Twelve Men. Theodore Dreiser

given, fights, deaths, marvelous winnings at cards, trickeries in racing, prize-fighting; the “dogs” that some people were, the magnificent, magnanimous “God’s own salt” that others were. The oaths, stories of women, what low, vice-besmeared, crime-soaked ghoulas certain reigning beauties of the town or stage were—and so on and so on ad infinitum.

      But his story?—ah, yes. I had all but forgotten. It was told in every place, not once but seven, eight, nine, ten times. We did not eat until we reached the Metropole, and it was ten-thirty when we reached it! The handshakes, the road stories—“This is my brother Theodore. He writes; he’s a newspaper man.” The roars of laughter, the drinks! “Ah, my boy, that’s good, but let me tell you one—one that I heard out in Louisville the other day.” A seedy, shabby ne’er-do-well of a song-writer maybe stopping the successful author in the midst of a tale to borrow a dollar. Another actor, shabby and distrait, reciting the sad tale of a year’s misfortunes. Everywhere my dear brother was called to, slapped on the back, chuckled with. He was successful. One of his best songs was the rage, he had an interest in a going musical concern, he could confer benefits, favors.

      Ah, me! Ah, me! That one could be so great, and that it should not last for ever and for ever!

      Another of his outstanding characteristics was his love of women, a really amusing and at times ridiculous quality. He was always sighing over the beauty, innocence, sweetness, this and that, of young maidenhood in his songs, but in real life he seemed to desire and attract quite a different type—the young and beautiful, it is true, but also the old, the homely and the somewhat savage—a catholicity of taste I could never quite stomach. It was “Paul dearest” here and “Paul dearest” there, especially in his work in connection with the music-house and the stage. In the former, popular ballad singers of both sexes, some of the women most attractive and willful, were most numerous, coming in daily from all parts of the world apparently to find songs which they could sing on the American or even the English stage. And it was a part of his duty, as a member of the firm and the one who principally “handled” the so-called professional inquirers, to meet them and see that they were shown what the catalogue contained. Occasionally there was an aspiring female song-writer, often mere women visitors.

      Regardless, however, of whether they were young, old, attractive or repulsive, male or female, I never knew any one whose manner was more uniformly winsome or who seemed so easily to disarm or relax an indifferent or irritated mood. He was positive sunshine, the same in quality as that of a bright spring morning. His blue eyes focused mellowly, his lips were tendrilled with smiles. He had a brisk, quick manner, always somehow suggestive of my mother, who was never brisk.

      And how he fascinated them, the women! Their quite shameless daring where he was concerned! Positively, in the face of it I used to wonder what had become of all the vaunted and so-called “stabilizing morality” of the world. None of it seemed to be in the possession of these women, especially the young and beautiful. They were distant and freezing enough to all who did not interest them, but let a personality such as his come into view and they were all wiles, bending and alluring graces. It was so obvious, this fascination he had for them and they for him, that at times it took on a comic look.

      “Get onto the hit he’s making,” one would nudge another and remark.

      “Say, some tenderness, that!” This in reference to a smile or a melting glance on the part of a female.

      “Nothing like a way with the ladies. Some baby, eh, boys?”—this following the flick of a skirt and a backward-tossed glance perhaps, as some noticeable beauty passed out.

      “No wonder he’s cheerful,” a sour and yet philosophic vaudevillian, who was mostly out of a job and hung about the place for what free meals he could obtain, once remarked to me in a heavy and morose undertone. “If I had that many women crazy about me I’d be too.”

      And the results of these encounters with beauty! Always he had something most important to attend to, morning, noon or night, and whenever I encountered him after some such statement “the important thing” was, of course, a woman. As time went on and he began to look upon me as something more than a thin, spindling, dyspeptic and disgruntled youth, he began to wish to introduce me to some of his marvelous followers, and then I could see how completely dependent upon beauty in the flesh he was, how it made his life and world.

      One day as we were all sitting in the office, a large group of vaudevillians, song-writers, singers, a chance remark gave rise to a subsequent practical joke at Paul’s expense. “I’ll bet,” observed some one, “that if a strange man were to rush in here with a revolver and say, ‘Where’s the man that seduced my wife?’ Paul would be the first to duck. He wouldn’t wait to find out whether he was the one meant or not.”

      Much laughter followed, and some thought. The subject of this banter was, of course, not present at the time. There was one actor who hung about there who was decidedly skillful in make-up. On more than one occasion he had disguised himself there in the office for our benefit. Cooperating with us, he disguised himself now as a very severe and even savage-looking person of about thirty-five—side-burns, mustachios and goatee. Then, with our aid, timing his arrival to an hour when Paul was certain to be at his desk, he entered briskly and vigorously and, looking about with a savage air, demanded, “Where is Paul Dresser?”

      The latter turned almost apprehensively, I thought, and at once seemed by no means captivated by the man’s looks.

      “That’s Mr. Dresser there,” explained one of the confederates most willingly.

      The stranger turned and glared at him. “So you’re the scoundrel that’s been running around with my wife, are you?” he demanded, approaching him and placing one hand on his right hip.

      Paul made no effort to explain. It did not occur to him to deny the allegation, although he had never seen the man before. With a rising and backward movement he fell against the rail behind him, lifting both hands in fright and exclaiming, “Why—why—Don’t shoot!” His expression was one of guilt, astonishment, perplexity. As some one afterwards said. “As puzzled as if he was trying to discover which injured husband it might be.” The shout that went up—for it was agreed beforehand that the joke must not be carried far—convinced him that a hoax had been perpetrated, and the removal by the actor of his hat, sideburns and mustache revealed the true character of the injured husband. At first inclined to be angry and sulky, later on he saw the humor of his own indefinite position in the matter and laughed as heartily as any. But I fancy it developed a strain of uncertainty in him also in regard to injured husbands, for he was never afterwards inclined to interest himself in the much-married, and gave such wives a wide berth.