Part 72 (1/2)

With such men as these two Anthony Patch drank and discussed and drank and argued. He liked them because they knew nothing about him, because they lived in the obvious and had not the faintest conception of the inevitable continuity of life. They sat not before a motion picture with consecutive reels, but at a musty old-fas.h.i.+oned travelogue with all values stark and hence all implications confused. Yet they themselves were not confused, because there was nothing in them to be confused--they changed phrases from month to month as they changed neckties.

Anthony, the courteous, the subtle, the perspicacious, was drunk each day--in Sammy's with these men, in the apartment over a book, some book he knew, and, very rarely, with Gloria, who, in his eyes, had begun to develop the unmistakable outlines of a quarrelsome and unreasonable woman. She was not the Gloria of old, certainly--the Gloria who, had she been sick, would have preferred to inflict misery upon every one around her, rather than confess that she needed sympathy or a.s.sistance. She was not above whining now; she was not above being sorry for herself. Each night when she prepared for bed she smeared her face with some new unguent which she hoped illogically would give back the glow and freshness to her vanis.h.i.+ng beauty. When Anthony was drunk he taunted her about this. When he was sober he was polite to her, on occasions even tender; he seemed to show for short hours a trace of that old quality of understanding too well to blame--that quality which was the best of him and had worked swiftly and ceaselessly toward his ruin.

But he hated to be sober. It made him conscious of the people around him, of that air of struggle, of greedy ambition, of hope more sordid than despair, of incessant pa.s.sage up or down, which in every metropolis is most in evidence through the unstable middle cla.s.s. Unable to live with the rich he thought that his next choice would have been to live with the very poor. Anything was better than this cup of perspiration and tears.

The sense of the enormous panorama of life, never strong in Anthony, had become dim almost to extinction. At long intervals now some incident, some gesture of Gloria's, would take his fancy--but the gray veils had come down in earnest upon him. As he grew older those things faded--after that there was wine.

There was a kindliness about intoxication--there was that indescribable gloss and glamour it gave, like the memories of ephemeral and faded evenings. After a few high-b.a.l.l.s there was magic in the tall glowing Arabian night of the Bush Terminal Building--its summit a peak of sheer grandeur, gold and dreaming against the inaccessible sky. And Wall Street, the cra.s.s, the ba.n.a.l--again it was the triumph of gold, a gorgeous sentient spectacle; it was where the great kings kept the money for their wars....

... The fruit of youth or of the grape, the transitory magic of the brief pa.s.sage from darkness to darkness--the old illusion that truth and beauty were in some way entwined.

As he stood in front of Delmonico's lighting a cigarette one night he saw two hansoms drawn up close to the curb, waiting for a chance drunken fare. The outmoded cabs were worn and dirty--the cracked patent leather wrinkled like an old man's face, the cus.h.i.+ons faded to a brownish lavender; the very horses were ancient and weary, and so were the white-haired men who sat aloft, cracking their whips with a grotesque affectation of gallantry. A relic of vanished gaiety!

Anthony Patch walked away in a sudden fit of depression, pondering the bitterness of such survivals. There was nothing, it seemed, that grew stale so soon as pleasure.

On Forty-second Street one afternoon he met Richard Caramel for the first time in many months, a prosperous, fattening Richard Caramel, whose face was filling out to match the Bostonian brow.

”Just got in this week from the coast. Was going to call you up, but I didn't know your new address.”

”We've moved.”

Richard Caramel noticed that Anthony was wearing a soiled s.h.i.+rt, that his cuffs were slightly but perceptibly frayed, that his eyes were set in half-moons the color of cigar smoke.

”So I gathered,” he said, fixing his friend with his bright-yellow eye.

”But where and how is Gloria? My G.o.d, Anthony, I've been hearing the dog-gonedest stories about you two even out in California--and when I get back to New York I find you've sunk absolutely out of sight. Why don't you pull yourself together?”

”Now, listen,” chattered Anthony unsteadily, ”I can't stand a long lecture. We've lost money in a dozen ways, and naturally people have talked--on account of the lawsuit, but the thing's coming to a final decision this winter, surely--”

”You're talking so fast that I can't understand you,” interrupted d.i.c.k calmly.

”Well, I've said all I'm going to say,” snapped Anthony. ”Come and see us if you like--or don't!”

With this he turned and started to walk off in the crowd, but d.i.c.k overtook him immediately and grasped his arm.

”Say, Anthony, don't fly off the handle so easily! You know Gloria's my cousin, and you're one of my oldest friends, so it's natural for me to be interested when I hear that you're going to the dogs--and taking her with you.”

”I don't want to be preached to.”

”Well, then, all right--How about coming up to my apartment and having a drink? I've just got settled. I've bought three cases of Gordon gin from a revenue officer.”

As they walked along he continued in a burst of exasperation:

”And how about your grandfather's money--you going to get it?”

”Well,” answered Anthony resentfully, ”that old fool Haight seems hopeful, especially because people are tired of reformers right now--you know it might make a slight difference, for instance, if some judge thought that Adam Patch made it harder for him to get liquor.”

”You can't do without money,” said d.i.c.k sententiously. ”Have you tried to write any--lately?”

Anthony shook his head silently.

”That's funny,” said d.i.c.k. ”I always thought that you and Maury would write some day, and now he's grown to be a sort of tight-fisted aristocrat, and you're--”