Art for Art’s Sake
I
Mr. Bob Chidden stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, completely surrounded by wastebaskets. On the coal range at his right an immense pot of stew was simmering reluctantly; in the left-hand corner, near the window, the kitchen girl was peeling potatoes, standing first on one foot, then on the other.
“Awful trash!” commented Mr. Chidden, with a gloomy and dejected air. Then, suddenly, precipitately he stooped over and picked up four of the wastebaskets, two in each hand. His sister Maria had entered from the dining room.
“A whole week!” said Miss Maria forcefully. “Crammed plumb full, every one of ’em. What are you standing there for? Mind what I say! After this you empty them wastebaskets every day, Robert Chidden!”
These last words were probably not heard by Mr. Chidden, who had disappeared hurriedly down the cellar steps with the four baskets. He emptied their contents into the furnace and returned for more. Then, the destructive portion of his menial task completed, he began to return the empty baskets to the rooms above — three on the first floor, four on the second, and three on the third. All of the rooms appeared to be empty save the third-floor front. At the door of this Mr. Chidden paused to knock.
“Your wastebasket, Mr. Glover,” he called loudly.
“All right. Bring it in,” came from the room.
Mr. Chidden entered.
To describe the room it is only necessary to say that it was like all others in an ordinary New York rooming house. The table near which Mr. Chidden set down the wastebasket was of imitation mahogany, soiled with water stains and covered with scars. The bed at which he glanced as he straightened up was made of iron that had once been painted white, with brass knobs at the corners. The man in the bed, dressed in yellow pajamas with pink stripes, was a tousle-haired, sleepy-eyed young fellow of twenty-six or seven, with regular features and an amiable countenance.
“What time is it?” demanded this personage, yawning.
Mr. Chidden replied that it was about eleven o’clock, and moved toward the bed, while an expression of envy disturbed the settled melancholy of his face. He could not remember a single occasion when he had been permitted to remain in bed till eleven o’clock, whereas Mr. Glover enjoyed that blissful privilege seven days in the week.
“It’s a fine thing, being at the theater,” said Mr. Chidden abruptly, blinking over the iron foot rail.
Mr. Glover kicked the sheets to one side, sat up, yawned, twisted himself slowly around, and placed his bare feet on the floor.
“Not on your life!” he returned amiably, reaching for a garment on the back of a chair. “It’s hard work. What makes you think it’s fine?”
Mr. Chidden grunted.
“Eleven o’clock, and you just getting up. Ain’t that enough?”
“Oh, if it comes to that,” returned Mr. Glover carelessly, “it strikes me that you have it pretty soft yourself, Chidden. Regular snap, I’d call it.”
“What? Me?” gasped Mr. Chidden.
The other nodded, standing up to pull on his trousers.
“Me!” Mr. Chidden gasped again incredulously. “I’m surprised, Mr. Glover, since my sister is known to you. My position is chronical. I get up at five o’clock in the morning for the furnace. And from then till night not a minute is my own — not a minute! Regular snap! It’s a cursed existence such as no man should submit to. For twenty years I’ve been smothered — smothered under a woman’s skirts — my own sister’s!” He paused a moment for breath, then muttered, as if to himself, half savagely, half morosely: “Miserable slave!”
“You surprise me,” observed Mr. Glover, from the washbasin. “I thought you had a pretty easy time of it, Chidden. Plenty to eat, not much of anything to do, no rent to worry about, no—”
“And when I want a new hat, I go and beg Maria for a dollar and fifty cents,” put in Mr. Chidden bitterly.
“Well, you get it.”
“Not always. Stringy finance, she says. I’ve never talked like this to any one before, but let me tell you one thing, Mr. Glover: The underwear on me at this moment is some that my sister Maria bought for herself and couldn’t wear because it scratched. It’s big in front — you know — and it’s embroidered at the neck. I cut the legs off. It’s a union suit.”
“My God!” exclaimed Mr. Glover, with a shout of laughter. “I’d like to see it, Chidden — I would, indeed! It must be a rare sight.”
“No, you wouldn’t. I can’t bear to look at it myself. I shut my eyes when I put it on.”
“Why don’t you get a job?” Mr. Glover was still laughing as he stood before the mirror adjusting his tie.
“I have. Many of ’em. But it’s no go. It’s fate. I was a merchant once, you know — had a shop up in New Rochelle. Forced out and had to come here. If I get a job, it’s no good.”
Mr. Chidden sighed, turning toward the door. He had nearly reached it when he was halted abruptly by the voice of Mr. Glover.
“I might find something for you at the theater,” said the actor.
Mr. Chidden stood with his mouth open and his hand on the doorknob. He seemed amazed.
“At the theater!” he stammered finally. “You don’t mean — on the stage?”
“Well, hardly,” smiled the other. “Something — let’s see — say, claquer, for instance.” He pronounced it “clacker.” “Burrie has a première on Thursday, and he’ll probably need ’em. I hear it’s a rotten show — nothing to it except the courtroom scene and a bit of character done by a friend of mine. Something in my line, I believe. Pretty fat — sure to get a hand.”
“What’s a clacker?” inquired Mr. Chidden, having waited impatiently for the other to finish.
The actor explained:
“A come-on guy for the audience — to start the applause and keep it up. The theaters all have ’em, more or less.”
“Could you — do you think—” stammered Mr. Chidden, his face pale with hope.
“Sure! At least I think so. It means fifty cents or a dollar a night, a little spending money — and, besides, you get to see the show. I’ll see Burrie this afternoon at rehearsal and let you know in the morning.”
Mr. Chidden’s outburst of profuse thanks was interrupted by a sound that came from below — the sound of a rasping, strident voice calling a name. He hurriedly opened the door, and the voice became distinct:
“Robert!”
“It’s Maria,” said Mr. Chidden, gritting his teeth. “She wants me to sweep the sidewalk. If you’d be so kind, Mr. Glover—”
“Sure!” returned the actor. “Run along, Chidden. See you tomorrow.”
II.
About ten o’clock of the following Thursday morning, Mr. Chidden opened the door and stepped into the parlor, where his sister Maria was dusting bric-a-brac — a task she never entrusted to servants. At sound of her brother’s entrance, she stood up and turned to look at him.
“Well?” she observed truculently.
“I just wanted to tell you,” said Mr. Chidden, standing by the door, “that I’ve got a job.”
His sister snorted contemptuously, and was silent, awaiting details.
“It’s a night job at the theater,” the little man continued. “Mr. Glover recommended me. A sort of critic, you might say. I won’t be home till midnight, so you’d better have Annie tend to the furnace in the morning. I saw Mr. Burrie, the manager, yesterday. At the Columbus. Probably I’ll be working for him all winter.” Mr. Chidden paused and turned, with his hand on the knob. “Dramatic triumph,” he announced firmly, in a loud tone, and then went out, closing the door with a bang behind him.