Two months passed.

Erna Vitek was still living with Jimmy Allen. There was, however, less and less likelihood that they would ever marry. In fact, the most probable issue to their affair was that they would separate again, in the near future and this time for good.

Erna was tired of Jimmy. For some weeks past, her restless nature had been craving some one else, or better still, some other mode of living, her present one having reached a state of unbearable monotony. She recovered from her experience with Eric Nielsen only after several weeks of struggle. Even such a fine tonic as that supplied her so freely by her resource of blood found the healing of her wound no ordinary matter, but she had recovered, except for an occasional memory. Her battle with her craving for Nielsen did not assist her attachment for Jimmy; on the contrary, the latter degenerated by contrast. And Jimmy, himself, was very much to blame as well. He had changed toward her.

It is no doubt true that possession often breeds boredom, and boredom, carelessness. Erna, before possession and after possession, was not the same individual, and Jimmy treated her accordingly. He was no longer an anxious desire-maddened suitor.

Furthermore, he was softening physically. He continued training for his schedule of fistic contests and carried out that schedule; he defeated Young Walcott, the man from Chicago and another, but lately, had fought two very poor draws, in the latter of which he, himself, was on the point of being knocked out. His manager, the astute Jerry Nolan, was losing patience with him. He bluntly attributed his protÉgÉ’s decline to the fact that he was “livin’ with a woman. A man’s got to cut out drink if he wants to succeed as a athlete, but he’s got to be sure to cut out women. They sucks his blood an’ strength.”

Jimmy did not agree with this sentiment. He continued to live with Erna. What is more, he had threatened to move out of the Nolan apartment and “to throw up the sponge”—quit the prize-ring—if his manager persisted in arguing along these lines. Although Nolan submitted, he found other grounds upon which to pick quarrels with Jimmy. The truth is, the young manager was ambitious, and Jimmy’s ability to climb the pugilistic ladder reflected credit upon him. He had always felt and expressed his faith in his protÉgÉ and prophesied that he would be “mixin’ it with the top notchers” not far hence, a prophecy Jimmy substantiated by defeating “the Kid,” Young Walcott and the westerner so decisively. But he was in danger now, as his recent battles and his late mutiny testified. Should Jimmy fall from grace a second time, it would be irrevocably. Therefore, Nolan was using eloquence, persuasion, threats, anything, to save him.

Many of their quarrels took place in Erna’s presence. After a while, Jimmy, much to her growing distaste, formed the habit of bringing Nolan and “some o’ the boys” to the flat. Custom gradually trained them to believe that she was nothing more than part of the furniture, and they accepted her attentions, due them as Jimmy’s guests, just so. They stayed well on into the night, amused themselves, played pranks, broke dishes, quarrelled, made up—and came again. And more and more, they looked upon Erna with contempt. On her side, she hated and despised them.

During the day, Jimmy was usually absent, training at the Nolan headquarters in Fordham. Erna saw him for a moment in the morning, when she prepared his breakfast, and at evening, when she prepared his supper, not to see him again, as a rule, until fairly late at night, except when he brought “the boys.” To be sure, she slept with him and—well, she hated that too. It made her feel herself some dirty, inferior animal.

Erna’s days were still more monotonous. She sewed quite a little, attended to details of house work, which were few, and otherwise, took long walks or went to an afternoon vaudeville or moving picture show. As she was accustomed to a day of constant labor and occupation, she had never known much idleness; her evenings were spent in resting or in the search of a little excitement. Moreover, Erna’s was purely an emotional nature; she did not possess the intellect or imagination so requisite toward making idleness useful. Unfortunately, she had no friends to visit.

At first, Jimmy gave her money in regular installments. Their house expenses paid, she would have a sufficient balance with which to indulge herself—with a new hat, a new dress, a few odds and ends, or her afternoon amusements. The installments, however, were more and more irregular and smaller in amount; last week, none had materialized. The reason was this: Jimmy had returned to drinking. And the climax was impending. One night, he came home late, pretty well drunk.

Erna opened the door. He swayed and then staggered into the room, a broad leer on his face. “Howsh—the—girl?” he demanded stupidly. He tried to embrace her, but Erna stepped back, and he nearly fell. With an effort, he straightened himself and laughed. “Wha—whash—a—matter?”

Erna’s resentment poured over. “You beast!” she said in low tones.

“You—what?” He leaned forward to hear better.

“Beast, I said,” and she pelted him with epithets and reproaches.

Jimmy made several ludicrous attempts to apologize, and protested: “I—I’m not—d-drunk; I—I’m just—ossified.” And he laughed more stupidly and tried to approach.

“Keep away!”

“Wha—whash—a—matter?”

“Keep away!”

“Wheresh—No—Nolan?”

“Nolan’s in hell, where he belongs,” she cried angrily, and a second tirade followed, directed this time at the manager and Jimmy’s friends.

“Be c-c-careful!” he interrupted, but she added further condemnation. “Be c-c-careful!” he repeated. “No—Nolan’s a frien’ o’ mine an’ so’s P-p-piggy Wallace. Be c-c-careful!”

His defence only succeeded in infuriating her. She concluded with two or three judgments that included the families of those gentlemen. Jimmy’s good nature stopped. “You ——!” he called her and stumbled toward her.

Erna retreated, her face aflame. Once more, he called her —— and fell toward her. She tried to ward him off, for he had driven her against the couch. But Jimmy pushed himself forward and raising his fist, brought it down clumsily upon her face. Erna slipped and fell upon the couch, her mouth bleeding.

Furious, she jumped up and attacked Jimmy. He was in a defenceless condition, and blows rained upon his shoulders, body and head. He tried to raise his guard, but it was useless. At length, swearing incoherently, she struck him full in the face, and he swayed, mumbled stupidly and toppled over on the couch, unconscious or asleep—more likely the latter. Handsome Jimmy was a disgusting sight.

Erna, still struggling with herself, looked down at him. He started snoring, a part painful, part beatific smile wrinkling his face. His legs were dangling over the side of the couch. She gave them a kick, lifted them and shoved them onto the couch. She then turned away and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Erna had come to a simple determination.

Without hesitation, she went over to a closet and opened the door. She likewise pulled open the drawer of a commode. And somewhere, she found an old suit case and dragged that forth. Her packing did not last more than twenty minutes. She left a hat, a dress and some odds and ends behind her.

One pleasant late afternoon about two weeks later, Eric Nielsen was occupied in writing at his desk. He was engaged on an essay he had planned and started some time ago. His pencil was moving more rapidly than usual.

The door was opened gently and Bainbridge Breen came in. “Busy?” he inquired.

“Come in! I’ll be through in a second,” Nielsen returned without looking up.

The painter came forward. The author’s pencil scribbled a little faster, a period was jotted down, and he laid aside the pencil, at the same time eyeing his work and sighing with satisfaction.

“Finished?”

“Oh no, not for some time. I’ve got several thousand words more,” Nielsen explained.

“How’s it coming on?”

“Splendidly!” was the optimistic rejoinder. “If I can keep sufficient enthusiasm in my body, I ought to be able to carry it through perfectly.” “It’ll be your chef-d’oeuvre, I suppose,” Breen observed with his customary pleasantry.

“I hope so,” Nielsen admitted seriously. “It’s stronger than anything I’ve done, I feel. It shows maturity, I think, not only maturity of judgment, but maturity of execution as well.”

“In other words, Art,” Breen interrupted slyly. “What more do you ask?”

“Nothing,” confessed Nielsen, and his warm smile appeared.

“But what’s the matter with the story?” the painter demanded.

“How do you mean?” the author retorted.

“I thought that had fulfilled your ambition.”

“Not quite, not quite,” Nielsen hastened to deny, and was thoughtful. “I don’t know just what it was, but there was something missing in it,” he said gently, and changing the subject, concluded abruptly: “I’m sure I have that something in this essay.”

Breen explained himself: “You know what made me ask about the story?”

“No. What?”

“I had lunch in a small bakery on Sixth Avenue this noon.”

“Well?”

“Guess whom I saw there?” “Well?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Out with it!”

“Our old friend: Erna Vitek!”

Nielsen turned and stared at his friend. He was unable to speak.

“What do you think o’ that?” Breen pursued, unruffled.

“She must have left Allen.”

“Yes!”

“And is working again?”

“Yes!”

Nielsen stared at the floor now. He seemed unable to formulate, much less express, an opinion. “How is she? Changed?” he requested at last.

“Somewhat! She’s quite a little harder and a bit more quiet—that is the way matters appeared to me. But her eyes have lost none of their boldness. And besides, she seems to like it there.”

“She does?”

“Yes, and she’s very popular too.”

“How so?”

“The men are very attentive, it looked to me,” Breen volunteered significantly.

“And she?”

“She’s still got an eye open. Not as wide open, perhaps, as in the old days, but it isn’t closed, that’s certain.”

Nielsen was silent, reflecting.

At length, Breen asked: “What do you imagine will become of her?”

“How?”

“I mean, of her life—what life do you suppose she’ll lead eventually: this young lady so moral, unmoral or—”

“I can’t say exactly,” Nielsen, who disliked the topic, interrupted.

“Think she’ll take to the streets?”

“No, no, not that!” was the vehement denial.

“Why not?”

Again, Nielsen seemed unable to answer, but he boasted unexpectedly: “She’s too strong. She has fight in her—and love of freedom.”

“But so have street ladies.”

“Yes, but they don’t carry it through.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” was the stubborn reply. “They don’t, that’s all.”

“Well, do you? Does Tom, Dick or Harry? Does Erna?”

“I don’t know. Let’s drop the subject.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain that she does,” Breen insinuated, still persisting. “Of course, you wouldn’t,” Nielsen condemned, unable longer to hold back his emotion. “You’re wisdom itself.”

The young artist decided to shift the topic: “Heard from Carstairs lately?”

Animation returned to Nielsen. “Yes, I heard from John last night.”

“Is he still in Indianapolis?”

“Yes, he has a fine position there and seems contented now.”

“And Elsie Pearson?”

“Oh, that’ll come off, as you said the other day.”

“Marriage?”

“Yes!”

“Good for John! I’m glad he won. He was a long time waiting.”

Nelsen nodded. He was thoughtful once more. But he shook off the mood and asked: “What are you doing, Breen?”

“Getting ready for spring.”

“That’s so—spring’ll be here in a week or two. Going out to the country as usual?”

“Yes, I’ve gathered a bunch of canvases and plenty of tubes, etcetera, and off I’ll go.”

“Going to Connecticut again?”

“Yes, that’s the only country for a landscape painter.” “I suppose so,” Nielsen agreed.

“How about supper?” Breen interposed.

“Why, what time is it?”

“After five o’clock.”

“By Jove—that late? I must be getting dressed soon.”

“Got an engagement?”

“Yes, I’m going to feed with the Plymptons.”

“Too bad! That means, I’ll have to eat alone. See you in the morning! So long!” and Breen moved away.

“Going over to Landsmann’s?”

“Yes. But it’s hopelessly dull there these days. It’ll give me the incurables to-night.”

“Or a tummy-ache, at least,” Nielsen added good-humoredly.

“Yes, so long!”

“So long!”

Breen went out quietly and closed the door. Nielsen studied the door with a blank expression. But he shook himself and returned to his manuscript. In a moment, he was absorbed, re-reading.

POETRY

A MAGAZINE OF VERSE

Edited by Harriet Monroe, 543 Cass St., Chicago, Ill.

POETRY, at the end of its first year, is no longer an experiment but an assured artistic success, a publication whose importance is authoritatively recognized, not only in this country, but in Great Britain and France as well. The field it has opened up is full of brilliant possibilities, encouraging the editors to hope for the enthusiastic support of a discriminating public.

POETRY endeavors to present the best verse now being written in English, quality alone being the test of acceptance.

POETRY is an effort to create an organ for the art. While the ordinary magazines must minister to a large public little interested in poetry, this magazine appeals to and will develop a public primarily interested in poetry as an art, potentially the highest, most complete human expression of truth and beauty. Thus it offers to poets a chance to be heard by their own audience, in their own place, without the limitations imposed by the popular magazines. And to lovers of poetry it offers each month a sheaf of new verse in delicate form uninterrupted by prose articles demanding a different mood.

If You Love Good Poetry, Subscribe—

POETRY
543 Cass Street, Chicago.