The Bibliophile/Chapter 4

There are moments of such extreme vexation in the life of a rattlesnake, it is said, that the reptile turns and buries its fangs in its own body, expiring some minutes later. The first part of this assertion may be true, but we decline to believe that the snake dies of its own posion [sic]. No such luck for the rest of us.

But this silly snake had nothing on Suzanne as she turned and twisted between the cold sheets and thought of the child dancer next door. It is to be feared that the whole atmosphere of the Casa Pompeiana was a little hectic. Arthur, who possessed a strong subjective sense, had wakened himself when Claudius had come in and had assayed the situation through his transom, then gone back to bed to bring his astute mind into action. Claudius was excited at the prospect of having an adopted daughter, like Van Duyven. Clarissa, in the augmenting fever of her first love, was wondering just how she would handle Claudius when he was her husband, as she firmly intended him to be, and how best to rid the house immediately of the dark, designing beauty with the cold hands, deciding finally that she had better read up on poisons in a monthly magazine for young girls. But the state of Suzanne's soul should not be approached with flippancy. Clarissa's advent had turned her frankly criminal, almost like our rattlesnake, in her relations to herself.

This was merely the early effervescence of the enzyme. The ebullition increased as Claudius, in his sane and quiet way, took up Clarissa's case through the proper legal channels, obtaining thereby a decree in her favor, establishing her liberty of choice in the matter of a guardian for the few remaining months of her minority and a judgment awarding her a very considerable sum of her theatrical earnings. There was a good deal of publicity and newspaper notoriety about the business, but Claudius did not mind. He pointed out that he was doing a worthy act and that Perkins' preparations were getting a lot of valuable free advertising.

Of course he had not the slightest suspicion that he had fallen in love with Clarissa at first sight. Why should he have recognized the look of an unknown country? He thought his sentiments purely paternal. Besides, love, to Claudius, meant marriage, and he had long since decided never to marry. He shuddered with dread at the thought of losing his personal liberty, and he could not imagine himself remaining faithful to any one woman for any length of time. Like most young men of his class, he had had his feminine episodes, but never anything that could not be terminated by the slam of a door.

Suzanne suspected much of this, and realized that she would have to do one of two things—strike hard and soon or acknowledge failure. Her theory of erosion had been reasonable up to the advent of Clarissa, but with a child dancer skipping about the premises it became impractical.

""

When discouraged with the workings of her own mind, Suzanne was wont to consult that of her brother Syd. She knew, of course, that his was a cheap, tricky, skin-the-cat sort of a brain, of which the workings were masked by a knowing facial expression and a cynical reticence of manner, but it had, nevertheless, a certain weasel cunning, and it had already given proof of its ability to bamboozle the simple-hearted Claudius. So she consulted this sage, who listened and smoked and nodded and sneered, and then, having got her into such a state of nervous irritation that she was ready to scream, outlined a shyster trick that disgusted Suzanne and gave her hope.

Its first projection on Claudius was that of a pale and shame-faced chaperon trying to tell him that she and Sydney must leave the Casa Pompeiana, where she had known the first real peace and happiness of her life. Why? Oh—please not to insist upon her saying at this moment! Later, perhaps—when—when she knew better just how—just what—just where Oh, it was really nothing for her to bother Claudius about—but they really felt that they ought to leave. Nobody would ever know how sweet and dear it had all been, nor could he ever realize how his—his Tears and exit.

Next came the interrogatory of Arthur by Claudius. What the deuce was it all about? Didn't he know?

Noncommittal shrug and drawing down of corner of mouth. Oh, he had his suspicions.

Couldn't have been anybody talking, could there? What the deuce was there to talk about? Was it that?

Well, not precisely—that is, no scandal, of course, or anything like that.

“Oh, hell, what the devil, then,” Claudius wanted to know. He felt that he had a right to know. Was it somebody who felt he had a claim on Suzanne?

Brief nod on Arthur's part and upward glance, with lifting of the eyebrows. Arthur thought so, but couldn't yet be sure. Leave it to him. He'd be able to tell in a day or so. Anyhow, Claudius wasn't to let it worry him. It was Suzanne's own fault.

The pair departed the following day, to the sincere regret of Claudius and the infinite relish of Cocky, Pussy, Polly, and Cholly, and the more exuberant delight of Clarissa, who, by the way, had been admitted to the high regard of this quartet. She hugged Cocky and gave him a nougat, gave Pussy a smelt, Polly a bunch of raisins, and Cholly five dollars. Then she rushed out and gave her guardian a kiss, which he received absent-mindedly. She repeated the motion when he suddenly woke up with a start, stared at her, and said:

“By Jiminy—what about your chaperon?”

“You don't need one with a guardian,” said Clarissa.

“Oh—don't you? I wasn't sure. What the deuce could have happened?”

“If you ask me,” said Clarissa, “she's probably got a beau that's just come back from Europe and is sore at her having lived here with you for the last four months.”

“That's not the way to put it, young lady,” Claudius growled. “She and her brother have been living in my house as paying guests.”

Clarissa tossed her head.

“Well, guardy, look out that you don't have to pay them for doing it before you get through. I know their kind. In the theaters they fight them with insect powder.”

“Do you want me to put you to bed?” Claudius threatened, and went out, much troubled.

The Arthurs' move in clearing out of the Casa Pompeiana was rather well planned, being calculated to upset Claudius' equanimity and at the same time leave him with an unpleasant lack of the mature counsel of friends while much disturbed. He was also supposed to miss Suzanne's pretty person and vivacious cheer, though it was admitted that the presence of the child dancer might mitigate this loss. But miss Suzanne he did, without doubt, and late the following afternoon, the state of his disquiet over the mysterious business was such that he telephoned Arthur and asked him to dine with him at the Arena. Arthur was sorry, but thought he'd better go home for dinner. Ought not to leave Suzanne alone all evening. Yes, feeling pretty badly—all broken up, poor girl, but he thought she'd be all right in a few days. No, don't worry. What? Yes, he could lunch with Claudius the next day. Sure. Well, Schultze's, on William Street. Twelve-thirty—all right.

Poor Claudius scarcely slept a wink that night. He had the peculiar quality of mind which is undisturbed by the roar of cannon, but cannot support the buzz of a mosquito. Clarissa's theory seemed to him to be sound, and he wondered what he could possibly do about it. Then he got to worrying about Clarissa and how he could best mold the dear child's future. He really need not have lost any sleep over this problem. All he had to do was to ask Clarissa.

He was nervous and almost apprehensive when he met Arthur at the restaurant the next day Arthur observed his disquiet with sly satisfaction. He himself wore a mantle of cynical gloom. As usually happens, the trouble was served with the coffee, which is supposed to be in some sort a corrective.

“Look here, Sydney,” said Claudius, “I want you to tell me about Suzanne. You must know what's the matter by this time.”

“Oh, what's the use? Nothing you can help. Better forget it.” Shrug and backward tilt of head to exhale smoke.

“I don't care, I want to know. I've got a right to know.”

“Told me not to tell you.”

“I don't care if she did. You tell me, anyhow. Clarissa has got me all upset about it. She's got a fool theory that somebody's been criticizing Suzanne for accepting my hospitality.”

Puff, puff, eyes still on ceiling.

“Clarissa guessed right first time. Suzanne was due to get married the first of the year. All off now. Nothing doing. Our own fault. Never thought this man, Lehr, was such a jealous chump. Wouldn't have let Suzanne accept your hospitality.” Puff, puff, cigarette ashes thoughtfully brushed away with little finger bearing heavy red-gold seal ring engraved with a device that might have been a skunk rampant on field argent, and trimmings. Arthur had cribbed it from “Heraldry.” “Lehr didn't want the engagement announced because his divorce was pending. Theatrical business. All kinds of money. Just got back from Europe, where he's been after plays.” Shrug and general expression of intense pessimism.

Throughout this monologue, Claudius had sat staring at his guest like a goldfish from its globe. Not only was he appalled by the actual facts of the case, but shocked at their vulgar crudity. Fancy a person named Lehr, in the theater business, breaking with his fiancée because, with her brother, she had been living in the house of a person of Claudius' position! Besides, it was not as if Suzanne were a young girl. A widow of nearly forty, and a business woman at that, was not supposed to be kept in a glass case.

“He must be crazy!” Claudius exclaimed.

“That's what I told him,” Arthur answered. “Oh, what's the use? He wouldn't listen to reason. No, it's all off. He's going out to the slope in a couple of days. That's the last we'll see of him.”

Claudius' heart sank. This, then, was to be the result of his unfortunate hospitality!

“I suppose Suzanne is pretty badly broken up,” said he miserably.

“Um—y-y-ess, in a way.” Head half cocked, eyes half closed, corner of mouth drawn down, and angle of jaw scratched by two long finger nails neatly manicured. “She was never what you might call in love with Lehr, but she liked him well enough, and had set her heart on being married. She can't bear to be alone, and she can't count on my company for the rest of her life. She's the kind that ought to have a home of her own. Domestic and affectionate, with a warm heart and none of those silly ideas that women have nowadays. But she was never much good as a business woman. Not that sort. It's only my influence that keeps her job for her now. If she lost that, I don't know what she'd do. Something reckless, I'm afraid. Pretty intense.” Slow shake of the head and distant gaze fastened on astral picture of Suzanne a king's favorite.

“Look here, Sydney,” said Claudius, “suppose I go and talk to this man Lehr, myself. When he sees the sort of chap I am, he may feel differently about it. I can't sit idly by and see Suzanne's future ruined. It's not only a question of friendship, but I feel responsible, in a way. If I hadn't persuaded you both to stop on at my place”—his persuasion had been about that required to make a tramp accept a beer—“this thing never would have happened, would it?”

“Perhaps not,” murmured Arthur, his dark lashes veiling the exultation in his eyes, “but that wasn't your fault.”

“Well, it was my doing, then. Where does this Lehr person keep himself and when can I catch him?”

“H'm,” glancing at poor, suffering Claudius as the president's doorman might eye a lobbyist. “Not sure that he'd see you. Might try, though. He's stopping at the McAlpin. See if I can get him on the phone—that is, if you insist.”

“I do!” Claudius exploded. “I mean to see him if I have to break in on him with an ax!” Which determination Arthur, the astute, had perfectly pre-divined.

Leaving Claudius in a horrible state of nerves, Arthur disappeared, to be gone nearly ten minutes. He filtered back wearing an air of modified success.

“Well?” quacked Claudius, through a parched throat.

“Oh, I managed it,” sinking wearily into his chair and languidly lighting a cigarette. “Says he can only give you five minutes in his rooms at the hotel. Refused first off, but gave in as a special favor to me. Care to have me go up there with you, Claudius?”

“Of course,” Claudius answered. “I want you to hear what I say to him.”

So, darkly shadowed by his jackal, he plunged through the bulbous clientele of the restaurant and sank into the subway, which seemed to drag like a winged duck, so great was his haste to have the hateful business over with. He had once gone far more cheerfully to have his appendix out.

The worst feature of this fix was what to do in case of failure with the outraged Mr. Lehr. Alas! The most recent novel that Claudius had read outlined his duty with the vivid penciling of a cinematograph screen sketch. Noblesse oblige! The amende honorable! If, through his fault, Suzanne were to lose a prospective spouse, it was up to him to enlist himself in her service or hire a substitute. He thought wildly for a second of the latter, but dismissed the idea in despair.

Some weeks ago, it would not have seemed to Claudius so great a calamity had the obligation arisen to share with Suzanne his bed and board. But now he writhed like an angleworm on a hook. Such a sacrifice meant the collapse of all that he held most dear. It would mean an urban life with restaurants and theaters and cabarets and tango teas and night life and stuffy rooms, for Suzanne adored all those disgusting things. No more Casa Pompeiana; no more delightful days and evenings with Cocky, Pussy, Polly, Cholly, and the child dancer.

It is doubtful if he realized at that moment how large a part the child dancer played in the piece. Perhaps the part of him most offended by the filthy business was his extreme gentility, his fastidious sense of social delicacy and refinement. He seemed to himself to have got somehow mixed up in the stews. His errand disgusted him to the point of nausea. He, Claudius Hanson, an American gentleman of the upper class, on his way to persuade a theatrical person named Lehr that a woman guest recently entertained at his home had remained unpolluted through this experience and, failing to convince the exigent Mr. Lehr of the truth of this, to present himself later before the said lady and offer to devote the rest of his life to the sincere effort of compensating her for the lack of Lehr! Phaugh! Claudius spat thoughtlessly upon the floor of the car.

“Look out!” warned Arthur. “They can pinch you for spitting.”

Gurgles welled from Claudius, but he spat no more. They did not indulge in much more conversation, and those who saw them enter the hotel might have doubted the sincerity of their friendship. Mr. Lehr kept them waiting for about twenty infuriating minutes before having them flicked up to his room.

Much constrained, and resting negatively against Arthur's immoral support, Claudius entered, to behold a very large man—almost a giant, in fact—bulging the dimensions of the encircling gloom. He was seated at the writing desk and had not seen fit to do his guests so much honor as to put on his coat. Or it may have been that he thought it might be just as well to have his arms free. A dab of red paint would have given a green reaction against his face, which was principally distinguished because of its appearing to stop halfway from the top of his forehead to his chin. The lower hemisphere was lumpy jaw. He had also a blighted mustache. His clothes were in season.

Out of this massive pulp struggled a look of real intelligence which encouraged Claudius, making him feel that, after all, he had to do with a human being having some claim to intellectuality and not the mere avatar of a troglodyte. On their way uptown, Arthur had let fall one or two subtle admonitions of the caution to be observed in approaching Mr. Lehr on personal topics, he being short of patience. The man might prove positively dangerous if crossed. Treat him right and he was mild as a lamb. All of which was lost on Claudius, who happened to be thinking about something else.

Then Lehr whirled about with a grunt, and Claudius thought how disgusting he was.

“Hah-de-do, Syd,” he grunted, and then, to Claudius, “Glad t' know you, Mr. Hanson. Have a chair.”

Claudius muttered a word of thanks and sat, marveling at Suzanne's taste. Instead of being disgusted, though, it made him very sorry for her. He decided that it must be difficult for a woman of thirty-odd, with no money, to marry, beautiful though she be, and that merely being pleasing to the sight and touch could not be much of an asset; certainly not with such a person as Lehr appeared to be.

This recalcitrant suitor, who at that moment reminded Claudius of a boar, stabbed at him with a pair of small, shifty eyes and then said in a harsh bass:

“Syd, here, tells me you feel sore about my breaking with his sister 'count of her spending the summer at your place.”

“Quite so,” Claudius answered stiffly. “I should object to any intimation that a woman could not accept my hospitality without damage to her reputation. I make it my care to see that the conventions are properly observed. In Mrs. Bates' case, such insinuations are not only insulting, but ridiculous. Her brother was under the same roof, in the same office during the day, and in the next room at night. Besides that, one ought to consider the personal characters of Mrs. Bates and myself.”

Lehr puffed out his lips.

“That's just the point, my friend,” said he. “All I know about your character is what I've read in the papers. I've never been over-particular or squeamish, but I ain't stuck on having the folks that know me say: 'Lehr's new wife? Sure, a little bit of all right. She spent the summer before they were married with this perfume fella that kidnaped Clarissa Carlton.'”

Nausea spread its gray mantle over Claudius. He had a sickening sense of being tripped, netted, and bound. He felt the utter hopelessness of explaining the child dancer to such a man as Lehr. Besides, to what good? He perceived that it was not doubt of the chaste Suzanne that had galled the leviathan before him but the shrinking dread of “what folks would say.” Claudius, also, had little doubt but that they would say it. Lehr leaned back in his chair, clasped his fat hands in front of his paunch, and regarded Claudius sympathetically.

""

“If there's any one thing that gets my goat,” said he, “it's any hint o' scandal aimed at my womenfolks, I just been through one divorce action on that account, as Syd, here, can tell you, and the burned child dreads the fire. I appreciate your sentiments in comin' here, Mr. Hanson, and they do you credit. Anybody that ain't blind can see that you're a man of honor, and believe me, now that I've had the chance to look you over, I'm convinced that you're a slandered man.”

Short, quick nods on the part of Arthur, indicative of “That's no lie.”

This unanimous vote of confidence stung Claudius like a kick in the shins.

“Very kind of you, I'm sure,” said he curtly, “but I should prefer to hear you say that you are convinced of Mrs. Bates' absolute freedom from the slightest suggestion of indiscreet behavior.”

“Oh, that goes without saying,” answered Mr. Lehr affably. “Nobody that knows Susy could ever have the slightest doubt about her. She's one woman in a million; not only in her conduct, but every way—looks, disposition, everything.” He spread his flukes expansively, looking now more like a benevolent whale than a boar. Claudius observed him with growing animosity.

“Then, feeling this way about Mrs. Bates,” said he, cutting his words with the precision of one who adds the reagent drop by drop, “are you going to let yourself be scared out of keeping your promise to her because you're afraid a few fools might couple her name with mine?”

Mr. Lehr smiled indulgently. Examining the portrait of a whale, one may form an estimate of that smile. There was in it a hint of vast complacency as of a whale hugging itself in silly glee at its cleverness in not being caught in an eel pot. Mr. Lehr leaned forward and tapped Claudius' knee with a blobby middle finger.

“Say,” said he, “do I look like a party that would scare easy?”

Eyebrow wigwags from Arthur to Claudius, Message: “A legion of cops couldn't scare that man.”

Answer from Claudius' pale, distressed face: “Nonsense! He was born scared, like you. But that doesn't help Suzanne.”

Mr. Lehr continued the tapping process, which hurt Claudius more than he could endure, compelling him to shift knees.

“I'm going to tell you something I didn't mean to. Syd knows it. Let me alone, Syd. I know what's best. Well, the truth of the matter is, Mr. Hanson, that I've got pretty good reason to believe that, while Susy may have thought a lot of me when I sailed for Europe, just this minute your little finger means more to her than my whole carcass”—“Word I've been trying to think of,” thought Claudius, “stranded carcass of a whale”—“and I'm just enough of a man of the world to realize that if you can't get what you love, you got to love what you get. I've got the mitt—or at least that's the way it looks to me. Anyhow, I'm acting on that idea, and so far as I'm concerned, it's final. 'Xcuse me.” He glanced at his watch, then looked up at Claudius. “Hope you understand my p'sition.”

“Oh, yes, quite,” said Claudius, and rose. “So far as I can see, I've made a good deal of a fool of myself. It seems to come natural to me.” He glared at Lehr, his blue eyes blazing with the fires of martyrdom. “However, let's hope it may work out all right. I shall do what I can to straighten out the mess. Good afternoon.” And he went out of the door with a preoccupied air, apparently oblivious to winks, nods, shrugs, jerks, and other titivations of his erstwhile guest.