Cecil Dreeme

by Theodore Winthrop

  As these fancies ran through my brain, I began to develop a lively curiosity in my neighbor overhead.

  Remember that I was a ten years’ absentee, without relatives, without sure friends, wanting society, and just now a thought romanticized by the air and scenery of Rubbish Palace.

  I began to long to be acquainted with this gentleman above me, this possible counterblast to Densdeth, this possible apparition through my ceiling at the heel of a breakdown.

  “Does he, then, dance breakdowns?” I thought. “Is he perhaps a painter of the frowzy class, with a velvet coat, mop of hair and mile of beard, pendulous pipe and a figurante on the bowl, and with a Düsseldorf, not to say Bohemian, demeanor. Is he a man whose art is a trade, who paints a picture as he would daub the side of a house? Or is he the true Artist, a refined and spiritualized being, Raphael in look, Fra Angelico in life, a man in force, but with the feminine insight,—one whose labor is love, one whose every work is a poem and a prayer? Which? Shall I knock and discover? An artist generally opens his doors hospitably to an amateur.

  “No,” I decided, “I will not knock. We shall meet, if Destiny has no objection. Two in the same Chrysalis, we cannot dodge each other without some trouble. If I am lonely by and by, and yearn for a friend, and he does not dance through my centre-piece, I will fire a pistol-ball through his floor. Then apology, laugh, confession, and sworn friendship,—that is, of course, if he is Raphael-Angelico, not Bohemian-Düsseldorf.”

  These fancies, so long in the telling, flashed rapidly through my mind.

  I turned away from the door, with its quiet announcement of the name and business of a tenant, not precisely evading, but certainly not inviting notice.

  I made my way down, and up again by the other staircase to the same floor. Here I found the same arrangement of rooms, but more population and fewer cobwebs. The southern exposure was preferred to the northern, in that chilly structure. I knocked at Mr. John Churm’s door in the southwest corner of the building. No “Come in.” I must dine alone at the Chuzzlewit.

  As I stepped from Chrysalis, I gave a look to Ailanthus Square in front.

  “This will never do!” I exclaimed.

  It was a wretched place, stiffly laid out, shabbily kept, planted with mean, twigless trees, and in the middle the basin of an extinct fountain filled with foul snow, through which the dead cats and dogs were beginning to sprout at the solicitation of the winter’s sunshine.

  A dreary place, and drearily surrounded by red-brick houses, with marble steps monstrous white, and blinds monstrous green,—all destined to be boarding-houses in a decade.

  “This will never do!” I exclaimed again.

  “Outdoor life offers no temptation. I am forced inward to indoor duties and pleasures. Objects in America are not attractive. I must content myself with people. And what people? My first day wanes, Stillfleet is off, and I have made no acquaintance but a musical name on a door in a dusty corner of Chrysalis.”

  5

  Churm against Densdeth

  I had hardly taken my first spoonful of lukewarm mock soup at the long, crowded dinner-table of the Chuzzlewit, when General Blinckers, a fellow-passenger on the Arago, caught sight of me. He bowed, with a burly, pompous, militia-general manner, and sent me his sherry. It was the Chuzzlewit Amontillado, so a gorgeous label announced, and sunshine, so its date alleged, had ripened it a score of years before on an aromatic hill-side of Spain. But the bottle was very young for old wine, the label very pretentious for famous wine, and my draught, as I expected, gnawed me cruelly.

  In a moment came a bow from Governor Bluffer, also fellow-passenger, and his bottle of the Chuzzlewit champagne,—label prismatic and glowing, bubbles transitory, wine sugary and vapid.

  Bluffer was of Indiana, returning from a trip to Europe as a railroad-bond placer. He had placed his bonds, second mortgages of the Muddefontaine Railroad, with great success. His State would now become first in America, first in Christendom. He was sure of it. And by way of advancing the process, he had proposed to me to become “Professor of Science” in the Terryhutte University,—salary five third mortgages of the Muddefontaine per annum.

  Blinckers was of Tennessee, wild-land agent. He had been urgent all the passage that I should take post as Professor in the Nolachucky State Polytechnic School,—salary a thousand acres per annum of wild land in the Cumberland Mountains.

  Both of these offers I had declined; but I was obliged to the two gentlemen. I bowed back to their bows, and sipped the liquids they had sent me without mouthing.

  Presently, as I glanced up and down the table, I caught sight of Densdeth’s dark, handsome face. He had turned from his companion, and was looking at me. He lifted his black moustache with a slight sneer, and pointed to untasted glasses of Blinckers and Bluffer standing before him.

  “See!” his glance seemed to say. “Libations at the shrine of Densdeth, the millionnaire. Those old chaps would kiss my feet, if I hinted it.”

  Then he held up his own private glass, as if to say, with Comus,—

  “Behold this cordial julep here,

  That flames and dances in his crystal bounds!”

  A dusty magnum stood beside him, without label, but wearing a conscious look of importance. He carefully filled a goblet with its purple contents, and despatched it to me by his own servant.

  Densdeth was a coxcomb, partly by nature, partly for effect. He liked to call attention to himself as the Great Densdeth. He always had special wines, special dainties, and special service.

  “It pays to be conspicuous,” he said to me, on board the steamer. “I don’t attempt to humbug fellows like you, Byng,”—and at this I of course felt a little complimented,—“but we must take men as we find them. They are asses. I treat them as such. Ordinary people adore luxury. They love to see it, whether they share it or not. A little quiet show and lavishness on one’s self is a capital thing to get the world’s confidence.

  “Besides, Byng,” he continued, “I love luxury for its own sake. I mean to have the best for all my senses. I keep myself in perfect health, you see, for perfect sensitiveness and perfect enjoyment. Why shouldn’t I take the little trouble it requires to have the most delicate wine, and other things the most delicate, always at command? Life is short. Après, le déluge, or worse.”

  While I was recalling these remarks, Densdeth’s servant had deposited the wine at my right. He was an Afreet creature, this servant, black, ugly, and brutal as the real Mumbo Jumbo. Yet sometimes, as he stood by his master, I could not avoid perceiving a resemblance, and fancying him a misbegotten repetition of the other. And at the moments when I mistrusted Densdeth, I felt that the Afreet’s repulsive appearance more fitly interpreted his master’s soul than the body by which it acted.

  I raised the goblet to my mouth. The aroma was delicious.

  “Densdeth,” I thought, “must have had a cask of the happiest vintage of Burgundy’s divinest juice hung in gimbals, and floated over the Atlantic in the June calms.”

  I put the fragrant draught to my lips, and bowed my compliments.

  Densdeth was studying me, with a covert expression,—so I felt or fancied. I interpreted his look,—“Young man, I saw on the steamer that you were worth buying, worth perverting. I have spent more civility than usual on you already. How much more have I to pay? Are you a cheap commodity? Or must I give time and pains and study to make you mine?”

  Do these fancies seem extravagant? They must justify themselves hereafter in this history.

  I set down Densdeth’s glass, untasted.

  “What does it mean,” thought I, “this man’s strange fascination? When his eyes are upon me, I feel something stir in my heart, saying, ‘Be Densdeth’s! He knows the mystery of life.’ I begin to dread him. Will he master my will? What is this potency of his? How has he got this lodgment in my spirit? Is he one of those fabulous personages who only exist while they are preying upon another soul, who are torpid unless they are busy contriving a damnation? W
hy has he been trying to turn me inside out all the voyage? Why has he kept touching the raw spots and the rotten spots in my nature? I can be of no use to him. What does he want of me? Not to make me better and nobler,—that I am sure of. No; I will not touch his wine. I will keep clear of his attentions.”

  By the way of desperate evasion, I seized and tossed off, first, Governor Bluffer’s mawkish champagne, and then the acrid fabrication with which Blinckers had honored me.

  Of course the rash and feeble dodge was futile. I was not to be let off in that way.

  There stood Densdeth’s wine, attracting me like some magic philter. It became magnetic with Densdeth’s magnetism. I could almost see an imp in the glass,—not the teetotaller’s bottle-imp, but a special sprite, urging me, “Drink, and let the draught symbolize renewed intimacy with Densdeth! Drink, and accept his proffered alliance. Be wise, and taste!”

  The vulgar scenery of the long dining-room faded away from my eyes. The vulgar, dressy women, the ill-dressed, vulgar men, the oleaginous waiters, all became distant shadows. I heard the clatter and bustle and pop about me, as one hears the hum of mosquitos outside a bar at drowsy midnight. I was conscious of nothing but the wine—the philter—and him who had poured it out.

  Absurd! Yes; no doubt. But fact. Certainly a Chuzzlewit dining-room is a shrine of the commonplace; but even there such a mood is possible under such an influence. Densdeth was exceptional.

  I sat staring at the silly glass of wine, and began to make an unwholesome test of my self-control. I recalled the typical legend of Eve and the apple, and exaggerated the moral importance of my own incident after the same fashion.

  “If I resist this symbolic cup,” thought I, “I am my own man; if I yield, I am Densdeth’s.”

  When a man is weak enough to put slavery and freedom thus in the balance, it is plain that he will presently be a slave.

  “Bah!” I thought. “What harm, after all, can this terrible person do me? Why shouldn’t I accept his alliance? Why shouldn’t I study him, and learn the secret of his power?”

  My slight resistance was about to yield to the spiritual enticement of the wine, when suddenly an outer force broke the spell.

  A gentleman had just taken a vacant chair at my right. Absorbed in the mêlée of my own morbid fancies, I had merely perceived his presence, without noticing his person.

  Suddenly this new-comer took part in the drama. He flirted his napkin, and knocked Densdeth’s wine-glass over into my plate. The purple fluid made an unpleasant mixture with my untouched portion of fish.

  “Thank you!” I exclaimed, waking at once from my half-trance, my magnetic stupor, and feeling foolish.

  I turned to look at my unexpected ally. Perhaps some clumsy oaf who had never brandished a napkin before, and struck wide, like a raw swordsman.

  No. My neighbor was a gentleman. He held out his hand cordially.

  “Have I waked you fully, Byng?” he asked.

  “Mr. Churm?” said I.

  He nodded. We shook hands. The touch dissipated my brief insanity.

  “You have been in a state of coma so long over that wine,” said he, “that I thought I would give you a fillip of help.”

  I tried to laugh.

  “No,” resumed Churm. “Only escaped dangers show their comic side. You are not safe from Densdeth yet. You would have yielded just now if I had not spilled the glass.”

  “Yielded!” I rejoined. “Not exactly; I was proposing to test his mysterious influence.”

  “Never try that! Don’t dive into temptation to show how stoutly you can swim. Once fairly under water in Acheron, and you never come to the top again.”

  “Face Satan, and he flies, is not your motto, then.”

  “Face him when you must; fly him when you may.”

  “But really,—Devil and Densdeth; is it quite polite to identify them?” I asked.

  “If you do not wish to see them melt into one, keep yourself from both.”

  “And stay in a pretty paradise of innocence?”

  “I cannot jest about this, Byng. I knew a fresh, strong, pure soul,—fresher, stronger, purer than the fairest dreams of perfection. It was the destiny of such a soul to battle with Densdeth and be beaten. Yes; defeated, and driven to madness or despair.”

  “You are speaking of Clara Denman.”

  “I am.”

  As he replied, I looked up and caught Densdeth’s eye. He took my glance and carried it with his to the upper end of the table. A flamboyant demirep was seated there. Densdeth marked that I observed her, and then smiled sinister, as if to say: “Byng, the romantic, there is the type of American women; look at her, and correct your boyish ideal.”

  Churm noticed this by-play.

  “But better madness and death for my dear child,” said he, sadly, “than Densdeth!”

  Then waiving the subject, he continued: “You were surprised to find me at your side.”

  “It was an odd chance, certainly.”

  “No chance. Locksley told me that you had moved in from the Chuzzlewit, as Stillfleet’s successor. I knocked at Rubbish Palace door. You were out. I thought you might be dining here. I looked in, saw you, and took my seat at your side. I did not hurry recognition. I was curious to see if you would know an old friend.”

  “I have called upon you already,” said I. “I am a big boy, but I wanted to put myself under tutelage.”

  “Well, we are in the same Chrysalis; we will try to take care of each other till our wing.”

  My lively interest in the name Cecil Dreeme recurred to me.

  “Are there others worth knowing in Chrysalis?” I asked.

  “No. Bright fellows like brighter places. Only an old troglodyte like myself burrows in such a cavern. Nobody but Stillfleet could have kept in jolly health there. Take care it does not make you sombre.”

  “It will suit my sober, plodding habits. But tell me, do you know anything of a Mr. Dreeme, a painter, fellow-lodger of ours? I saw his name on a door as I was looking for yours. Is he a rising genius? Must I know him?”

  As I asked these questions, it happened that Densdeth laughed in reply to some joke of his guest.

  Densdeth’s smile, unless he chose to let it pass into a sneer, was gentlemanly and winning. A little incredulous and inattentive I had found it when I spoke of heroism, charity, or self-sacrifice. It pardoned belief in such whimsies as a juvenility. His laugh, however, expressed a riper cynicism. It was faithless and cruel,—I had sometimes thought brutally so.

  Breaking in at this moment, rather loudly for the public place, it seemed to strike at the romantic interest I had felt in the name Cecil Dreeme. What would a man of the world think of such idle fancies as I had indulged apropos of the painter’s door-card? I really hoped Churm would be able to reply, “O, Dreeme! He is a creature with a seedy velvet coat, frowzy hair, big pipe,—rank Düsseldorf. Don’t know him!”

  “There is a young fellow of that name in the building,” said Churm. “I have never happened to see him. Locksley says he is a quiet, gentlemanly youth from the country, who lives retired, works hard, and minds his own business.”

  Neither my friend nor I ventured upon serious topics for the rest of the dinner.

  “I have an errand down town,” said he. “You shall walk with me, and afterwards we will discuss your prospects over a cigar at Chrysalis.”

  So we talked Europe—a light subject to Americans—until dessert was over, and the Chuzzlewit guests began to file out, wishing they had not taken so much pie and meringue on top of the salad, and had given to the Tract Society the two dollars now racking their several brains, and rioting in their several stomachs, in the form of sherry or champagne.

  Churm and I joined the procession. We were battling for our hats in the lobby with a brace of seedy gents who proposed to appropriate them, when Densdeth came out.

  He saluted me cordially and Churm distantly.

  No love between these two. Apart from any moral contrast, their temperaments
were too opposite to combine. Antagonistic natures do not necessarily make man and woman hostile, even when they are imprisoned for life in matrimony; domestic life stirs and stirs, slow and steady, and at last the two mix, like the oil and mustard in a mayonnaise. But the more contact, the more repulsion, in two men of such different quality as Churm and Densdeth.

  Both were quiet and self-possessed, and yet it seemed to me that, if a thin shell of decorum and restraint between them should be broken by any outer force, the two would clash together like explosive gases, and the weaker be utterly consumed away. I had already had hints, as I have stated, that they had causes for dislike. I could not wonder, as I saw them standing side by side. They were as different as men could be and yet be men.

  I observed them with a certain premonition that I was to be in some way drawn into the battle they must fight or were fighting. With which captain was I to be ranged?

  Densdeth was a man of slight, elegant, active figure, and of clear, colorless, olive complexion. His hair was black and studiously arranged. He was shaved, except a long drooping moustache,—that he could not have spared; it served sometimes to conceal, sometimes to emphasize, a sneer. His nose was a delicate aquiline, and his other fine-cut features corresponded. His eyes were yellow, feline, and restless,—the only restless thing about him. They glanced from your lips to your eyes and back, while you talked with him, as if to catch each winged word, and compare it with the expression perched above. Quick and sidelong looks detect a swarm of Pleiads where the steady gaze sees only six. Densdeth seemed to have learnt this lesson from astronomy; he shot his glance across your face to catch expressions which fancied themselves latent. Keen eyes Densdeth’s to recognize a villain.

  Churm was sturdy and vigorous; well built, one would say, not well made; built for use, not made for show. His Saxon coloring of hair and complexion were almost the artistic contrast to Densdeth’s Oriental hues. He wore his hair and thick brown beard cut short. His features were all strongly marked and finished somewhat in the rough, not weakened by chiselling and mending. His eyes were blue, frank, and earnest. He looked his man fair and square in the face, and never swerved until each had had his say. Keen enough, too, Churm’s eyes. They were his lanterns to search for an honest man and friend, not for a rogue and tool.