Flappers and Philosophers | Page 6

sort of sublimated chorus man. He was
sick of the very smell of the theatre, of powder and rouge and the

chatter of the greenroom, and the patronizing approval of the boxes. He
couldn't put his heart into it any more. The idea of a slow approach to
the luxury of liesure drove him wild. He was, of course, progressing
toward it, but, like a child, eating his ice-cream so slowly that he
couldn't taste it at all.
He wanted to have a lot of money and time and opportunity to read and
play, and the sort of men and women round him that he could never
have--the kind who, if they thought of him at all, would have
considered him rather contemptible; in short he wanted all those things
which he was beginning to lump under the general head of aristocracy,
an aristocracy which it seemed almost any money could buy except
money made as he was making it. He was twenty-five then, without
family or education or any promise that he would succeed in a business
career. He began speculating wildly, and within three weeks he had lost
every cent he had saved.
Then the war came. He went to Plattsburg, and even there his
profession followed him. A brigadier-general called him up to
headquarters and told him he could serve his country better as a band
leader--so he spent the war entertaining celebrities behind the line with
a headquarters band. It was not so bad--except that when the infantry
came limping back from the trenches he wanted to be one of them. The
sweat and mud they wore seemed only one of those ineffable symbols
of aristocracy that were forever eluding him.
"It was the private dances that did it. After I came back from the war
the old routine started. We had an offer from a syndicate of Florida
hotels. It was only a question of time then."
He broke off and Ardita looked at him expectantly, but he shook his
head.
"No," he said, "I'm going to tell you about it. I'm enjoying it too much,
and I'm afraid I'd lose a little of that enjoyment if I shared it with
anyone else. I want to hang on to those few breathless, heroic moments
when I stood out before them all and let them know I was more than a
damn bobbing, squawking clown."

>From up forward came suddenly the low sound of singing. The
negroes had gathered together on the deck and their voices rose
together in a haunting melody that soared in poignant harmonics
toward the moon. And Ardita listens in enchantment.
"Oh down--- oh down, Mammy wanna take me down milky way, Oh
down, oh down, Pappy say to-morra-a-a-ah But mammy say to-day,
Yes--mammy say to-day!"
Carlyle sighed and was silent for a moment looking up at the gathered
host of stars blinking like arc-lights in the warm sky. The negroes' song
had died away to a plaintive humming and it seemed as if minute by
minute the brightness and the great silence were increasing until he
could almost hear the midnight toilet of the mermaids as they combed
their silver dripping curls under the moon and gossiped to each other of
the fine wrecks they lived on the green opalescent avenues below.
"You see," said Carlyle softly, "this is the beauty I want. Beauty has got
to be astonishing, astounding--it's got to burst in on you like a dream,
like the exquisite eyes of a girl."
He turned to her, but she was silent.
"You see, don't you, Anita--I mean, Ardita?"
Again she made no answer. She had been sound asleep for some time.

IV

In the dense sun-flooded noon of next day a spot in the sea before them
resolved casually into a green-and-gray islet, apparently composed of a
great granite cliff at its northern end which slanted south through a mile
of vivid coppice and grass to a sandy beach melting lazily into the surf.
When Ardita, reading in her favorite seat, came to the last page of The
Revolt of the Angels, and slamming the book shut looked up and saw it,

she gave a little cry of delight, and called to Carlyle, who was standing
moodily by the rail.
"Is this it? Is this where you're going?"
Carlyle shrugged his shoulders carelessly.
"You've got me." He raised his voice and called up to the acting skipper:
"Oh, Babe, is this your island?"
The mulatto's miniature head appeared from round the corner of the
deck-house.
"Yas-suh! This yeah's it."
Carlyle joined Ardita.
"Looks sort of sporting, doesn't it?"
"Yes," she agreed; "but it doesn't look big enough to be much of a
hiding-place."
"You still putting your faith in those wirelesses your uncle was going to
have zigzagging round?"