I held it in my arms until the alarm on the safe rang harshly, and then
tenderly, proudly I replaced it and shut the steel doors. I walked slowly
back into my study, which faces Washington Square, and leaned on the window-sill.
The afternoon sun poured into my windows, and a gentle breeze stirred the
branches of the elms and maples in the park, not covered with buds and
tender foliage. A flock of pigeons circled about the tower of the memorial
Church, sometimes alighting on the purple-tiled roof, sometimes wheeling
downward to the lotos fountain in front of the marble arch. The gardeners
were busy with the flowerbeds around the fountain, and the freshly turned
earth smelled sweet and spicy. A lawn-mower, drawn by a fat, white horse,
clinked across the greensward, and watering-carts poured showers of spray
over the asphalt drives. Around the statue of Peter Stuyvesant, which in
1906 had replaced the monstrosity supposed to represent Garibaldi, children
played in the spring sunshine, and nurse girls wheeled elaborate baby-carriages
with reckless disregard for the pasty-face occupants, which could probably
be explained by the presence of half a dozen trim dragoon troopers languidly
lolling on the benches. Through the trees the Washington Memorial Arch
glistened like silver in the sunshine, and beyond, on the eastern extremity
of the square, the gray-stone barracks of the dragoons and the white-granite
artillery stables were alive with color and motion.
I looked at the Lethal Chamber on the corner of the square opposite.
A few curious people still lingered about the gilded iron railing, but As I was turning carelessly away, a slight commotion in the group of
curious loiterers around the gates attracted my attention. A young man
had entered, and was advancing with nervous strides along the gravel path
which leads to the bronze doors of the Lethal Chamber. He paused a moment
before the Fates, and as he raised his head to those three mysterious faces,
the pigeon rose from its sculptured perch, circled about for a moment,
and wheeled to the east. The young man pressed his hands to his face, and
then, with an undefinable gesture, sprang up the marble steps, the bronze
doors closed behind him, and half an hour later the loiterers slouched
away and the frightened pigeon returned to its perch in the arms of Fate.
I put on my hat and went out into the park for a little walk before
dinner. As I crossed the central drive-way a group of officers passed,
and one of them called out, "Hello, Hildred!" and came back to
shake hands with me. It was my cousin Louis, who stood smiling and tapping
his spurred heels with his riding-whip. "Just back from Westchester," he said; "been doing the
bucolic; milk and curds, you know; dairy-maids in sun-bonnets, who say
'haeow' and 'I don't think' when you tell them they are pretty. I'm nearly
dead for a square meal at Delmonico's. What's the news?" "There is none," I replied, pleasantly. "I saw your regiment
coming in this morning." "Did you? I didn't see you. Where were you?" "In Mr. Wilde's window." "Oh, hell!" he began, impatiently, "that man is stark
mad! I don't understand why you --" He saw how annoyed I felt by this outburst, and begged my pardon. "Really, old chap," he said, "I don't mean to run down
a man you like, but for the life of me I can't see what the deuce you find
in common with Mr. Wilde. He's not well bred, to put it generously; he's
hideously deformed; his head is the head of a criminally insane person.
You know yourself he's been in an asylum --" "So have I," I interrupted, calmly. Louis looked startled and confused for a moment, but recovered and slapped
me heartily on the shoulder. "You were completely cured," he began; but I stopped him again.
"I suppose you mean that I was simply acknowledged never to have
been insane." "Of course that -- that's what I meant," he laughed. I disliked his laugh, because I knew it was forced; but I nodded gayly
and asked him where he was going. Louis looked after his brother officers,
who had now almost reached Broadway. "We had intended to sample a Brunswick cocktail, but, to tell you
the truth, I was anxious for an excuse to go and see Hawberk instead. Come
along; I'll make you my excuse." We found Hawberk, neatly attired in a fresh spring suit, standing at
the door of his shop and sniffing the air. "I had just decided to take Constance for a little stroll before
dinner," he replied to the impetuous volley of questions from Louis.
"We though of walking on the park terrace along the North River."
At that moment Constance appeared and grew pale and rosy by turns as
Louis bent over her small, gloved fingers. I tried to excuse myself, alleging
an engagement up-town, but Louis and Constance would not listen, and I
saw I was expected to remain and engage old Hawberk's attention. After The beautiful line of parks and granite terraces overlooking the wharves
along the North River, which were built in 1910 and finished in the autumn
of 1917, had become one of the most popular promenades in the metropolis.
They extended from the Battery to One Hundred and Ninetieth street, overlooking
the noble river, and affording a fine view of the Jersey shore and the
Highlands opposite. Cafés and restaurants were scattered here and
there among the trees, and twice a week military bands from the garrison
played in the kiosques on the parapets. We sat down in the sunshine on the bench at the foot of the equestrian
status of General Sheridan. Constance tipped her sunshade to shield her
eyes, and she and Louis began a murmuring conversation which was impossible
to catch. Old Hawberk, leaning on his ivory-headed cane, lighted an excellent
cigar, the mate to which I politely refused, and smiled at vacancy. The
sun hung low above the Staten Island woods, and the bay was dyed with golden
hues reflected from the sun-warmed sails of the shipping in the harbor.
Brigs, schooners, yachts, clumsy ferry-boats, their decks swarming with
people, railroad transports carrying lines of brown, blue, and white freight-cars,
stately Sound steamers, declasse tramp steamers, coasters, dredgers,
scows, and everywhere pervading the entire bay impudent little tugs puffing
and whistling officiously -- these were the craft which churned the sunlit
waters as far as the eye could reach. In calm contrast to the hurry of
sailing vessel and steamer, a silent fleet of white war-ships lay motionless
in mid-stream.
inside the grounds the paths were deserted. I watched the fountains ripple
and sparkle; the sparrows had already found this new bathing nook, and
the basins were crowded with the dusty-feathered little things. Two or
three white peacocks picked their way across the lawns, and a drab-colored
pigeon sat so motionless on the arm of one of the Fates that it seemed
to be a part of the sculptured stone.
all, it would be just as well if I kept my eye on Louis, I thought, and,
when they hailed a Spring Street electric-car, I got in after them and
took my seat beside the armorer.
ARTWORK � Larry Loc 1997