Evening Star Newspaper, March 17, 1935, Page 85

THIS WEEK 11 In the Elevator I first met William Bolitho, who worked with me on this story, in Paris, in 1917. He'd just spent a year in a hospital after being buried alive by German drum-fire at the Somme. Unfil Sor further service in the trenches, he wrote an important report for Arnold Bennell, then high in the British Propaganda Department. A few weeks later the Manchester Guardian offered him its Paris-correspondent post. His Guardian service was brilliant from the oultset, and the following four years, when we worked closely together, I learned far more from William Bolitho than he ever got from me. Finally, with a characteristic flash of genius, he wrote a s'ory aboul the Carpentier-Siki prize- fight which he entitled, *‘The Mob Crowns the Ape.' As a result the World in New York made a conlract with him to write exclusive articles for them. His success in New York, and that amazing book, ‘‘Twelve Against the Gods,'’ came in swift, inevitable succession. [ believe that Bolitho would have been ome of the world's grealest writers had nol untimely death checked kim in his early prime. This little story we wrote logether with high hopes for the future, hopes which he more than justified. . . . Walter Duranty HERE are spring mornings in New York so perfect that business men sing in their baths. Thus Packard Morton sang while the needle shower tingled his flesh with little whips, and he looked out from the Ritz Tower at the tall fingers of steel and concrete beckoning to the sky. They stood high and clean in the sunshine, outlined white against blue. Morton's heart was uplifted, and he sang with tuneless fervor a ballad of his youth when Eva Tanguay, whirling like a flame of blue and gold, set Broadway crazy with her “I Don't Care."’ Morton was far from careless, but this morning he was carefree. Prosperous in his affairs, happy in marriage, healthy in body - why should he not respond to the magic of spring and enjoy to the full, as he entered his breakfast room, the fat rich smell of ham and eggs? Elsa was there to greet him, smiling and dignified in her mandarin robe of blue ablaze with golden dragons. In all the years they had been married she had never let herse!f get sloppy. She had none of the conjugal untidi- ness and the lax intimacies which cheapen a woman in the eyes of the man who loves her. She had an instinctive gift for privacy to maintain her feminine mystery and charm. Always like this she gave him breakfast, well- groomed, quiet, affectionate; if not really aware of his affairs, at least displaying a friendly interest. The phrase came to him for the thousandth time as he looked at her — a queenly figure of a woman. He felt so happy this morning that he wished to communicate his happiness, to spread it round him and make others feel it too. And to whom more properly than Elsa' That coat of Russian sables . . . after all, he could afford it. Even Depression’s cloud had precious linings for men of courage and experience. ‘“‘About that coat,’’ he said abruptly as he rose from the table, ‘‘it's okay, my dear. Though why women should want to buy sables at the end of the winter I don't under- stand. Oh, I know it's a bargain price that's what you said, wasn't it>—but . . . anyway, go ahead and get it.” Her face lit up and glowed. Just like a little girl, he thought, with a box of candy. ‘‘Oh Packard, do you really mean it?’’ she cried. “‘How darling of you! I did so want it, and it 1s a bargain. I know today is fine but there'll be cold weather yet before the renl spring."”’ The maid was helping him into his coat, but Elsa pushed her aside and tucked it round his shoulders. He too was glowing; he had transferred a part of his happiness to her. With unaccustomed warmth she caught his head to her breast and kissed him on the cheek. ““Send the car back,” she said. “Tell him to be here at eleven. We're dining at the Morrison's tonight, aren’t we? It will prob- ably be chilly this evening; I'll wear it then and watch Amy'’s look when I come in. All the fuss she made about that set of mink Henry brought back from Canada!'’ Her face was arch and eager, and as he left the room she made a little curtsy. “ Good-bye, Mr. Morton. This evening your lady-wife will be dressed like a princess.” Packard Morton had a funny little trick. If the elevator came before he counted five, it was a lucky day for him: if ten, things were A tiny place! A moment’s space! Spring! Lost youth and a pretty face! A short short story by WALTER DURANTY Illustration by Robert O. Reid His heart began to beat suddenly, furiously. The girl was smiling at him even; fifteen or more, a sign for caution. This morning it was there as he pressed the button — that was marvellous. ‘‘Taking a gentleman to the floor above,” said the boy smiling. *‘Good morning, Mr. Morton: Fine day, isn't it? Just got your buzz as I closed the door.” They dropped three floors and again the buzzer rang. The elevator cushioned to a halt on the fourth floor down, twenty-eight above the ground, and a girl got in. Morton removed his hat and looked at her. A heavenly girl, a wonder girl, the girl men dream about, slim, voung and lovely, with hair like ripe wheat and eyes blue as cornflowers — a society girl, polished and expensive and luxurious from the tip of her New York shoes to the brim of her Paris hat. He looked at her in delighted admiration. And she smiled at him. For an instant his heart stopped beating, or it felt like that. She had smiled at him . . . at him! It was incred- ible, a girl like that. Then his heart began beating again, suddenly, furiously. The elevator stopped at the twentieth floor and some people got in. He didn’t notice them, but the girl moved back towards him, closer, and he looked at her again. He was right, she was smiling; there was a twinkle of friendliness and interest in her cornflower eyes. Instinctively Packard Morton drew himself up, and his brain flashed lightning. He wasn't so fat after all . . . that massage had done wonders . . . he’d been tired of the damned tailor’s always saying, ‘‘Another inch . out around the waist, Mr. Morton.” Well, he had shown him . . . only yesterday he had said, ‘‘We must take in three inches' . . . that showed 'um. Forty-seven isn’t old . . . it's the prime of life . . . to hell with this talk about gigolos and dancing boys with their hair slicked back. He looked at the girl again. Yes, it was true, there was a smile and a gay light of kindness in her eyes. His brain spun now in quick spirals faster than light. South Sea islands . . . blue sea . . . blue sky .. . white beaches . .. palm trees and cocoa- nuts . . . the two of them alone, with love. Elsa wouldn't care . . . he could fix that . . . proper settlement . . . after all she had her own interests. Probably she did love him in a way, but what sort of love is it after twenty years of marriage . . . affection and mutual respect, call it that. Of course he mustn't .. hurt her feelings . . . but that was easy to. arrange . . . say a trip to Australia on business. Then when he got there . . . on to the Islands of the Blest . . .»what's the name of that fellow who did the pictures in Tahiti . . Frenchman, wasn't he . . . Gauguin, that was it . . . . Hot sun, blue sea, white sand, and brown-skinned girls. I ought to have bought one of those when I had a chance five years ago . . . it would have doubled in value since then. But the office . . . well, Davis wouldn't care . . . tell him, “You can have a three- quarter interest instead of a third for half a million dollars” . . . that would be twenty thousand for Elsa. . . “and send my shate. .. well I'll tell you where later . . . I'm going away for a trip.” Davis would jump at it. He looked at the girl again. Say what you like, things can happen . . . not exactly love at first sight, but something instinctive . . . when you know people, really know them right from the start . . . what was it? . . . Plato or somebody, and twin souls. . . there are things like that . . . ships that meet in the night, is that it? Anyway, somehow, - everyone knows it's true . . . sort of mutual sympathy. Just one look and you recognize each other as old friends. Maybe there was something in this stuff about living before. . . perhaps they had met in other lives and been friends — or lovers. Why not, you never knew about that sort of thing . . . how could you know? God kept a bar on the gates of life and death . . . but souls might slip through some- times, mightn’t they, and meet again across the ages. Once more the car stopped, at the tenth floor, and other people entered, crowding the girl nearer to Morton. Her long lashes were low over demure eyes. With a pang of rapture he caught her glinted look. What a girl, the .. girl of a thousand dreams! That French stuff he had read . . . about the Dream Girl . . . God knows the French were smart, not only about money. He'd hit it there, the poet had - — “‘She who fills my soul with shining glory," as this one does. As the elevator bounced gently to a stop at the fourth floor, Morton’s brain was dizzy. He caught himself and checked it. Don't be a fool, Packy my boy, this needs thought. A girl like this must have people, a ( Continued on page 15 )