his neighbour. Her voice, like her figure,
inspired respect,—if one did not choose to call it admiration. Her door
was shut, the transom was dark; nothing remained of her but the obtrusive
trunk, unrightfully taking up room in the narrow hall.
II
For two days Hedger didn’t see her. He was painting eight hours a day
just then, and only went out to hunt for food. He noticed that she
practised scales and exercises for about an hour in the morning; then she
locked her door, went humming down the hall, and left him in peace. He
heard her getting her coffee ready at about the same time he got his.
Earlier still, she passed his room on her way to her bath. In the evening
she sometimes sang, but on the whole she didn’t bother him. When he was
working well he did not notice anything much. The morning paper lay
before his door until he reached out for his milk bottle, then he kicked
the sheet inside and it lay on the floor until evening. Sometimes
he read it and sometimes he did not. He forgot there was anything of
importance going on in the world outside of his third floor studio.
Nobody had ever taught him that he ought to be interested in other
people; in the Pittsburgh steel strike, in the Fresh Air Fund, in the
scandal about the Babies’ Hospital. A grey wolf, living in a Wyoming
canyon, would hardly have been less concerned about these things than was
Don Hedger.
One morning he was coming out of the bathroom at the front end of the
hall, having just given Caesar his bath and rubbed him into a glow with a
heavy towel. Before the door, lying in wait for him, as it were, stood a
tall figure in a flowing blue silk dressing gown that fell away from her
marble arms. In her hands she carried various accessories of the bath.
“I wish,” she said distinctly, standing in his way, “I wish you wouldn’t
wash your dog in the tub. I never heard of such a thing! I’ve found his
hair in the tub, and I’ve smelled a doggy smell, and now I’ve caught you
at it. It’s an outrage!”
Hedger was badly frightened. She was so tall and positive, and was fairly
blazing with beauty and anger. He stood blinking, holding on to his
sponge and dog-soap, feeling that he ought to bow very low to her. But
what he actually said was:
“Nobody has ever objected before. I always wash the tub,—and, anyhow,
he’s cleaner than most people.”
“Cleaner than me?” her eyebrows went up, her white arms and neck and her
fragrant person seemed to scream at him like a band of outraged nymphs.
Something flashed through his mind about a man who was turned into a dog,
or was pursued by dogs, because he unwittingly intruded upon the bath of
beauty.
“No, I didn’t mean that,” he muttered, turning scarlet under the bluish
stubble of his muscular jaws. “But I know he’s cleaner than I am.”
“That I don’t doubt!” Her voice sounded like a soft shivering of crystal,
and with a smile of pity she drew the folds of her voluminous blue robe
close about her and allowed the wretched man to pass. Even Caesar was
frightened; he darted like a streak down the hall, through the door and
to his own bed in the corner among the bones.
Hedger stood still in the doorway, listening to indignant sniffs and
coughs and a great swishing of water about the sides of the tub. He had
washed it; but as he had washed it with Caesar’s sponge, it was quite
possible that a few bristles remained; the dog was shedding now. The
playwright had never objected, nor had the jovial illustrator who
occupied the front apartment,—but he, as he admitted, “was usually
pye-eyed, when he wasn’t in Buffalo.” He went home to Buffalo sometimes
to rest his nerves.
It had never occurred to Hedger that any one would mind using the tub
after Caesar;—but then, he had never seen a beautiful girl caparisoned
for the bath before. As soon as he beheld her standing there, he realized
the unfitness of it. For that matter, she ought not to step into a tub
that any other mortal had bathed in; the illustrator was sloppy and left
cigarette ends on the moulding.
All morning as he worked he was gnawed by a spiteful desire to get back
at her. It rankled that he had been so vanquished by her disdain. When he
heard her locking her door to go out for lunch, he stepped quickly into
the hall in his messy painting coat, and addressed her.
“I don’t wish to be exigent, Miss,”—he had certain grand words that he
used upon occasion—“but if this is your trunk, it’s rather in the way
here.”
“Oh, very well!” she exclaimed carelessly, dropping her keys into her
handbag. “I’ll have it moved when I can get a man to do it,” and she went
down the hall with her free, roving stride.
Her name, Hedger discovered from her letters, which the postman left on
the table in the lower hall, was Eden Bower.
III
In the closet that was built against the partition separating his room
from Miss Bower’s, Hedger kept all his wearing apparel, some of it on
hooks and hangers, some of it on the floor. When he opened his closet
door now-a-days, little dust-coloured insects flew out on downy wing, and
he suspected that a brood of moths were hatching in his winter overcoat.
Mrs. Foley, the janitress, told him to bring down all his heavy clothes
and she would give them a beating and hang them in the court. The closet
was in such disorder that he shunned the encounter, but one hot afternoon
he set himself to the task. First he threw out a pile of forgotten
laundry and tied it up in a sheet. The bundle stood as high as his middle
when he had knotted the corners. Then he got his shoes and overshoes
together. When he took his overcoat from its place against the partition,
a long ray of yellow light shot across the dark enclosure,—a knot hole,
evidently, in the high wainscoating of the west room. He had never
noticed it before, and without realizing what he was doing, he stooped
and squinted through it.
Yonder, in a pool of sunlight, stood his new neighbour, wholly unclad,
doing exercises of some sort before a long gilt mirror. Hedger did not
happen to think how unpardonable it was of him to watch her. Nudity was
not improper to any one who had worked so much from the figure, and he
continued to look, simply because he had never seen a woman’s body so
beautiful as this one,—positively glorious in action. As she swung her
arms and changed from one pivot of motion to another, muscular energy
seemed to flow through her from her toes to her finger-tips. The soft
flush of exercise and the gold of afternoon sun played over her flesh
together, enveloped her in a luminous mist which, as she turned and
twisted, made now an arm, now a sho
ulder, now a thigh, dissolve in pure
light and instantly recover its outline with the next gesture. Hedger’s
fingers curved as if he were holding a crayon; mentally he was doing the
whole figure in a single running line, and the charcoal seemed to explode
in his hand at the point where the energy of each gesture was discharged
into the whirling disc of light, from a foot or shoulder, from the
up-thrust chin or the lifted breasts.
He could not have told whether he watched her for six minutes or sixteen.
When her gymnastics were over, she paused to catch up a lock of hair that
had come down, and examined with solicitude a little reddish mole that
grew under her left arm-pit. Then, with her hand on her hip, she walked
unconcernedly across the room and disappeared through the door into her
bedchamber.
Disappeared—Don Hedger was crouching on his knees, staring at the golden
shower which poured in through the west windows, at the lake of gold
sleeping on the faded Turkish carpet. The spot was enchanted; a vision
out of Alexandria, out of the remote pagan past, had bathed itself there
in Helianthine fire.
When he crawled out of his closet, he stood blinking at the grey sheet
stuffed with laundry, not knowing what had happened to him. He felt a
little sick as he contemplated the bundle. Everything here was different;
he hated the disorder of the place, the grey prison light, his old shoes
and himself and all his slovenly habits. The black calico curtains that
ran on wires over his big window were white with dust. There were three
greasy frying pans in the sink, and the sink itself—He felt desperate.
He couldn’t stand this another minute. He took up an armful of winter
clothes and ran down four flights into the basement.
“Mrs. Foley,” he began, “I want my room cleaned this afternoon,
thoroughly cleaned. Can you get a woman for me right away?”
“Is it company you’re having?” the fat, dirty janitress enquired. Mrs.
Foley was the widow of a useful Tammany man, and she owned real estate in
Flatbush. She was huge and soft as a feather bed. Her face and arms were
permanently coated with dust, grained like wood where the sweat had
trickled.
“Yes, company. That’s it.”
“Well, this is a queer time of the day to be asking for a cleaning woman.
It’s likely I can get you old Lizzie, if she’s not drunk. I’ll send Willy
round to see.”
Willy, the son of fourteen, roused from the stupor and stain of his fifth
box of cigarettes by the gleam of a quarter, went out. In five minutes he
returned with old Lizzie,—she smelling strong of spirits and wearing
several jackets which she had put on one over the other, and a number of
skirts, long and short, which made her resemble an animated dish-clout.
She had, of course, to borrow her equipment from Mrs. Foley, and toiled
up the long flights, dragging mop and pail and broom. She told Hedger to
be of good cheer, for he had got the right woman for the job, and showed
him a great leather strap she wore about her wrist to prevent dislocation
of tendons. She swished about the place, scattering dust and splashing
soapsuds, while he watched her in nervous despair. He stood over Lizzie
and made her scour the sink, directing her roughly, then paid her and got
rid of her. Shutting the door on his failure, he hurried off with his dog
to lose himself among the stevedores and dock labourers on West Street.
A strange chapter began for Don Hedger. Day after day, at that hour in
the afternoon, the hour before his neighbour dressed for dinner, he
crouched down in his closet to watch her go through her mysterious
exercises. It did not occur to him that his conduct was detestable; there
was nothing shy or retreating about this unclad girl,—a bold body,
studying itself quite coolly and evidently well pleased with itself,
doing all this for a purpose. Hedger scarcely regarded his action as
conduct at all; it was something that had happened to him. More than once
he went out and tried to stay away for the whole afternoon, but at about
five o’clock he was sure to find himself among his old shoes in the dark.
The pull of that aperture was stronger than his will,—and he had always
considered his will the strongest thing about him. When she threw herself
upon the divan and lay resting, he still stared, holding his breath. His
nerves were so on edge that a sudden noise made him start and brought out
the sweat on his forehead. The dog would come and tug at his sleeve,
knowing that something was wrong with his master. If he attempted a
mournful whine, those strong hands closed about his throat.
When Hedger came slinking out of his closet, he sat down on the edge of
the couch, sat for hours without moving. He was not painting at all now.
This thing, whatever it was, drank him up as ideas had sometimes done,
and he sank into a stupor of idleness as deep and dark as the stupor of
work. He could not understand it; he was no boy, he had worked from
models for years, and a woman’s body was no mystery to him. Yet now he
did nothing but sit and think about one. He slept very little, and with
the first light of morning he awoke as completely possessed by this woman
as if he had been with her all the night before. The unconscious
operations of life went on in him only to perpetuate this excitement. His
brain held but one image now—vibrated, burned with it. It was a
heathenish feeling; without friendliness, almost without tenderness.
Women had come and gone in Hedger’s life. Not having had a mother to
begin with, his relations with them, whether amorous or friendly, had
been casual. He got on well with janitresses and wash-women, with Indians
and with the peasant women of foreign countries. He had friends among the
silk-skirt factory girls who came to eat their lunch in Washington
Square, and he sometimes took a model for a day in the country. He felt
an unreasoning antipathy toward the well-dressed women he saw coming out
of big shops, or driving in the Park. If, on his way to the Art Museum,
he noticed a pretty girl standing on the steps of one of the houses on
upper Fifth Avenue, he frowned at her and went by with his shoulders
hunched up as if he were cold. He had never known such girls, or heard
them talk, or seen the inside of the houses in which they lived; but he
believed them all to be artificial and, in an aesthetic sense, perverted.
He saw them enslaved by desire of merchandise and manufactured articles,
effective only in making life complicated and insincere and in
embroidering it with ugly and meaningless trivialities. They were enough,
he thought, to make one almost forget woman as she existed in art, in
thought, and in the universe.
He had no desire to know the woman who had, for the time at least, so
broken up his life,—no curiosity about her every-day personality. He
shunned any revelation of it, and he listened for Miss Bower’s coming and
going, not to encounter, but to avoid her. He wished that the girl who
wore shirt-waists and got letters from Chicago would ke
ep out of his way,
that she did not exist. With her he had naught to make. But in a room
full of sun, before an old mirror, on a little enchanted rug of sleeping
colours, he had seen a woman who emerged naked through a door, and
disappeared naked. He thought of that body as never having been clad, or
as having worn the stuffs and dyes of all the centuries but his own. And
for him she had no geographical associations; unless with Crete, or
Alexandria, or Veronese’s Venice. She was the immortal conception, the
perennial theme.
The first break in Hedger’s lethargy occurred one afternoon when two
young men came to take Eden Bower out to dine. They went into her music
room, laughed and talked for a few minutes, and then took her away with
them. They were gone a long while, but he did not go out for food
himself; he waited for them to come back. At last he heard them coming
down the hall, gayer and more talkative than when they left. One of them
sat down at the piano, and they all began to sing. This Hedger found
absolutely unendurable. He snatched up his hat and went running down the
stairs. Caesar leaped beside him, hoping that old times were coming back.
They had supper in the oysterman’s basement and then sat down in front of
their own doorway. The moon stood full over the Square, a thing of regal
glory; but Hedger did not see the moon; he was looking, murderously, for
men. Presently two, wearing straw hats and white trousers and carrying
canes, came down the steps from his house. He rose and dogged them across
the Square. They were laughing and seemed very much elated about
something. As one stopped to light a cigarette, Hedger caught from the
other:
“Don’t you think she has a beautiful talent?”
His companion threw away his match. “She has a beautiful figure.” They
both ran to catch the stage.
Hedger went back to his studio. The light was shining from her transom.
For the first time he violated her privacy at night, and peered through
that fatal aperture. She was sitting, fully dressed, in the window,
smoking a cigarette and looking out over the housetops. He watched her
until she rose, looked about her with a disdainful, crafty smile, and
turned out the light.
The next morning, when Miss Bower went out, Hedger followed her. Her
white skirt gleamed ahead of him as she sauntered about the Square. She
Youth and the Bright Medusa Page 2