Anthony The Absolute

“It’s a wonder I can bring the tones out at all,” she observed, half to herself. “I have n’t sung a note for days.”

Next she began running scales; very carefully and precisely, her eyebrows puckered into an intent frown. And I watched her white throat, and round chin, and delicately curving mouth.

She caught me looking at her, and flashed a smile at me. Then, with her eyes on mine, took in a quick deep breath that filled her chest out solidly, and, full voice, broke into the old familiar waltz song from “Romeo and Juliet.”

I knew then that I had never really heard her sing before. She saw the surprise on my face, I know, for her eyes suddenly sparkled anti sprung away from mine and she flushed with pleasure; but she went right on with the song – sang it clear through, managing the lace-like coloratura work with perfect ease and precision, unconsciously throwing her whole body into the glorious, swaying rhythm of the waltz, and letting out a volume of tone – of sheer, luscious tone, without a particle of “wood” in it – that filled the room, that would have filled the greatest opera house in the world, that throbbed about my ears and set my emotions vibrating in harmony with it and with the mood of the singer that animated it.

When she had done, I stood motionless there. It seemed to me that echoes of that wonderful voice were still floating to my sense-consciousness from every quarter of the shabby little room. I know that I hail to look out for a moment at the sunlight on the roofs beyond the window, and myself take in a deep breath that, I fear, was half a sigh.

She was standing by me.

“We must get to work,” she said.

I put a cylinder on the machine. First I looked at her and tried to speak, but could not. I don’t know what it could have been that I thought I wanted to say. Probably it was nothing more than the inarticulate emotions her singing had stirred, groping for some outward expression in words.

Her eyes were very bright. I motioned her to go ahead.

“You have n’t wound it up,” she said, and chuckled softly. I can not account for her moods. But, for that matter, I think I chuckled with her.

We made twelve records. I believe they will prove to be even better, on the whole, than the ten I destroyed. So, whatever happens, I have again my close-interval scale; again I have the selfish gratification of knowing that I have been enabled to establish a basis of scientific interval comparison for the use of all students of primitive music. It is Heloise’s last gift to me, done in a strange sort of joy that, even to-night, breaks triumphantly through the shadow that lies on her life and mine.

She watched me while I removed the last of the twelve cylinders, and carefully sealed it in its separate box, and wrote the label. Then she said:

“Oh, Anthony, it is so – worth while!”

All I could say in reply – so full was my heart – was:

“Yes, dear. Work is the answer.”

And so close were we now, that I knew she did not think my reply inept.

She looked at her watch, then soberly reflected. “It is half past one, Anthony,” she said. Conscious that I still found some difficulty in talking, she added: “Would it do any good for me to go – with you, or alone?”

“No,” said I, shaking my head. “Not now. It would only excite him. And that would help nobody.”

“I know,” said she. “I hate to be passive, this way. I feel as if I were shirking – ”

“You are n’t. It will take some courage to do what you must do.”

“I know,” she said again. “Be patient, keep steady; help you that way I know, Anthony.”

It had occurred to me, when I left Crocker in the morning, that, in the event of any actual physical encounter, there would be a quite unnecessary danger to me in wearing my glasses. I thought of this again, now; and going to the bureau I got my spectacle case and slipped it into my coat pocket.

Heloise watched me, but asked no questions. I put on my hat, and took my stick from the corner by the door.

“Good-by, Heloise,” I said. I knew that unless we parted swiftly my will would weaken and I should take her in my arms. So I only said good-by, and opened the door.

But she came right forward, and took my hand. Our eyes met. What I saw in hers reassured me. She seemed very steady and strong.

“Anthony,” she said, “I have been selfish, and weak. I have made it hard for you. But you can count on me now.”

I tried to murmur a protest to this, but she swept on: “I am going to do whatever you decide for me. I shan’t make any more difficulties. Now go. God bless you, Anthony.”

She dropped my hand, and stepped back.

I stood there and fumbled the door knob. I felt that I was almost certainly going to draw her to me and kiss those wonderful eyes that are the light of my soul.

But she still looked strong.

“I wonder,” she said, musingly, “if there was ever, anywhere in the world, a man exactly like you.”

Then she turned away. “You’d better go,” she said, with a little gesture.

I went then.

Crocker was not in his room, at the Wagon-lits. I knocked several times; then, turning the knob and finding that the door was unlocked, walked in and looked around.

I was about to leave when the thought of that sheath knife came to me. It was an unpleasant thought; but once it had got into my mind I could not, it: seemed, get it out. I stood there in the middle of the room, thinking about it. The suitcase was still on the chair by the wall, closed.

I took a step toward it. Then another. Then, suddenly conscious of my weakness, I went over to it and threw back the cover.

The knife was not there. I rummaged through the garments and the odds and ends that filled the suit-case. But the knife was gone.

I rushed out of the room and ran the length of the corridor. I hurried down the stairs; looked about the office and lounge; went to the bar. There was no sign of him.

I was turning away from the barroom door, when I realized that a fat man was beckoning to me from a table by the opposite wall. He was sitting alone, an empty liqueur glass before him. Across the table was another empty glass.

He was beckoning violently, with his whole arm. I had seen that round face somewhere. Then I remembered. He was on the ship with us, crossing the Pacific – the vaudeville manager from Cincinnati – played fan-tan all the lime. I never did know his name. He wore a genial grin now. Perhaps he would have some information for me. At least, I could ask him. So I crossed over.

He wrung my hand. “How’s little Mr. Music Master,” he cried. “Sit down. Oh, sure you can – sit right down there!”

I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes of two. I had said that I would be at Crocker’s room at two. It was pretty important that I should keep my word. Why could n’t I think more clearly? He might be somewhere about the hotel, of course. If only the knife hadn’t disappeared! Suddenly I wanted to rush back upstairs and look through that suit-case again. The knife might have slipped down one side. Yes, he might have done that in getting something else cut of the suit-case… Come to think of it, I had n’t looked in the dining-room!

Then I heard what the fat vaudeville manager was saying:

“Remember the Port Watch? Big fellow – walked the deck so much – and kept a sort o’ slow bun sizzling all the time? Well – ”

“Have you seen him?” I asked quickly.

“Sure, right here. Not five minutes back. Had a couple of drinks with me. But say, I don’t think he knew me. He acted funny – walked and sat very erect – looked solemn and did n’t say much.”

“Which way did he go?” said I, trying to appear composed. But I felt him looking quizzically at me, as if saying to himself, “Well, here’s another of ‘em.”

“Did he have his hat?” said I, on the heels of my other question.

“No. I think he went up to get it. Funny thing. I did n’t make out what was the matter until he pulled out a big knife – in a lacquered sheath, it was – and said – what was it he said? – Oh, yes – ’They pretty near put it over on me, but I’m too smart for them.’ That was it. He whispered it, real mysterious – ’They pretty near put it over on me, but I’m too smart for them.’ Do you know, he made me feel damn uncomfortable. I think the man ain’t safe.”

I listened to all this, in a way. At least, I seem to recall it now, word for word. But I was trying to decide whether to go upstairs on the chance of heading him off there, or to hurry directly back to the Hôtel de Chine.

I decided on the latter course. I think the vaudeville man had just about uttered the last sentence recorded above when I turned and ran out of the room. He must have been puzzled.

Yes, I ran. One or two of the drinking crowd shouted after me, I think. I ran down the corridor, through the lounge, and out to the street. T remember that two Chinese hall boys stood gaping as I passed. And parties of tourists looked up from their after-tiffin coffee and their drinks – always the drinks.

I leaped into a rickshaw, and called —

“Two plecee coolie! Two piecee coolie!” And then, when one brown-legged ragamuffin had picked up the shafts and another had fallen in behind the seat, added, still in a shrill voice, “Hôtel de Chine– chop, chop!”

It was incongruous, that absurd pidgin-English at such a time.

But it was effective. I have never traveled so rapidly through the streets of Peking. I found two Mexican dollars in my pocket, and held them up, one in each hand.

“Chop, chop! Chop, chop!” I cried again. And the coolies put their heads down and ran with all the strength that was in them.

They pulled up in my shabby little street, with a jerk that nearly threw me out. I sprang down, threw the two dollars on the seat, and ran into the hotel.

Then I stopped short.

For standing by the clerk’s desk, looking over the board that hung there with our names – Hel-oise’s and mine – in plain view, stood Crocker. He was peering closely from line to line down the first column of names, guiding his eye with an unsteady forefinger. He stood up very straight, with feet placed a little way apart. From the side pocket of his coat projected the silver tip of the knife handle, beneath which I could see a half-inch of black lacquer.

I drew my spectacle case from my pocket, took off my glasses, and carefully put them away.

He was intent on the list of names and room numbers. Behind the counter stood the little French manager, leaning forward and watching him rather coldly. But Crocker was oblivious to all but the one idea; his finger wobbled slowly downward from name to name.

My first impulse was to go directly up to him. But what then? What could I say or do? He was past reason, surely; but not past the use of his physical strength. He had been every bit as drunk as this when he knocked the waiter down in the hotel at Yokohama. What if he were to knock me down in the same way – with that sudden, short swing of his fist to the chin? I would of course drop as the waiter had dropped, and, like him, would lie inert, leaving Crocker free to rove at will.

My eyes turned to the stairway, up and down which I have walked or run so many times during this eventful week.

That was the place. I would at least be above him there… if I could pass him and reach it safely.

I stepped forward, cautiously

The manager was watching me as well, now, with knit brows. But this was no time to consider him.

Crocker was having some difficulty in reading the list of names. His finger went back to the top of the board, and again began wobbling slowly down from line to line.

I tiptoed past him. He did not turn.

I went on up the stairs, but not quite to the top. T hank God, Heloise did not know – not yet.

From this point I could not see him. I waited.

Finally – it seemed a long time, but I suppose it was not more than two or three minutes, really – he appeared at the foot of the stairs. He was swaying a very little. On his face was the crafty expression I had seen there once or twice during our talk in the morning; his eyes had narrowed down to slits. Curiously enough, he was still pale, not red, as I should naturally expect in the case of a man as drunk as he. If he saw me at all, waiting there a little way from the top of the stairway, the sight of me meant nothing to his disordered mind.

He placed one foot on the bottom step, stopped and put his hand to his mouth (standing motionless, as if trying to think), then brought out his knife. He drew it from the sheath. It had a wicked blade – designed for desperate, primitive uses, I should say. The sheath he returned to his pocket.

Then, with a curiously set, almost businesslike expression on his face, he came running up the stairs.

I blocked the way, holding out both arms.

He brushed me aside. But I clung to his arm.

He made an effort to jerk away from me. I said something to him; I don’t know now what it was, but I remember that I was very careful not to raise my voice. I think he didn’t reply at all; just kept on pulling away from me.

But I clung. I did n’t know what on earth I could do. There could be no agreement, no arrangement, with this wild man. Everything had gone to pieces. All my hopes for Heloise had been snuffed out in a moment. And the thought that my grip on his arm was the only thing intervening between her and a fate that I can not even bring myself to think about, almost stops my heart, right now. Then, of course, there was no time to consider even that; I just clung to him.

I think he must have caught hold of the rail at first with his right hand, to steady himself as he silently tugged and jerked; for it was a moment later that he struck me. I had swung around partly behind him, fortunately, and the blow glanced off my head. It made me feel giddy for a moment, but it was not effective. We tottered, and I think he caught again at the rail to keep from falling.

I hung desperately to his thrashing arm, pillowing my head behind it to keep out of his reach.

Then, looking down, I saw his feet, the left a step below the right. I hooked my right foot around his left ankle, and, with all my strength, pulled it toward me. I felt his leg give. I pulled harder; made one great convulsive effort.

He tottered, and fell slowly backward, carrying me a little way with him. Then I found myself sitting jammed against the wall, with a dazed, aching head, while he slid clear to the ground floor and lay there, on his back, his left leg doubled under him in a curiously unnatural way. The manager, I remember, stood over him, very white, pulling with rapid little jabs at his mustache, and saying nothing at all.

It was an oddly silent affair, from beginning to end. I remember looking anxiously upward in the fear that Heloise had heard and run out. I dreaded the look of anguish that would surely be on her face. But she was not there.

I drew myself to my feet. A few steps below me lay the knife. I picked it up, then went on down.

Some China boys were bringing a cot. They lifted Crocker, very carefully, and laid him on it, then carried him into the office. He must have been suffering intense pain; but he only set his teeth hard, and once or twice drew in a quick, hissing breath.

I followed them in, and stood over him. After a moment he rolled his head around and looked at me. I could see that he was puzzled.

“Where am I, Eckhart?” he asked.

“At the Hôtel de Chine.”

“The Hôtel de– That’s where – ”

“It is where I am stopping,” said I.

He whitened, and winced; whether in physical or mental pain I am unable to say.

“My leg is broken,” he observed, a little later.

I nodded.

“Who did it?”

“I did.”

He knit his brows. Then he saw the knife in my hand, and bit his lip. It did not occur to me, then, to put the knife away.

We were silent again. Then – “Take me to the Wagon-lits,” he said.

“Oh, no,” I cried, “we will take care of you here,”

He shook his head, and again bit his lip. “I want to go to the Wagon-lits,” he repeated.

“In one moment, sir.” It was the manager, talking over my shoulder. I stared; for I had not heard him approach. “In a moment, sir. The automobile, it will be here.”

After all, it was better so, if he could stand it. And doubtless he could.

He was looking again at the knife in my hand. I held it up and stared at it. There was a little blood on it, near the point. He reached out, and I gave it to him. It was his property, not mine Very deliberately he drew the sheath from his pocket, put the knife into it, and thrust it into his side pocket. But he thought differently of this; for a moment later, when he thought I was not looking, he transferred it to his inside breast pocket. I wondered a little at this. Then it occurred to me that he feared it might be observed by others, there in the side pocket.

An automobile drew up before the building.

“I have telephone for the doctor,” said the manager. “It is that he will await us at the Wagon-lits.”

Then we carried Crocker out on his cot – the manager, three Chinamen, and I. He was very heavy. And they took him away. He did not look at me again, or speak to me. And I, of course, said nothing.

I hesitated outside the door of my room, trying to think out what I should say to Heloise. But I could not think very clearly. Neither could I stand there indefinitely.

I went in, opening the door very softly, and closing it softly behind me. My principal thought, at the moment, was of getting across to my bureau and brushing my hair and straightening my tie before Heloise should see me. I could not bear to think of coming before her with these visible evidences of the struggle upon me.

But I could not get beyond the bed. I sank down on it, leaning against the footboard. I was sitting this way when Heloise came in.

She came swiftly toward me, a hundred questions in her eyes. She never before looked so lovely to me as standing there before me, blue of gown and eye – all blue, it seemed to me – something flushed with excitement, her under lip drawn in a little way between her teeth.

“Oh, Anthony,” she said, low and breathless, “you are hurt!”

I shook my head. But she was staring down at my left hand, that lay on my knee. My gaze followed hers. There was blood on my wrist. It must have run down my arm.

She helped me take off my coat, and with a small pair of scissors that she got from her room cut off my shirt sleeve at the shoulder. It was wet and stained with red.

There was a gash in my upper arm.

She held up the arm and looked closely at it. I liked the direct, practical way she went about it.

“It is n’t an artery,” she mused, studying the wound. “Not a big one, anyway.” And she washed it, and drew it together with plaster from my emergency kit, and bandaged it very neatly. Then she helped me to lie down – brought pillows from her own room to place behind my head.

She did not ask one question; just worked to make me comfortable. Finally she sat on the edge of the bed, and critically looked me over.

“You’ll be all right,” she said thoughtfully. “I know one thing that is the matter. We both forgot all about luncheon.”

I had not thought of it.

“Well,” she went on, “I feel a little faint myself. I couldn’t think what on earth was the matter until it came over me all at once that I’ve eaten nothing to-day but one very small breakfast.”

I let her ring for the waiter and order food. During this space of time I lay still, trying to think how I should tell her. Every moment it grew harder. But at last I caught her hand, when she was passing the bed, and drew her down beside me. She knew well enough what was on my mind, but she only stroked my forehead with her soft, cool fingers.

In this time, so pregnant for her, and so painful, she was thinking how she might spare me!

I told her exactly what had taken place; clumsily enough but, at least, clearly.

She had been there in her room all the time, and had not heard a single unusual sound.

She did not say much, beyond a thoughtful question or two. The tray came, and she arranged the little meal as attractively as she could, there on the edge of the bed. But we both grew more and more sober as the moments went by. The thought of poor Crocker in acute physical pain, that once splendid body of his crippled and useless, disturbed us both. I was glad to see that there were tears in Heloise’s eyes.

After the belated luncheon I felt distinctly better. At four o’clock I got up. Heloise, who was doing her best to keep busy about her own room, came to the door and suggested a walk.

“It won’t hurt either of us,” she added, with a wan smile.

So we went out and strolled over to that great thoroughfare, the Hata High Street, where the yellow people swarm, and the uniformed police direct the traffic with an almost Occidental sense of order, and the long brown camel trains from Mongolia and Kansu pad softly over the very modern pavement and under the electric street lights.

We stayed out until nearly six. But our spirits did not rise as we had hoped. For whatever way our thoughts turned, they found no light. We did not have to talk about this; now and then our eyes met, and that was enough. Heloise was strangely, almost completely passive. Even in such trivial matters as picking our way through the traffic – where, I know, it would be natural for her to look out for herself in that brisk, self-reliant way that young American women have – she would turn to me for guidance, and press against my arm. She watched me a good deal, too, to make sure that I was not becoming tired.

At last we came back to the hotel. As we ascended the stairs I slipped my arm through hers. She looked up at my touch, and tried to smile; and her eyes seemed to cling to mine for a moment. In the dim light I could feel them as well as I could see them.

I opened my door, and stepped aside to let her pass in. Then we both stopped and looked down at a white envelope that lay on the sill. I picked it up, then entered and closed the door while she switched on the light.

I turned the envelope over and over in my hand. She watched me for a fleeting second, almost timidly, then went into her own room to take off her hat.

The envelope bore the imprint of the hotel. I opened it, and read the following:

“It is with regret that the management begs to inform you of a previous engagement of rooms 16 and 18 for the 15th instant, necessitating that the rooms be vacated by that date.”

Heloise came to the door, and stood there observing me. She was tucking back a rebellious strand of hair; and she looked very slim and girlish, standing that way with both arms raised.

I went over to the casement window, and threw it open. Then I sat down by it, on one of the chairs of bent iron.

She came toward me, disturbed but hesitant.

I handed her the paper. She read it, standing very st ill. Then she looked up. Her face twisted a little.

“Why, Anthony,” she said, with a catch in her voice, “we ‘re put out of the hotel!”

The sentence ended in an odd, explosive little laugh. Then, abruptly, she slipped to the floor beside me, threw her arms across my knees, hid her face on them, and sobbed.

There was nothing I could say, of course. The matter was absurdly unimportant compared with the grimmer uncertainties before us. Yet it had hit me with almost the same force.

I laid my hand on her shoulder. I stroked her head. After a little she groped for my hand with one of hers and, when she found it, clung tightly to it.

And all the time I was thinking how like a child she seemed. I believe that is the supreme quality of the artist – childlikeness. It is a quality that carries the adult worker through hells of suffering and heavens of unearthly joy; and it is a quality for which small allowance is made in this particular world.

It will soon be dawn. I have written almost all night. Probably now I had better try to get some sleep.

She came to the door – hours ago. There was on her face that new passive quality; I can not define it exactly, even in my own thinking.

“Anthony,” she said, with choirs of suppressed music in her low voice, “would it be better, tomorrow you know, for us to…” She had to begin again. “Do you wish me to go away from you? You must tell me – not what you want, but what you believe is best.”

I could only look at her for a moment. I could n’t think at all.