The Beautiful and the Damned | Page 4

he was yet, here and there, considered
handsome--moreover, he was very clean, in appearance and in reality,
with that especial cleanness borrowed from beauty.
THE REPROACHLESS APARTMENT
Fifth and Sixth Avenues, it seemed to Anthony, were the uprights of a
gigantic ladder stretching from Washington Square to Central Park.
Coming up-town on top of a bus toward Fifty-second Street invariably
gave him the sensation of hoisting himself hand by hand on a series of
treacherous rungs, and when the bus jolted to a stop at his own rung he
found something akin to relief as he descended the reckless metal steps
to the sidewalk.
After that, he had but to walk down Fifty-second Street half a block,
pass a stodgy family of brownstone houses--and then in a jiffy he was
under the high ceilings of his great front room. This was entirely
satisfactory. Here, after all, life began. Here he slept, breakfasted, read,
and entertained.
The house itself was of murky material, built in the late nineties; in
response to the steadily growing need of small apartments each floor
had been thoroughly remodelled and rented individually. Of the four
apartments Anthony's, on the second floor, was the most desirable.
The front room had fine high ceilings and three large windows that
loomed down pleasantly upon Fifty-second Street. In its appointments
it escaped by a safe margin being of any particular period; it escaped
stiffness, stuffiness, bareness, and decadence. It smelt neither of smoke
nor of incense--it was tall and faintly blue. There was a deep lounge of
the softest brown leather with somnolence drifting about it like a haze.
There was a high screen of Chinese lacquer chiefly concerned with
geometrical fishermen and huntsmen in black and gold; this made a
corner alcove for a voluminous chair guarded by an orange-colored
standing lamp. Deep in the fireplace a quartered shield was burned to a

murky black.
Passing through the dining-room, which, as Anthony took only
breakfast at home, was merely a magnificent potentiality, and down a
comparatively long hall, one came to the heart and core of the
apartment--Anthony's bedroom and bath.
Both of them were immense. Under the ceilings of the former even the
great canopied bed seemed of only average size. On the floor an exotic
rug of crimson velvet was soft as fleece on his bare feet. His bathroom,
in contrast to the rather portentous character of his bedroom, was gay,
bright, extremely habitable and even faintly facetious. Framed around
the walls were photographs of four celebrated thespian beauties of the
day: Julia Sanderson as "The Sunshine Girl," Ina Claire as "The Quaker
Girl," Billie Burke as "The Mind-the-Paint Girl," and Hazel Dawn as
"The Pink Lady." Between Billie Burke and Hazel Dawn hung a print
representing a great stretch of snow presided over by a cold and
formidable sun--this, claimed Anthony, symbolized the cold shower.
The bathtub, equipped with an ingenious bookholder, was low and
large. Beside it a wall wardrobe bulged with sufficient linen for three
men and with a generation of neckties. There was no skimpy glorified
towel of a carpet--instead, a rich rug, like the one in his bedroom a
miracle of softness, that seemed almost to massage the wet foot
emerging from the tub....
All in all a room to conjure with--it was easy to see that Anthony
dressed there, arranged his immaculate hair there, in fact did everything
but sleep and eat there. It was his pride, this bathroom. He felt that if he
had a love he would have hung her picture just facing the tub so that,
lost in the soothing steamings of the hot water, he might lie and look up
at her and muse warmly and sensuously on her beauty.
NOR DOES HE SPIN
The apartment was kept clean by an English servant with the singularly,
almost theatrically, appropriate name of Bounds, whose technic was
marred only by the fact that he wore a soft collar. Had he been entirely

Anthony's Bounds this defect would have been summarily remedied,
but he was also the Bounds of two other gentlemen in the neighborhood.
From eight until eleven in the morning he was entirely Anthony's. He
arrived with the mail and cooked breakfast. At nine-thirty he pulled the
edge of Anthony's blanket and spoke a few terse words--Anthony never
remembered clearly what they were and rather suspected they were
deprecative; then he served breakfast on a card-table in the front room,
made the bed and, after asking with some hostility if there was
anything else, withdrew.
In the mornings, at least once a week, Anthony went to see his broker.
His income was slightly under seven thousand a year, the interest on
money inherited from his mother. His grandfather, who had never
allowed his own son to graduate from a very