They Call Me Carpenter Part 3

"G.o.d knows," said he; "you never can tell, in this place of torment."

I was about to ask, "What sort of place is it?" But the moan came again, louder, more long drawn out: "O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!" It ended in a sort of explosion, as if the maker of it had burst.

Carpenter turned, and took two steps towards the door; then he stopped, hesitating. My eyes followed him, and then turned to the critic, who was watching Carpenter, with a broad grin on his face.

Evidently Rosythe was going to have some fun, and get his revenge!

The sound came again--louder, more harrowing. It came at regular intervals, and each time with the explosion at the end. I watched Carpenter, and he was like a high-spirited horse that hears the cracking of a whip over his head. The creature becomes more restless, he starts more quickly and jumps farther at each sound.

But he is puzzled; he does not know what these lashes mean, or which way he ought to run.

Carpenter looked from one to another of us, searching our faces. He looked at the birds of paradise in the lounging chairs. Not one of them moved a muscle--save only those muscles which caused their eyes to follow him. It was no concern of theirs, this agony, whatever it was. Yet, plainly, it was the sound of a woman in torment: "O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!"

Carpenter wanted to open that door. His hand would start towards it; then he would turn away. Between the two impulses he was presently pacing the room; and since there was no one who appeared to have any interest in what he might say, he began muttering to himself. I would catch a phrase: "The fate of woman!" And again: "The price of life!" I would hear the terrible, explosive wail:

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!" And it would wring a cry out of the depths of Carpenter's soul: "Oh, have mercy!"

In the beginning, the moving picture critic of the Western City "Times" had made some effort to restrain his amus.e.m.e.nt. But as this performance went on, his face became one enormous, wide-spreading grin; and you can understand, that made him seem quite devilish. I saw that Carpenter was more and more goaded by it. He would look at Rosythe, and then he would turn away in aversion. But at last he made an effort to conquer his feelings, and went up to the critic, and said, gently: "My friend: for every man who lives on earth, some woman has paid the price of life."

"The price of life?" repeated the critic, puzzled.

Carpenter waved his hand towards the door. "We confront this everlasting mystery, this everlasting terror; and it is not becoming that you should mock."

The grin faded from the other's face. His brows wrinkled, and he said: "I don't get you, friend. What can a man do?"

"At least he can bow his heart; he can pay his tribute to womanhood."

"You're too much for me," responded Rosythe. "The imbeciles choose to go through with it; it's their own choice."

Said Carpenter: "You have never thought of it as the choice of G.o.d?"

"Holy smoke!" exclaimed the critic. "I sure never did!"

At that moment one of the doors was opened. Rosythe turned his eyes.

"Ah, Madame Planchet!" he cried. "Come tell us about it!"

IX

A stoutish woman out of a Paris fas.h.i.+on-plate came trotting across the room, smiling in welcome: "Meester Rosythe!" She had black earrings flapping from each ear, and her face was white, with a streak of scarlet for lips. She took the critic by his two hands, and the critic, laughing, said: "Respondez, Madame! Does G.o.d bring the ladies to this place?"

"Ah, surely, Meester Rosythe! The G.o.d of beautee, he breengs them to us! And the leetle G.o.d with the golden arrow, the rosy cheeks and the leetle dimple--the dimple that we make heem for two hundred dollars a piece--eh, Meester Rosythe? He breengs the ladies to us!"

The critic turned. "Madame Planchet, permit me to introduce Mr.

Carpenter. He is a man of wonder, he heals pain, and does it by means of love."

"Oh, how eenteresting! But what eef love heemself ees pain--who shall heal that, eh, Meester Carpentair?"

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-h!" came the moan.

Said Rosythe: "Mr. Carpenter thinks you make the ladies suffer too much. It worries him."

"Ah, but the ladies do not mind! Pain? What ees eet? The lady who makes the groans, she cannot move, and so she ees unhappy. Also, she likes to have her own way, she ees a leetle--what you say?--spoilt.

But her troubles weel pa.s.s; she weel be beautiful, and her husband weel love her more, and she weel be happy."

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!" from the other room; and Madame Planchet prattled away: "I say to them, Make plenty of noises! Eet helps! No one weel be afraid, for all here are wors.h.i.+ppers of the G.o.d of beautee--all weel bear the pains that he requires. Eh, Meester Carpentair?"

Carpenter was staring at her. I had not before seen such intensity of concentration on his face. He was trying to understand this situation, so beyond all believing.

"I weel tell you something," said Madame Planchet, lowering her voice confidentially. "The lady what you hear--that ees Meeses T-S.

You know Meester T-S, the magnate of the peectures?"

Carpenter did not say whether he knew or not.

"They come to me always, the peecture people; to me. The magician, the deputee of the G.o.d of beautee. Polly Pretty, she comes, and Dolly Dimple, she comes, and Lucy Love, she comes, and Betty Belle Bird. They come to me for the hair, and for the eyes, and for the complexion. You are a workair of miracles yourself--but can you do what I do? Can you make the skeen all new? Can you make the old young?"

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!"

"Mary Magna, she comes to me, and she breengs me her old grandmother, and she says, 'Madame,' she says, 'make her new from the waist up, for you can nevair tell how the fas.h.i.+ons weel change, and what she weel need to show.' Ha, ha, ha, she ees wittee, ees the lovely Mary! And I take the old lady, and her wrinkles weel be gone, and her skeen weel be soft like a leetle baby's, and in her cheeks weel be two lovely dimples, and she weel dance with the young boys, and they weel not know her from her grandchild--ha, ha, ha!--ees eet not the wondair?"

I knew by now where I was. I had heard many times of Madame Planchet's beauty-parlors. I sat, wondering; should I take Carpenter by the arm, and lead him gently out? Or should I leave him to fight his own fight with modern civilization?

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!"

Madame turned suddenly upon me. "I know you, Meester Billee," she said. "I have seen you with Mees Magna! Ah, naughtee boy! You have the soft, fine hair--you should let it grow--eight inches we have to have, and then you can come to me for the permanent wave. So many young men come to me for the permanent wave! You know eet? Meester Carpentair, you see, he has let hees hair grow, and he has the permanent wave--eet could not be bettair eef I had done eet myself.

I say always, 'My work ees bettair than nature, I tell nature by the eemperfections.' Eh, voila?"

I am not sure whether it was for the benefit of me or of Carpenter.

The deputee of the G.o.d of beautee was moved to volunteer a great revelation. "Would you like to see how we make eet--the permanent wave? I weel show you Messes T-S. But you must not speak--she would not like eet if I showed her to gentlemen. But her back ees turned and she cannot move. We do not let them see the apparatus, because eet ees rather frightful, eet would make them seek. You will be very steel, eh?"

"Mum's the word, Madame," said Rosythe, speaking for the three of us.

"O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!" moaned the voice.

"First, I weel tell you," said Madame. "For the complete wave we wind the hair in tight leetle coils on many rods. Eet ees very delicate operations--every hair must be just so, not one crooked, not one must we skeep. Eet takes a long time--two hours for the long hair; and eet hurts, because we must pull eet so tight. We wrap each coil een damp cloths, and we put them een the contacts, and we turn on the eelectreeceetee--and then eet ees many hours that the hair ees baked, ees cooked een the proper curves, eh? Now, very steel, eef you please!"

And softly she opened the door.

X

Before us loomed what I can only describe as a mountain of red female flesh. This flesh-mountain had once apparently been slightly covered by embroidered silk lingerie, but this was now soaked in moisture and reduced to the texture of wet tissue paper. The top of the flesh-mountain ended in an amazing spectacle. It appeared as if the head had no hair whatever; but starting from the bare scalp was an extraordinary number of thin rods, six inches or so in length.

These rods stood out in every direction, and being of gleaming metal, they gave to the head the aspect of some bright Phoebus Apollo, known as the "far-darter;" or shall I say some fierce Maenad with electric snakes having nickel-plated skins; or shall I say some terrific modern war-G.o.d, pouring poison gases from a forest of chemical tubes? Over the top of the flesh-mountain was a big metal object, a s.h.i.+ning concave dome with which all the tubes connected; so that a stranger to the procedure could not have felt sure whether the mountain was holding up the dome, or was dangling from it. A piece of symbolism done by a maniac artist, whose meaning no one could fathom!

From the dome there was given heat; so from the pores of the flesh-mountain came perspiration. I could not say that I actually saw perspiration flowing from any particular pore; it is my understanding that pores are small, and do not squirt visible jets.

What I could say is that I saw little trickles uniting to form brooks, and brooks to form rivers, which ran down the sides of the flesh-mountain, and mingled in an ocean on the floor.