suggest that he come out to the west gate of, say, Portland Place at seven o’clock and meet her. We’ll have her describe herself, see, young and beautiful, and some attractive costume she’s to wear, and we’ll kill him. He’ll fall hard. Then we’ll happen by there at the exact time when he’s waiting, and detain him, urge him to come into the park with us or to dinner. We’ll look our worst so he’ll be ashamed of us. He’ll squirm and get wild, but we’ll hang on and spoil the date for him, see? We’ll insist in the letter that he must be alone, see, because she’s timid and afraid of being recognized. My God, he’ll be crazy! He’ll think we’ve ruined his life—oh, ho, ho!” and he fairly writhed with inward joy.
The thing worked. It was cruel in its way, but when has man ever grieved over the humorous ills of others? The paper was secured, the letter written by a friend of Peter’s in a nearby real estate office, after the most careful deliberation as to wording on our part. Extreme youth, beauty and a great mansion were all hinted at. The fascination of Dick as a romantic figure was touched upon. He would know her by a green silk scarf about her waist, for it was spring, the ideal season. Seven o’clock was the hour. She could give him only a moment or two then—but later—and she gave no address!
The letter was mailed in the West end, as was meet and proper, and in due season arrived at the office. Peter, working at the next easel, observed him, as he told me, out of the corner of his eye.
“You should have seen him, Dreiser,” he exclaimed, hunting me up about an hour after the letter arrived. “Oh, ho! Say, you know I believe he thinks it’s the real thing. It seemed to make him a little sick. He tried to appear nonchalant, but a little later he got his hat and went out, over to Deck’s,” a nearby saloon, “for a drink, for I followed him. He’s all fussed up. Wait’ll we heave into view that night! I’m going to get myself up like a joke, a hobo. I’ll disgrace him. Oh, Lord, he’ll be crazy! He’ll think we’ve ruined his life, scared her off. There’s no address. He can’t do a thing. Oh, ho, ho, ho!”
On the appointed day—and it was a delicious afternoon and evening, aflame with sun and in May—Dick left off his work at three p.m., as Peter came and told me, and departed, and then we went to make our toilets. At six we met, took a car and stepped down not more than a short block from the point of meeting. I shall never forget the sweetness of the air, the something of sadness in the thought of love, even in this form. The sun was singing its evensong, as were the birds. But Peter—blessings or curses upon him!—was arrayed as only he could array himself when he wished to look absolutely disconcerting—more like an unwashed, uncombed tramp who had been sleeping out for weeks, than anything else. His hair was over his eyes and ears, his face and hands dirty, his shoes ditto. He had even blackened one tooth slightly. He had on a collarless shirt, and yet he was jaunty withal and carried a cane, if you please, assuming, as he always could and in the most aggravating way, to be totally unconscious of the figure he cut. At one angle of his multiplex character the man must have been a born actor.
We waited a block away, concealed by a few trees, and at the exact hour Dick appeared, hopeful and eager no doubt, and walking and looking almost all that he hoped—delicate, pale, artistic. The new straw hat! The pale green “artists’” shirt! His black, wide-buckled belt! The cane! The dark-brown low shoes! The boutonniere! He was plainly ready for any fate, his great moment.
And then, before he could get the feeling that his admirer might not be coming, we descended upon him in all our wretched nonchalance and unworthiness—out of hell, as it were. We were most brisk, familiar, affectionate. It was so fortunate to meet him so, so accidentally and peradventure. The night was so fine. We were out for a stroll in the park, to eat afterward. He must come along.
I saw him look at Peter in that hat and no collar, and wilt. It was too much. Such a friend—such friends (for on Peter’s advice I was looking as ill as I might, an easy matter)! No, he couldn’t come. He was waiting for some friends. We must excuse him.
But Peter was not to be so easily shaken off. He launched into the most brisk and serious conversation. He began his badger game by asking about some work upon which Dick had been engaged before he left the office, some order, how he was getting along with it, when it would be done; and, when Dick evaded and then attempted to dismiss the subject, took up another and began to expatiate on it, some work he himself was doing, something that had developed in connection with it. He asked inane questions, complimented Dick on his looks, began to tease him about some girl. And poor Dick—his nervousness, his despair almost, the sense of the waning of his opportunity! It was cruel. He was becoming more and more restless, looking about more and more wearily and anxiously and wishing to go or for us to go. He was horribly unhappy. Finally, after ten or fifteen minutes had gone and various girls had crossed the plaza in various directions, as well as carriages and saddle-horses—each one carrying his heiress, no doubt!—he seemed to summon all his courage and did his best to dispose of us. “You two’ll have to excuse me,” he exclaimed almost wildly. “I can’t wait.” Those golden moments! She could not approach! “My people aren’t coming, I guess. I’ll have to be going on.”
He smiled weakly and made off, Peter half following and urging him to come back. Then, since he would not, we stood there on the exact spot of the rendezvous gazing smirkily after him. Then we went into the park a few paces and sat on a bench in full view, talking—or Peter was—most volubly. He was really choking with laughter. A little later, at seven-thirty, we went cackling into the park, only to return in five minutes as though we had changed our minds and were coming out—and saw Dick bustling off at our approach. It was sad really. There was an element of the tragic in it. But not to Peter. He was all laughter, all but apoplectic gayety. “Oh, by George!” he choked. “This is too much! Oh, ho! This is great! his poor heiress! And he came back! Har! Har! Har!”
“Peter, you dog,” I said, “aren’t you ashamed of yourself, to rub it in this way?”
“Not a bit, not a bit!” he insisted most enthusiastically. “Do him good. Why shouldn’t he suffer? He’ll get over it. He’s always bluffing about his heiresses. Now he’s lost a real one. Har! Har! Har!” and he fairly choked, and for days and weeks and months he laughed, but he never told. He merely chortled at his desk, and if any one asked him what he was laughing about, even Dick, he would reply, “Oh, something—a joke I played on a fellow once.”
If Dick ever guessed he never indicated as much. But that lost romance! That faded dream!
Not so long after this, the following winter, I left St. Louis and did not see Peter for several years, during which time I drifted through various cities to New York. We kept up a more or less desultory correspondence which resulted eventually in his contributing to a paper of which I had charge in New York, and later, in part at least I am sure, in his coming there. I noticed one thing, that although Peter had no fixed idea as to what he wished to be— being able to draw, write, engrave, carve and what not—he was in no way troubled about it. “I don’t see just what it is that I am to do best,” he said to me once. “It may be that I will wind up as a painter or writer or collector—I can’t tell yet. I want to study, and meantime I’m making a living—that’s all I want now. I want to live, and I am living, in my way.”
Some men are masters of cities, or perhaps better, of all the elements which enter into the making of them, and Peter was one. I think sometimes that he was born a writer of great force and charm, only as yet he had not found himself. I have known many writers, many geniuses even, but not one his superior in intellect and romantic response to life. He was a poet, thinker, artist, philosopher and master of prose, as a posthumous volume (“Wolf, the Autobiography of a Cave Dweller”) amply proves, but he was not ready then to fully express himself, and it troubled him not at all. He loved life’s every facet, was gay and helpful to himself and others, and yet always with an eye for the undercurrent of human misery, error and tragedy as well as comedy. Immediately upon coming to New York he began to examine and grasp it in a large way, its museums, public buildings, geography, politics, but after a very little while decided suddenly that he did not belong there and without a by-your-leave, although once more we had fallen into each other’s ways, he departed without a word, and I did not hear from him for months.
