Our Mister Wren

by Lewis, Sinclair

  Mr. Wrenn fled back to Tom Poppins's store. On the way he was

  shocked to find himself relieved at having parted with Morton.

  The cigar-store was closed.

  At home Mrs. Zapp waylaid him for his rent (a day overdue), and

  he was very curt. That was to keep back the "O God, how rotten

  I feel!" with which, in his room, he voiced the desolation of

  loneliness.

  The ghost of Morton, dead and forgotten, was with him all next

  day, till he got home and unbelievably found on the staid

  black-walnut Zapp hat-rack a letter from Paris, in a gray

  foreign-appearing envelope with Istra's intensely black scrawl

  on it.

  He put off the luxury of opening the letter till after the rites

  of brushing his teeth, putting on his slippers, pounding his

  rocking-chair cushion into softness. Panting with the joy to

  come, he stared out of the window at a giant and glorious figure

  of Istra--the laughing Istra of breakfast camp- fire--which

  towered from the street below. He sighed joyously and read:

  Mouse dear, just a word to let you know I haven't forgotten you

  and am very glad indeed to get your letters. Not much to write

  about. Frightfully busy with work and fool parties. You _are_

  a dear good soul and I hope you'll keep on writing me. In

  haste,

  I. N.

  Longer letter next time.

  He came to the end so soon. Istra was gone again.

  CHAPTER XIV

  HE ENTERS SOCIETY

  England, in all its Istra - ness, scarce gave Mr. Wrenn a better

  thrill for his collection than the thrill he received on the

  November evening when he saw the white doorway of Mrs. R. T.

  Ferrard, in a decorous row of houses on Thirtieth Street near

  Lexington Avenue.

  It is a block where the citizens have civic pride. A newspaper

  has not the least chance of lying about on the asphalt--some

  householder with a frequently barbered mustache will indignantly

  pounce upon it inside of an ho ur. No awe. is caused by the

  sight of vestibules floored with marble in alternate black and

  white tiles, scrubbed not by landladies, but by maids. There

  are dotted Swiss curtains at the basement windows and Irish

  point curtains on the first floors. The re are two polished

  brass doorplates in a stretch of less than eight houses.

  Distinctly, it is not a quarter where children fill the street

  with shouting and little sticks.

  Occasionally a taxicab drives up to some door without a crowd of

  small boys gathering; and young men in evening clothes are not

  infrequently seen to take out young ladies wearing tight-fitting

  gowns of black, and light scarfs over their heads. A Middle

  Western college fraternity has a club-house in the block, and four

  of the houses are private--one of them belonging to a police

  inspector and one to a school principal who wears spats.

  It is a block that is satisfied with itself; as different from

  the Zapp district, where landladies in gingham run out to squabble

  with berry- venders, as the Zapp district is from the Ghetto.

  Mrs. Arty Ferrard's house is a poor relation to most of the

  residences there. The black areaway rail is broken, and the

  basement-door grill is rusty. But at the windows are

  red-and-white-figured chintz curtains, with a $2.98 bisque

  figurine of an unclothed lady between them; the door is of

  spotless white, with a bell-pull of polished brass.

  Mr. Wrenn yanked this bell-pull with an urbane briskness which,

  he hoped, would conceal his nervousness and delight in dining

  out. For he was one of the lonely men in New York. He had

  dined out four times in eight years.

  The woman of thirty- five or thirty-eight who opened the door to

  him was very fat, two-thirds as fat as Mrs. Zapp, but she had

  young eyes. Her mouth was small, arched, and quivering in a grin.

  "This is Mr. Wrenn, isn't it?" she gurgled, and leaned against

  the doorpost, merry, apparently indolent. "I'm Mrs. Ferrard.

  Mr. Poppins told me you were coming, and he said you were a

  terribly nice man, and I was to be sure and welcome you. Come

  right in."

  Her indolence turned to energy as she charged down the hall to

  the large double door on the right and threw it open, revealing

  to him a scene of splendor and revelry by night.

  Several persons [they seemed dozens, in their liveliness] were

  singing and shouting to piano music, in the midst of a general

  redness and brightness of furnishings--red paper and worn red

  carpet and a high ceiling with circular moldings tinted in pink.

  Hand-painted pictures of old mills and ladies brooding over

  salmon sunsets, and an especially hand-painted Christmas scene

  with snow of inlaid mother-of-pearl, animated the walls. On a

  golden-oak center-table was a large lamp with a mosaic shade, and

  through its mingled bits of green and red and pearl glass

  stormed the brilliance of a mantle-light.

  The room was crowded with tufted plush and imitation- leather

  chairs, side-tables and corner brackets, a couch and a "lady's

  desk." Green and red and yellow vases adorned with figures of

  youthful lovers crammed the top of the piano at the farther end

  of the room and the polished black- marble mantel of the

  fireplace. The glaring gas raced the hearth-fire for snap and

  glare and excitement. The profusion of furniture was like a

  tumult; the redness and oakness and polishedness of furniture

  was a dizzying activity; and it was all overwhelmingly magnified

  by the laughter and singing about the piano.

  Tom Poppins lumbered up from a couch of terrifically new and red

  leather, and Mr. Wrenn was introduced to the five new people in

  the room with dismaying swiftness. There seemed to be fifty

  times five unapproachable and magnificent strangers from whom he

  wanted to flee. Of them all he was sure of only two--a Miss Nelly

  somebody and what sounded like Horatio Hood Tem (Teddem it was).

  He wished that he had caught Miss Nelly's last name (which, at

  dinner, proved to be Croubel), for he was instantly taken by her

  sweetness as she smiled, held out a well- shaped hand, and said,

  "So pleased meet you, Mr. Wrenn."

  She returned to the front of the room and went on talking to a

  lank spinster about ruchings, but Mr. Wrenn felt that he had

  known her long and as intimately as it was possible to know so

  clever a young woman.

  Nelly Croubel gave him the impression of a delicate prettiness,

  a superior sort of prettiness, like that of the daughter of the

  Big White House on the Hill, the Squire's house, at Parthenon;

  though Nelly was not unusually pretty. Indeed, her mouth was

  too large, her hair of somewhat ordinary brown. But her face

  was always changing with emotions of kindliness and life. Her

  skin was perfect; her features fine, rather Greek; her smile,

  quick yet sensitive. She was several inches shorter than Mr.

  Wrenn, and all curves. Her blouse of white silk lay tenderly

  along the adorably smooth softness of her young shoulders. A

 
smart patent-leather belt encircled her sleek waist. Thin black

  lisle stockings showed a modestly arched and rather small foot

  in a black pump.

  She looked as though she were trained for business; awake,

  self-reliant, self-respecting, expecting to have to get things

  done, all done, yet she seemed indestructibly gentle,

  indestructibly good and believing, and just a bit shy.

  Nelly Croubel was twenty-four or twenty-five in years, older in

  business, and far younger in love. She was born in Upton's

  Grove, Pennsylvania. There, for eighteen years, she had played

  Skip to Malue at parties, hid away the notes with which the boys

  invited her to picnics at Baptist Beach, read much Walter Scott,

  and occasionally taught Sunday-school. Her parents died when

  she was beginning her fourth year in high school, and she came

  to New York to work in Wanamacy's toy department at six dollars

  a week during the holiday rush. Her patience with fussy old

  shoppers and her large sales-totals had gained her a permanent

  place in the store.

  She had loftily climbed to the position of second assistant

  buyer in the lingerie department, at fourteen dollars and eighty

  cents a week That was quite all of her history except that she

  attended a Presbyterian church nearly every Sunday. The only

  person she hated was Horatio Hood Teddem, the cheap actor who

  was playing the piano at Mr. Wrenn's entrance.

  Just now Horatio was playing ragtime with amazing rapidity,

  stamping his foot and turning his head to smirk at the others.

  Mrs. Arty led her chattering flock to the basement dining-room,

  which had pink wall-paper and a mountainous sideboard. Mr.

  Wrenn was placed between Mrs. Arty and Nelly Croubel. Out of

  the mist of strangeness presently emerged the personality of

  Miss Mary Proudfoot, a lively but religious spinster of forty

  who made doilies for the Dorcas Women's Exchange and had two

  hundred dollars a year family income. To the right of the

  red-glass pickle-dish were the elderly Ebbitts--Samuel Ebbitt,

  Esq., also Mrs. Ebbitt. Mr. Ebbitt had come from Hartford five

  years before, but he always seemed just to have come from there.

  He was in a real-estate office; he was gray, ill-tempered,

  impatiently honest, and addicted to rheumatism and the

  newspapers. Mrs. Ebbitt was addicted only to Mr. Ebbitt.

  Across the table was felt the presence of James T. Duncan, who

  looked like a dignified red-mustached Sunday-school

  superintendent, but who traveled for a cloak and suit house,

  gambled heavily on poker and auction pinochle, and was esteemed

  for his straight back and knowledge of trains.

  Which is all of them.

  As soon as Mrs. Arty had guided Annie, the bashful maid, in

  serving the vegetable soup, and had coaxed her into bringing Mr.

  Wrenn a napkin, she took charge of the conversation, a luxury

  which she would never have intrusted to her flock's amateurish

  efforts. Mr. Poppins, said she, had spoken of meeting a friend

  of Mr. Wrenn's; Mr. Morton, was it not? A very nice man, she

  understood. Was it true that Mr. Wrenn and Mr. Morton had gone

  clear across the Atlantic on a cattle-boat? It really was?

  "Oh, how interesting!" contributed pretty Nelly Croubel, beside

  Mr. Wrenn, her young eyes filled with an admiration which caused

  him palpitation and difficulty in swallowing his soup. He was

  confused by hearing old Samuel Ebbitt state:

  "Uh-h-h-h--back in 18--uh--1872 the vessel _Prissie_--no, it was

  1873; no, it must have been '72----"

  "It was 1872, father," said Mrs. Ebbitt.

  "1873. I was on a coasting- vessel, young man. But we didn't

  carry cattle." Mr. Ebbitt inspected Horatio Hood Teddem darkly,

  clicked his spectacle case sharply shut, and fell to eating,

  as though he had settled all this nonsense.

  With occasional witty interruptions from the actor, Mr. Wrenn

  told of pitching hay, of the wit of Morton, and the wickedness

  of Satan, the boss.

  "But you haven't told us about the brave things _you_ did," cooed

  Mrs. Arty. She appealed to Nelly Croubel: "I'll bet he was a

  cool one. Don't yo u think he was, Nelly?"

  "I'm sure he was." Nelly's voice was like a flute.

  Mr. Wrenn knew that there was just one thing in the world that

  he wanted to do; to persuade Miss Nelly Croubel that (though he

  was a solid business man, indeed yes, and honorable) he was a

  cool one, who had chosen, in wandering o'er this world so wide,

  the most perilous and cattle-boaty places. He tried to think of

  something modest yet striking to say, while Tom was arguing with

  Miss Mary Proudfoot, the respectable spinster, about the ethics

  of giving away street-car transfers.

  As they finished their floating custard Mr. Wrenn achieved,

  "Do you come from New York, Miss Croubel?" and listened to the

  tale of sleighing-parties in Upton's Grove, Pennsylvania. He was

  absolutely happy.

  "This is like getting home," he thought. "And they're classy

  folks to get home to--now that I can tell 'em apart. Gee!

  Miss Croubel is a peach. And brains--golly!"

  He had a frightened hope that after dinner he would be able to

  get into a corner and talk with Nelly, but Tom Poppins conferred

  with Horatio Hood Teddenm and called Mr. Wrenn aside. Teddem

  had been acting with a moving-picture company for a week, and

  had three passes to the celebrated Waldorf Photoplay Theater.

  Mr. Wrenn had bloodthirstily disapproved Horatio Hood's

  effeminate remarks, such as "Tee _hee!_" and "Oh, you naughty

  man," but when he heard that this molly-coddle had shared in the

  glory of making moving pictures he went proudly forth with him

  and Tom. He had no chance to speak to Mrs. Arty about taking

  the room to be vacated.

  He wished that Charley Carpenter or the Zapps could see him

  sitting right beside an actor who was shown in the pictures

  miraculously there before them, asking him how they made movies,

  just as friendly as though they had known each other always.

  He wanted to do something to entertain his friends beyond taking

  them out for a drink. He invited them down to his room, and

  they came.

  Teddem was in wonderful form; he mimicked every one they saw so

  amiably that Tom Poppins knew the actor wanted to borrow money.

  The party were lovingly humming the popular song of the

  time-- "Any Little Girl That's a Nice Little Girl is the Right

  Little Girl for Me"--as they frisked up the gloomy steps of the

  Zapps. Entering, Poppins and Teddem struck attitudes on the

  inside stairs and sang aloud.

  Mr. Wrenn felt enormously conscious of Mrs. Zapp down below. He

  kept listening, as he led them up-stairs and lighted the gas.

  But Teddem so imitated Colonel Roosevelt, with two water-glasses

  for eye-glasses and a small hat-brush for mustache, that Mr.

  Wrenn was moved wrigglingly to exclaim: "Say, I'm going out and

  get some beer. Or 'd you rather have something else? Some

  cheese sandwiches? How about 'em?"

&nbs
p; "Fine," said Tom and Teddem together.

  Not only did Mr. Wrenn buy a large newspaper-covered bundle of

  bottles of beer and Swiss-cheese sandwiches, but also a small

  can of caviar and salty crackers. In his room he spread a clean

  towel, then two clean towels, on the bureau, and arrayed the

  feast, with two water- glasses and a shaving-mug for cups.

  Horatio Hood Teddem, spreading caviar on a sandwich, and loudly

  singing his masterpiece, "Waal I swan," stopped short and fixed

  amazed eyes on the door of the room.

  Mr. Wrenn hastily turned. The light fell--as on a cliff of

  crumbly gray rock--on Mrs. Zapp, in the open door, vast in her

  ungirdled gray wrapper, her arms folded, glowering speechlessly.

  "Mist' Wrenn," she began, in a high voice that promised to burst

  into passion.

  But she was addressing the formidable adventurer, Bill Wrenn.

  He had to protect his friends. He sprang up and walked across

  to her.

  He said, quietly, "I didn't hear you knock, Mrs. Zapp."

  "Ah _didn't_ knock, and Ah want you should----"

  "Then please do knock, unless you want me to give notice."

  He was quivering. His voice was shrill.

  From the hall below Theresa called up, "Ma, come down here. _Ma!_"

  But Mrs. Zapp was too well started. " If you think Ah'm going

  to stand for a lazy sneaking little drunkard keeping the whole

  street awake, and here it is prett' nearly midnight----"

  Just then Mr. William Wrenn saw and heard the most astounding

  thing of his life, and became an etemal slave to Tom Poppins.

  Tom's broad face became hard, his voice businesslike. He

  shouted at Mrs. Zapp:

  "Beat it or I'll run you in. Trouble with you is, you old hag,

  you don't appreciate a nice quiet little chap like Wrenn, and

  you try to bully him--and him here for years. Get out or I'll

  put you out. I'm no lamb, and I won't stand for any of your

  monkey-shines. Get out. This ain't your room; he's rented

  it--he's paid the rent--it's his room. Get out!"

  Kindly Tom Poppins worked in a cigar-store and was accustomed to

  talk back to drunken men six feet tall. His voice was

  tremendous, and he was fatly immovable; he didn't a bit mind the

  fact that Mrs. Zapp was still "glaring speechless."

  But behold an ally to the forlorn lady. When Theresa, in the

  hall below, heard Tom, she knew that Mr. Wrenn would room here

  no more. She galloped up-stairs and screeched over her mother's