by Thomas Wolfe
The newspapermen, who had early arrived upon the scene, were now beginning to come into the drug-store to telephone their stories to the papers. They were a motley crew, a little shabby and threadbare, with battered hats in which their Press cards had been stuck, and some of them had the red noses which told of long hours spent in speak-easies.
One would have known that they were newspapermen even without their Press cards. The signs were unmistakable. There was something jaded in the eye, something a little worn and tarnished about the whole man, something that got into his face, his tone, the way he walked, the way he smoked a cigarette, even into the hang of his trousers, and especially into his battered hat, which revealed instantly that these were gentlemen of the Press.
It was something wearily receptive, wearily cynical, something that said wearily: "I know, I know. But what's the story? What's the racket?"
And yet it was something that one liked, too, something corrupted but still good, something that had once blazed with hope and aspiration, something that said: "Sure. I used to think I had it in me, too, and I'd have given my life to write something good. Now I'm just a whore. I'd sell my best friend out to get a story. I'd betray your trust, your faith, your friendliness, twist everything you say around until any sincerity, sense, or honesty that might be in your words was made to sound like the maunderings of a buffoon or a clown--if I thought it would make a better story. I don't give a damn for truth, for accuracy, for facts, for telling anything about you people here, your lives, your speech, the way you look, the way you really are, the special quality, tone, and weather of this moment--of this fire--except insofar as they will help to make a story. What I went to get is the special 'angle' on it. There has been grief and love and fear and ecstasy and pain and death to-night: a whole universe of living has been here enacted. But all of it doesn't matter a damn to me if I can only pick up something that will make the customers sit up tomorrow and rub their eyes--if I can tell 'em that in the excitement Miss Lena Ginster's pet boa constrictor escaped from its cage and that the police and fire departments are still looking for it while Members of Fashionable Apartment House Dwell in Terror...So there I am, folks, with yellow fingers, weary eyeballs, a ginny breath, and what is left of last night's hangover, and I wish to God I could get to that telephone to send this story in, so the boss would tell me to go home, and I could step round to Eddy's place for a couple more highballs before I call it another day. But don't be too hard on me. Sure, I'd sell you out, of course. No man's name or any woman's reputation is safe with me--if I can make a story out of it--but at bottom I'm not such a bad guy. I have violated the standards of decency again and again, but in my heart I've always wanted to be decent. I don't tell the truth, but there's a kind of bitter honesty in me for all that. I'm able to look myself in the face at times, and tell the truth about myself and see just what I am. And I hate sham and hypocrisy and pretence and fraud and crookedness, and if I could only be sure that to-morrow was going to be the last day of the world--oh, Christ!--what a paper we'd get out in the morning! And, too, I have a sense of humour, I love gaiety, food, drink, good talk, good companionship, the whole thrilling pageantry of life. So don't be too severe on me. I'm really not as bad as some of the things I have to do."
Such, indefinably yet plainly, were the markings of these men. It was as if the world which had so soiled them with its grimy touch had also left upon them some of its warm earthiness--the redeeming virtues of its rich experience, its wit and understanding, the homely fellowship of its pungent speech.
Two or three of them now went round among the people in the drug-store and began to interview them. The questions that they asked seemed ludicrously inappropriate. They approached some of the younger and prettier girls, found out if they lived in the building, and immediately asked, with naive eagerness, whether they were in the Social Register. Whenever any of the girls admitted that she was, the reporters would write down her name and the details of her parentage.
Meanwhile, one of the representatives of the Press, a rather seedy-looking gentleman with a bulbous red nose and infrequent teeth, had called his City Desk on the telephone and, sprawled in the booth with his hat pushed back on his head and his legs sticking out through the open door, was reporting his findings. George Webber was standing with a group of people at the back of the store, near the booth. He had noticed the reporter when he first came in, and had been fascinated by something in his seedy, hard-boiled look; and now, although George appeared to be listening to the casual chatter around him, he was really hanging with concentrated attention on every word the man was saying:
"...Sure, that's what I'm tellin' yuh. Just take it down...The police arrived," he went on importantly, as if fascinated by his own journalese--"the police arrived and threw a cordon round the building." There was a moment's pause, then the red-nosed man rasped out irritably: "No, no, no! Not a squadron! A cordon!...What's 'at?...Cordon, I say! C-o-r-d-o-n--cordon!...For Pete's sake!" he went on in an aggrieved tone. "How long have you been workin' on a newspaper, anyway? Didn't yuh ever hear of a cordon before?...Now get this. Listen----" he went on in a careful voice, glancing at some scrawled notes on a piece of paper in his hand. "Among the residents are included many Social Registerites and others prominent among the younger set...What? How's that?" he said abruptly, rather puzzled. "Oh!"
He looked round quickly to see if he was being overheard, then lowered his voice and spoke again:
"Oh, sure! Two!...Nah, there was only two--that other story was all wrong. They found the old dame...But that's what I'm tellin' yuh! She was all alone when the fire started--see! Her family was out, and when they got back they thought she was trapped up there. But they found her. She was down in the crowd. That old dame was one of the first ones out...Yeh--only two. Both of 'em was elevator men." He lowered his voice a little more, then, looking at his notes, he read carefully: "John Enborg...age sixty-four...married...three children...lives in Jamaica, Queens...You got that?" he said, then proceeded: "And Herbert Anderson...age twenty-five...unmarried...lives with his mother...841 Southern Boulevard, the Bronx...Have yuh got it? Sure. Oh, sure!"
Once more he looked round, then lowered his voice before he spoke again:
"No, they couldn't get 'em out. They was both on the elevators, goin' up to get the tenants--see!--when some excited fool fumbled for the light switches and grabbed the wrong one and shut the current off on 'em...Sure. That's the idea. They got caught between the floors...They just got Enborg out," his voice sank lower. "They had to use axes...Sure. Sure." He nodded into the mouthpiece. "That's it--smoke. Too late when they got to him...No, that's all. Just those two...No, they don't know about it yet. Nobody knows. The management wants to keep it quiet if they can...What's that? Hey!--speak louder, can't yuh? You're mumblin' at me!"
He had shouted sharply, irritably, into the instrument, and now listened attentively for a moment.
"Yeh, it's almost over. But it's been tough. They had trouble gettin' at it. It started in the basement, then it went up a flue and out at the top...Sure, I know," he nodded. "That's what made it so tough. Two levels of tracks are right below. They were afraid to flood the basement at first--afraid to risk it. They tried to get at it with chemicals, but couldn't...Yeh, so they turned off the juice down there and put the water on it. They probably got trains backed up all the way to Albany by now...Sure, they're pumpin' it out. It's about over, I guess, but it's been tough...O.K., Mac. Want me to stick around?...O.K.," he said, and hung up.
* * *
21. Love Is Not Enough
The fire was over. Mrs. Jack and those who were with her went out on the street when they heard the first engine leaving. And there on the pavement were Mr. Jack, Edith, and Alma. They had met some old friends at the hotel and had left Amy and her companions with them.
Mr. Jack looked in good spirits, and his manner showed, mildly and pleasantly, that he had partaken of convivial refreshment. Over his arm he was carrying a woman's coat, which he n
ow slipped round his wife's shoulders, saying:
"Mrs. Feldman sent you this, Esther. She said you could send it back to-morrow."
All this time she had had on nothing but her evening dress. She had remembered to tell the servants to wear their coats, but both she and Miss Mandell had forgotten theirs.
"How sweet of her!" cried Mrs. Jack, her face beginning to glow as she thought how kind everyone was in a time of stress. "Aren't people good?"
Other refugees, too, were beginning to straggle back now and were watching from the corner, where the police still made them wait. Most of the fire-engines had already gone, and the rest were throbbing quietly with a suggestion of departure. One by one the great trucks thundered away. And presently the policemen got the signal to let the tenants return to their rooms.
Stephen Hook said good night and walked off, and the others started across the street towards the building. From all directions people were now streaming through the arched entrances into the court, collecting maids, cooks, and chauffeurs as they came. An air of disorder and authority had been re-established among them, and one could hear masters and mistresses issuing commands to their servants. The cloister-like arcades were filled with men and women shuffling quietly into their entryways.
The spirit of the crowd was altogether different now from what it had been a few hours earlier. All these people had recaptured their customary assurance and poise. The informality and friendliness that they had shown to one another during the excitement had vanished. It was almost as if they were now a little ashamed of the emotions which had betrayed them into injudicious cordialities and unwonted neighbourliness. Each little family group had withdrawn frigidly into its own separate entity and was filing back into its own snug cell.
In the Jacks' entry a smell of smoke, slightly stale and acrid, still clung to the walls, but the power had been restored and the elevator was running again. Mrs. Jack noticed with casual surprise that the doorman, Henry, took them up, and she asked if Herbert had gone home. He paused just perceptibly, and then answered in a flat tone:
"Yes, Mrs. Jack."
"You all must be simply worn out!" she said warmly, with her instant sympathy. "Hasn't it been a thrilling evening?" she went on eagerly. "In all your life did you ever know of such excitement, such confusion, as we had to-night?"
"Yes, ma'am," the man said, in a voice so curiously unyielding that she felt stopped and baffled by it, as she had many times before. And she thought:
"What a strange man he is! And what a difference between people! Herbert is so warm, so jolly, so human. You can talk to him. But this one--he's so stiff and formal you can never get inside of him. And if you try to speak to him, he snubs you--puts you in your place as if he doesn't want to have anything to do with you."
She felt wounded, rebuffed, almost angry. She was herself a friendly person, and she liked people round her to be friendly, too--even the servants. But already her mind was worrying loosely at the curious enigma of the doorman's personality:
"I wonder what's wrong with him," she thought. "He seems always so unhappy, so disgruntled, nursing some secret grievance all the time. I wonder what has done it to him. Oh, well, poor thing, I suppose the life he leads is enough to turn anyone sour--opening doors and calling cabs and helping people in and out of cars and answering questions all night long. But then, Herbert has it even worse--shut up in this stuffy elevator and riding up and down all the time where he can't see anything and where nothing ever happens--and yet he's always so sweet and so obliging about everything!"
And, giving partial utterance to her thoughts, she said:
"I suppose Herbert had a harder time of it to-night than any of you, getting all these people out."
Henry made no answer whatever. He simply seemed not to have heard her. He had stopped the elevator and opened the door at their own landing, and now said in his hard, expressionless voice: "This is your floor, Mrs. Jack."
After they got out and the car had gone down, she was so annoyed that she turned to her family and guests with flaming cheeks, and said angrily:
"Honestly, that fellow makes me tired! He's such a grouch! And he's getting worse every day! It's got so now he won't even answer when you speak to him!"
"Well, Esther, maybe he's tired out to-night," suggested Mr. Jack pacifically. "They've all been under a pretty severe strain, you know."
"So I suppose that's our fault?" said Mrs. Jack ironically. And then, going into the living-room and seeing again the chaos left there by Mr. Logan's performance, she had a sudden flare of her quick and jolly wit, and with a comical shrug said: "Vell, ve should have a fire sale!"--which restored her to good humour.
Everything seemed curiously unchanged--curiously, because so much had happened since their excited departure. The place smelled close and stale, and there was still a faint tang of smoke. Mrs. Jack told Nora to open the windows. Then the three maids automatically resumed their interrupted routine and quickly tidied up the room.
Mrs. Jack excused herself for a moment and went into her own room. She took off the borrowed coat and hung it in the closet, and carefully brushed and adjusted her somewhat disordered hair.
Then she went over to the window, threw up the sash as far as it would go, and filled her lungs full of the fresh, invigorating air. She found it good. The last taint of smoke was washed clean and sweet away by the cool breath of October. And in the white light of the moon the spires and ramparts of Manhattan were glittering with cold magic. Peace fell upon her spirit. Strong comfort and assurance bathed her whole being. Life was so solid and splendid, and so good.
A tremor, faint and instant, shook her feet. She paused, startled; waited, listening...Was the old trouble with George there again to shake the deep perfection of her soul? He had been strangely quiet to-night. Why, he had hardly said two words all evening. What was the matter with him?...And what was the rumour she had heard this night? Something about stocks falling. During the height of the party she had overheard Lawrence Hirsch say something like that. She hadn't paid any attention at the time, but now it came back. "Faint tremors in the market"--that's what he had said. What was this talk of tremors?
--Ah, there it was a second time! What was it?
--Trains again!
It passed, faded, trembled delicately away into securities of eternal stone, and left behind the blue dome of night, and of October. The smile came back into her eyes. The brief and troubled frown had lifted. Her look as she turned and started towards the living-room was almost dulcet and cherubic--the look of a good child who ends the great adventure of another day.
Edith and Alma had retired immediately on coming in, and Lily Mandell, who had gone into one of the bedrooms to get her wraps, now came out wearing her splendid cape.
"Darling, it has been too marvellous," she said throatily, wearily, giving Mrs. Jack an affectionate kiss. "Fire, smoke, Piggy Logan, everything--I've simply adored it!"
Mrs. Jack shook with laughter.
"Your parties are too wonderful!" Miss Mandell concluded. "You never know what's going to happen next!"
With that she said her good-byes and left.
George was also going now, but Mrs. Jack took him by the hand and said coaxingly:
"Don't go yet. Stay a few minutes and talk to me."
Mr. Jack was obviously ready for his bed. He kissed his wife lightly on the cheek, said good night casually to George, and went to his room. Young men could come, and young men could go, but Mr. Jack was going to get his sleep.
Outside, the night was growing colder, with a suggestion of frost in the air. The mammoth city lay fathoms deep in sleep. The streets were deserted, save for an occasional taxi-cab that drilled past on some urgent nocturnal quest. The pavements were vacant and echoed hollowly to the footfalls of a solitary man who turned the corner into Park and headed briskly north towards home and bed. The lights were out in all the towering office buildings, except for a single window high up in the face of a darkened cliff which be
trayed the presence of some faithful slave of business who was working through the night upon a dull report that had to be ready in the morning.
At the side entrance of the great apartment house, on the now empty cross street, one of the dark green ambulances of the police department had slid up very quietly and was waiting with a softly throbbing motor. No one was watching it.
Shortly a door which led down to a basement opened. Two policemen came out, bearing a stretcher, which had something sheeted on it that was very still. They slid this carefully away into the back of the green ambulance.
A minute later the basement door opened again and a sergeant emerged. He was followed by two more men in uniform who carried a second stretcher with a similar burden. This, too, was carefully disposed of in the same way.
The doors of the vehicle dicked shut. The driver and another man walked round and got into the front seat. And after a hushed word or two with the sergeant, they drove off quietly, turning the corner with a subdued clangour of bells.
The three remaining officers spoke together for a moment longer in lowered voices, and one of them wrote down notes in his little book. Then they said good night, saluted, and departed, each walking off in a different direction to take up again his appointed round of duty.
Meanwhile, inside the imposing front entrance, under a light within the cloistered walk, another policeman was conferring with the doorman, Henry. The doorman answered the questions of the officer in a toneless, monosyllabic, sullen voice, and the policeman wrote down the answers in another little book.