Chapter 19
Section 37 Yes, this was Mount Olympus, and here were the gods. The female ones in a state of divine semi-nudity, the male ones mostly clad in black coats, with pleated shirt fronts puffing out. Every time one of them moved up to the desk, Peter would watch and wonder,
Was this Mr. Lackman? He might have been able to pick out a millionaire from an ordinary crowd, but here every male god was got up for the precise purpose of looking like a millionaire, so Peter's job was an impossible one. In front of him, across the lobby floor, there arose a ten-foot pillar to a far distant roof.
This pillar was of pale green streaked marble, and Peter's eyes followed it to the top, where it exploded in a snow-white cloud burst, full of fascination. There were four cornucopias, one at each corner, and out of each cornucopia came tangled ropes of roses, and out of these roses came other ropes, with what appeared to be apples and leaves, and still more roses, and still more emerging ropes, spreading in a tangle over
the ceiling. Here and there, in the midst of all this splendor, was the large placidly smiling face of a boy angel. Four of these placidly smiling boy angels gazed from the four sides of the snow-white cloud burst, and Peter's eye roamed from one to another fascinated by the mathematics
of this architectural marvel. There were fourteen columns in a row, and four such rows in the lobby. That made fifty-six columns in all, or two hundred and twenty-four boy angels' heads. How many cornucopias, and how many roses, and how many apples it meant, defied all calculation. The boy angels' heads were exactly alike, every head with the same size and quality
of smile, and Peter marveled how many days would it take a sculptor to carve the details of two hundred and twenty-four boy angels' smiles. All over the Hotel de Soto was this same kind of sumptuous magnificence, and Peter experienced the mental effect which it was contrived to produce upon him, a sense of bedazzlement and awe, and a realization that those who dwelt in the midst of this splendor were people
to whom money was nothing, who could pour out treasures in an ever-ceasing flood. And everything else about the place was of the same character, contrived for the same effect, even the gods and the goddesses. One would sweep by with a tiara of jewels in her hair. You might amuse yourself by figuring out the number of the jewels as you had figured out the number of the boy angels' heads. Or you might take her gown of black lace, embroidered
with golden butterflies, every one patiently done by hand. You might figure so many yards of material, and so many golden butterflies to the yard. You might count the number of sparkling points upon her jet slippers, or trace the intricate designs upon her almost transparent stockings. Only there was an inch or two of the stockings which you could not see.
Peter watched these gorgeous divinities emerge from the elevators and sweep their way into the dining-room beyond. Some people might have been shocked by their costumes, but to Peter, who had the picture of Mount Olympus in mind, they seemed most proper. It all depended on the point of view, whether you thought of a goddess as fully clothed from chin to toes, and proceeded with a pair of shears to cut away so much of her costume, or whether
you imagined the goddess in a state of nature and proceeded to put veils of gauze about her, and a ribbon over each shoulder to hold the veils in place. Twice Peter went to the desk to inquire if Mr. Lachman had come in yet. But still he had not come, and Peter, growing bolder, like the fox who spoke to the lion, strolled about the lobby, gazing at the groups of gods at ease. He had noticed a great balcony around
all four sides of this lobby, the mezzanine floor, as it was called. He decided he would see what was up there, and climbed the white marble stairs and beheld more rows of chairs and couches, done in dark grey velvet. Here, evidently, was where the female gods came to linger, and here Peter seated himself as unobtrusively as possible and watched. Directly in front of him sat a divinity, lolling on a velvet couch with one bare white arm
stretched out. It was a large stout arm, and the possessor was large and stout, with pale golden hair and many sparkling jewels. Her glance roamed lazily from place to place. It rested for an instant on Peter, and then moved on, and Peter felt the comment upon his own insignificance. Nevertheless, he continued to steal glances now and then, and presently saw an interesting sight. In her lap, this Juno had a gold-embroidered bag, and she opened
it disclosing a collection of mysterious apparatus of which she proceeded to make use. First, a little gold hand mirror in which she studied her charms. Then, a little white powder puff with which she deftly tapped her nose and cheeks. Then, some kind of red pencil with which she proceeded to rub her lips. Then, a golden pencil with which she lightly touched her eyebrows. Then, it seemed as if she must have discovered a little hair which had grown
since she left her dressing-room. Peter couldn't be sure, but she had a little pair of tweezers and seemed to pull something out of her chin. She went on with quite an elaborate and complicated toilet, paying meantime not the slightest attention to the people passing by. Peter looked farther and saw that, just as when one person sneezes or yawns, everybody else in the room is irresistibly impelled to sneeze or yawn. So all these Dianas and Junos and
Hebes on the mezzanine floor had suddenly remembered their little gold or silver hand mirrors, their powder puffs and red or golden or black pencils. One after another the little vanity bags came forth, and Peter, gazing in wonder, thought that Mount Olympus had turned into a beauty-parlor. Peter rose again and strolled and watched the goddesses, big and little, old and young, fat and thin, pretty and ugly. Then it seemed to him, the fatter
and older and uglier they were, the more intently they gazed into the little hand mirrors. He watched them with hungry eyes, for he knew that here he was in the midst of high life, the real thing, the utmost glory to which man could ever hope to attain, and he wanted to know all there was to know about it. He strolled on, innocent and unsuspecting, and the two hundred and twenty-four white boy angels in the ceiling smiled their bland and
placid smiles at him, and Peter knew, no more than they, what complications fate had prepared for him on that mezzanine floor. On one of the big lounges there sat a girl, a radiant creature from the Emerald Isles, with hair like sunrise and cheeks like apples. Peter took one glance at her, and his heart missed three successive beats, and then, to make up for lost time, began leaping like a runaway racehorse. He could hardly believe what his
eyes told him, but his eyes insisted, his eyes knew. Yes, his eyes had gazed for hours and hours on end upon that hair like sunrise and those cheeks like apples. The girl was Nell, the chambermaid of the temple of Jim John Boe. She had not looked Peter's way, so there was time for him to start back and hide himself behind a pillar. There he stood, peering out and watching her profile, still arguing with his eyes. It couldn't be Nell,
and yet it was. Nell transfigured, Nell translated to Olympus, turned into a goddess with a pale gray band about her middle, and a pale gray ribbon over each shoulder to hold it in place. Nell reclining at ease and chatting vivaciously to a young man with the face of a bulldog, and the dinner jacket of a magazine advertisement. Peter gazed and waited, while his heart went on misbehaving. Peter learned in those few fearful minutes what real love is, a most
devastating force. Little Jenny was forgotten, Mrs. James, the grass widow was forgotten, and Peter knew that he had never really admired but one woman in the world, and that was Nell, the Irish chambermaid of the temple of Jim John Boe. The poets have seen fit to represent young love as a mischievous little archer with a sharp and penetrating arrow, and now Peter understood what they had meant. That arrow
had pierced him through, and he had to hold on to the column to keep himself from falling. Section 38 Presently the couple rose and strode away to the elevator, and Peter followed. He did not dare get into the elevator with them, for he had suddenly become acutely aware of the costume he was wearing in his role of proletarian anti-militarist. But Peter was certain that Nell and her escort were not
going out of the building, for they had no hats or wraps. So he went downstairs and hunted through the lobby and the dining room, and then through the basement from which he heard strains of music. Here was another vast room, got up in mystic oriental fashion, with electric lights hidden in bunches of imitation flowers on each table. This room was called the grill, and part of it was bare for dancing, and on a little platform sat a band playing music,
the strangest music that ever assailed human ears. If Peter had heard it before seeing Nell, he would not have understood it, but now its weird rhythms fit exactly to the moods which were tormenting him. This music would groan, it would rattle and squeak, it would make noises like swiftly torn canvas, or like a steam siren in a hurry. It would climb up to the heavens and come banging down to hell, and everything with queer tormenting motions,
gliding and writhing, wriggling, jerking, jumping. Peter would never have known what to make of such music, if he had not had it here made visible before his eyes, in the behavior of the half-naked goddesses and the black-coated gods on this dancing floor. These celestial ones came sliding across the floor like skaters, they came writhing like serpents, they came strutting like turkeys, jumping like rabbits, stalking solemnly like giraffes. They
came clamped in one another's arms like bears trying to hug each other to death. They came contorting themselves as if they were boa constrictors trying to swallow each other. And Peter, watching them and listening to their music, made a curious discovery about himself. Deeply buried in Peter's soul were the ghosts of all sorts of animals. Peter had once been a boa constrictor, Peter had once been a bear, Peter had once been a rabbit and a giraffe, a turkey and a
fox. And now, under the spell of this weird music, these dead creatures came to life in his soul. So Peter discovered the meaning of jazz, in all its weirdly named and incredible varieties. Also, Peter discovered that he had once been a caveman and had hit his rival over the head with the stone axe and carried off his girl by the hair. All this he discovered while he stood in the doorway of the Hotel De Soto grill and watched Nell, the ex-chambermaid of the Temple of Jim Jumbo,
doing the turkey trot and the fox trot and the grizzly bear and the bunny hug in the arms of a young man with the face of a bulldog. Peter stood for a long while in a daze. Nell and the young man sat down at one of the tables to have a meal, but still Peter stood watching and trying to figure out what to do. He knew that he must not speak to her in his present costume, there would be no way to make her understand that he was only playing a role, that he who looked like a dead one was really
a prosperous man of important affairs, a 100% red-blooded patriot disguised as a proletarian pacifist. No, he must wait, he must get into his best before he spoke to her, but meantime she might go away and he might not be able to find her again in this huge city. After an hour or two he succeeded in figuring out a way and hurried upstairs to the writing room and penned a note. Nell, this is your old friend Peter Gudge. I have struck it rich and have important news for you. Be sure to send word
to me. Peter. To this he added his address and sealed it in an envelope to Miss Nell Doolan. Then he went into the lobby and signaled to one of the brass button imps who went about the place calling names in shrill sing-song. He got this youngster off in a corner and pressed a dollar bill into his hand. There was a young lady in the grill who was to have this note at once. It was very important. Would the brass button imp do it? The imp said, sure, and Peter stood
in the doorway and watched him walk back and forth through the aisles of the grill calling in his shrill sing-song, Miss Nell Doolan, Miss Nell Doolan. He walked right by the table where Nell sat eating. He sang right into her face, it seemed to Peter, but she never gave a sign. Peter did not know what to make of it, but he was bound to get that note to Nell, so when the imp returned he pointed her out and the imp went again and handed the note to her. Peter saw her take it. Then he darted away,
and remembering suddenly that he was supposed to be on duty, he rushed back to the office and inquired for Mr. Lackman. To his horror he learned that Mr. Lackman had returned, paid his bill, and departed with his suitcase to a destination unknown. End of sections 37 and 38.
