Chapter XVII My Début in Society
Had our future plans depended on my inclinations, or rather my impulses, our wedding would have taken place very soon after our engagement. All I deemed necessary to insure our future happiness was our love. All else was of no importance. Now I know that her judgment was the better.
I had sense enough to admit her wisdom. I was still very much entangled in the forest of ignorance. It could not have been right for me to force myself on her, refined and cultured as she was—until, at least approximately I was on the same level. I had still much, very much, to learn before considering myself capable to class myself with the non-illiterate. There were years of study before me, yet, with such a prize dancing before me, I threw myself into my task with true enthusiasm.
So, though I often grumbled at my fate, I fully understood that it would be many moons before I could justly say to my Mamie Rose: “Now I am ready.”
We were both human. Sometimes, perhaps, in the hour when the homing of the sun had come and when the golden wings were folded for the rest of one more night, we, Mamie Rose and I, in field or rural quiet, felt the intoned, unison song of our hearts, which sung to us that we were one, a unit, and not two different personalities, and then we often came very near to throwing aside all previous sagacious resolves and felt ourselves fired by the desire to end to-morrow this two-fold existence. These periods never lasted long. The morrow came and whispered: “Fools,” and we forgot the swerving from our intentions, in hard work.
Since that time I have had many days of very hard labor, but I never worked as I did then. Corporations are not in the habit of paying liberal salaries unless every cent of them is earned by the sweat of your brow. For one in my humble position I was receiving exceedingly high wages—and, to be candid, I had to earn them by my sweat. Often I was given an opportunity to work “over time” at extra pay. It was always welcome, because it meant so much more added to my deposit in the Savings Bank, but it simply “played me out.”
From the pier I would hurry to Mamie Rose’s house to report or to receive a lesson, although, sometimes, besides the lessons, other things were discussed. Then home and to other work.
I had left the attic and had taken a room, from where I could see Mamie Rose’s roof. Arrived in the room, Bill would be given his walk and dinner, and then would be permitted to watch his master “making himself educated.” The Standard Oil Company really ought to give me a discount. I was a good customer, yet received not all the benefit possible from the oil. My midnight oil often burned away into morning to no better purpose than to throw shadows of the sleeping student and his dog.
I blush with deep shame while making this confession; I invariably fell asleep over Ralph Waldo Emerson, while I had no trouble in keeping awake with Alexandre Dumas. It is not intended as a criticism of Emerson, although he could well afford to be criticised by me, but, generally speaking, it seems to one as unformed as myself, as if the truths of life, of thought, of science come to us always on stilts. I have not been able to learn very much from present day novels, and am, and always will be, compelled to fall back on old friends to supply me with the scaffolding for the rather meagre structure of my education. But, in spite of loving them dearly, I often wish they were better adapted to my understanding.
So, with books and work and sweet intercourse with her whom I loved, time marched along with never-halting step and was recorded by me with most exact care. My calendars were model chronicles of time, and often did I wish they were practical statesmen, so that, by the usual means, they could be speeded.
With one exception nothing occurred to change the even tenor of our lives. That one exception has, to this very day left a peculiarly bitter taste in my mouth. I admit I am biased in the matter, still, I can be truthful, and so, that I may be better understood, the episode will be related here.
Late one Saturday night, I had occasion to call on one of my former pals, who was lying ill on a cot in a lodging house near Chinatown. On my way home, I passed the entrance to Chinatown—Pell street, beginning at the Bowery. I had just greeted a few of the men loafing about the front of Barney Flynn’s place—the palace of the King of the Bowery—when I was hailed by some one.
I looked around and saw a party of sightseers coming in my direction. I had no more to do with that sort of business and intended to proceed on my way without paying any attention to them, but was called by name by one of them, whose voice was familiar to me.
“What do you want?” I asked, and halted.
“What’s the matter, Kil? Don’t you remember your friends any more?”
I looked at the speaker and knew him again as one of my former pupils in the physical culture line. To mention his name will do no good and I will only say that he had been my favorite pupil and that I had believed a mutual liking existed between us. To prevent error, let me say that he had not been my patient, being neither too fat nor too lean, but had only taken a course in boxing to learn the manly art of self-defense. I had never seen him since the closing of my physical culture system and was overjoyed at this unexpected meeting.
He insisted that, for this one time only, and to oblige him, I should take him and the party of his friends through Chinatown and show them the most interesting sight-places. His friends were all from out of town, seemed to be more serious than the average sightseer, and were so strong in their persuasion that I could not refuse to act as their guide.
During our journey along the old scenes of my former days, my ex-pupil inquired into my present welfare and was very glad to hear I was getting along by other ways than those formerly employed by me. Shortly before I parted from him, he told me that he had taken very little exercise of late and wanted me to box with him occasionally. I laughed at his proposition, told him that I considered myself retired for good, but did not think it advisable to tell him the true reason for my refusal. He kept on increasing the terms he was willing to pay me. I could not help thinking how the additional income would increase my deposit; thereby bringing me closer to the realization of my fondest dream, and, after some reflection, I agreed to call on him twice a week in the evening to “don the mitts” with him.
I had called on him several times before I told him how completely my life had been changed. In this Mamie Rose was not left out, and, you can rest assured, my accounts of her sweetness, devotion and beauty were given in the most glowing colors. My regard for this man was sincere and I supposed that all I told him was received in the proper spirit. I am not garrulous, but when it came to talking about my Mamie Rose, I knew no limits. My heart simply glowed with love, and I never grew tired to praise her, who was the truest and best.
My man never omitted to inquire after her and even sent her a few presents through me. Mamie Rose warned me against this, but the things were beyond my means and added to her charm, and I would not listen to her.
At the end of one of our sessions, my ex-pupil extended an invitation to me. He had told his mother about me and she was very anxious to know me. At a certain date I was expected to call at his mother’s residence—he, himself, lived in bachelor quarters—to meet a few friends there.
In this invitation Mamie Rose was also included. I was bubbling over with excitement when telling her about the honor fallen to us. The quiet way in which she received my news disappointed me.
“Aren’t you glad?” I asked. “Doesn’t this prove that my friend is of the right calibre and wishes to honor both you and me by this invitation to his mother’s house?”
“I wish I could feel quite sure on that point,” said my little adviser, “but I am afraid that this invitation instead of bringing us pleasure, will bring just the opposite.”
“Oh, girl o’ mine,” I coaxed, “I know this fellow and you don’t. He is as good as gold and you may believe me that the invitation was extended in good faith.”
I prevailed, and, on the appointed day, we invaded the most fashionable quarters of the city to enjoy the hospitality of our friends, the swells.
After we had passed the scrutiny of the man at the door, who had evidently been told of our coming, we were ushered into a drawing room. The only one I knew among the people was my ex-pupil, who quickly came forward to greet us and, then, to introduce us.
In spite of my lack of familiarity with the customs of the upper classes, I saw at a glance that the crowd had been expectant and was now disappointed.
To explain this disappointment, I should mention that my wearing apparel consisted of a black suit of good material and workmanship. My necktie was not colored in imitation of the rainbow and I had no occasion to look for a convenient spot for my expectorations. To carry the disappointment further, I acted contrarily to expectations at the dinner table. I neglected to carry the food to my mouth at the point of my knife and forgot to dip my finger into the salt-cellar.
My Mamie Rose was, as always, becomingly and properly gowned, and carried herself with a tact which fortified me against giving full reins to my temper.
Before entering the dining-room, the two freaks from the Bowery were made the centre of much curiosity. The men got around me, expecting to hear choice stories of a certain kind, which contrary to accepted ideas, are not original in the Bowery, but are brought there by these pioneers of refined civilization. Their faces fell when I proved a decided failure at that sort of story-telling.
While in their midst, I did not forget Mamie Rose, who was the centre of the female freak-hunters. I compared her poise, her naturalness, to the artificial sprightliness of the society ladies, and found it so admirable and sufficient, that I could well afford to laugh at the winks and sneers exchanged behind her back.
One old woman, who with her gray hair, made a reverential picture of old age, deliberately surveyed my Mamie Rose through her lorgnette, as if the sweetest girl there or elsewhere were an escaped beast from the jungle. I could not bear this and started toward my girl. But she felt my coming, turned to me and showed in her eye the competency to withstand the illy veiled sneers and insults of that horde of her sisters.
A few minutes before dinner was announced, I had an opportunity to entreat Mamie Rose to have us leave.
“I did not want to come, but now we are here and here we stay,” was her spirited dictum.
The ceremonial style of the meal and the conversation during it impressed me very little. The emptiness, the superficiality and the desire to “show off” was too palpable. I had not then—or now—reached that altitude of social perfection to make a meal the most important function of my day’s work. After we, the gentlemen, (I am afraid I was not included), had had our smoke and bout with the decanters, we joined the ladies in the drawing room. One of them had evidently been “laying for me,” and captured me as soon as I entered. I was led to a settee and there we had a very, very serious talk.
She asked me this and she asked me that; if the dives were really as horrible as pictured; if it was quite safe to visit them; if I would consent to act as guide, for a generous compensation; if I had ever witnessed any “interesting” scenes down on the Bowery; and—spare me telling the rest.
My answers were not what were desired and, at last, I had a sample of frank truthfulness.
“Do you know, Mr. Kildare,” said my resplendent companion, “you are a decided disappointment as a Bowery type, and not at all the entertaining chap we had been led to believe you to be.”
“I am sure that is more the fault of time than of me,” I replied. “Years often make us lose our entertaining qualities and, also, our attractiveness.”
Our serious talk ended with this, still, she was a surprisingly well made-up woman.
At last the time for our departure came and I said my adieus. Our visit having proved more or less of a fiasco, one of the more intimate friends of the family chose this moment to make an attempt to save the “entertainment” from becoming an absolute fizzle.
“I say, Kildare,” began this worthy young man, who was doubtless unacquainted with my past performances in the exhibition of my temper, “you’ve been in society now, and it would be very appropriate if you were to tell us your impressions in your own language—mind you, in your own language.”
For once the pleading in the eye of my Mamie Rose was of no avail, and I started to give my impressions in “my own language,” which proved sufficient, and did not oblige me to borrow the language of anybody else. My heart was soured. I did not care a snap of my fingers for the opinion of these people. To them I was a freak. What they were, what they are to me, need not be written here. I could have laughed at it all and would have been the only one really entertained. But to think that those people, purse and caste-proud, should include my Mamie Rose in their sport, made my blood run like boiling lava.
How far I might have gone in my outburst I cannot say. The same little hand, which had always been my guide, touched my arm, and I followed her out into the hall.
Before we departed, mother and son came to us with their sincere apologies. They were sincere, we felt that and accepted them. The son accused himself of having misunderstood the situation, in which I agreed with him. We were most graciously invited to dine with them “en famille,” a few days hence, but while we left in the best understanding, the invitation was thankfully declined.
Again out in the air, under God’s own heaven, we walked along silently for quite a while. My, but I felt ashamed, and was ready to hear with perfect composure my Mamie Rose’s “I told you so.”
But it did not come, and I began rehearsing my plea for pardon.
“Girl o’ mine,” I pleaded, “won’t you forgive me this time, and I promise never——”
Ere I could finish, my pardon came with a silvery laugh, and the world went very well again.
Less than an hour after that, we were without the pale of society and, strange though it may seem, we were perfectly happy. My Mamie Rose was busy with her school-work, the mother was taking a well-earned rest—perhaps trying to take a little nap in the rocker, and the little fellow and I were racing about the place to the tune of “The Rocky Road to Dublin,” sung—let me call it that—by me in tones that shook the rafters.
Within the last twelve months, I have been honored on several occasions with invitations to functions of the upper set. They were extended in a different spirit than the first one, still, I could not see my way clear to accept them.
I want to say most emphatically that I am not of anarchistic or nihilistic tendencies. We all have our work cut out, and my work is not in the direction of stirring up emotional outbursts of charity in the drawing rooms of the upper circles.