A Madison Square Arabian Night

by O. Henry

　　

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To Carson Chalmers, in his apartment near the square, Phillipsbrought the evening mail. Beside the routine correspondence therewere two items bearing the same foreign postmark. One of the incoming parcels contained a photograph of a woman. Theother contained an interminable letter, over which Chalmers hung,absorbed, for a long time. The letter was from another woman; andit contained poisoned barbs, sweetly dipped in honey, and featheredwith innuendoes concerning the photographed woman. Chalmers tore this letter into a thousand bits and began to wear outhis expensive rug by striding back and forth upon it. Thus an animalfrom the jungle acts when it is caged, and thus a caged man actswhen he is housed in a jungle of doubt. By and by the restless mood was overcome. The rug was not anenchanted one. For sixteen feet he could travel along it; threethousand miles was beyond its power to aid. Phillips appeared. He never entered; he invariably appeared, like awell-oiled genie. "Will you dine here, sir, or out?" he asked. "Here," said Chalmers, "and in half an hour." He listened glumly tothe January blasts making an Aeolian trombone of the empty street. "Wait," he said to the disappearing genie. "As I came home acrossthe end of the square I saw many men standing there in rows. Therewas one mounted upon something, talking. Why do those men stand inrows, and why are they there?" "They are homeless men, sir," said Phillips. "The man standing onthe box tries to get lodging for them for the night. People comearound to listen and give him money. Then he sends as many as themoney will pay for to some lodging-house. That is why they stand inrows; they get sent to bed in order as they come." "By the time dinner is served," said Chalmers, "have one of thosemen here. He will dine with me." "W-w-which--," began Phillips, stammering for the first time duringhis service. "Choose one at random," said Chalmers. "You might see that he isreasonably sober--and a certain amount of cleanliness will not beheld against him. That is all." It was an unusual thing for Carson Chalmers to play the Caliph. Buton that night he felt the inefficacy of conventional antidotes tomelancholy. Something wanton and egregious, something high-flavoredand Arabian, he must have to lighten his mood. On the half hour Phillips had finished his duties as slave of thelamp. The waiters from the restaurant below had whisked aloft thedelectable dinner. The dining table, laid for two, glowed cheerilyin the glow of the pink-shaded candles. And now Phillips, as though he ushered a cardinal--or held in chargea burglar--wafted in the shivering guest who had been haled from theline of mendicant lodgers. It is a common thing to call such men wrecks; if the comparison beused here it is the specific one of a derelict come to grief throughfire. Even yet some flickering combustion illuminated the driftinghulk. His face and hands had been recently washed--a rite insistedupon by Phillips as a memorial to the slaughtered conventions. Inthe candle-light he stood, a flaw in the decorous fittings of theapartment. His face was a sickly white, covered almost to the eyeswith a stubble the shade of a red Irish setter's coat. Phillips'scomb had failed to control the pale brown hair, long matted andconformed to the contour of a constantly worn hat. His eyes werefull of a hopeless, tricky defiance like that seen in a cur's thatis cornered by his tormentors. His shabby coat was buttoned high,but a quarter inch of redeeming collar showed above it. His mannerwas singularly free from embarrassment when Chalmers rose from hischair across the round dining table. "If you will oblige me," said the host, "I will be glad to have yourcompany at dinner." "My name is Plumer," said the highway guest, in harsh and aggressivetones. "If you're like me, you like to know the name of the partyyou're dining with." "I was going on to say," continued Chalmers somewhat hastily, "thatmine is Chalmers. Will you sit opposite?" Plumer, of the ruffled plumes, bent his knee for Phillips to slidethe chair beneath him. He had an air of having sat at attendedboards before. Phillips set out the anchovies and olives. "Good!" barked Plumer; "going to be in courses, is it? All right,my jovial ruler of Bagdad. I'm your Scheherezade all the way to thetoothpicks. You're the first Caliph with a genuine Oriental flavorI've struck since frost. What luck! And I was forty-third in line. Ifinished counting, just as your welcome emissary arrived to bid meto the feast. I had about as much chance of getting a bed to-nightas I have of being the next President. How will you have the sadstory of my life, Mr. Al Raschid--a chapter with each course or thewhole edition with the cigars and coffee?" "The situation does not seem a novel one to you," said Chalmers witha smile. "By the chin whiskers of the prophet--no!" answered the guest. "NowYork's as full of cheap Haroun al Raschids as Bagdad is of fleas.I've been held up for my story with a loaded meal pointed at myhead twenty times. Catch anybody in New York giving you somethingfor nothing! They spell curiosity and charity with the same set ofbuilding blocks. Lots of 'em will stake you to a dime and chop-suey;and a few of 'em will play Caliph to the tune of a top sirloin;but every one of 'em will stand over you till they screw yourautobiography out of you with foot notes, appendix and unpublishedfragments. Oh, I know what to do when I see victuals coming towardme in little old Bagdad-on-the-Subway. I strike the asphalt threetimes with my forehead and get ready to spiel yarns for my supper.I claim descent from the late Tommy Tucker, who was forced to handout vocal harmony for his pre-digested wheaterina and spoopju." "I do not ask your story," said Chalmers. "I tell you frankly thatit was a sudden whim that prompted me to send for some stranger todine with me. I assure you you will not suffer through any curiosityof mine." "Oh, fudge!" exclaimed the guest, enthusiastically tackling hissoup; "I don't mind it a bit. I'm a regular Oriental magazinewith a red cover and the leaves cut when the Caliph walks abroad.In fact, we fellows in the bed line have a sort of union ratefor things of this sort. Somebody's always stopping and wantingto know what brought us down so low in the world. For asandwich and a glass of beer I tell 'em that drink did it. Forcorned beef and cabbage and a cup of coffee I give 'em thehard-hearted-landlord--six-months-in-the-hospital-lost-job story.A sirloin steak and a quarter for a bed gets the Wall Streettragedy of the swept-away fortune and the gradual descent. Thisis the first spread of this kind I've stumbled against. I haven'tgot a story to fit it. I'll tell you what, Mr. Chalmers, I'mgoing to tell you the truth for this, if you'll listen to it.It'll be harder for you to believe than the made-up ones." An hour later the Arabian guest lay back with a sigh of satisfactionwhile Phillips brought the coffee and cigars and cleared the table. "Did you ever hear of Sherrard Plumer?" he asked, with a strangesmile. "I remember the name," said Chalmers. "He was a painter, I think, ofa good deal of prominence a few years ago." "Five years," said the guest. "Then I went down like a chunk oflead. I'm Sherrard Plumer! I sold the last portrait I painted for$2,000. After that I couldn't have found a sitter for a gratispicture." "What was the trouble?" Chalmers could not resist asking. "Funny thing," answered Plumer, grimly. "Never quite understood itmyself. For a while I swam like a cork. I broke into the swell crowdand got commissions right and left. The newspapers called me afashionable painter. Then the funny things began to happen. WheneverI finished a picture people would come to see it, and whisper andlook queerly at one another." "I soon found out what the trouble was. I had a knack of bringingout in the face of a portrait the hidden character of the original.I don't know how I did it--I painted what I saw--but I know it didme. Some of my sitters were fearfully enraged and refused theirpictures. I painted the portrait of a very beautiful and popularsociety dame. When it was finished her husband looked at it with apeculiar expression on his face, and the next week he sued fordivorce." "I remember one case of a prominent banker who sat to me. While Ihad his portrait on exhibition in my studio an acquaintance of hiscame in to look at it. 'Bless me,' says he, 'does he really looklike that?" I told him it was considered a faithful likeness. 'Inever noticed that expression about his eyes before,' said he; 'Ithink I'll drop downtown and change my bank account.' He did dropdown, but the bank account was gone and so was Mr. Banker. "It wasn't long till they put me out of business. People don'twant their secret meannesses shown up in a picture. They can smileand twist their own faces and deceive you, but the picture can't.I couldn't get an order for another picture, and I had to giveup. I worked as a newspaper artist for a while, and then for alithographer, but my work with them got me into the same trouble. IfI drew from a photograph my drawing showed up characteristics andexpressions that you couldn't find in the photo, but I guess theywere in the original, all right. The customers raised lively rows,especially the women, and I never could hold a job long. So I beganto rest my weary head upon the breast of Old Booze for comfort. Andpretty soon I was in the free-bed line and doing oral fiction forhand-outs among the food bazaars. Does the truthful statement wearythee, O Caliph? I can turn on the Wall Street disaster stop if youprefer, but that requires a tear, and I'm afraid I can't hustle oneup after that good dinner." "No, no," said Chalmers, earnestly, "you interest me very much. Didall of your portraits reveal some unpleasant trait, or were theresome that did not suffer from the ordeal of your peculiar brush?" "Some? Yes," said Plumer. "Children generally, a good many women anda sufficient number of men. All people aren't bad, you know. Whenthey were all right the pictures were all right. As I said, I don'texplain it, but I'm telling you facts." On Chalmers's writing-table lay the photograph that he had receivedthat day in the foreign mail. Ten minutes later he had Plumer atwork making a sketch from it in pastels. At the end of an hour theartist rose and stretched wearily. "It's done," he yawned. "You'll excuse me for being so long. I gotinterested in the job. Lordy! but I'm tired. No bed last night, youknow. Guess it'll have to be good night now, O Commander of theFaithful!" Chalmers went as far as the door with him and slipped some billsinto his hand. "Oh! I'll take 'em," said Plumer. "All that's included in the fall.Thanks. And for the very good dinner. I shall sleep on feathersto-night and dream of Bagdad. I hope it won't turn out to be a dreamin the morning. Farewell, most excellent Caliph!" Again Chalmers paced restlessly upon his rug. But his beat lay asfar from the table whereon lay the pastel sketch as the room wouldpermit. Twice, thrice, he tried to approach it, but failed. He couldsee the dun and gold and brown of the colors, but there was a wallabout it built by his fears that kept him at a distance. He sat downand tried to calm himself. He sprang up and rang for Phillips. "There is a young artist in this building," he said. "--a Mr.Reineman--do you know which is his apartment?" "Top floor, front, sir," said Phillips. "Go up and ask him to favor me with his presence here for a fewminutes." Reineman came at once. Chalmers introduced himself. "Mr. Reineman," said he, "there is a little pastel sketch on yondertable. I would be glad if you will give me your opinion of it as toits artistic merits and as a picture." The young artist advanced to the table and took up the sketch.Chalmers half turned away, leaning upon the back of a chair. "How--do--you find it?" he asked, slowly. "As a drawing," said the artist, "I can't praise it enough. It's thework of a master--bold and fine and true. It puzzles me a little; Ihaven't seen any pastel work near as good in years." "The face, man--the subject--the original--what would you say ofthat?" "The face," said Reineman, "is the face of one of God's own angels.May I ask who--" "My wife!" shouted Chalmers, wheeling and pouncing upon theastonished artist, gripping his hand and pounding his back. "She istraveling in Europe. Take that sketch, boy, and paint the pictureof your life from it and leave the price to me."

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