Twelve Men | Page 7

him the opportunity of
posing as misunderstood, neglected, depressed, as becomes all great
artists, poets, and thinkers.
His great scheme or dream, however, was that of marriage to an heiress,
one of those very material and bovine daughters of the new rich in the
West end, and to this end he was bending all his artistic thought,
writing, dressing, dreaming the thing he wished. I myself had a marked
tendency in this direction, although from another point of view, and
speaking from mine purely, there was this difference between us: Dick
being an artist, rather remote and disdainful in manner and decidedly
handsome as well as poetic and better positioned than I, as I fancied,
was certain to achieve this gilded and crystal state, whereas I, not being
handsome nor an artist nor sufficiently poetic perhaps, could scarcely
aspire to so gorgeous a goal. Often, as around dinnertime he ambled
from the office arrayed in the latest mode--dark blue suit, patent leather
boots, a dark, round soft felt hat, loose tie blowing idly about his neck,
a thin cane in his hand--I was already almost convinced that the
anticipated end was at hand, this very evening perhaps, and that I
should never see him more except as the husband of a very rich girl,
never be permitted even to speak to him save as an almost forgotten
friend, and in passing! Even now perhaps he was on his way to her,
whereas I, poor oaf that I was, was moiling here over some trucky work.
Would my ship never come in? my great day never arrive? my turn?
Unkind heaven!

As for Peter he was the sort of person who could swiftly detect,
understand and even sympathize with a point of view of this kind the
while he must laugh at it and his mind be busy with some plan of
making a fol-de-rol use of it. One day he came into the city-room
where I was working and bending over my desk fairly bursting with
suppressed humor announced, "Gee, Dreiser, I've just thought of a
delicious trick to play on Dick! Oh, Lord!" and he stopped and
surveyed me with beady eyes the while his round little body seemed to
fairly swell with pent-up laughter. "It's too rich! Oh, if it just works out
Dick'll be sore! Wait'll I tell you," he went on. "You know how crazy
he is about rich young heiresses? You know how he's always 'dressing
up' and talking and writing about marrying one of those girls in the
West end?" (Dick was forever composing a short story in which some
lorn but perfect and great artist was thus being received via love, the
story being read to us nights in his studio.) "That's all bluff, that talk of
his of visiting in those big houses out there. All he does is to dress up
every night as though he were going to a ball, and walk out that way
and moon around. Well, listen. Here's the idea. We'll go over to
Mermod & Jaccards to-morrow and get a few sheets of their best
monogrammed paper, sample sheets. Then we'll get up a letter and sign
it with the most romantic name we can think of--Juanita or Cyrene or
Doris--and explain who she is, the daughter of a millionaire living out
there, and that she's been strictly brought up but that in spite of all that
she's seen his name in the paper at the bottom of his pictures and wants
to meet him, see? Then we'll have her suggest that he come out to the
west gate of, say, Portland Place at seven o'clock and meet her. We'll
have her describe herself, see, young and beautiful, and some attractive
costume she's to wear, and we'll kill him. He'll fall hard. Then we'll
happen by there at the exact time when he's waiting, and detain him,
urge him to come into the park with us or to dinner. We'll look our
worst so he'll be ashamed of us. He'll squirm and get wild, but we'll
hang on and spoil the date for him, see? We'll insist in the letter that he
must be alone, see, because she's timid and afraid of being recognized.
My God, he'll be crazy! He'll think we've ruined his life--oh, ho, ho!"
and he fairly writhed with inward joy.
The thing worked. It was cruel in its way, but when has man ever

grieved over the humorous ills of others? The paper was secured, the
letter written by a friend of Peter's in a nearby real estate office, after
the most careful deliberation as to wording on our part. Extreme youth,
beauty and a great mansion were all hinted at. The fascination of Dick
as a romantic figure was touched upon. He would