Thomas Wolfe, page 503
Meanwhile, the firemen had dragged in across the court from all directions a network of great white hose. Squadrons of helmeted men would dash into the smoky corridors from time to time, some would go upstairs, others would emerge from the lower regions of the basements and confer intimately with their chiefs.
As for the crowd itself, it was in ignorance concerning the cause and extent of the fire. There was, indeed, at first, save for a mist of acrid smoke in the hallways, little evidence of a fire. But now the indications became much plainer. For some time upon the very top floor of the south wing, infrequent wisps of smoke had been curling through the open window of a room in which a light now somewhat somberly was burning. Now suddenly a great billowing puff of oily black smoke accompanied by a dancing fire of sparks burst through the open window. And, as it did, the whole crowd drew in its breath in a sharp intake of excitement—the strange wild joy that people feel when they see fire. Steadily the black and oily-looking smoke was now billowing out in belching folds and the smoke itself in the room within was colored luridly by the sinister and unmistakable glow of fire.
Mrs. Jack gazed upward with a rapt, a fascinated gaze. “How terrible!” she thought, “How terrible!—but God! How beautiful it is.”
XII
The police now began to move upon the crowd and good-naturedly but firmly, with outstretched arms, started to herd them from the court, and out across the street. Mrs. Jack, her servants, and her guests went into a small drugstore near at hand, and engaged in eager chatter with many other people of their acquaintance who now filled the store.
The conversation of these people was friendly, casual, and pleasant: some were even gay. But in their talk it would have been possible to detect a note of perturbation, as if something was now happening which they could no longer fathom or control. They were the lords and masters of the earth, those vested with the high authorities and accustomed to command. And now they felt curiously helpless, no longer able to command anything, no longer even able to find out what was happening. They felt somehow that they had been caught up by some mysterious and relentless force, enmeshed in the ramifications of some tremendous web, and that there was nothing for them to do except to be borne onwards, as unwitting of the power that ruled them as blind flies fastened to the revolutions of a wheel.
And in this feeling they were right.
For, in ways remote and far from the blind and troubled kennings of this helpless group, the giant web was at its mighty spinning: deep in the boweled earth, the threads were being spun.
In one of the smoking corridors of that enormous hive, two men in helmets and in boots were talking quietly together.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes. It’s in the basement, Chief. It’s not on the roof at all: the draft is taking it up a vent—but it’s down here”—he pointed thumbwise down below.
“Well, then, go get it: you know what to do.”
“It looks bad, Chief. It’s going to be hard to get.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“If we flood the basement we will flood the tracks, too. You know what that means.”
For a moment the two men’s troubled glances met and held each other steadily. Then the older man spoke shortly, and started down the stairs. “Come on,” he said, “we’re going down.”
Far from the troubled kennings of these helpless folk, deep in the tunnel’s depth there in the boweled earth, there was a room where lights were burning, and where it was always night.
There, now, a phone rang, and a man with a green eyeshade seated at the desk was there to answer it: “Hello . . . oh, hello, Mike”—he listened carefully for a moment, suddenly jerked forward, taut with interest, and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth: “The hell you say! . . . Where? On number thirty-two! . . . They’re going to flood it! . . . Oh, the hell! . . .”
Far from the kennings of these helpless folk, deep in the marvelous honeycombs of that boweled rock, things began to happen with the speed of light. Six blocks away, just where the mighty network of that amazing underworld begins its mighty flare of rails, lights shifted, changed, and flared immortally: the Overland halted swiftly, but so smoothly that the passengers, already standing to debark, were unaware that anything had happened. Ahead, however, in the cab of the powerful electric locomotive, the engineer peered out and read the signs. He saw these shifting patterns of hard light against the dark, and swore: “. . . Now what the hell.” Turning,, he spoke quietly across the darkness to another man: “We’re going in on Twenty-one . . . I wonder what the hell has happened.”
—
On the seventh landing of the service stairs, the firemen were working ruthlessly with axes. The place was dense with smoke: the sweating men were wearing masks, and the only light they had to work by was that provided by a torchlight and a flare. They had battered open the doorway of the elevator shaft, and one of them had lowered himself down onto the roof of the imprisoned elevator half a floor below, and was cutting in the roof with his sharp ax.
“Have you got it, Ed?”
“. . . O. K. . . . Yeah . . . I’m almost through . . . Here it is.”
The ax smashed through; there was a splintering crash, and then: “O.K. . . . Wait a minute . . . Hand me down that flashlight, Tom . . .”
“See anything?”
And in a moment, quietly: “Yeah . . . I’m going in . . . Jim, you better come down too; I’ll need you . . .”
There was a silence for a moment, then the man’s quiet voice again: “O. K. . . . I’ve got it. . . Here, Jim, reach down and get it underneath the arms . . .”
In such a way they lifted it from its imprisoned trap, looked at it for a moment, and laid it down, not ungently—something old and dead and very pitiful—upon the floor.
—
At this moment Mrs. Jack went to the window of the drugstore and peered out at the great building across the street.
“I wonder if anything’s happening over there,” she said. “Do you suppose it’s over? Have they got it out?”
The cold immensity of those towering walls told nothing. But there were other signs that it was really “out.” The lines of hose that had threaded the street in a thick skein were noticeably fewer, and now and then there was the heavy beating roar of a great engine as a fire truck thundered away. Firemen were coming from the building, putting their apparatus back into their trucks, and although the police would not yet permit the tenants to return to their apartments, there was every indication now that the fire was over.
Meanwhile, newspapermen were beginning to come into the drugstore to phone their stories to the papers. One of them, a rather battered-looking gentleman with a bulbous red nose, had already called the City Desk on the telephone and was now engaged in reporting his findings to the man at the other end: “. . . Sure, that’s what I’m tellin’ yuh . . . The police have t’rown a cordon round the building . . .”
There was a moment’s pause, but then the red-nosed man rasped out irritably: “No—No—No! . . . not a squadron! A cordon! . . . C-o-r-d-o-n—cordon . . . For Pete’s sake! Didn’t you ever hear of a cordon before . . . Now, get this: Lissen—” he glanced at some scrawled notes upon a piece of paper in his hands, “. . . Among the residents are included the names of many Social Registerites and others prominent among . . . What? . . . How’s that?” he said abruptly, rather puzzled—“Oh! . . .” he looked around briefly to see if he was being overheard, then lowered his voice and spoke again: “Oh, sure! . . . Two . . . Yeh . . . both of them were elevator men . . .” Then, looking at the notes upon his piece of dirty paper, he read carefully, in lowered voice: “John Enborg . . . age 64 . . . married . . . three children . . . lives in Jamaica, Queens . . . and Herbert Anderson . . . age 28, unmarried, lives with his mother, 841 Southern Boulevard, the Bronx . . . Have yuh got it? . . . Sure. Oh, sure!” Quietly, after a moment’s pause, he spoke again, “. . . No, they couldn’t get them out . . . they were on the elevators, goin’ up to get the tenants when the current was shut off . . . Sure: that’s the idea—They got caught between the floors . . . They just got Enborg out,” his voice sank lower, “they had to use axes to get in through the top . . . Sure—sure,” he nodded quietly into the mouthpiece, “that’s it—smoke: no, just those two . . . no, the management wants to keep it quiet if they can . . . no, none of the tenants know it . . . Yes, it’s almost over . . . Sure, it started in the basement, then it went up a flue and out at top . . . Sure, I know,” he nodded—“The tracks are right below it . . . they were afraid to flood the basement; if they did, they’d flood four sets of tracks. Sure, it’s going down now, but it’s been tough . . . Okay, Mac . . . Shall I hang around? . . . Okay,” he said at length, and hung up.
XIII
The fire was over now. The people began to stream back into the court, collecting the scattered personnel of their establishments as they did so. An air of authority and order had already been re-established. Each little group, master and mistress, servants and members of the family, had now collected somewhat frigidly into their own separate entity and were filing back to their cells in the enormous hive.
Mrs. Jack, accompanied by her husband, Miss Mandell, and the young man, went in at her entrance. There was still a faint smell of smoke, but the elevator was running again. She noticed that the doorman, Henry, took them up, and she asked him if Herbert had gone. He paused just perceptibly, and then said quietly: “Yes, Mrs. Jack.”
“You all must be simply worn out!” she said quickly, with her instant sympathy. “Hasn’t it been a thrilling evening?” she went on eagerly: “In all your life did you ever know of such excitement as we had tonight?”
Again, the man said: “Yes, ma’am” in a tone so curiously unyielding that for a moment she felt almost angry, wounded and rebuffed. But already her mind was working on the curious enigma of the doorman’s personality: “I wonder what is wrong with him,” she thought. “Oh, well, poor thing, I suppose the life he leads is enough to turn anyone sour—opening doors and calling cabs and answering questions all day long—But then, Herbert has to do these things also, and he’s always so sweet and so obliging about everything!—”
And, giving partial utterance to her thoughts, she said: “I suppose Herbert will be back upon the job tomorrow?”
He made no answer whatever. He simply seemed not to have heard her. He had opened the door at her own landing, and after a moment he said quietly: “This is your floor, Mrs. Jack.”
She was so annoyed for a moment after he had gone that she halted in the little vestibule, and said angrily: “Honestly, that fellow makes me tired! It’s got so now he won’t even answer when you speak to him.”
“Well, Alice, maybe he’s tired out tonight with all the excitement of the fire,” suggested Mr. Jack, pacifically.
“Maybe it’s all our fault?” said Mrs. Jack ironically, then with a sudden flare of humor, she shrugged comically and said: “Vell, ve should have a fire sale!”—which restored her to good humor, and a full-throated appreciation of her own wit.
They opened the door then and went in. The place smelled closed and stale and there was still an acrid scent of smoke. But by this time the maids were streaming in from the service entrance at the back and Mrs. Jack directed them to throw up the windows.
Lily Mandell who had gone into the guest room for her wraps, now came out and said good-by. “Darling, it has been too marvelous,” she said, with weary arrogance. “Fire, smoke, Piggy Hartwell, everything—Your parties are too wonderful! You never know what’s going to happen next.”
There was an air of finality about everything. The party was over, the fire was over, the last guest had now departed, and Mr. Jack was waiting to go to bed. In a moment he kissed his wife lightly upon her rosy cheek, said good night casually to Webber, and departed. The young man was also going now, but she, taking him by the hand, said quickly, coaxingly, “Don’t go yet. Stay a few minutes, dear, and talk to me.”
For a moment she looked around her with an air of thoughtful appraisal. The place looked just the same as it had looked before the people came, before Mr. Hartwell and his horrible performance, before the fire, all the excitement, all the confusion. If anyone came in here now he would never dream that anything had happened. This thought was uppermost in her mind when she turned to him again.
“Wasn’t it all so strange? . . . And wonderful?” she said. “I mean, the way it happened. I don’t know—but it sort of frightens you, doesn’t it? . . . No, not the fire!” she spoke quickly—“That didn’t amount to anything. No one got hurt—it was terribly exciting, really—I think everyone was thrilled! . . . What I mean”—her brow was furrowed as she sought for words—“when you think of how sort of—big—things have got—I mean the way people live nowadays—and how a fire can break out and you won’t even know about it . . . I mean, there’s something sort of terrible about it, isn’t there? . . . And God!” she burst out suddenly. “In all your life, did you ever see the like of them? I mean the kind of people who live here . . . the way they all looked, pouring out into the court . . . Have you ever dreamed—” her excitement as she spoke these words was almost comical, “Well, it was the most astonishing . . . the queerest . . . I mean,” she said confusedly, “it’s—it’s—”
She paused, holding his hand, and looking at him tenderly. Then, with a rapt look on her face, like an enchanted child, she whispered: “. . . Just you and I . . . They’re all gone now . . . there’s no one left but you and I . . . Do you know,” she said in a quiet tone, “that I think about you all the time? I carry you around inside me—here,” she laid her hand upon her breast and looked at him like a good child who believes religiously its own fable. “Oh, do you ever think that there was ever since the world began another love like this?” she cried. “If I could play I’d make of it great music! If I could sing I’d make of it a great song! If I could write I’d make of it a great story . . . but when I try to play or write or try to sing, I can think of nothing else but you and I . . .” Smiling, she inclined her rosy little face toward his, and said: “Did I ever tell you the time I tried to write a story? But all that I could say was ‘Long, long into the night I lay, thinking of how I should tell my story.’ But now at night that old line of the story keeps ringing in my ears: ‘Long, long into the night I lay—thinking about you all the time.’ For that’s the story.” She came closer to him, and lifted her rose face to him—“Oh, dearest, that’s the story. In the whole world there’s nothing more.”
He made no answer. For suddenly he knew that, for him, at any rate, it was not the story. He felt desolate and tired, weary of all the consuming passion, the degrading egotisms of possession—of desire, of passion, and romantic love—of youth.
And suddenly it seemed to him that it was not enough. It seemed to him that there had to be a larger world, a higher devotion than all the devotions of this fond imprisonment could ever find. Well, then—a swift thrust of rending pity pierced him as he looked at the rose sweetness of that enraptured face—it must be so: he to his world, and she to hers—which to the better one, no one could say—but this, at last, he knew, was not enough. There were new lands; dark windings, strange and subtle webs there in the deep-delved earth, a tide was running in the hearts of men—and he must go.
They said little more that night. In a few minutes he got up, and with a sick and tired heart he went away.
XIV
Outside, on the now deserted street, one of the dark-green wagons of the police was waiting now with a softly throbbing motor. In a few moments a door which led down into one of the basement entrances of the enormous building was opened, and two men emerged, bearing a stretcher which had something on it that was very still, completely covered. They slid this carefully away into the back of the green wagon. In another moment two other men, bearing a stretcher with a similar burden, emerged, and this also was quietly and carefully disposed in the same way. Then the door of the wagon was securely closed.
The driver and another man walked around and got into the front seat and after conferring quietly a moment with the sergeant of police, they drove off, turning the corner below with a subdued clangor of bells. The three policemen conferred together for a moment longer and two of them wrote down notes in their little books. Then the two policemen saluted the sergeant and they all departed, each walking away upon the further prosecution of his appointed task.
XV
At this moment, Mrs. Jack, wearing her silken dressing gown, had just gone to the window of her room, and drawn in appraisingly a good full breath of cool night air. She found it good. The last disruptive taint of smoke had been washed clean and sweet away by the cool breath of April. And in the white light of the virgin moon the spires and ramparts of Manhattan were glittering with cold magic in splintering helves of stone and glass. Peace fell upon her tranquil spirit. Strong comfort and assurance bathed her soul. It was so solid, splendid, everlasting, and good.
A tremor, faint and distant, shook her feet. She paused, startled, waited, listened. Was the old trouble there again to shake the deep perfection of her soul? What rumor had she heard this night? . . . Faint tremors, small but instant, and a talk of tunnels there below?—Ah, there it was a second time! What was it?—
Trains Again!
. . . Passed, faded, trembled delicately away into securities of eternal stone, and left behind it the blue helve of night, and April, in the blazing vertices of all that sculptured and immortal peace.
The smile came back into her eyes. The brief and troubling frown had lifted from her soul. And her look as she prepared to sleep was almost dulcet and cherubic—the look of a good child who ends the great adventure of another day and who knows that sleep and morning have come back again.
