Good evening, Mr. Miller, he said, in his quiet, easy Southern way. I hope I am not disturbing you?
Not at all, I replied, I was just dreaming. I motioned to him to take a seat and after a due pause I asked what I might do for him.
At this he smiled benevolently, drawing his chair a little closer. You look as though you were deep in work, he said, with sincere kindliness. It’s unfortunate that I should have disturbed you at such a moment.
I assure you I wasn’t working, Mr. Taliaferro. I’m glad indeed to see you. I’ve been intending to call on you for some time. You must have wondered…
Mr. Miller, he interrupted, I thought it was time we had a little chat together. I know you have lots of preoccupations, besides your work. Perhaps you are not even aware that it some months now since you last paid your rent. I know how it is with writers … The man was so truly gentle and considerate that I simply couldn’t stand on pretense with him. I had no idea how many months we were in arrears. What I admired in Mr. Taliaferro was that he had never in any way made us feel uncomfortable. Only once before had he ventured to knock at our door and that was to inquire if we needed anything. It was with a feeling of great relief, therefore, that I surrendered myself to him.
Just how it happened I don’t know, but in a few moments I was sitting beside him on the cot we had bought for O’Mara. He had his arm around my shoulders and was explaining to me, quite as if I were a younger brother, and in a voice so gentle, so soothing, that he knew I was a good individual, knew I had never intended to put him off so long (it was five months, I discovered) but that sooner or later I would have to come to terms with the world.
But Mr. Taliaferro, I think if you gave us just a little time…
Son, he said, pressing my shoulder ever so lightly, it’s not time you need, it’s an awakening. Now if I were you, I would talk it over with Mrs. Miller this evening and see if you couldn’t find a place more suited to your income. I am not going to hurry you unduly. Look around … take your time … find the place you like, and then move. What do you think?
I was almost in tears. You’re too kind, I said. Of course you’re right. Certainly we shall find another place, and quickly too. I don’t know how to thank you for your delicacy and consideration. I guess I am a dreamer. I never realized that it was so long since we last paid you.
Of course you didn’t, said Mr. Taliaferro. You’re an honest man, I know that. But don’t worry about…
But I do worry about it, I said. Even though we may have to move without paying you the back rent, I want you to know that I will definitely pay it back later, probably in driblets.
Mr. Miller, if you were situated differently, I would be glad to accept your promise, but it’s too much to ask of you now. If you can find another place before the first of next month I shall be quite content. Let’s forget about the back rent, yes?
What could I say? I looked at him with moist eyes, shook his hand warmly and gave him my word that we would be out on time.
As he rose to take leave of me he said: Don’t be too discouraged about this. I know how much you like this place. I hope you were able to do good work here. Some day I expect to read your books. Pause. I hope you’ll always think of us as friends.
We shook hands once more, then I closed the door softly after him. I stood a few minutes with my back to the door, surveying the room. I felt good. As though I had just come through a successful operation. Just a little dizziness from the anaesthetic. How Mona would take it I didn’t know. Already I was breathing easier. Already I had visions of living among poor people, my own sort. Down to earth again. Excellent. I walked to and fro, threw open the rolling doors and strutted about in the vacant apartment in the rear. A last taste of refinement. I took a good look at the stained glass window, rubbed my hand over the rose silk tapestry, slid a few feet on the highly polished floor, looked at myself in the huge mirror. I grinned at myself and said again and again, Good! Good!
In a few minutes I had made myself a pot of tea and fixed a thick, juicy sandwich. I sat down at my work table, put my feet up on a hassock, and picked up a volume of Elie Faure, opening it at random … When this people is not cutting throats or burning buildings, when it is not decimated by famine and butchery, it has only one function—to build and decorate palaces whose vertical walls shall be thick enough to protect the Sar, his wives, his guard, and his slaves—twenty or thirty thousand persons—against the sun, invasion, or perhaps revolt. Around the great central courts are the apartments covered with terraces or with domes, with cupolas, images of the absolute vault of the deserts, which the Oriental soul will rediscover when Islam shall have reawakened it. Higher than these, observatories which are at the same time temples, the ziggurats, the pyramidal towers whose stages painted with red, white, blue, brown, black, silver and gold, shine afar through the veils of dust which the winds whirl in spiral. Especially at the approach of evening, the warring hordes and the nomadic pillagers, who see the sombre confines of the desert streaked with this motionless lightning, must recoil in fear. It is the dwelling of the god, and resembles those steps of the plateau of Iran leading to the roof of the world, which are striped with violent colors by subterranean fire and by the blaze of the sun. The gates are guarded by terrific brutes, bulls and lions with human heads, marching…
A few blocks away, in a quiet street largely taken over by the Syrians, we found a modest furnished room situated in the rear of the house on the ground floor.
The woman who rented the place was a blue-nose from Nova Scotia, a harridan who gave me the shudders every time I looked at her. Everything imaginable had been crammed into our quarters: wash tubs, cooking store, heater, huge sideboard, old-fashioned wardrobe, extra couch, a battered rocker, a still more battered armchair, a sewing machine, a horsehair sofa, a what-not filled with five-and-ten-cent store knick-knacks, and an empty bird cage. I suspected that it was this room the old witch herself had inhabited prior to our arrival.
To put it pleasantly, an atmosphere of dementia reigned.
The saving thing was the garden outside our back door. It was a long rectangular garden enclosed by high brick walls, reminding me for some unaccountable reason of the garden in Peter Ibbetson. At any rate, it was a place in which to dream. Summer had just begun and in the late afternoons I would drag out a big armchair and read. I had just discovered Arthur Weigall’s books and was devouring them one after another. After reading a few pages I would fall into a reverie. Here in the garden everything was conducive to dream and reverie—the soft, fragrant air, the humming of insects, the lazy flight of the birds, the swishing of foliage, the murmur of foreign voices in the gardens adjoining.
An interlude of peace and privacy.
It was during this period that purely by chance I ran into my old friend Stanley one day. Forthwith Stanley began to visit us at frequent intervals, usually accompanied by his two boys, one five, the other seven. He had grown very fond of his youngsters and took great pride in their appearance, their manners, their speech. From Stanley I learned that my daughter was now attending a private school. His elder son, also named Stanley, had quite a crush on her, he informed me. This last he imparted with great relish, adding that Maude viewed the situation with alarm.
As to how they were getting along, that I had to drag out of him. It was nothing to worry about, he assured me, but the tone in which he said it conveyed that their circumstances were none too good. Poor old Melanie was still slaving away at the hospital, hobbling to work now with a cane; her nights she spent coddling her varicose veins. She and Maude were more than ever at odds. Maude, of course, was still giving piano lessons.
It was just as well I didn’t’ visit them any more, was Stanley’s summing up. They had given me up as hopeless and irresponsible. Only Melanie, apparently, had a good word to say for me but then Melanie was just a doddering idiot. (Always subtle and tactful, Stanley.)
Can’t you sneak me in there some time when no one’s home? I begged. I want to see how the place looks. I’d like to see the child’s toys, if nothing more.
Stanley couldn’t see the wisdom of this but promised to think it over.
Then he added quickly: You’d better forget about them. You’ve
