The Four Million HTML version
The Skylight Room
First Mrs. Parker would show you the double parlours. You would not dare to interrupt
her description of their advantages and of the merits of the gentleman who had occupied
them for eight years. Then you would manage to stammer forth the confession that you
were neither a doctor nor a dentist. Mrs. Parker's manner of receiving the admission was
such that you could never afterward entertain the same feeling toward your parents, who
had neglected to train you up in one of the professions that fitted Mrs. Parker's parlours.
Next you ascended one flight of stairs and looked at the second-floor-back at $8.
Convinced by her second-floor manner that it was worth the $12 that Mr. Toosenberry
always paid for it until he left to take charge of his brother's orange plantation in Florida
near Palm Beach, where Mrs. McIntyre always spent the winters that had the double front
room with private bath, you managed to babble that you wanted something still cheaper.
If you survived Mrs. Parker's scorn, you were taken to look at Mr. Skidder's large hall
room on the third floor. Mr. Skidder's room was not vacant. He wrote plays and smoked
cigarettes in it all day long. But every room-hunter was made to visit his room to admire
the lambrequins. After each visit, Mr. Skidder, from the fright caused by possible
eviction, would pay something on his rent.
Then—oh, then—if you still stood on one foot, with your hot hand clutching the three
moist dollars in your pocket, and hoarsely proclaimed your hideous and culpable poverty,
nevermore would Mrs. Parker be cicerone of yours. She would honk loudly the word
"Clara," she would show you her back, and march downstairs. Then Clara, the coloured
maid, would escort you up the carpeted ladder that served for the fourth flight, and show
you the Skylight Room. It occupied 7×8 feet of floor space at the middle of the hall. On
each side of it was a dark lumber closet or storeroom.
In it was an iron cot, a washstand and a chair. A shelf was the dresser. Its four bare walls
seemed to close in upon you like the sides of a coffin. Your hand crept to your throat, you
gasped, you looked up as from a well—and breathed once more. Through the glass of the
little skylight you saw a square of blue infinity.
"Two dollars, suh," Clara would say in her half-contemptuous, half-Tuskegeenial tones.
One day Miss Leeson came hunting for a room. She carried a typewriter made to be
lugged around by a much larger lady. She was a very little girl, with eyes and hair that
had kept on growing after she had stopped and that always looked as if they were saying:
"Goodness me! Why didn't you keep up with us?"
Mrs. Parker showed her the double parlours. "In this closet," she said, "one could keep a
skeleton or anaesthetic or coal—"
"But I am neither a doctor nor a dentist," said Miss Leeson, with a shiver.