THERE is such a thing as hunger for more than food, and that was the hunger I fed on. I was poor, my work unknown; often without meals; cold, too, in winter in my little studio on the West ide. But that was the least of it.
 
When I talk about trouble, I am not talking about cold and hunger. There is another kind of suffering for the artist which is worse than anything a winter, or poverty, can do; it is more like a winter of the mind, in which the life of his genius, the living sap of his work, seems frozen and motionless, caught—perhaps forever—in a season of death; and who knows if spring will ever come again to set it free?
 
It was not only that I could not sell my work—that has happened to good men, even to great men, before—but that I couldn't seem to get through, myself, to the things that were bottled up inside me. No matter what I did, figure, landscape, still-life, it all seemed different from what I meant—from what I knew, as surely as my name was Eben Adams, was the thing I really wanted to say in the world; to tell people about, somehow, through my painting.
 
I cannot tell you what that period was like; because the worst part of it was an anxiety it is very hard to describe. I suppose most artists go through something of the sort; sooner or later it is no longer enough for them just to live—to paint, and have enough, or nearly enough, to eat. Sooner or later God asks His question: are you for me, or against me? And the artist must have some answer, or feel his heart break for what he cannot say.
 
One evening in the winter of 1938 I was walking home through the Park. I was a good deal younger then; I carried a portfolio of drawings under my arm, and I walked slowly because I was tired. The damp mist of the winter evening drifted around me; it drifted down across the sheep meadow, and through the Mall which was empty and quiet at that hour. The children who usually played there had gone home, leaving the bare, dark trees and the long rows of benches wet and spidery with mist. I kept shifting the portfolio from one arm to the other; it was heavy and clumsy, but I had no money to ride.
 
I had been trying all day to sell some of my pictures. There is a sort of desperation which takes hold of a man after a while, a dreadful feeling of the world's indifference, not only to his hunger or his pain, but to the very life which is in him. Each day the courage with which I started out was a little less; by now it had all run out, like sand from a glass.
 
That night I was at the bottom, without money or friends, cold, hungry, and tired, without hope, not knowing where to turn. I think I was a little lightheaded, from not having had enough to eat. I crossed the Drive, and started down the long, deserted corridor of the Mall.
 
In front of me, the spaced, even rows of lights shone yellow in the shadowy air; I heard the crisp sound of my own footsteps on the pavement; and behind me the hiss and whisper of traffic turned homeward at the end of day. The city sounds were muted and far away, they seemed to come from another time, from somewhere in the past, like the sound of summer, like bees in a meadow long ago. I walked on, as though through the quiet arches of a dream. My body seemed light, without weight, made up of evening air.
 
The little girl playing by herself in the middle of the Mall made no sound either. She was playing hopscotch; she went up in the air with her legs apart, and came down again as silent as dandelion seed.
 
I stopped and watched her, for I was surprised to see her there, all alone. No other little children were in sight, only the mist and the long, even rows of lights stretching away to the terrace and the lake. I looked around for her nurse, but the benches were empty. "It's getting pretty dark," I said. "Oughtn't you to go home?"
 
I don't believe it sounded unfriendly. The child marked her next jump, and got ready; but first she looked at me sideways over her shoulder. "Is it late?" she asked. "I don't know time very well."
 
"Yes," I said; "it's late."
 
"Well," she said, "I don't have to go home yet." And she added in a matter of fact tone,
 
"Nobody's ready for me."
 
I turned away; after all, I thought, what business is it of mine? She straightened up, and pushed the dark hair back from her face, under the brim of her bonnet. Her arms were thin, they made the sharp, bird-like motions of a child. "I'll walk a ways with you, if you don't mind," she said. "I guess it's a little lonesome here all by myself."
 
I said I didn't mind, and we went up the Mall together, between the empty benches. I kept looking around for someone she might belong to, but there was nobody. "Are you all alone?" I asked after a while. "Isn't anybody with you?"
 
She came to some chalk marks left there by another child, and stopped to jump over them. "No," she said. "Who would there be?
 
"Anyway," she added a moment later, "you're with me.
 
And for some reason that seemed to her quite enough. She wanted to know what I had in the portfolio. When I told her, she nodded her head in a satisfied way. "I knew they were pictures," she said. I asked her how she knew.
 
"Oh, I just knew," she said.
 
The damp mist drifted along beside us, cold, with the smell of winter in it. It was my not having eaten all day that made everything seem so queer, I thought, walking up the Mall with a little girl no higher than my elbow. I wondered if I could be arrested for what I was doing; I don't even know her name, I thought, in case they ask me.
 
She said nothing for a while; she seemed to be counting the benches. But she must have known what I was thinking, for as we passed the fifth bench, she told me her name without my asking. "It's Jennie," she said; "just so's you'll know."
 
"Jennie," I repeated, a little stupidly. "Jennie what?"
 
"Jennie Appleton," she said. She went on to say that she lived with her parents in a hotel, but that she didn't see them very often. "Father and mother are actors and actresses," she declared. "They're at the Hammerstein Music Hall. They do juggling on a rope."
 
She gave a sort of skip; and then she came over to me, and put her hand in mine. "They're not home very much," she said; "on account of being in the profession."
 
But something had begun to worry me. Wait a minute, I said to myself, there's something wrong here. Wait, I thought… wait a minute… and then I remembered. Of course—that was it: the Hammerstein Music Hall had been torn down years ago, when I was a boy.
 
"Well," I said; "well…"
 
Her hand in mine was real enough, firm and warm; she wasn't a ghost, and I wasn't dreaming. "I go to school," she said, "but only in the mornings. I'm too little to go all day yet."
 
I heard her give a child's sigh, full of a child's trouble, light as air. "I don't have very exciting lessons," she remarked. "They're mostly two and two is four, and things like that. When I'm bigger, I'm going to learn geography and history, and about the Kaiser. He's the King of Germany."
 
"He was," I said gravely. "But that was long ago."
 
"I think you're wrong," said Jennie. She walked a little away from me, smiling to herself about something. "Cecily Jones is in my class," she said. "I can fight her. I'm stronger than she is, and I can fight her good.
 
"She's just a little girl."
 
She gave a skip. "It's fun having somebody to play with," she said.
 
I looked down at her: a child dressed in old fashioned clothes, a coat and gaiters and a bonnet. Who was it painted children like that? Henri? Brush? One of the old fellows… There was a picture in the Museum, somebody's daughter, it hung over the stairs as you went up. But children always dressed the same. She didn't look to me as though she played with other children very often.
 
I said yes, I supposed it was fun.
 
"Don't you have anyone to play with?" she asked.
 
"No," I said.
 
I had an idea that she was sorry for me, and at the same time glad that I had nobody else but her to play with. It made me smile; a child's games are so real, I thought, for children believe everything. We came to an interesting crack, and she hopped along on one foot until she got to the end of it. "I know a song," she said. "Would you like to hear it?"
 
And without waiting for me to answer, looking up at me from under the brim of her bonnet, she sang in a clear, tuneless voice:

   
Where I come from
Nobody knows;
And where I'm going
Everything goes.
The wind blows,
The sea flows—
And nobody knows.

 The song caught me off my guard, it was so unlike what I had expected. I don't know what I had been waiting for—some nursery rhyme, perhaps, or a popular tune of the day; little girls whose parents were actors and actresses sometimes sang about love. "Who taught you that?" I asked in surprise.
 
But she only shook her head, and stood there looking at me. "Nobody taught me," she said. "It's just a song."
 
We had come to the great circle at the end of the Mall, and my path led away to the left, across the drive again, and out the west gate. The winter evening wrapped us round in mist, in solitude and silence, the wet trees stood up dark and bare around us, and the distant city sounded its notes, falling and fading in the air. "Well, goodbye," I said; "I have to go now."
 
I held out my hand to her, and she took it gravely. "Do you know the game I like to play best?" she asked. "No," I said.
 
"It's a wishing game."
 
I asked her what she wished for most.
 
"I wish you'd wait for me to grow up," she said. "But you won't, I guess."
 
A moment later she had turned and was walking quietly back down the Mall. I stood there looking after her; after a while I couldn't see her any more.
 
When I got home I heated a can of soup on the gas burner, and cut myself a slice of bread, and some cheese. It was heavy in my stomach, but it made me feel better. Then I took my paintings out of the portfolio, and set them up on the floor, against the wall, and looked at them. They were all New England scenes: Cape Cod, churches, boats, old houses… water colors, mostly, with a few drawings among them. But none of the city… funny that I had never thought of that before…
 
I went over to the window, and looked out. There wasn't much to see, a line of roofs and chimneys, dark and indistinct, a few lighted windows, and in the north some taller buildings dim against the sky. And over all, the damp, cold air of winter, the raw, heavy air of the coast. A tug boat hooted in the bay; the sad, mysterious sound passed over the roofs, and floated above the city's restless grumble like a sea bird over a river. I wondered why I had never wanted to do any pictures of the city… I could do some pastels of the river, I thought, if I could get the cold tone of the sky. And that line of buildings south of the park, in the evening—if I could get that dim blue mountain look they have. But all the time, in the back of my mind, I was thinking about the child I had met in the Mall. Where I am going, nobody knows; The wind blows, And nobody knows. It was a strange little song, its very tunelessness made it hard to forget, the tunelessness was so much a part of it.
 
I thought of the last thing she had said to me, before she turned and walked away. But people couldn't wait for other people to grow up; they grew up together, side by side, and pace by pace, one as much as the other; they were children together, and old folks together; and they went off together into that something that was waiting—sleep, or heaven, I didn't know which.
 
I shivered; the big gray dusty radiator in front of the window was only luke-warm. I should have to talk to Mrs. Jekes again, I thought. But I felt suddenly sad, as though someone had just told me an old story about grief. There was no use trying to work any more that night; I went to bed, to keep my courage up.

 
I WAS behind in my rent again. I think Mrs. Jekes would have asked me to leave, if she could have found anyone to take my place; but nobody wanted a studio like mine, with the furniture falling to pieces, and the ceiling dusty with age. Just the same, she took what I had to say about the heat in very bad part. "This isn't a hotel," she said. "Not for what you pay, it isn't.
 
"That is," she added grimly, "when you pay it." I used to dread my meetings with her. She would stand there in front of me, her mouth tight, her thin hands folded across her stomach, and a look in her eyes as though she were seeing through me into the future, and finding it as hopeless as the past. You may wonder that I didn't leave and go somewhere else; but the truth is, I had nowhere else to go. Cheap studios were hard to find; and besides, I was almost always in arrears, and so much without hope myself, those days, that I stayed on because I didn't believe that anything else would be any better.
 
It was a time of depression everywhere. Hatreds clashed and fought in the air above our heads, like the heavenly battles of angels and demons in the dawn of creation. What a world for a painter; a world for a Blake, or a Goya. But not for me. I was neither—neither mystic nor revolutionary; there was too much of my mid-western father in me for the one, and too much of my New England grandmother for the other. Yet their heaven had been bright with faith.
 
I believe that Mrs. Jekes admired my paintings, although she never said so. She used to stand and look at them, with her tight mouth and folded hands; and once she accepted a sketch of the town landing on the Pamet River in Truro, in place of a week's rent. It would fetch a much bigger price today, I suppose, but I doubt if she knows it. Nor do I know what she saw in it—some memory, perhaps, of sunnier days. I had tried to put the stillness of summer into it, the peace of the ever-moving river, the quiet of old boats deserted in the grass. Perhaps she saw it there, too—or only guessed; I don't know.
 
She didn't care for my pictures of the city. Now that I look back at it, I can see that they were only an old story to her—only the city, in which she was caught like a fly in molasses. What did she care for the cold sky above the river, or the mountain blue of the windy, shadowy streets? She knew them only too well; she had to live her life with them.
 
But I was full of hope; it lasted for three days. By the end of that time, I had found out that I could not sell my city sketches, either.
 
It was late in the afternoon of the fourth day that the turn came. I didn't think of it then as a turn; it seemed to me just a piece of luck, and no more.
 
I was on my way home from tramping about the streets, my drawings under my arm, when I found myself in front of the Mathews Gallery. I had never been there before; it was a small gallery in those days, on one of the side streets off Sixth Avenue. There was a show going on, of some young painter's work—mostly figures and flower pieces; and I went in more or less out of curiosity. I was looking around when Mr. Mathews came up to me, and asked me what I wanted.
 
I know Henry Mathews very well by now, I know all about him. In fact, it was he who sold my Girl In A Black Dress to the Metropolitan six years ago. I know him to be both timid and kind; he must have hated to see me come in, for he knew at once that I wasn't there to buy anything. But it was getting late, and he wanted to close up; and so he had to get rid of me. Miss Spinney ran the office for him in those days, too; she had gone home, otherwise he would have sent her out to talk to me. She knew how to deal with people who wanted to sell him something.
 
He came out of his little office at the rear of the gallery, and smiled at me uncertainly. "Yes sir," he said; "what can I do for you?"
 
I looked at him, and I lodged down at the portfolio under my arm. Oh well, I thought, what's the difference? "I don't know," I said; "you could buy one of my pictures, perhaps."
 
Mr. Mathews coughed gently behind his hand. "Landscapes?" he asked.
 
"Yes," I said; "mostly."
 
Mr. Mathews coughed again; I know that he wanted to say to me, My dear young man, there's not a chance. But he could not bring himself to say it; for he dreaded the look in people's eyes when he had to say No. If only Miss Spinney had not gone home—she would have sent me about my business in short order.
 
"Well," he said doubtfully, "I don't know. Of course, we buy very little… almost nothing… and the times being what they are… However, let me see what you have. Landscapes. Hmm… yes; too bad."
 
I undid the strings of my portfolio, and propped it up on a table. I had no hope of anything, but even to be allowed to show my work, was something. It was warm in the gallery, and I was cold and tired. "Those are some studies from down on Cape Cod," I told him. "That one is the fisheries at North Truro. That's Cornhill. That's the church at Mashpee."
 
"Landscapes," said Mr. Mathews sadly.
 
All the tiredness, the hunger, the cold, the long waiting and disappointment, caught me by the throat, and for a moment I couldn't speak. I wanted to take my pictures, and go away. Instead, "Here are one or two sketches of the city," I said. "There's the bridge—"
 
"What bridge?"
 
"The new one," I said.
 
Mr. Mathews sighed. "I was afraid of it," he said.
 
"And here's a view from the Park, looking south…"
 
"That's better," said Mr. Mathews wanly. He was trying not to look too discouraging; but I could see that he was unhappy. He seemed to be wondering what on earth to say to me. Well, go on, I thought to myself, why don't you say it? Tell me to get out. You don't want any of these…
 
"There's the lake, with ducks feeding…"
 
All of a sudden his eyes lighted up, and he reached out for the portfolio. "Here," he cried; "what's that?"
 
I looked, myself, with curiosity at the drawing he had in his hand. "Why," I said uncertainly, "that's not anything. That's only a sketch—it's just a little girl I met in the Park. I was trying to remember something… I didn't know I'd brought it along with me."
 
"Ah," said Mr. Mathews happily; "but still—this is different. It's good; it's very good. Do you know why I like it? I can see the past in it. Yes, sir— I've seen that little girl before, somewhere; and yet I couldn't tell you where."
 
He held it out in front of him; then he put it down, walked away, and came back to it again. He seemed a lot more cheerful; I had an idea that he was glad because he wouldn't have to send me away without buying anything. My heart began to beat, and I felt my hands trembling.
 
"Yes," he said, "there is something about the child that reminds me of something. Could it be that child of Brush's up at the Museum?"
 
I drew in my breath sharply; for a moment I felt again the dream-like quality of that misty walk through the Mall with Jennie. "Not that it's a copy," he said hastily, "or even the same child; and the style is very much your own. There's just something in each that reminds me of the other."
 
He straightened up briskly. "I'll buy it," he said. But all at once his face fell, and I could see that he was wondering what to pay me for it. I knew that it wasn't worth much, just a sketch done with a little wash… if he paid me what it was worth, I should hardly have enough for one decent meal. I am sure now, as I look back on it, that he was thinking so too.
 
"Look here, young man," he said… "What's your name?"
 
I told him.
 
"Well, then, Mr. Adams, I tell you what I'll do. I'll take the girl—and that park scene—and give you twenty-five dollars for the pair."
 
My hands were trembling in good earnest now. Twenty-five dollars… that was a lot of money to me then. But I didn't want to seem too eager. What trouble we go to, trying to fool people who see right through us anyhow.
 
"All right," I said; "it's a deal."
 
Before he went back to his office to get me the money, he took a little pad out of his pocket, and wrote something down on it. I happened to glance at it where he had left it lying open on the table. It must have been the Gallery expense account, for there were two columns of figures, marked Sales and Expenses. Under Sales he had written: 1 small etching, water scene, Marin, 2nd impression, $35; 1 colored print, blue flower piece, Cezanne, $7.50; 1 litho, Le Pare, Sawyer, pear wood frame, $45.
 
Under Expenses he had written:

lunch, with beer  $ .80
cigar  .10
hat check  .10
bus (both ways)  .20
stamps  .39
Spinney  5.00
flag from man in veteran's hat  .10
2 water colors, Adams  15.00
 

For a moment my heart sank, for I had thought he had said twenty-five. But before I had time to feel too badly about it, he came out again with the full amount, two tens and a five. I tried to thank him, but he stopped me. "No," he said, "don't thank me; who knows, in the end I may have to thank you."
 
He gave me a timid smile. "The trouble is," he said, "that nobody paints our times. Nobody paints the age we live in."
 
I murmured something about Benton, and John Steuart Curry. "No," he said, "we'll never find out what the age is like, by peering in a landscape."
 
I must have looked startled, for he coughed in a deprecating way. "Let me tell you something, Mr. Adams," he said. "Let me give you some advice. The world is full of landscapes; they come in every day by the dozen. Do me a portrait of the little girl in the Park. I'll buy it; I'll buy them all. Never mind bridges; the world is full of bridges. Do a great portrait, and I'll make you famous."
 
Clapping me timidly on the shoulder, he ushered me out into the cold winter air, blue with twilight. But I no longer knew whether it was winter or not. Twenty-five dollars…
 
It was not until long after that I found out the truth about that fifteen dollars in the expense account. It was all he thought they were worth, and he was afraid of what Miss Spinney would say in the morning. He meant to make up the difference out of his own pocket.

SO swift is the hot heart of youth, that I thought I had already made а success, and wanted all the world to share it with me. That night I had supper at Moore's Alhambra, on Amsterdam Avenue; for all my glory, that was the best I could do for myself. As I came in, Gus Meyer, who owned the taxicab that used to stand at the corner of our street, waved to me from a table. "Hi, Mack," he exclaimed; "park yourself." He called everybody Mack; it was his way of telling people that they meant nothing to him personally; or else that he liked them.
"Well," he said, after I was seated, "how are you doing?" He had a big plate of pigsknuckles in front of him, and a glass of beer. "The specialty today," he said; "you'd ought to have some."
Fred, the smaller of the two waiters, came over and I gave him my order. "I'm doing all right," I said to Gus. "I just sold two pictures to an art gallery."
His fork stopped half way to his mouth; and he gaped at me. "You mean you got money?" he asked.
He put his fork down, and shook his head in wonder. "I guess you probably had it coming to you," he said. "But don't lose it, now. Put it in a bank, like you read about in the advertisements."
I told him that most of it would have to go to my landlady, and he looked sorry for me. "An artist don't make so much," he remarked, to comfort me. "It's the same as me. You don't get a chance to lay nothing aside."
For a moment or two he gazed with a peaceful look at his plate. "I had six hundred dollars once," he remarked. "But I spent it."
Almost as an afterthought, he added, "I gave some of it to my mother."
And һе returned to his eating, with ап air of having finished off the matter.
"This is elegant pigsknuckles," he declared.
For a while we ate in silence. When he was finished, he pushed his empty plate away, and taking a wooden toothpick from a glass on the table, leaned back to remember, and to reflect.
"Some day," he said thoughtfully, "there'll be no more pigsknuckles, and no more beer. When that time comes, I don't want to be here, neither."
"I don't want to be here now," I said; "but I am."
"Well," he said, "you can't do nothing about that. Here you are, and here you stay. So what's it all about? I ask myself."
He gave his toothpick a long, careful look. "But I don't answer," he declared. "You're born poor, and you die poor; and if you got anything, they try to take it off you."
I made the obvious answer, that some men though born poor died rich. "Then they got other troubles," said Gus. "I don't envy them. All I want is a new coil for the cab. She stalls on me."
"T want more than that," I said.
"You got the wrong idea," he said. "I had six hundred dollars once, and I spent it."
I reminded him that he had given some of it away to his mother.
"So what?" he said. "A feller's got a mother, he's got to look after her, don't he?"
"I don't know," I said. "I haven't got опе."
"I'm sorry, Mack," said Gus. He remained downcast, and silent. "Maybe you're married," he said presently. I told him no.
"Well, you're young yet," he said. "Some day you'll meet up with the right one, and you'll be all set." He leaned forward, and looked at me earnestly. "You're a nice kid, Mack," he said. "Put your money in a bank, so when you meet up with the right one, you'll be all set."
I didn't want to talk about things like that. "Listen," I said; "I haven't any money. I never have had any. I just go along, and trust to God."
"Suге," һе agreed; "sure. But that don't signify. What you want to ask yourself is, what does God think about it?"
It brought me up short, and made me feel a little uncomfortable. "I don't know, Gus," I said. "What do you think He thinks?"
The toothpick was well chewed out by now; he wrapped his legs around the rungs of his chair, and leaned back. "I wish I could tell you, Mack," he said; "I do indeed. Sometimes you'd almost think He don't know we're here at all. And then when it looks worst, you get a break; along comes a fare for Jersey City, or some drunk tips you what's left of a five dollar bill. That don't make you believe in God, but it shows which way the land lies."
"The pillar of fire," I said, "which went before the chosen people."
But Gus shook his head gloomily. "That was the toughest break we ever got," he said. He brought his chair down, and leaned forward across the table. "Listen, Mack," he said, "did you ever ask yourself what for were we chosen? How I see it is, we weren't chosen for no favors. We were chosen because we were tough; and He needed us like that, so we could tell the world about Him. Well, the world don't want to listen; they want it their way. So they kick us around. God don't care; He says, just keep on telling them."
"And Jesus?" I asked.
"He was a Jew, wasn't He?" said Gus. "He told them; and what did it get Him? If you did what Jesus said today, you'd be kicked around so fast you wouldn't know your tail from a hole in the ground."
He sat up and looked at me, a dark look, like one of the old prophets. "That's, where we got a tough break," he said; "being chosen."
"Have another beer," I said; "оп me."
"Okay," he said. "I don't mind if I do."
Mr. Moore brought over our beer himself. He was a big man, stout and anxious. "How are you, Gus?" he said. "You look fine. Was everything all right?"
"Elegant," said Gus. "Meet my friend. What's your name, Mack?"
Mr. Moore and I shook hands, and he sat down at our table. "Mind if I sit with you for a minute?" he asked. "Not at all," I said.
"Mack here is an artist," said Gus. "A painter. He just made а lot of money."
The proprietor of the Alhambra beamed at me. "Well now," he said, "that's fine. You satisfied with everything?"
I said yes, that everything was fine.
"We got a nice little place here," said Mr. Moore, looking around slowly, as if he were seeing it all for the first time. "We try to have everybody satisfied."
I felt warm and happy; it was good to be with people, to talk about things without thinking all the time, What am I going to do now?
"You're in a good business, Mr. Moore," I said. "But I guess you know it."
He looked at me, suddenly cautious. "Well, now," he declared, "I don't know. We have a lot of trouble in this business, what with the unions and all. And food costs a lot. We don't make out any too good in this business. At night we don't fill half our tables. It's a lunch business mostly."
"You'd ought to brighten up the place," said Gus. "You take my cab; I give the old bus a going over once a week. Make it shine. That attracts the customers; they like things to look good."
"Sure," said Mr. Moore. "Only I can't afford it."
Gus broke his toothpick in half, and reached for another. "Mack here is a painter," he said. "Leave him paint you something."
Mr. Moore looked from Gus to me; he took up a bowl of sugar, and set it down again. "Well, now," he said, "that's an idea." But I could see that he was waiting to hear what I might have to say.
I thought it was a good idea, too, although it surprised me; it wasn't the sort of thing I would have thought of myself. "Of course," said Mr. Moore. "T couldn't pay much."
"All right," said Gus; "you can feed him, can't you?"
"Yes," said Mr. Moore thoughtfully; "I can feed him."
"Well, Mack," said Gus; "there's your meal ticket."
"It's a good idea," I said.
Mr. Moore gave me а sideways look. "Maybe you could paint me a little something over the bar," he said. "Something tasty, like you'd enjoy standing and looking at."
"He means something with dames in it," explained Gus. "You know— sitting in the grass without nothing on."
The restaurant owner moved uncomfortably; and his fat face grew pink. "It ought to be ladies," he said, "on account of people being a little particular."
"A sort of modern Picnic in the Park." I said, nodding my head. "Yes."
He looked more uncomfortable than ever. "It has to be clean," he said. "Something that wouldn't get me into trouble."
I told him that I thought I knew what he wanted, and he looked grateful. "All right," he said; "go ahead. You can eat here while you're doing it, and afterwards, if it's all right, we can come to an agreement."
It was not a very business-like arrangement, but we shook hands, and he beckoned to the waiter. "Your little dinner was on me," he said, taking our bill and scribbling across it.
When we got outside, Gus patted me on the shoulder. "You're in the money now, Mack," he said. I tried to thank him, but he waved it aside. "Listen," he said; "I got my own dinner out of it, didn't I?"
And as he climbed into his cab, he added with a chuckle,
"Keep it clean, Mack."
I went home thinking what a good world it was. That night I gave Mrs. Jekes the money for two weeks' rent I owed her, and a week's rent in advance. "What's the matter," she inquired; "you been robbing a bank?"
It didn't even spoil things any, to have her say that. "No," I said. "I'm doing some murals."

 
ІТ was оп а Sunday morning that І saw Jennie again. There had been two ог three weeks of clear, cold weather, and the big lake in the Park at Seventysecond Street was frozen, and good for skating. I took out my old pair of Lunns, and went over. The ice was crowded with skaters; I sat down on a bench by the shore to put on my skates, and strapped my shoes to my belt. I stepped off the edge in a wide glide, drew up in a turn that made the snow fly, and set off with the sun in my face.
It was one of those days of beautiful weather such as we get in New York in winter, with a blue-white sky, and light, high, white-grey clouds going slowly over from west to east. The city shone in the sun, roof-tops gleamed, and the buildings looked as though they were made of water and air. I struck out in a long stride, taking deep breaths, feeling young and strong, feeling the blood run warm in my veins, and the air cold and fresh on my face. Couples crossed me, going by with linked hands and red cheeks; schoolboys fled past, like schools of minnows, bent over, on racing skates, cutting ice and wind. An old gentleman was doing fancy figures by himself; dressed in brown, with a red woolen scarf, he swung forward, turned, jumped, and circled backward, his skates together in a straight line, knees bent, and arms akimbo, intent and proud. I stopped and watched him for a moment, and then went on again, into the sun. All around me was the quiet flow of skaters moving and gliding, the creaking sound of steel on ice, the cold air, the bright colors.
I found Jennie near the bridge between the two ponds. She was all in black velvet, with a short, wide skirt, and white boots attached to her round, old-fashioned skates. She was doing a figure eight; and none too well, I thought. But she seemed to me to be taller than I had remembered her older, too; I wasn't even sure that it was she, until she looked up and saw me. "Hello, Mr. Adams," she said.
She coasted over to me, and put out her hands to stop herself. "I didn't know it was you," I told her. "You look older than last time." She smiled, and pressed the toe of one skate down into the ice, to hold herself. "Oh well," she said; "maybe you didn't see me very good."
I don't know how long we stood there, smiling at each other. In a little while, Jennie put her arm in mine. "Come along," she said. "Let's skate."
We started off together arm in arm; and once again the world around me grew misty and unreal. Skaters flowing like a river around us, the little flash of steel in the sun, the sound of that river moving, forms seen for a moment and then gone—our own quiet and gentle motion—all served to bring back to me a feeling I had had once before... that feeling of being in a dream, and yet awake. How strange, I thought. I looked down at the slender figure at my side; there was no question about it, she was taller than I had remembered.
"It seems to me," I said, "that you've grown a lot since I saw you."
"I know," she answered.
And as I said nothing, but only smiled uncertainly, she added seriously, "I'm hurrying."
She seemed as light as a feather beside me, but I could feel her arm in mine as we skated. I could see the wide black ripple of her skirt flare out as we swung along; and I wondered if we looked like something in an old print. "How are your parents?" I asked her. "Are they having a good season?"
"Yes," she answered. "They're in Boston now."
I thought: and they left you here all alone. But I suppose that's better than taking you everywhere with them...
"I did a little sketch of you," I told her, "and I sold it. It brought me luck."
"Tm glad," she said. "I wish I could see it."
"T'll do one some day just for you," I said.
She wanted to know more about the sketch I had made. I told her about Mr. Mathews, and the portrait he had asked me to do; and about Gus, and the picture I was painting over Mr. Moore's bar. She wanted to see that, too; but it was the portrait for Mr. Mathews that interested her most. "Who will it be of?" she asked; I thought that her voice sounded almost too casual. "I don't know," I answered. "I haven't found out yet."
She skated along a moment or two without saying anything. Then, "Perhaps..." she said. And all at once, іп a breathless rush—"Will you let it be me?"
Of course, I thought... who else? I realized suddenly that there was no one else, that there never could be anyone else for the picture that Mr. Mathews wanted. If only she were a little older...
"I don't know," I said. "Perhaps."
She gave my arm another squeeze, and made a wild swoop to the right. "Hooray," she cried; "I'm going to have my picture painted.
"Won't Emily be mad."
"Emily? "I asked.
"Emily is my best friend," she explained. "She had her picture painted by Mr. Fromkes, and I said you were going to do mine, and she said she'd never heard of you, and so I slapped her, and we quarreled."
"Well," I said. "But I thought it was Cecily you always fought with."
She looked away suddenly, and I felt her hand tremble on my arm. "Cecily died," she said in a whisper. "She had scarlet fever. Now my best friend is Emily. I thought you'd know."
"How would I know?" I asked.
She stumbled suddenly. "My shoe is untied," she said. "I've got to stop."
We coasted to the bank, and I knelt down to tie her shoe lace. Kneeling there, I looked up at her, the flushed face of the child, framed in its dark hair, the brown eyes tenderly dreaming, lost in some other time, some other where and when... I thought: she is playing at being Cinderella, or perhaps Snow White, so proud to have me kneeling in front of her, tieing her shoe lace.
We had come to shore near the little refreshment booth which they build each year for the skaters, and I asked Jennie if she would care to go in and rest, and if she would like a cup of hot chocolate. She came out of her dream with а long sigh; then her whole body began to quiver, and she clapped her hands gleefully. "Oh yes," she cried. "I love hot chocolate."
Sitting at the counter together, while the hot, watery brew steamed under our noses, we talked about the weather and the world. She wanted to hear, all over again, about how I had sold the sketch of her to Mr. Mathews; and I for my part wanted to know how she was getting along in school. "It's all right," she said, but without much enthusiasm. "I'm having French."
"French?" I asked; startled, because the last time she had been just beginning her sums. "Yes," she said. "I can say colors, and I can count to ten. Un, deux, trois, quatre...
"I can say the war, in French. C'est la guerre."
I couldn't make out what she was talking about. "The war?" I asked. "What war?"
But she only shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "It's just the war."
But then her eyes grew wide, and she looked at me in fright. "They won't hurt children like me," she asked; "will they?"
"No," I said. "No." She took a deep breath. "That's good," she said. "I don't like being hurt." And she dipped her little nose happily into the chocolate again.
I was happy too, sitting there, with the air smelling of ice and damp wool, peppermint, and wet wood and leather; and Jennie next to me, drinking her chocolate. Perhaps there was something strange about it; but just the same, it felt altogether right, as though we belonged just there, where we were, together. Our eyes met in a glance of understanding; we looked at each other and smiled, as though we had both had the same thought.
"This is lots of fun," she said.
The chocolate was finished at last; we climbed down from our stools, and clumped our way to the door. "Come along," I said; "we've time for one more round." She took my arm, going down the steps to the ice. "I hate it to stop," she said, "because when will we ever have it again?"
We set off together hand in hand, and made a grand tour of the lake; after that it was time for me to be getting back to work at the Alhambra. I said goodbye to her at the bridge between the two ponds, where we had met. But before I left, I wanted to get one thing straight in my mind.
"Jennie," I said, "tell me—when did Cecily die?"
She looked away; it seemed to me that her eyes grew clouded, and that her small face grew dim.
"Two years ago," she said.

 
"SHE has a look," I said, "of not altogether belonging to today."
I was showing Mr. Mathews some sketches I had made of Jennie in her skating costume, little pictures of the child in motion, doing an inner edge, or poised on her toes as though to run—the same sketches, as a matter of fact, which were shown last year at the Corcoran, as part of the Blumenthal collection. Miss Spinney was there, too, looking over his shoulder; it was my first meeting with her. I liked her dry voice, her sharp, frosty eyes, and her rough way of talking; for her part, she liked my sketches. When it came to painting and painters, there was no getting around Miss Spinney; she judged a man by his work, and nothing else; she wanted it, or she didn't want it.
Mr. Mathews held the sketches out at arm's length, with his head tilted back, looking at them down his nose. "This girl looks older to me than the first one," he said. "But I rather like it, on the whole. She was, perhaps, a little young, before...
"Yes," he said; "they aren't bad—are they, Spinney?"
"Is that all you can say?" remarked Miss Spinney. "That they aren't bad?"
Mr. Mathews tilted his head a little to one side, like a bird. "The thing I like about them," he said, "is the way you've managed to catch that look of not belonging—how was it you said?—not altogether belonging to today. There ought to be something timeless about a woman. Not about a man— we've always been more present-minded."
"You can have the present," said Miss Spinney. "And you know what you can do with it."
Mr. Mathews, who was used to Miss Spinney, went right on. "I don't know what the matter is with women today," he said, sighing. "In my opinion, they lack some quality which they used to have—some quality of timelessness which made them seem to belong to all ages at once. Something eternal—you can see it in all the great paintings from Leonardo to Sargent. Did you ever stop to think how much more real and alive those long-dead women seem to us than the men? The men are done for— finished; there's not a one of them, except perhaps some of the Holbeins, that you'd ever expect to see in the world again. But the women—why, you could meet them anywhere. Mona Lisa, or Madame X... on the street, anywhere."
He looked at me accusingly. "The portrait of today," he said, as though it were all my fault, "is planted in the present as firmly as a potato."
"Have you seen Tasker's new portrait of Mrs. Potterly?" asked Miss Spinney.
Mr. Mathews coughed grimly behind his hand. "I understand he received three thousand dollars for it," he remarked.
"One thousand five hundred," said Miss Spinney, "and his trip to Florida."
"One cannot make a living at that rate," said Mr. Mathews.
At my hoarse croak, half envy and half derision, Miss Spinney turned to me and laid a warning hand on my arm. "Now, now, Adams," she said; "control yourself.
"You'll be getting that, too, some day."
It seemed fantastic to me then, fifteen hundred dollars for a portrait; I thought that Tasker must be either a genius or a scoundrel. A man changes his mind about such things as he grows older; but it made me feel bold, and —as І look back at it now—probably а little reckless, too.
"All right," I said; "in that case, what do I get for my sketches?"
"Spinney," murmured Mr. Mathews, "you talk too much."
And Miss Spinney replied almost at the same moment,
"They are hardly worth anything at all."
It was a cruel way to take me down, though I dare say I deserved it. I picked up my sketches, and started to put them away.
"My dear young man," began Mr. Mathews unhappily...
"Look here..."
But I meant to carry it off with a high hand. "Goodbye," I said; and to Miss Spinney, "I'm very glad to have met you."
She looked at me for a moment with eyes like black frost. I thought she was going to help me to the door, but all at once, to my surprise, her face grew warm and rosy, and she burst out laughing. "I like you, Adams," she said, and fetched me a terrific clip on the back. "You're proud, aren't you?
"Come along—take them out again, and let's have a look at them."
She went over them a lot more carefully than Mr. Mathews had done; for one thing, she seemed less interested in Jennie, and more interested in my drawing. Mr. Mathews watched her in a timid sort of way; he wanted her to like them, because that would help him to feel right about me. He kept drumming with his fingers on the table, and clearing his throat.
"I suppose it could be the clothes," he said, "that make her look a little older."
I didn't think so, but I didn't know how to say what I thought; I stood there feeling uneasy, feeling my heart beating a little fast, and wondering what Miss Spinney would say. She put the sketches down at last, and gave me a Clear, hard look. "All right, Adams," she said; "we'll give you twentyfive dollars for the lot."
I suppose I might have taken it, if I had been able to forget her remark about the sketches not being worth anything. I was still a little angry, and I wanted to stand up to her. I was young; and I didn't know very much about art dealers. "It isn't enough," I said; and I got ready to go.
I thought to myself that I didn't care, that I'd sell them to somebody else. But I did care, and I had no way of hiding it. "Look, Adams," she said; "you're a nice boy, but you don't know the art business. I know you can paint; but we aren't collectors, we don't buy things we like just for the fun of sitting around and looking at them the rest of our lives. If we buy these sketches, we've got to sell them too. We can give you thirty dollars. What do you say?"
"Yes," said Mr. Mathews eagerly; "what do you say, young man?"
I took a deep breath, and said "Fifty dollars."
Miss Spinney turned slowly away; I thought that she was angry, and I thought what a fool I was being. I was stubborn, but I was unhappy; I looked at Mr. Mathews, but he was looking at Miss Spinney, and drumming on the table. I started to say, "All right, take them," but she didn't wait for me. "The hell with it," she said. "Give him the fifty."
Mr. Mathews jumped with relief. "That's right, Spinney," he exclaimed. "That's right; I'm glad you see it my way."
She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm just a potato, Henry," she said, "with nothing eternal about me. You'll have to sell them yourself."
"Yes," he said. He took up the sketches, looked at them, put them down, and then picked them up again. "Yes," he said; "yes, of course. I'll sell them —never fret; I'll find a customer for them. Not right away, perhaps..."
They gave me fifty. It doesn't seem important now, but it did then. I was getting my meals at Moore's Alhambra, and so it seemed like a fortune to me, almost as much as Tasker's fifteen hundred. I suppose it seemed like such a lot because it was my own. It was real, and I could spend it.
Before I left, Mr. Mathews spoke to me again about doing a portrait for him, but this time he said in so many words that he wanted it to be of Jennie. "There's something in the girl," he declared, "reminds me of something... I haven't placed it yet, but I can tell you what it feels like. It feels like when I was young."
He looked up at me apologetically. "I don't know if I can express it any other way," he said. "I shouldn't think you'd understand."
But I thought I understood. "Do you mean that she's old fashioned?" I asked.
"No," he said, "that isn't what I mean. Not altogether."
"Well, I do," I replied. "I think she's old fashioned."
Miss Spinney saw me to the door. "Goodbye," she said; "come in again. And if you have any nice flower-pieces about two or two and a half by four..." She looked around for Mr. Mathews, and seeing him behind her with his back turned, lowered her voice to a whisper. "I like flower-pieces," she said.
I went over to Fifth Avenue, because that was the avenue I wanted to walk on. For the first time I felt that it was my world, my city, that it belonged to me, to my youth and to my hopes; there was a taste of exultation in my mouth, and my heart, filled with joy, lifted like a sail and carried me along with it. The windy, high walls over my head, the wide and gleaming shop windows strung out before me with their mingled colors, the women's bright, hard faces, and the sun over everything—the sun and the wind—
I thought of Jennie's song. And then I thought to myself that I didn't know where she lived, or even how to find her; and the light went out of everything.

 
"SO what you want," said Gus, "is I should find a girl whose name is Jennie. You don't know where she lives, nor nothing about her. So you've got what I would call a good start."
"Her parents are jugglers," I told him. "On a tight rope."
"That makes it easier," he said. "Are they on the circuit?"
I didn't know. I told him that their name was Appleton.
"Appleton," he grumbled; "Appleton." He set himself to think for a moment, "There used to be an act called by that name," he declared. "Down at the old Hammerstein."
"That's right," I said eagerly. "That's where they were."
Gus looked at me strangely. "Well, then, Mack," he said, "they'd be in the old folks' home by now. This must be some other people.
"You sure you seen this girl?"
"Yes," I said, "I made some sketches of her."
He shook his head uncertainly. "That don't signify," he remarked. "I was thinking maybe you made her up."
"No," I said. "I didn't make her up."
We were standing in front of his cab, on the corner, in the grey, raw, morning air. There was snow coming. I could smell it back of the wind, and I shivered a little. But Gus, in his two tattered sweaters, one over the other, didn't seem to feel it; he was used to cold, as he was to heat; he made me think of some old fisherman at Truro, whipped by years of weather, blackened and toughened by the sea. But there was no clear salt for Gus; his tides and channels were the streets, and his face was a city face, pale, quick to anger, quick to rejoice, alert, sly, and confident. None of the slow brooding of the ocean there, the patient, sea-way thought...
"l'll take а look around if you want," he said, "and ask some people I know. But listen, Mack—" his voice sank to a low and urgent level—"don't go getting into any trouble with the police. A girl as young as that—
"I don't want no trouble myself, neither," he added as an afterthought.
"All I want to do," I said, "is to paint her picture." And I thought that was all; I would have sworn that was all I wanted.
Back in my studio again, I tried to work. I was doing a fair-sized canvas of the lake with the skaters on it, from memory and from some sketches, but it was hard to get on with. My heart wasn't in it; my mind flew off in a dozen directions at once. I kept wondering whether I oughtn't to start a flower-piece for Miss Spinney, and whether Gus would be able to find out anything about the Appletons; and I kept thinking about the Alhambra, about my picture over the bar; there was still a lot of work to be done on it. I was restless and uneasy, my brush was uncertain, and the light was poor. I was glad when it was lunch time, and I could put my things away, and go out.
Gus wasn't at the restaurant when I got there. I ate by myself, and then put up my step-ladder back of the bar, and went to work. He came in after I had been working about an hour, and sat down at a table where he could watch me. I looked down at him anxiously, but he shook his head.
"No luck, Mack," he said. "I'm sorry."
"Didn't you find out anything at all?" I asked. He looked back at me with a strange expression on his face. "There were some Appletons did a tight wire act, like I thought," he said, "back in 1914. They had a sort of accident; it seems the wire broke on them one day, back in'22."
We stared at each other for a moment, and then the waiter came with his beer. Gus took a long drink, and, leaning back, gazed solemnly up at my picture. "It's coming along fine," he said.
I had painted a picnic by the shore of a lake not unlike the lake in the Park; and there, by the side of the water, under the trees, my women were gathered to tease and gossip on the grass. They were innocent figures, and I knew that Gus thought that they could do with some men. To that extent he was a realist; but he did not go to extremes. What he asked of a picture was simply this: that it should remind him with the clearest force of what he already knew, along with some further suggestion of а better апd a happier world.
"Yes, sir," he declared; "when I see things like that, I think I've been wasting my time."
All at once he sat up in his chair, and pointed to the figure of a young woman lying on her side, her face half turned away, at the edge of the water. "What's the matter with that one?" he demanded. "She don't look so good to me.
"Why?" I asked carelessly, without looking up. "What's the matter with her?"
"She looks drowned," said Gus.
I turned quickly back to the picture. "What do you mean?" I said. But even as I spoke, I saw what he meant; there was something about the way I had placed her under the trees which made her face seem dim, and green with leaf-shadow; her dark hair gave the impression of being wet, and her whole body seemed shadowy with water... I felt an indefinable anguish as I looked at it, which I attributed to anger at my own lack of skill; and reached hurriedly for my tube of raw umber.
But even after I had brought her out into the sun again, I felt a depression which I could not account for. It was that figure, half seen, half hidden, which I had imagined secretly in my heart to be Jennie—as she would some day be—and I could not bear to think that brush and heart had so failed each other.
However, Mr. Moore was well satisfied with the picture. "Well, now," he said, coming over and looking up at me where I sat on my stepladder, "that's just about what I wanted. Yes sir, that's what I had in mind. I'd call it entertaining, but it don't offend. I've got a spot over the service door I've been thinking about; we could maybe do a little something there."
"What's the matter," said Gus; "you want a museum?"
"I like to have it nice here," said Mr. Moore. "A picture brightens things up for the customers."
"All right," said Gus; "tell him to do one of me and my cab. That'll be nice for you, and nice for me, too.
"Only make it look good," һе added. "Don't drown me."
The first snow was falling as I went home, small flakes coming down slowly, twisting down through the grey levels of air, on the north east wind. The whole city was grey under the heavy sky which seemed to press against me as I walked. I thought of the Cape, of how this storm must be already singing across the dunes, driving its wet snow in from the sea over the little houses huddled in their hollows, the foam breaking below the cliff at High Land, the thunder of surf filling the long nooks and valleys like the sound of trains rolling and rumbling behind the hills—the storm and the snow driving south, out of the black, empty, wrinkled ocean, out of Labrador, out of Greenland waters dark with winter and night. How little we have, I thought, between us and the waiting cold, the mystery, death—a strip of beach, a hill, a few walls of wood or stone, a little fire—and tomorrow's sun, rising and warming us, tomorrow's hope of peace and better weather... What if tomorrow vanished in the storm? What if time stood still? And yesterday—if once we lost our way, blundered in the storm—would we find yesterday again ahead of us, where we had thought tomorrow's sun would rise?
I let myself into the house, shaking the snow from my shoulders on the door sill. As I stood there in the hall, which was as cold and somber as myself, Mrs. Jekes came out of her parlor and looked at me with eyes in which there was suspicion, resentment, and a curious excitement. It was apparent that she had been waiting for me. "Well," she said; "there you are. Hah."
And she folded her hands virtuously in front of her.
I looked back at her without speaking. My rent was paid, and I couldn't think of any reason to be anxious. I had an idea that she disliked me, and that she was glad to have some bad news for me; but what she said next, wasn't what I expected at all.
"You have a visitor," she said. "A young lady." And as I only stared at her with my mouth open, she added harshly, "Fine doings, I must say."
With a sniff of disdain, she turned to go back into her parlor again. "The young lady is waiting for you upstairs," she said, and closed the door, as though to say "I wash my hands of all of it."
I went up slowly, puzzled and concerned, my heart beating fast. I had no friends, there was no one it could be. It seemed impossible that anyone should be waiting for me.
But I was wrong. I knew it even before I opened my door; some inner sense told me.
It was Jennie. She was sitting in the old chair near the easel, prim and upright, her hands tucked away in a little muff in her lap, her toes just touching the floor, a round fur bonnet like a little cake on the top of her head. I came in slowly, and leaned for a moment against the side of the door, looking at her. I felt almost weak with happiness.
"I thought maybe you wanted me to come, Eben," she said.

 
SHE sat quietly іп the big chair while I put away my brushes and went to look for something with which to make tea. Her gaze, moving slowly about, lingered on everything, the shabby furniture, the dusty walls, the stacked canvases on the floor, the closet bursting with odds and ends of clothing, sketches, paints, cans, and broken boxes, the tumbled cot with its dilapidated blankets—all that I myself had never thought to look at very carefully, or even notice, before she came. But now I saw it all, and for the first time, as she did. Her eyes widened, and she took a long breath.
"I've never been in a studio before," she said. "It's lovely."
The tin kettle still had some water in it left over from the morning, so I lit the gas ring under it, and went to search in the closet for a box of crackers. "It's an awful place, Jennie," I said. "It's pretty dirty."
"Yes," she agreed, "it is. I didn't want to say it... but I guess as long as you said it first..."
She got up, and took off her bonnet and laid it with her coat and her muff very neatly on the chair. "I don't suppose you have an apron?" she asked. "And something to dust with?"
I looked at her in consternation. "You're not going to try to clean it?" I cried.
"Yes," she said. "While the water's boiling..."
All I could find was a towel and a clean handkerchief. She tied the handkerchief over her hair and under her chin, the way they do on the Cape, and took up the towel with an air of determination. Then, with her slender legs planted wide apart, she looked around once more like a general before a battle, and her face fell. "Oh goodness," she cried; "I don't know where to begin."
I found the crackers, апd some lumps of sugar for the tea, and I went down the hall to rinse the cups in the basin. I peered over the bannisters as I went by, to see what I could see; sure enough, there was Mrs. Jekes standing very still in the hall below, listening with all her might. I wondered what she expected to hear, and let out a shrill whistle, to show her what I was doing. She looked up, startled, and then scuttled back into her room again.
When I returned to the studio, Jennie was seated on the floor, the dustrag towel beside her, and my sketches of the city spread out around her. Smiling, she looked up at me as І entered, a dark smudge across her chin, and another along her arm between her wrist and elbow. "I was looking at these," she said. "Do you mind?"
I told her no, of course I didn't mind.
"They're beautiful," she said. "I think you're a very good artist. Only, some of them..." she held a small canvas up to the light... "I don't know where they are. I've never seen those places."
I glanced over her shoulder as she sat there on the floor. She was looking at a little picture I had done in tempera of the skyscrapers at Radio City. "Yes," I said; "well... they're new, I guess. They haven't been built very long."
"I guess that's it," she agreed.
She looked for a long time at the picture, holding it out toward the window, toward the last grey light of afternoon. "It's funny," she said at last, "how sometimes you've never seen things, and still, you know them. As though you were going to see them some time, and because you were going to see them you could remember what they looked like... That doesn't sound right, does it?"
"I don't know," I replied. "It sounds pretty mixed up."
"I guess so," she said. "I guess it does. You couldn't remember what you hadn't ever seen."
She sat with the picture on her lap, staring in front of her. It was almost dark by now in the room, the snow outside, falling more heavily, making a grey light in the window, and everything in shadow. She seemed to be gazing through the shadows themselves into some other where, somewhere far off and strange, for her bosom rose апd fell, her lips parted, and а long sigh escaped her. The snow, caught in a sudden rift of wind, made a soft, Spitting sound on the window pane, and in the river somewhere a boat sounded its lonely hoot. She stirred uneasily; her hand crept up and touched mine. "No," she said in a whisper; "you couldn't possibly."
I went over and snapped on the lights, and the bare, untidy room sprang out of the gloom at us, harsh and real, its four stained walls holding the present in a cube of unmoving light. Jennie gave a sort of cry, and rose to her feet. "What a silly," she said; "here I haven't dusted hardly at all."
"Never mind," I told her; "the water's boiling. Let's have our tea."
She was all gayety after that, sitting up in the chair again, with her toes barely touching the floor, pouring water out of the rusty kettle, passing the crackers, and talking happily about a thousand things. I had to tell her all about Miss Spinney, who had such a hard heart and liked flower-pieces, and how we had fought over the sketches, and I had won; and she clapped her hands with excitement. "Oh Eben," she cried, "you are a good one." She wanted to hear about Gus and his taxicab; she thought he must be very rich to have a cab of his own. "Do you think some time he'd let me ride in it?" she asked. "I've never ridden in a taxicab.
"But I've been in a hansom, once, with mother in the Park; the driver sat up on top, and had a high hat."
She told me that her friend Emily was going away to boarding school. "I think perhaps I'll go with her," she said. "It's a convent, really, called St. Mary's, but it isn't Catholic. It's on a hill, and you see the river; and Emily says they go out every Easter and bless the pigs. I don't want to go very much, but mother says I have to, and anyway, Emily's going... I'll miss you, Eben."
"ГІ miss you, too, Jennie," I said. "Will you pose for me, before you go?"
"I was hoping you'd say that," she answered. "Yes, I will."
"Will you come tomorrow, then?"
But she looked away, and her face took on a puzzled expression. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know if I can."
"The day after?"
She shook her head. "I'll come as soon as I can," she answered; and that was all she would say.
I told her about Tasker's portrait of Mrs. Potterly, and the great price—as it seemed to me—he had got for it. Her face lit up, and she gave a little laugh. "Will you be glad to be so rich?" she asked. "You mustn't forget me."
"Forget you?" I cried incredulously.
"Oh well," she said; "when you're rich and famous.
"But I guess you won't," she added contentedly. "Because maybe I'll be rich and famous too, and we can be it together."
I said: "I don't think I care very much about being rich, Jennie. I just want to paint—and to know what I'm painting. That's what's so hard—to know what you're painting; to reach to something beyond these little, bitter times..."
"Are these bitter times, Eben?" she asked in surprise.
I stared at her, thinking: of course, how would she know about bitterness, how would she know about the artist at all? caught in a mystery for which he must find some answer, both for himself and for his fellow men, a mystery of good and evil, of blossom and rot—the mystery of a world which learns too late, always too late, which is the mold, and which the bloom...
She had been watching my face, and now she held out the box of crackers to me. "Here," she said, "take one. Then you won't feel so bad." I burst out laughing at myself, at both of us; and she laughed, too.
But presently she grew serious again. "You're not sad any more, are you, Eben?" she asked. "I mean—you were so sad the first time I saw you."
"No," I said, "I'm fine now. I was scared that night I met you. I felt as though I were lost..."
She cowered down in her chair, and put her hands up as though I were about to strike her. "No," she cried out, "Oh no—don't ever say that, not ever again. And besides, you weren't lost—you were here, and here isn't lost. It can't be; it mustn't be. I couldn't bear it."
And turning to me almost piteously, she added,
"We can't both of us be lost."
It lasted only a moment, and then it was gone—and we were back again, in my room, with the yellow-lighted walls, and the grey snow outside, and my pictures spread out on the floor about me, the world I knew, the world I saw every day real and around me. "No," I said, "I'm not lost. Why should I be?
"What a foolish way to talk."
She smiled up at me in а forlorn sort of way. "Yes," she said; "it's foolish. Don't let's talk like that any more."
"Because," I said, "with little girls like you..."
"Yes," she agreed gravely; "little girls like me." She got up, and gave me her cup, and the tea pot. "Here," she said. "You go and wash them out, before you forget."
"All right," I said. "Wait for me; I'll be right back."
"Yes," she said. "I'll wait for you."
I went down the hall; it was dark on the stairs; the door of Mrs. Jekes' parlor was tight shut. I could hear the snow pitting down on the skylight in the roof. I rinsed the cups out, and hurried back. "Jennie," I said.
But she was gone; and the room was empty. I hadn't heard her go; I hadn't heard the hall door close. But she was gone.
It wasn't until later that I remembered that I hadn't even asked her where she lived

 
AFTER the storm, the city sparkled for a little while; then the snow was gone, upgathered in hard white hills and carted off in trucks to the river. For a day the air was full of winter sounds, the sounds a child remembers from his уоuth: thе wooden tock of shovels on the ice, the clink of picks, the whine and whirr of motors, and the little musical note of chains over the snow. І did a sketch of the river, with its swift and leaden current, and a little oil painting of the Park, with children coasting. But mostly I was content to do nothing, to wander in the city, and to let my mind drift where it pleased. I kept thinking about the portrait I wanted to do of Jennie, and wondering when I would see her again. I no longer thought of her as a child. She seemed to me at that time to be of no particular age, or at that age between ages when it is impossible to say that the child is a young lady, or that the young lady is still a child. From the mystery which surrounded her, my mind hung back, my thoughts turned themselves away. It was enough for me to believe that wherever in this world she actually belonged, in some way, for some reason, she belonged with me. Even if I had known, it could have made no difference; I can see that now. It was not in my hands, nothing was in my hands; I could not bring the spring nearer before its time, I could not keep the winter from vanishing behind me.
Sometimes in late summer or in early fall there is a day lovelier than all the others, a day of such pure weather that the heart is entranced, lost in a sort of dream, caught in an enchantment beyond time and change. Earth, sky, and sea are in their deepest colors, still, windless, and shining; the eye travels like a bird out across the distance, over the motionless air. All is fixed and clear, never to end, never to change. But in the evening the mist rises; and from the sea comes the grey warning.
In Truro they call it a weather breeder. So it was with me; it seemed to me that the entire world was bathed in a pure and peaceful light. Death had been arrested, апd evil was far away; man's cries, the madness, the anguish, were stilled, and in the stillness, like far off surf, I heard the sound of yet more distant things. For beyond the close horizon of death, there is something else; beyond evil, some spirit untouched, untroubled, and remote.
Once upon a time, not so very long ago, men thought that the earth was flat, and that where earth and heaven met, the world ended. Yet when they finally set sail for that tremendous place, they sailed right through it, and found themselves back again where they had started from. It taught them only that the earth was round.
It might have taught them more.
This short and happy season was made even happier for me, by the visit of my friend Ame Kunstler, from Provincetown. He arrived one morning in his sheepskin jacket, big, red-faced, and bearded like an artist of the ‘eighties. But the resemblance stopped with his beard; there was nothing else of the ‘eighties about him. He brought а bundle of canvases down with him from the Cape, and set them up on stretchers in my room. The wild and violent pictures flamed at me from the walls and from the floor, like scenes from an inferno. Next to them, my own paintings seemed restrained and mild, colorless and discreet.
He was not pleased with me. "What is this work you are doing, Eben?" he cried. "Portraits—flower-pieces—what has come over you? Not," he added, "that you ever were on the way to being an important painter; but I always thought there was hope for you, at least."
His voice, like that of an old sea-captain, was always pitched at half a gale. Poor Arne, I never took him very seriously, for all his roaring; and as for his painting, I had long ago given up trying to understand it. But I was fond of him, for we had been students together; and I was delighted to see him. His mind was a cave of winds, blowing from all corners at once, a tempest of ideas; he was in love with color, he was like a Viking gone berserk in a rainbow. He lived on next to nothing: I doubt if he sold more than a canvas a year. But he was a happy man, for he never doubted his own genius. His wants were few; and his sorrows were vast, and without pain.
His favorite remark was this: "Art should belong to the masses." But when I declared that the masses would never understand his paintings, he stared at me in astonishment. "Understand?" he thundered; "understand? Who asked them to understand?
"Art can have meaning only to the creative spirit itself.
"Besides," he added, "the masses aren't as stupid as you think. Look how they took to Homer."
"Not to his water colors," I replied. "And anyhow, what in the name of heaven have you and Homer in common?"
He couldn't answer that, of course. "Oh, well," he mumbled, half in his beard, "I was only trying to show you... But you'll see," he bellowed, "just the same."
He brought the past back with him, the old, free, careless days in the wind and sun of New England, the winter at the Atelier Dufoix in the Rue St. Jacques— the great cold shadowy room with its charcoal stove, and the shivering students, the evenings in the little bistro on the Boule Miche'—the early lessons here at the Academy, under Hawthorne and Olinsky—days of work, and nights of argument, when it was enough to settle forever such things as the eternal verities, and never stop to think of what was to become of the artist and his pictures. I took him to the Modem, to see the Modiglianis, and to the Ferargil, to see the single Brockhurst, my own favorite; but he was as contemptuous of the one as of the other, he had no use for any work except his own.
It was the city he admired most, and coming from the flat, windy winter on the Cape, he helped me to see with fresh eyes the soaring stone, the sundrenched skylines, the brawling shadows all around me. And my heart, in which the old brew of doubt and anxiety had already begun to clear, stirred by hope, by the bright weather, and by something else which I did not know how to name, opened itself in a thrust of joy to the future.
Needless to say, Mrs. Jekes took an instant dislike to him. The very first night, she came hurrying up the stairs, pale and grim, to ask us to make less noise—though she did not so much ask us, as tell us, standing there in the doorway with her hands folded across her stomach, and her eyes steeped in bitterness. "I don't know what sort of a house you think this is," she said, "or what you think you're doing in it; but there's others want to sleep if you don't, and I can always call the police if I have to."
I can hardly blame her, for we were young, and happy, and we must have been making a lot of noise. I was afraid that Arne would throw something at her, but after one long, startled look, he only mumbled, "Yes ma'am," and went off into a comer. After she had left, marching down the Stairs with a tread like an army, I saw that he was pale, and actually uneasy. I started to laugh at him, but he stopped me. "No, Eben," he said, "you're wrong to laugh. That's a dreadful woman. She comes in here like black ice, and my pictures freeze over. Oh no, Oh no, I am going to whisper from now оп."
But although I laughed at him, I remembered what he said.
For a week or so, I roamed about the city with Arne, delighting in the fine weather, and in the companionship of my friend. I took him to the Alhambra where, I need hardly add, he thundered at my mural like Dufoix himself in the old days in Paris. In his opinion, I had painted a stupid and vulgar scene; nevertheless, with a plate of sauerbraten in front of him, he went so far as to consider the possibility of doing a panel himself, perhaps the one over the service door, in return for a week's good eating. Mr. Moore thought it over for a while, but after he had seen an example of Arne's work, he shook his head regretfully. "It's not that I don't think Mr. Kunstler is a fine artist," he said, "but I've got to think of the customers. I want everybody to be satisfied around here."
"Never mind," said Arne. "Forget it."
"Yes," said Mr. Moore. "Well, thanks for the offer."
It was Gus who did his best to console him. "Never mind, Mack," he said; "some people don't have no eye for anything but their food. Now you take me; I like to look at something pretty when I got the time. But you take most people, they don't feel that way. What they say is, bring in the soup, and get on with it."
"Forget it," said Arne. He waved his arm in a dignified way. "The artist ought not to have to paint for a living," he declared. "Eben, let us all have another glass of beer, and I will repay you some day when I am able."
"Но," said Gus; "there's a man for you."
His big, red-knuckled hand wrapped around his glass, Arne beamed at us all. "Here's to art," he said.
"And to friends," I added.
"Any friend of Mack's here is a friend of mine," said Gus.
We dipped our noses into the yellow foam. "Just the same," said Агпе іп a mild bellow, coming up for air, "art" can only mean something to the artist who creates it."