Art for Art's Sake

by Rex T. Stout

 

Art for Art's Sake

By Rex T. Stout

Author of “A Little Love Affair,” etc.

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 waste-baskets, 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 to-morrow.”

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 intrusted 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.

He felt uplifted, elated, for several reasons. He knew that his sister was rather stunned, though she wouldn't show it. That was delightful in itself. Then he was about to earn a dollar—many of them. He had figured it all up. The theatrical season would be about thirteen weeks. Averaging four nights a week, that would be one hundred and forty-four dollars. A new suit of clothes, a meerschaum pipe, a dozen ball games—in short, anything and everything. And he would have money to jingle in his pocket!

But what was perhaps best of all, he would go to the best theaters free—many of them—all of them; for Burrie had promised to use him at all his first nights as well as at subsequent performances. Nothing could have pleased Mr. Chidden better. If he could not properly be called a student of the modern drama, it was only because he had lacked opportunity for the collection of material. He had never seen the interior of a Broadway theater. But he spent twenty cents every night during the season at the stock theater around the corner on Eighth Avenue, and he was known to the delicatessen proprietor, tailor, cabmen, and other gentlemen of the neighborhood as a man to whom the deepest subtleties of the actor's art were an open book.

So he was overjoyed at this opportunity to behold a Broadway star in a Broadway production. That he was actually to be paid for his attendance appeared to him little short of marvelous. He said to himself that there was no other job in all the world that would have pleased him so well as this one; and in order to make sure of giving satisfaction to Mr. Burrie, he spent most of the afternoon in the cellar, practicing the art of handclapping. For more than an hour he sat on an old soap box near the furnace, bringing his palms together, now with sharp, staccato reports, again with a measured, thunderous impact that sounded like the discharge of a small cannon. After an hour of experiment, he decided that the most effective method was a mixture of the two, neither too fast nor too loud, and with the hands hollowed but slightly. Satisfied, he went to the kitchen to polish his shoes.

He arrived at the theater a little after eight, feeling that it would not do to display any eagerness in the matter. He would show them that he was an old hand at this theater business. The lobby was filled with loungers, and Mr. Chidden found some difficulty in making his way to the brass rails that guarded the entrance to the auditorium. There he presented the card Mr. Burrie had given him to a fat, pompous personage who was mostly red face and white shirt front.

Mr. Chidden spoke to him in a low and mysterious tone.

“From Mr. Burrie,” said he. “I'm an official.”

The other merely grunted and passed him in.

From the head usher Mr. Chidden learned that he was not to pursue his activities alone. That person, a tired-looking, wise-looking youth, informed him that his companion was already at the appointed spot, and called an usher to conduct Mr. Chidden thither. It proved to be a seat at the extreme right of the parquet, toward the rear.

“There he is, over at the end,” said the usher. “His name is Mintz. He'll tell you what to do. You should have come early so as not to disturb people.”

Mr. Chidden smothered the retort that rose to his lips, edged his way through to the empty seat, sat down, and looked about him. The parquet was filled with men in evening dress and women with necks, of all ages and appearances. It was what the newspapers call a “typical first-night audience,” but the sight was new to Mr. Chidden, and he spent several minutes studying it. Then he turned his attention to his neighbor and confrère on the right.

What he saw was a wrinkled, uneven countenance, decorated with a sandy mustache, reddish hair, and gray, slumberous eyes. Mr. Chidden had studied the profile for about a minute when he was startled by seeing the gray eyes turned directly upon him in a fixed, contemptuous gaze. The two men looked at each other for some seconds in a silence that was finally broken by Mr. Chidden.

“Is this Mr. Mintz?” he asked abruptly.

“Who are you?” inquired the other, more abruptly still, in a tone that held an indication of hostility.

“Chidden,” replied our hero courteously. “From Mr. Burrie. I was told to take my orders from Mr. Mintz I'm the new clacker.”

“I'm Mintz,” returned the other, apparently somewhat mollified. “That's me—Jake Mintz. You follow' me. Clap when I do, and stop when I do. That's all. What do you get?”

“Why, I don't know—what do you mean?” stammered Mr. Chidden.

“What does Burrie pay you?”

“Oh, I see! You refer to the remunatory element. One dollar.”

Mr. Mintz stared a moment, grunted twice, and turned his head back to its original position, facing the stage. It was evident that he considered the conversation finished. But Mr. Chidden had a dozen questions on the tip of his tongue, and had just opened his mouth for the first one when the lights were suddenly lowered and a hush fell over the audience. Glancing toward the stage, he saw the curtain slowly rising.

The first act Mr. Chidden regarded as rather slow. He got the impression of a lot of empty talk, but nothing happened. By the end of the act he had gathered a hazy idea that the man with the beard and the gray spats was trying to induce the wife of the little chap in the dressing gown to run away from her husband; but he was unable to decide whether the wife was the lady in the blue velvet suit with white furs or the one that lay on the divan smoking cigarettes with a cynical smile. Altogether it was disappointing; and, as the curtain fell, Mr. Chidden turned to his colleague and said so.

“Shut up and clap!” returned Mr. Mintz, without glancing at him.

Mr. Chidden perceived that he was neglecting his duty. Anxious to make up for lost time, he brought the palms of his hands together with a succession of thunderous reports, forgetting, in his excitement, the results of his experiments in the cellar during the afternoon. He was brought up sharply by hearing Mr. Mintz growl in his ear:

“Not so loud, you boob!”

Mr. Chidden eased up a little, and continued with moderation. But when the tumult had died down and the curtain had fallen on the last recall, he leaned over and whispered, in a firm tone:

“I am not a boob, Mr. Mintz.”

Mr. Mintz paid no attention whatever. He did not move his head; he did not utter a word. Mr. Chidden stared at him for a moment, then turned to the program, which occupied his time throughout the intermission.

The second act was better. The man with the beard and the gray spats started something at the very first by spiriting the lady in the blue velvet suit with white furs to a private room in a restaurant. At first the lady tried to escape, then she calmly sat down and fanned herself, evidently resolving to make the best of a disagreeable situation. Enter husband, through a French window. Small as he was, he appeared not at all frightened by the presence of the man with the beard, Instead he calmly asked his wife if she had finished her supper, offered his arm, and escorted her out. Mr. Chidden was rather of the opinion that the man with the beard should have been knocked down with a chair or something, but decided, that it was perhaps just as well not. The instant the curtain began to fall, he burst out into loud applause, genuine and sustained.

“You began too soon,” said Mr. Mintz, when the applause had died away.

“The sooner, the better,” returned Mr. Chidden. “Enthusiasm, sir.”

Mr. Mintz glared, while his whisper became a growl.

“I say you began too soon. After this wait for me.”

Mr. Chidden had a mind to argue the question, but felt the futility of it and decided to hold his peace, observing to himself that it was quite evident that Mr. Mintz was totally lacking in the quality of artistic perception. He appeared to regard his position of claquer merely as a job, an ordinary and not too interesting means of making a dollar. Mr. Chidden glanced at-him with a sort of pity.

“Brutish fellow!” he murmured under his breath. “Still, I suppose he needs the money.”

These reflections occupied his mind till the beginning of the third act.

Mr. Chidden was looking forward to this third act with a pleasant sense of expectation. He was acquainted with the rules of drama as well as any other patron of the Eighth Avenue Stock Company, and he knew very well what was coming. This was the act in which the man with the beard and the gray spats should receive a tremendous jolt on the jaw delivered by the little chap in the dressing gown, who would then take his weeping wife in his arms and announce, in broken tones: “I forgive you, Nellie.” These scenes always aroused the greatest enthusiasm in Mr. Chidden's breast, and he was looking forward to this one with keen relish.

The curtain rose, discovering the man with the beard lying in an easy-chair, reading and smoking. The door opened R. Entered the lady with the blue velvet suit with white furs. Breathing through her nose, she announced, in a trembling voice, that she had come—she couldn't stay away. The man with the beard arose and carelessly threw his arms around her and kissed her. Mr. Chidden trembled with indignation. He kissed her again.

The door opened L. Entered husband.

“Ah!” cried Mr. Chidden. “Now for it!”

Husband walked up to wife, whose face was white.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“Because—I—love—him,” she replied, clinging to the man with the beard.

“Oh, really?” said the husband. “Humph! Well, that makes a difference. All right, Nellie; suit yourself. By the way, Jones, old man, have you got a cigarette about?”

And this fiend of a husband got his cigarette, lit it, said farewell to his wife in a bored, careless tone, and departed. Then the other man turned and——

But Mr. Chidden could stand it no longer. Already he was on his feet. His lips were parted, his teeth were set together, and from the instrument thus fashioned there came forth a sound as if gallons of water had been poured on a bed of red-hot coals. So superlative, so aggressive, so pronounced a hiss had never before been heard on Broadway. The entire audience turned from the stage and bestowed their attention on this critic from Eighth Avenue. Some laughed; others said, “Sh-sh-h!” in shocked tones; the remainder merely stared. Mr. Chidden felt some one pulling at his sleeve, and the voice of Mr. Mintz sounded in his ear:

“Sit down, you boob! Sit down!”

But Mr. Chidden, encouraged by opposition, like all brave and sincere men, only hissed the louder. Laughter was heard on all sides, punctuated by cries of “Shame!” “Put him out!” “Sit down!” Half the audience were on their feet, stretching necks to see. Somewhere to the left a woman screamed. Mr. Chidden was jerked back violently into his seat, and the voice of Mr. Mintz sounded in his ear:

“Cut it out, you boob!”

“I won't!” yelled Mr. Chidden furiously. “It's a rotten show, Mintz, and you know it! Let me go! Let me go!”

And once more Mr. Chidden began to hiss desperately, violently.

Then everything happened at once. The curtain was rung down. Ushers came leaping down the aisles. The theater was filled with a hubbub of laughter and shouts. It was a crisis, but Mr. Mintz proved himself equal to it. He placed his arms firmly around Mr. Chidden's waist, lifted his struggling form to his shoulders, pushed his way through to the aisle, and ran swiftly toward the entrance, with Mr. Chidden hissing all the way. He did not halt until he reached the outer door of the lobby, where he hurled his burden onto the sidewalk and stood panting for breath.

“Go on, you boob!” he called wrathfully. “Get out of here, you boob!”

Mr. Chidden slowly arose to his feet. Passers-by had halted to stare curiously, but he paid no attention to them. For several seconds he stood regarding the entrance to the lobby with thoughtful seriousness, and now and then the soft suggestion of a hiss came from his lips. He even took a tentative step toward the blazing lights of the entrance, when suddenly the face of Mr. Burrie appeared just within the glass doors. Mr. Chidden hesitated, stopped, and turned.

“Rotten show!” he muttered gloomily, and moved away.

Twenty minutes later he had reached the rooming house and let himself in. All was dark and silent. He made his way up one, two, three flights, to a little room in the rear at the very top—a cold, bare, cheerless room. Slowly he undressed himself. Then, with a sigh, he reached for the alarm clock and set it for a quarter past five.

“Miserable slave!” murmured Mr. Chidden.