The Third Violet STEPHEN CRANE CHAPTER 30 pps
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The Third Violet
STEPHEN CRANE
CHAPTER 30
"There's three of them," said Grief in a hoarse whisper.
"Four, I tell you!" said Wrinkles in a low, excited tone.
"Four," breathed Pennoyer with decision.
They held fierce pantomimic argument. From the corridor came sounds of
rustling dresses and rapid feminine conversation.
Grief had kept his ear to the panel of the door. His hand was stretched back,
warning the others to silence. Presently he turned his head and whispered,
"Three."
"Four," whispered Pennoyer and Wrinkles.
"Hollie is there, too," whispered Grief. "Billie is unlocking the door. Now
they're going in. Hear them cry out, 'Oh, isn't it lovely!' Jinks!" He began a
noiseless dance about the room. "Jinks! Don't I wish I had a big studio and a
little reputation! Wouldn't I have my swell friends come to see me, and wouldn't
I entertain 'em!" He adopted a descriptive manner, and with his forefinger
indicated various spaces of the wall. "Here is a little thing I did in Brittany.
Peasant woman in sabots. This brown spot here is the peasant woman, and those
two white things are the sabots. Peasant woman in sabots, don't you see?
Women in Brittany, of course, all wear sabots, you understand. Convenience of
the painters. I see you are looking at that little thing I did in Morocco. Ah, you
admire it? Well, not so bad not so bad. Arab smoking pipe, squatting in
doorway. This long streak here is the pipe. Clever, you say? Oh, thanks! You
are too kind. Well, all Arabs do that, you know. Sole occupation. Convenience
of the painters. Now, this little thing here I did in Venice. Grand Canal, you
know. Gondolier leaning on his oar. Convenience of the painters. Oh, yes,
American subjects are well enough, but hard to find, you know hard to find.
Morocco, Venice, Brittany, Holland all oblige with colour, you know quaint
form all that. We are so hideously modern over here; and, besides, nobody has
painted us much. How the devil can I paint America when nobody has done it
before me? My dear sir, are you aware that that would be originality? Good
heavens! we are not æsthetic, you understand. Oh, yes, some good mind comes
along and understands a thing and does it, and after that it is æsthetic. Yes, of
course, but then well Now, here is a little Holland thing of mine; it "
The others had evidently not been heeding him. "Shut up!" said Wrinkles
suddenly. "Listen!" Grief paused his harangue and they sat in silence, their lips
apart, their eyes from time to time exchanging eloquent messages. A dulled
melodious babble came from Hawker's studio.
At length Pennoyer murmured wistfully, "I would like to see her."
Wrinkles started noiselessly to his feet. "Well, I tell you she's a peach. I was
going up the steps, you know, with a loaf of bread under my arm, when I
chanced to look up the street and saw Billie and Hollanden coming with four of
them."
"Three," said Grief.
"Four; and I tell you I scattered. One of the two with Billie was a peach a
peach."
"O, Lord!" groaned the others enviously. "Billie's in luck."
"How do you know?" said Wrinkles. "Billie is a blamed good fellow, but that
doesn't say she will care for him more likely that she won't."
They sat again in silence, grinning, and listening to the murmur of voices.
There came the sound of a step in the hallway. It ceased at a point opposite the
door of Hawker's studio. Presently it was heard again. Florinda entered the den.
"Hello!" she cried, "who is over in Billie's place? I was just going to knock "
They motioned at her violently. "Sh!" they whispered. Their countenances were
very impressive.
"What's the matter with you fellows?" asked Florinda in her ordinary tone;
whereupon they made gestures of still greater wildness. "S-s-sh!"
Florinda lowered her voice properly. "Who is over there?"
"Some swells," they whispered.
Florinda bent her head. Presently she gave a little start. "Who is over there?"
Her voice became a tone of deep awe. "She?"
Wrinkles and Grief exchanged a swift glance. Pennoyer said gruffly, "Who do
you mean?"
"Why," said Florinda, "you know. She. The the girl that Billie likes."
Pennoyer hesitated for a moment and then said wrathfully: "Of course she is!
Who do you suppose?"
"Oh!" said Florinda. She took a seat upon the divan, which was privately a coal-
box, and unbuttoned her jacket at the throat. "Is she is she very handsome,
Wrink?"
Wrinkles replied stoutly, "No."
Grief said: "Let's make a sneak down the hall to the little unoccupied room at
the front of the building and look from the window there. When they go out we
can pipe 'em off."
"Come on!" they exclaimed, accepting this plan with glee.
Wrinkles opened the door and seemed about to glide away, when he suddenly
turned and shook his head. "It's dead wrong," he said, ashamed.
"Oh, go on!" eagerly whispered the others. Presently they stole pattering down
the corridor, grinning, exclaiming, and cautioning each other.
At the window Pennoyer said: "Now, for heaven's sake, don't let them see you!-
-Be careful, Grief, you'll tumble Don't lean on me that way, Wrink; think I'm a
barn door? Here they come. Keep back. Don't let them see you."
"O-o-oh!" said Grief. "Talk about a peach! Well, I should say so."
Florinda's fingers tore at Wrinkle's coat sleeve. "Wrink, Wrink, is that her? Is
that her? On the left of Billie? Is that her, Wrink?"
"What? Yes. Stop punching me! Yes, I tell you! That's her. Are you deaf?"
