The Beautiful and the Damned | Page 6

waited for him to speak of "leaving something done when you
pass on." Then he made a suggestion:
"I thought--it seemed to me that perhaps I'm best qualified to write--"
Adam Patch winced, visualizing a family poet with a long hair and
three mistresses.
"--history," finished Anthony.
"History? History of what? The Civil War? The Revolution?"

"Why--no, sir. A history of the Middle Ages." Simultaneously an idea
was born for a history of the Renaissance popes, written from some
novel angle. Still, he was glad he had said "Middle Ages."
"Middle Ages? Why not your own country? Something you know
about?"
"Well, you see I've lived so much abroad--"
"Why you should write about the Middle Ages, I don't know. Dark
Ages, we used to call 'em. Nobody knows what happened, and nobody
cares, except that they're over now." He continued for some minutes on
the uselessness of such information, touching, naturally, on the Spanish
Inquisition and the "corruption of the monasteries." Then:
"Do you think you'll be able to do any work in New York--or do you
really intend to work at all?" This last with soft, almost imperceptible,
cynicism.
"Why, yes, I do, sir."
"When'll you be done?"
"Well, there'll be an outline, you see--and a lot of preliminary reading."
"I should think you'd have done enough of that already."
The conversation worked itself jerkily toward a rather abrupt
conclusion, when Anthony rose, looked at his watch, and remarked that
he had an engagement with his broker that afternoon. He had intended
to stay a few days with his grandfather, but he was tired and irritated
from a rough crossing, and quite unwilling to stand a subtle and
sanctimonious browbeating. He would come out again in a few days,
he said.
Nevertheless, it was due to this encounter that work had come into his
life as a permanent idea. During the year that had passed since then, he
had made several lists of authorities, he had even experimented with

chapter titles and the division of his work into periods, but not one line
of actual writing existed at present, or seemed likely ever to exist. He
did nothing--and contrary to the most accredited copy-book logic, he
managed to divert himself with more than average content.
AFTERNOON
It was October in 1913, midway in a week of pleasant days, with the
sunshine loitering in the cross-streets and the atmosphere so languid as
to seem weighted with ghostly falling leaves. It was pleasant to sit
lazily by the open window finishing a chapter of "Erewhon." It was
pleasant to yawn about five, toss the book on a table, and saunter
humming along the hall to his bath.
"To ... you ... beaut-if-ul lady,"
he was singing as he turned on the tap.
"I raise ... my ... eyes; To ... you ... beaut-if-ul la-a-dy My ... heart ...
cries--"
He raised his voice to compete with the flood of water pouring into the
tub, and as he looked at the picture of Hazel Dawn upon the wall he put
an imaginary violin to his shoulder and softly caressed it with a
phantom bow. Through his closed lips he made a humming noise,
which he vaguely imagined resembled the sound of a violin. After a
moment his hands ceased their gyrations and wandered to his shirt,
which he began to unfasten. Stripped, and adopting an athletic posture
like the tiger-skin man in the advertisement, he regarded himself with
some satisfaction in the mirror, breaking off to dabble a tentative foot
in the tub. Readjusting a faucet and indulging in a few preliminary
grunts, he slid in.
Once accustomed to the temperature of the water he relaxed into a state
of drowsy content. When he finished his bath he would dress leisurely
and walk down Fifth Avenue to the Ritz, where he had an appointment
for dinner with his two most frequent companions, Dick Caramel and
Maury Noble. Afterward he and Maury were going to the

theatre--Caramel would probably trot home and work on his book,
which ought to be finished pretty soon.
Anthony was glad he wasn't going to work on his book. The notion of
sitting down and conjuring up, not only words in which to clothe
thoughts but thoughts worthy of being clothed--the whole thing was
absurdly beyond his desires.
Emerging from his bath he polished himself with the meticulous
attention of a bootblack. Then he wandered into the bedroom, and
whistling the while a weird, uncertain melody, strolled here and there
buttoning, adjusting, and enjoying the warmth of the thick carpet on his
feet.
He lit a cigarette, tossed the match out the open top of the window, then
paused in his tracks with the cigarette two inches from his
mouth--which fell faintly ajar. His eyes were focussed upon a spot