Part 17 (1/2)

It seemed to him suddenly as if he had hastily embarked on a search for the fountain of eternal youth--a voyage that followed mirages, and was hollow and illusory. Beginnings, after the first flush, always have this quality of fake, and Joe was standing in the shadow-land between two lives. The old life was receding in the past; the new life had not yet appeared. Without training, without experience, without definite knowledge of the need to be met, with only a strong desire and a mixed ideal, and almost without his own volition, he found himself now sitting at a desk in West Tenth Street, with two employees, and nothing to do.

How out of this emptiness was he to create something vital?

This naturally brought a pang he might have antic.i.p.ated. He had a sudden powerful hankering for the old life. That at least was man-size--his job had been man's work. He looked back at those fruitful laborious days, with their rich interest and absorbing details, their human companions.h.i.+ps, and had an almost irrepressible desire to rush out, take the elevated train, go down East Eighty-first Street, ascend the elevator, ring the bell, and enter his dominion of trembling, thundering presses. He could smell the old smells, he could see the presses and the men, he could hear the noise. That was where he belonged. Voluntarily he had exiled himself from happiness and use. He wanted to go back--wanted it hard, almost groaned with homesickness.

Such struggles are death throes or birth throes. They are as real as two men wrestling. Joe could sit still no longer, could mask no longer the combat within him. So he rose hastily and went out and wandered about the shabby, unfriendly neighborhood. He had a mad desire, almost realized, to take the car straight to Eighty-first Street, and only the thought of Marty Briggs in actual possession held him back. Finally he went back and took lunch, and again tried the vain task of pretending to work.

It was three o'clock when he surrendered. He strode in to his mother.

”Mother,” he said, ”isn't there something we can do together?”

”In what way?”

”Any way. I've been idling all day and I'm half dead.” He laughed strangely. ”I believe I'm getting nerves, mother.”

”Nerves!” She looked at him sharply. ”What is it, Joe?”

”Oh! It's in-betweenness.”

”I see.” She smiled. ”Well, there's some shopping to do--”

”Thank Heaven!”

So they went out together and took the Sixth Avenue car to Thirty-fourth Street. Their shopping took them to Fifth Avenue, and then, later, up Broadway to Forty-second Street. It was a different New York they saw--in fact, the New York best known to the stranger. The gorgeous palaces of trade glittered and sparkled, s.h.i.+mmered and flashed, with jewels and silver, with silks and knick-knacks. The immense and rich plenty of earth, the products of factories and mills, were lavishly poured here, gathered in isles, about which a swarming sea of well-dressed women pushed and crowded. The high ceilings were hung with glowing moons of light; the atmosphere was magic with confused talk, shuffling footsteps, and all the hum and stir of a human hive. Up and down Fifth Avenue swept a black thick stream of motors and carriages in which women and men lounged and stared. The great hotels sucked in and poured out tides of jeweled and lace-wrapped creatures, and in the lighted interiors of restaurants were rouged cheeks and kindled eyes.

As Joe and his mother reached Forty-second Street, that whirlpool of theaters released its matinee crowds, a flood of youth, beauty, brightness, and luxury.

And it seemed to Joe, seeing all this life from a Tenth Street viewpoint, that here was a great city of wealth and idleness. Evidently a large population had nothing to do save shop and motor, eat and idle.

How could he from shabby Tenth Street send out a sheet of paper that would compete with these flas.h.i.+ng avenues?

The sight depressed him. He said as much to his mother.

”This is New York,” he said, ”barbaric, powerful, luxuriant. These people are the power of the city--the mighty few--these are the owners.

What can we do with them?”

His mother sensed then the struggle in his mind.

”Joe,” she cried, ”isn't there any place where we can see--the other people?”

There was. They took the car down to Eighth Street, they walked east, and entered little Was.h.i.+ngton Park, with its monumental arch, and its shadowy trees, its wide and curving walks--its general sense of being a green breathing-s.p.a.ce in the sweep of streets. As they walked through the sharp wintry air in the closing sunlight, what time the blue electric lights gleamed out among the almost naked boughs, the six-o'clock whistles began blowing from factories all about them--a glad shriek that jumped from street to street over the city--and at once across the eastern plaza of the park streamed the strange torrent of the workers--a mighty, swift march of girls and boys, women and men, homeward bound, the day's work ended--a human stream, in the gray light, steeped in an atmosphere of accomplishment, sweet peace, solution. All life seemed to touch a moment of harvest.

Joe's mother was thrilled, and in spite of himself Joe felt his heart clutched, as it were, in a vise. He felt the strange, strong, human grip. It was a marvelous spectacle, though common, daily, and cheap as life.

Joe's mother whispered, in a low voice:

”Joe, this is the real New York!”

And then again:

”Those others are only a fraction--these are the people.”