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diff --git a/old/51985-h/51985-h.htm b/old/51985-h/51985-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index fd58ea0..0000000 --- a/old/51985-h/51985-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14770 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> - <title> - The Trufflers, by Samuel Merwin - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} - .x-small {font-size: 75%;} - .small {font-size: 85%;} - .large {font-size: 115%;} - .x-large {font-size: 130%;} - .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} - .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} - .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} - .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} - .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} - .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; - font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; - text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; - border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Trufflers, by Samuel Merwin - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Trufflers - A Story - -Author: Samuel Merwin - -Illustrator: Frank Snapp - -Release Date: May 3, 2016 [EBook #51985] -Last Updated: March 13, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRUFFLERS *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - THE TRUFFLERS - </h1> - <h3> - A Story - </h3> - <h2> - By Samuel Merwin - </h2> - <h4> - Author of Anthony the Absolute, The Charmed Life of Miss Austin, The Honey - Bee, etc. - </h4> - <h3> - Illustrated by Frank Snapp - </h3> - <h4> - Indianapolis Bobbs-Merrill Company Publishers - </h4> - <h3> - 1916 - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0008.jpg" alt="0008 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0008.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0009.jpg" alt="0009 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0009.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <h3> - THE TRUFFLERS - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I—THE GIRL IN THE PLAID COAT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II—THE SEVENTH-STORY MEN </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III—JACOB ZANIN </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV—A LITTLE JOURNEY IN PARANOIA - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V—PETER TREADS THE HEIGHTS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI—THE WORM POURS OIL ON A FIRE - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII—PETER THINKS ABOUT THE PICTURES - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII—SUE WALKS OVER A HILL </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX—THE NATURE FILM PRODUCING CO. - INC. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X—PETER THE MAGNIFICENT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI—PROPINQUITY-PLUS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII—THE MOMENT AFTER </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII—TWO GIRLS OF THE VILLAGE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV—THE WORM TURNS FROM BOOKS TO - LIFE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV—ZANIN MAKES HIMSELF FELT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI—THE WORM PROPOSES MARRIAGE IN - GENERAL </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII—ENTER GRACE DERRING </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII—THE WORM CONSIDERS LOVE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX—BUSINESS INTERVENES </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX—PETER GETS A NOTE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI—OYSTERS AT JIM'S </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII—A BACHELOR AT LARGE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII—THE BUZZER </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV—THE WILD FAGAN PERSON </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV—HE WHO HESITATED </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI—ENTER MARIA TONIFETTI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII—PETER IS DRIVEN TO ACT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII—SUE DOES NOT SEND FOR PETER - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX—AT THE CORNER OF TENTH </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX—FIFTY MINUTES FROM BROADWAY - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI—A PAIR OF RED BOOTS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII—CHAPTER ONE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII—EARTHY BROWNS AND GREENS - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV—ONE DOES FORGET ABOUT - HAPPINESS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV—THE NATURE FILM </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI—APRIL! APRIL! </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII—REENTER MARIA TONIFETTI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII—PETER STEALS A PLAY </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX—A MOMENT OF MELODRAMA </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL—HIS UNCONQUERABLE SOUL </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I—THE GIRL IN THE PLAID COAT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>ETER ERICSON MANN - leaned back in his chair and let his hands fall listlessly from the - typewriter to his lap. - </p> - <p> - He raised them again and laboriously pecked out a few words. - </p> - <p> - It was no use. - </p> - <p> - He got up, walked to one of the front windows of the dingy old studio and - peered gloomily out at the bare trees and brown grass patches of - Washington Square. - </p> - <p> - Peter was a playwright of three early (and partial) successes, and two - more recent failures. He was thirty-three years old; and a typical New - Yorker, born in Iowa, he dressed conspicuously, well, making it a - principle when in funds to stock up against lean seasons to come. He - worried a good deal and kept his savings of nearly six thousand dollars - (to the existence of which sum he never by any chance alluded) in five - different savings banks. He wore large horn-rimmed eyeglasses (not - spectacles) with a heavy black ribbon attached, and took his Art almost as - seriously as himself. You know him publicly as Eric Mann. - </p> - <p> - For six months Peter had been writing words where ideas were imperatively - demanded. Lately he had torn up the last of these words. He had waited in - vain for the divine uprush; there had come no tingle of delighted nerves, - no humming vitality, no punch. And as for his big scene, in Act III, it - was a morass of sodden, tangled, dramatic concepts. - </p> - <p> - His theme this year was the modern bachelor girl; but to save his life he - couldn't present her convincingly as a character in a play—perhaps - because these advanced, outspoken young women irritated him too deeply to - permit of close observation. Really, they frightened him. He believed in - marriage, the old-fashioned woman, the home. - </p> - <p> - It had reached the point, a month back, where he could no longer even - react to stimulants. He had revived an old affair with a pretty manicure - girl without stirring so much as a flutter of excitement within himself. - This was Maria Tonifetti, of the sanitary barber shop of Marius in the - basement of the Parisian Restaurant. He had tried getting drunk; which - made him ill and induced new depths of melancholy. - </p> - <p> - No one ever saw his name any more. No one, he felt certain, ever would see - it. He could look back now on the few years of his success in a spirit of - awful calm. He felt that he had had genius. But the genius had burned out. - All that remained to him was to live for a year or two (or three) watching - that total of nearly six thousand dollars shrink—-shrink—-and - then the end of everything. Well, he would not be the first.... - </p> - <p> - One faint faded joy had lately been left to Peter, one sorry reminder of - the days when the magical words, the strangely hypnotic words, “Eric - Mann,” had spoken, sung, shouted from half the bill-boards in town. Over - beyond Sixth Avenue, hardly five minutes' walk through the odd tangle of - wandering streets, the tenements and ancient landmarks and subway - excavations and little triangular breathing places that make up the - Greenwich Village of to-day, there had lingered one faded, torn - twenty-four-sheet poster, advertising “The Buzzard, by Eric Mann.” - </p> - <p> - When he was bluest lately, Peter had occasionally walked over there and - stood for a while gazing at this lingering vestige of his name. - </p> - <p> - He went over there now, in soft hat and light overcoat, and carrying his - heavy cane—hurried over there, in fact—across the Square and - on under the Sixth Avenue elevated into that quaint section of the great - city which socialists, anarchists, feminists, Freudian psycho-analysts of - self, magazine writers, Jewish intellectuals, sculptors and painters of - all nationalities and grades, sex hygiene enthusiasts, theatrical - press-agents and various sorts of youthful experimenters in living share - with the merely poor. - </p> - <p> - He stopped at a familiar spot on the curb by a familiar battered lamp-post - and peered across the street. - </p> - <p> - Then he started—and stared. Surprise ran into bewilderment, - bewilderment into utter dejection. - </p> - <p> - The faded, torn twenty-four-sheet poster had vanished. - </p> - <p> - A new brand of cut plug tobacco was advertised there now. - </p> - <p> - Ragged children of the merely poor, cluttering pavement and sidewalk, fell - against him in their play. Irritably he brushed them aside. - </p> - <p> - It was indeed the end. - </p> - <p> - A young woman was crossing the street toward him, nimbly dodging behind a - push cart and in front of a coal truck. Deep in self, he lowered his gaze - and watched her. So intent was his stare that the girl stopped short, one - foot on the curb, slowly lowered the apple she was eating, and looked - straight at him. - </p> - <p> - She was shaped like a boy, he decided—good shoulders, no hips, fine - hands (she wore no gloves, though the March air was crisp) and trim feet - in small, fiat-heeled tan boots. Her hair, he thought, was cut short. He - was not certain, for her “artistic” tarn o'shanter covered it and hung low - on her neck behind. He moved a step to one side and looked more closely. - Yes, it was short. Not docked, in the current fashion, but cut close to - her head, like a boy's. - </p> - <p> - She stepped up on the curb now and confronted him. He noted that her suit - was of brown stuff, loosely and comfortably cut; and that the boyish outer - coat, which she wore swinging open, was of a rough plaid. Then he became - aware of her eyes. They were deep green and vivid. Her skin was a clear - olive, prettily tinted by air and exercise... Peter suddenly knew that he - was turning red. - </p> - <p> - She spoke first. - </p> - <p> - “Hadn't we better say something?” was her remark. Then she took another - bite of the apple, and munched it with honest relish. - </p> - <p> - “Very likely we would better,” he managed to reply—rather severely, - for the “had better” phrase always annoyed him. - </p> - <p> - “It seems as if I must have met you somewhere,” he ventured next. - </p> - <p> - “No, we haven't met.” - </p> - <p> - “My name is Mann.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said she, “I know it.” - </p> - <p> - “Then suppose you tell me yours?” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - Peter could not think of a reason why. Deeply as he was supposed to - understand women, here was a new variety. She was inclined neither to - flirt nor to run away. - </p> - <p> - “How is it that you know who I am?” he asked, sparring for time.. - </p> - <p> - She gave a careless shrug. “Oh, most every one is known, here in the - Village.” - </p> - <p> - Peter was always at his best when recognized as <i>the</i> Eric Mann. His - spirits rose a bit. - </p> - <p> - “Might I suggest that we have a cup of tea somewhere?” - </p> - <p> - She knit her brows. “Yes,” she replied slowly, even doubtfully, “you - might.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course, if you—” - </p> - <p> - “Jim's isn't far. Let's go there.” - </p> - <p> - Jim's was an oyster and chop emporium of ancient fame in the Village. They - sat at a rear table. The place was empty save for an old waiter who - shuffled through the sprinkling of sawdust on the floor, and a fat - grandson of the original Jim who stood by the open grill that was set in - the wall at the rear end of the oyster bar. - </p> - <p> - Over the tea Peter said, expanding now—“Perhaps this is reason - enough for you to tell me who you are.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps what is?” - </p> - <p> - He smilingly passed the toast. - </p> - <p> - She took a slice, and considered it. - </p> - <p> - “You see,” he went on, “if I am not to know, how on earth am I to manage - seeing you again?” - </p> - <p> - She slowly inclined her head. “That's just it.” - </p> - <p> - It was Peter's turn to knit his brow's. - </p> - <p> - “How can I be sure that I want you to see me again?” - </p> - <p> - He waved an exasperated hand. “Then why are we here?” - </p> - <p> - “To find out.” - </p> - <p> - At least he could smoke. He opened his cigarette case. Then, though he - never felt right about women smoking, he extended it toward her. - </p> - <p> - “Thanks,” said she, taking one and casually lighting it. Yes, she <i>had</i> - fine hands. And he had noted when she took off her coat and reached up to - hang it on the wall rack, her youth-like suppleness of body. A provocative - person! - </p> - <p> - “I've seen some of your plays,” she observed, elbows on table, chin on - hand, gazing at the smoke-wraiths of her cigarette. “Two or three. <i>Odd - Change</i> and <i>Anchored</i> and—what was it called?” - </p> - <p> - “<i>The Buzzard?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, <i>The Buzzard</i>. They were dreadful.” - </p> - <p> - The color slowly left Peter's face. The girl was speaking without the - slightest self-consciousness or wish to offend. She meant it. - </p> - <p> - Peter managed to recover some part of his poise. - </p> - <p> - “Well!” he said. Then: “If they were all dreadful, why didn't you stop - after the first?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh.”—she waved her cigarette—“<i>Odd Change</i> came to town - when I was in college, and—” - </p> - <p> - “So you're a college girl?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, and a crowd of us went. That one wasn't so bad as the others. You - know your tricks well enough—especially in comedy, carpentered - comedy. Theatrically, I suppose you're really pretty good or your things - wouldn't succeed. It is when you try to deal with life—and with - women—that you're....” Words failed her. She smoked in silence. - </p> - <p> - “I'm what?” he ventured. “The limit?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she replied, very thoughtful. “Since you've said it.” - </p> - <p> - “All right,” he cried, aiming at a gay humor and missing heavily—“but - now, having slapped me in the face and thrown me out in the snow, don't - you think that you'd better—” He hesitated, watching for a smile - that failed to make its appearance. “That I'd better what?” - </p> - <p> - “Well—tell me a little more?” - </p> - <p> - “I was wondering if I could. The difficulty is, it's the whole thing—your - attitude toward life—the perfectly conventional, perfectly - unimaginative home and mother stuff, your hopeless sentimentality about - women, the slushy, horrible, immoral Broadway falseness that lies back of - everything you do—the Broadway thing, always. Ever, in your comedy, - good as that sometimes is. Your insight into life is just about that of a - hardened director of one-reel films. What I've been wondering since we met - this afternoon—you see, I didn't know that we were going to meet in - this way... - </p> - <p> - “Naturally.” - </p> - <p> - “... is whether it would be any use to try and help you. You have ability - enough.” - </p> - <p> - “Thanks for that!” - </p> - <p> - “Don't let's trifle! You see, if it is any use at all to try to get a - little—just a little—truth into the American theater, why, - those of us that believe in truth owe it to our faith to get to work on - the men that supply the plays.” - </p> - <p> - “Doubtless.” Peter's mind was racing in a dozen directions at once. This - extraordinary young person had hit close; that much he knew. He wondered - rather helplessly whether the shattered and scattered remnants of his - self-esteem could ever be put together again so the cracks wouldn't show. - </p> - <p> - The confusing thing was that he couldn't, at the moment, feel angry toward - the girl; she was too odd and too pretty. Already he was conscious of a - considerable emotional stir, caused by her mere presence there across the - table. She reached out now for another cigarette. - </p> - <p> - “I think,” said he gloomily, “that you'd better tell me your name.” - </p> - <p> - She shook her head. “I'll tell you how you can find me out.” - </p> - <p> - “How?” - </p> - <p> - “You would have to take a little trouble.” - </p> - <p> - “Glad to.” - </p> - <p> - “Come to the Crossroads Theater to-night, in Tenth Street.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh—-that little place of Zanin's.” - </p> - <p> - She nodded. “That little place of Zanin's.” - </p> - <p> - “I've never been there.” - </p> - <p> - “I know you haven't. None of the people that might be helped by it ever - come. You see, we aren't professional, artificialized actors. We are just - trying to deal naturally with bits of real life—from the Russian, - and things that are written here in the Village. Jacob Zanin is a big man—a - fine natural man—with a touch of genius, I think.” - </p> - <p> - Peter was silent. He knew this brilliant, hulking Russian Jew, and - disliked him: even feared him in a way, as he feared others of his race - with what he felt to be their hard clear minds, their vehement idealism, - their insistent pushing upward. The play that had triumphantly displaced - his last failure at the Astoria Theater was written by a Russian Jew. - </p> - <p> - She added: “In some ways it is the only interesting theater in New York.” - </p> - <p> - “There is so much to see.” - </p> - <p> - “I know,” she sighed. “And we don't play every night, of course. Only - Friday and Saturday.” - </p> - <p> - He was regarding her now with kindling interest. “What do you do there?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, nothing much. I'm playing a boy this month in Zanin's one-act piece, - <i>Any Street</i>. And sometimes I dance. I was on my way there when I met - you—was due at three o'clock.” - </p> - <p> - “For a rehearsal, I suppose.” - </p> - <p> - She nodded. - </p> - <p> - “You won't make it. It's four-fifteen now.” - </p> - <p> - “I know it.” - </p> - <p> - “You're playing a boy,” he mused. “I wonder if that is why you cut off - your hair.” He felt brutally daring in saying this. He had never been - direct with women or with direct women. But this girl created her own - atmosphere which quite enveloped him. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said she simply, “I had to for the part.” Never would he have - believed that the attractive woman lived who would do that! - </p> - <p> - Abruptly, as if acting on an impulse, she pushed back her chair. “I'm - going,” she remarked; adding; “You'll find you have friends who know me.” - </p> - <p> - She was getting into her coat now. He hurried awkwardly around the table, - and helped her. - </p> - <p> - “Tell me,” said he, suddenly all questions, now that he was losing her—“You - live here in the Village, I take it?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Alone?” - </p> - <p> - She nearly smiled. “No, with another girl.” - </p> - <p> - “Do I know her?” - </p> - <p> - She pursed her lips. “I doubt it.” A moment more of hesitation, then: “Her - name is Deane, Betty Deane.” - </p> - <p> - “I've heard that name. Yes, I've seen her—at the Black and White - ball this winter! A blonde—pretty—went as a Picabia dancer.” - </p> - <p> - They were mounting the steps to the sidewalk (for Jim's is a basement). - </p> - <p> - “Good-by,” said she. “Will you come—to-night or to-morrow?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said he. “To-night.” And walked in a daze back to the rooms on - Washington Square. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II—THE SEVENTH-STORY MEN - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>OT until he was - crossing Sixth Avenue, under the elevated road, did it occur to him that - she had deliberately broken her rehearsal appointment to have tea with him - and then as deliberately, had left him for the rehearsal. He had - interested her; then, all at once, he had ceased to interest her. It was - not the first time Peter had had this experience with women, though none - of the others had been so frank about it. - </p> - <p> - Frank, she certainly was! - </p> - <p> - Resentments rose. Why on earth had he sat there so meekly and let her go - on like that—he, the more or less well-known Eric Mann! Had he no - force of character at all? No dignity? - </p> - <p> - Suppose she had to write plays to suit the whims of penny-splitting - Broadway managers who had never heard of Andreyev and Tchekov, were bored - by Shaw and Shakespeare and thought an optimist was an eye doctor—where - would <i>she</i> get off! - </p> - <p> - During the short block between Sixth Avenue and the Square, anger - conquered depression. When he entered the old brick apartment building he - was muttering. When he left the elevator and walked along the dark - corridor to the rooms he was considering reprisals. - </p> - <p> - Peter shared the dim old seventh-floor apartment with two fellow - bachelors, Henry Sidenham Lowe and the Worm. The three were sometimes - known as the Seventh-Story Men. The phrase was Hy Lowe's and referred to - the newspaper stories of that absurd kidnaping escapade—the Esther - MacLeod case, it was—back in 1913. The three were a bit younger - then. - </p> - <p> - Hy Lowe was a slim young man with small features that appeared to be - gathered in the middle of his face. His job might have been thought odd - anywhere save in the Greenwich Village region. After some years of - newspaper work he had settled down to the managing editorship of a - missionary weekly known as <i>My Brother's Keeper</i>. Hy was - uncommunicative, even irreverent regarding his means of livelihood, - usually referring to the paper as his meal ticket, and to his employer, - the Reverend Doctor Hubbell Harkness Wilde (if at all) as the Walrus. In - leisure moments, perhaps as a chronic reaction from the moral strain of - his job, Hy affected slang, musical comedy and girls. The partly skinned - old upright piano in the studio was his. And he had a small gift at - juggling plates. - </p> - <p> - The Worm was a philosopher; about Peter's age, sandy in coloring but mild - in nature, reflective to the point of self-effacement. He read - interminably, in more than one foreign language and was supposed to write - book reviews. He had lived in odd corners of the earth and knew Gorki - personally. His name was Henry Bates. - </p> - <p> - Peter came slowly into the studio, threw off coat and hat and stood, the - beginnings of a complacent smile on his face. - </p> - <p> - “I've got my girl,” he announced. - </p> - <p> - “Now that you've got her, what you gonna do with her?” queried Hy Lowe, - without turning from the new song hit he was picking out on the piano. - </p> - <p> - “What am I gonna do with her?” mused Peter, hands deep in pockets, more - and more pleased with his new attitude of mind—“I'm gonna vivisect - her, of course.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, cruel one!” hummed Hy. - </p> - <p> - “Well, why not!” cried Peter, rousing. “If a girl leaves her home and - strikes out for the self-expression thing, doesn't she forfeit the - consideration of decent people? Isn't she fair game?” - </p> - <p> - Over in the corner by a window, his attention caught by this outbreak, the - Worm looked up at Peter and reflected for a moment. He was deep in a - Morris chair, the Worm, clad only in striped pajamas that were not - over-equipped with buttons, and one slipper of Chinese straw that dangled - from an elevated foot. - </p> - <p> - “Hey, Pete—get this!” cried Hy, and burst into song. - </p> - <p> - Peter leaned over his shoulder and sang the choppy refrain with him. In - the interest of accuracy the two sang it again, The third rendition - brought them to the borders of harmony. - </p> - <p> - The Worm looked up again and studied Peter's back, rather absently as if - puzzling him out and classifying him. He knit his brows. Then his eyes - lighted, and he turned back in his book, fingering the pages with a mild - eagerness. Finding what he sought, he read thoughtfully and smiled. He - closed his book; hitched forward to the old flat-top desk that stood - between the windows; lighted a caked brier pipe; and after considerable - scribbling on scraps of paper appeared to hit upon an arrangement of - phrases that pleased him. These phrases he printed out painstakingly on - the back of a calling card which he tacked up (with a hair-brush) on the - outer side of the apartment door. Then he went into the bedroom to dress. - </p> - <p> - “Who is she?” asked Hy in a low voice. The two were fond of the Worm, but - they never talked with him about their girls. - </p> - <p> - “That's the interesting thing,” said Peter. “I don't know. She's plumb - mysterious. All she'd tell was that she is playing a boy at that little - Crossroads Theater of Zanin's, and that I'd have to go there to find her - out. Going to-night. Want to come along?” - </p> - <p> - “What kind of a looking girl?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh—pretty. Extraordinary eyes, green with brown in 'em—but - green. And built like a boy. Very graceful.” - </p> - <p> - “Hm!” mused Hy. - </p> - <p> - “Do you know her?” - </p> - <p> - “Sounds like Sue Wilde.” - </p> - <p> - “Not—” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, the Walrus's child.” - </p> - <p> - “What's <i>she</i> doing, playing around the Village?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that's an old story. She left home—walked right out. Calls - herself modern. She's the original lady highbrow, if you ask me. Sure I'll - go to see her. Even if she never could see me.” - </p> - <p> - Later, Hy remarked: “The old boy asked me yesterday if I had her address. - You see he knows we live down here where the Village crowds circulate.” - </p> - <p> - “Give it to him?” - </p> - <p> - “No. Easy enough to get, of course, but I ducked... I'm going to hop into - the bathtub. There's time enough. Then we can eat at the Parisian.” - </p> - <p> - Peter settled down to read the sporting page of the evening paper. Shortly - the Worm, clad now, drifted back to the Morris chair. - </p> - <p> - They heard Hy shuffle out in his bath slippers and close the outer door - after him. Then he opened the door and came back, He stood in the doorway, - holding his bathrobe together with one hand and swinging his towel with - the ether; and chuckling. - </p> - <p> - “You worm!” he observed. “Why Bolbo <i>cee</i>ras?” - </p> - <p> - The Worm looked up with mild eyes. “Not bolboceeras,” he corrected. - </p> - <p> - “Bolbo<i>es</i>eras. As in cow.” - </p> - <p> - “But why?” - </p> - <p> - The Worm merely shrugged his shoulders and resumed his book. - </p> - <p> - Peter paid little heed to this brief conversation. And when he and Hy went - out, half an hour later, he gave only a passing glance to the card on the - door. He was occupied with thoughts of a slim girl with green eyes who had - fascinated and angered him in a most confusing way. - </p> - <p> - The card read as follows: - </p> - <h3> - DO NOT FEED OR ANNOY! - </h3> - <h3> - BOLBOCERAS AMERICANUS MULS - </h3> - <h3> - HABITAT HERE! - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III—JACOB ZANIN - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE Crossroads - Theater was nothing more than an old store, with a shallow stage built in - at the rear and a rough foyer boarded off at the front. The seats were - rows of undertaker's chairs, But the lighting was managed with some skill; - and the scenery, built and painted in the neighborhood, bordered on a - Barker-Craig-Reinhardt effectiveness. - </p> - <p> - Peter and Hy stood for a little time in the foyer, watching the audience - come in. It was a distinctly youthful audience—the girls and women - were attractive, most of them Americans; the men running more foreign, - with a good many Russian Jews among them. They all appeared to be great - friends. And they handled one another a good deal. Peter, self-conscious, - hunting copy as always, saw one tired-looking young Jewish painter catch - the hand of a pretty girl—an extraordinarily pretty girl, blonde, of - a slimly rounded figure—and press and caress her fingers as he - chatted casually with a group. - </p> - <p> - After a moment the girl drew her hand away gently, half-apologetically, - while a faint wave of color flowed to her transparent cheek. - </p> - <p> - All Peter's blind race prejudice flamed into a little fire of rage. Here - it was—his subject—the restless American girl experimenting - with life, the selfish bachelor girl, deep in the tangles of Bohemia, - surrounded by just the experimental men that would be drawn to the - district by such as she.... - </p> - <p> - So Peter read it. And he was tom by confused clashing emotions. Then he - heard a fresh voice cry: “Why, hello, Betty!” Then he remembered—this - girl was the Picabia dancer—Betty Deane—her friend! There was - color in his own face now, and his pulse was leaping. - </p> - <p> - “Come,” he said shortly to Hy, “let's find our seats.” - </p> - <p> - The first playlet on the bill was Zanin's <i>Any Street.</i> - </p> - <p> - The theme was the grim influence of street life on the mind of a child. It - was an uncomfortable little play. All curtains were drawn back. Subjects - were mentioned that should never, Peter felt, be even hinted at in the - presence of young women. Rough direct words were hurled at that audience. - </p> - <p> - Peter, blushing, peered about him. There sat the young women and girls by - the dozen, serene of face, frankly interested. - </p> - <p> - Poor Hy, overcome by his tangled self-consciousness, actually lowered his - head and pressed his handkerchief to his fiery face, murmuring: “This is - no place for a minister's assistant!” And he added, in Peter's ear: “Lord, - if the Walrus could just see this—once!” - </p> - <p> - Then a newsboy came running on the stage—slim, light of foot—dodged - cowering in a saloon doorway, and swore at an off-stage policeman from - whose clutches he had escaped. - </p> - <p> - There was a swift pattering of applause; and a whisper ran through the - audience. Peter heard one voice say: “There she is—that's Sue!” - </p> - <p> - He sat erect, on the edge of his chair. Again the hot color surged into - his face. He felt it there and was confused. - </p> - <p> - It was his girl of the apple, in old coat and knickerbockers, tom - stockings, torn shirt open at the neck, a ragged felt hat over her short - hair. - </p> - <p> - Peter felt his resentment fading. He knew as he watched her move about the - stage that she had the curious electric quality that is called - personality. It was in her face and the poise of her head, in the lines of - her body, in every easy movement. She had a great gift.. - </p> - <p> - After this play the two went outside to smoke, very silent, suppressed - even. Neither knew what to think or what to say. - </p> - <p> - There Zanin found them (for Peter was, after all, a bit of a personage) - and made them his guests. - </p> - <p> - Thus it was that Peter found himself behind the scenes, meeting the - youthful, preoccupied members of the company and watching with - half-suppressed eagerness the narrow stairway by which Sue Wilde must - sooner or later mount from the region of dressing-rooms below. - </p> - <p> - Finally, just before the curtain was rung up on the second play, he was - rewarded by the appearance of Betty Deane, followed by the tam o'shanter - and the plaid coat of his apple girl. - </p> - <p> - He wondered if her heart was jumping as his was. - </p> - <p> - Surely the electric thrill of this meeting, here among heaps of scenery - and properties, must have touched her, too. He could not believe that it - began and ended with himself. There was magic in the occasion, such magic - as an individual rarely generates alone. But if it touched her, she gave - no outward sign. To Zanin's casual, “Oh, you know each other,” she - responded with a quite matter-of-fact smile and nod. - </p> - <p> - They went out into the audience, and up an aisle to seats in the rear of - the hall—Betty first, then Sue and Peter, then Hy. - </p> - <p> - Peter felt the thrill again in walking just behind her, aware through his - very nerve-rips of her grace and charm of movement. When he stood aside to - let her pass on to her seat her sleeve brushed his arm; and the arm, his - body, his brain, tingled and flamed. - </p> - <p> - Zanin joined them after the last play and led them to a basement - restaurant near the Square. Hy paired off with Betty and made progress. - But then, Betty was evidently more Hy's sort than Sue was. - </p> - <p> - In the restaurant, Peter, silent, gloomy, watched his chance for a word - aside with Sue. When it came, he said: “I'm very glad you told me to - come.” - </p> - <p> - “You liked it then?” - </p> - <p> - “I liked you.” - </p> - <p> - This appeared to silence her. - </p> - <p> - “You have distinction Your performance was really interesting.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm glad you think that.” - </p> - <p> - “In some ways you are the most gifted girl I have ever seen. Listen! I - must see you again.” - </p> - <p> - She smiled. - </p> - <p> - “Let's have a bite together one of these evenings—at the Parisian or - Jim's. I want to talk with you.” - </p> - <p> - “That would be pleasant,” said she, after a moment's hesitation. - </p> - <p> - “To-morrow evening, perhaps?” Peter suggested. - </p> - <p> - The question was not answered; for in some way the talk became general - just then. Later Peter was sure that Sue herself had a hand in making it - general. - </p> - <p> - Zanin turned suddenly to Peter. He was a big young man, with a strong if - peasant-like face and a look of keenness about the eyes. There was - exuberant force in the man, over which his Village manner of sophisticated - casualness toward all things lay like the thinnest of veneers. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he said, “what do you think of Sue here?” - </p> - <p> - Peter repeated his impressions with enthusiasm. - </p> - <p> - “We're going to do big things with her,” said Zanin. “Big things. You - wait. <i>Any Street</i> is just a beginning.” And then an impetuous - eagerness rushing up in him, his topic shifted from Sue to himself. With a - turbulent, passionate egotism he recounted his early difficulties in - America, his struggles with the language, heart-breaking summers as a book - agent, newspaper jobs in middle-western cities, theatrical press work from - Coast to Coast, his plunge into the battle for a higher standard of - theatrical art and the resulting fight, most desperate of his life thus - far, to attract attention to the Crossroads Theater and widen its - influence. - </p> - <p> - Zarin was vehement now. Words poured in a torrent from his lips. He talked - straight at you, gesturing, with a light in his eye and veiled power in - his slightly husky voice. Peter felt this power, and something not unlike - a hatred of the man took sudden root within him. - </p> - <p> - “You will think me foolish to give my strength to this struggle. Like you, - I know these Americans. You can tell me nothing about them. Oh, I have - seen them, lived with them—in the city, in the small village, on the - farm. I know that they are ignorant of Art, that they do not care.” He - snapped his big fingers. “Vaudeville, baseball, the girl show, the comic - supplement, the moving picture—that is what they like! Yet year - after year, I go on fighting for the barest recognition. They do not - understand. They do not care. They believe in money, comfort, conformity—above - all conformity. They are fools. But I know them, I tell you! And I know - that they will listen to me yet! I have shown them that I can fight for my - ideals. Before we are through I shall show them that I can beat them at - their own game. They shall see that I mean business. I shall show them - their God Success in his full majesty.... And publicity? They are - children. When I have finished they—-the best of them—-will - come to me for kindergarten lessons in publicity. I'm hoping to talk with - you about it, Mann, I can interest you. I wouldn't bring it to you unless - I <i>knew</i> I could interest you.” - </p> - <p> - He turned toward Sue. “And this girl shall help me. She has the talent, - the courage, the breeding. She will surprise the best of them. They will - find her pure gold.” - </p> - <p> - Hushed with his own enthusiasm, he dropped his hand over one of Sue's; - took hers up in both of his and moved her slender fingers about as he - might have played absently with a handkerchief or a curtain string. - </p> - <p> - Hy, across the table, took this in; and noted too the swift, hot - expression that flitted across Peter's face and the sudden set to his - mouth. - </p> - <p> - Sue, alter a moment, quietly withdrew her hand. But she did not flush, as - Betty had flushed in somewhat similar circumstances a few hours earlier. - </p> - <p> - Peter laid his hands on the table; pushed back his chair; and, lips - compressed, got up. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” cried Zanin—“not going?” - </p> - <p> - “I must,” Peter replied, slowly, coldly. “I have work to do. It has been - very pleasant. Good night.” - </p> - <p> - And out he went. - </p> - <p> - Hy, after some hesitation, followed. - </p> - <p> - Peter did not speak until they were nearly across the Square. Then he - remembered— - </p> - <p> - “The Walrus asked you where she was, did he?” - </p> - <p> - “He sure did.” - </p> - <p> - “Worried about her, I suppose!” - </p> - <p> - “He's worried, all right.” - </p> - <p> - “Humph!” said Peter. - </p> - <p> - He said nothing more. At the rooms, He partly undressed in silence. Now - and again his long face worked in mute expression of conflicting emotions - within. Suddenly he stopped undressing and went into the studio (he slept - in there, on the couch) and sat by the window, peering out at the sights - of the Square. - </p> - <p> - Hy watched him curiously; then called out a good night, turned off the gas - and tumbled into bed. His final remark, the cheery observation—“I'll - tell you this much, my son. Friend Betty is some pippin!” drew forth no - response. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV—A LITTLE JOURNEY IN PARANOIA - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>ALF an hour later - Peter tiptoed over and closed the door. Then he sat down at his - typewriter, removed the paper he had left in it, put in a new sheet and - struck off a word. - </p> - <p> - He sat still, then, in a sweat. The noise of the keys fell on his tense - ears like the crackling thunder of a machine gun. - </p> - <p> - He took the paper out and tore it into minute pieces. - </p> - <p> - He got another sheet, sat down at the desk and wrote a few hurried - sentences in longhand. - </p> - <p> - He sealed it in an envelope, glancing nervously about the room; addressed - it; and found a stamp in the desk. - </p> - <p> - Then he tiptoed down the room, softly opened the door and listened. - </p> - <p> - Hy was snoring. - </p> - <p> - He stole into the bedroom, found his clothes in the dark and deliberately - dressed, clear to overcoat and hat. He slipped out into the corridor, rang - for the elevator and went out across the Square to the mail box. There was - a box in the hall down-stairs; but he had found it impossible to post that - letter before the eyes of John, the night man. - </p> - <p> - For a moment he stood motionless, one hand gripping the box, the other - holding the letter in air—a statue of a man. - </p> - <p> - Then he saw a sauntering policeman, shivered, dropped the letter in and - almost ran home. - </p> - <p> - Peter had done the one thing that he himself, twelve hours earlier, would - have regarded as utterly impossible. - </p> - <p> - He had sent an anonymous letter. - </p> - <p> - It was addressed to the Reverend Hubbell Harkness - </p> - <p> - Wilde, Scripture House, New York. It conveyed to that vigorous if - pietistic gentleman the information that he would find his daughter, on - the following evening, Saturday, performing on the stage of the Crossroads - Theater, Tenth Street, near Fourth: with the added hint that it might not, - even yet be too late to save her. - </p> - <p> - And Peter, all in a tremor now, knew that he meant to be at the Crossroads - Theater himself to see this little drama of surprises come off. - </p> - <p> - The fact developed when Hy came back from the office on Saturday that he - was meditating a return engagement with his new friend Betty. “The subject - was mentioned,” he explained, rather self-consciously, to Peter. - </p> - <p> - The Worm came in then and heard Hy speak of <i>Any Street</i>. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” he observed, “that piece of Zanin's! I've meant to see it. You - fellows going to-night? I'll join you.” - </p> - <p> - So the three Seventh-Story Men ate at the Parisian and set forth for their - little adventure; Peter and Hy each with his own set of motives locked up - in his breast, the Worm with no motives in particular. - </p> - <p> - Peter smoked a cigar; the Worm his pipe; and Hy, as always, a cigarette. - All carried sticks. - </p> - <p> - Peter walked in the middle; his face rather drawn; peeking out ahead. - </p> - <p> - Hy swung his stick; joked about this and that; offered an experimentally - humorous eye to every young woman that passed. - </p> - <p> - The Worm wore the old gray suit that he could not remember to keep - pressed, soft black hat, flowing tie, no overcoat. A side pocket bulged - with a paper-covered book in the Russian tongue. He had an odd way of - walking, the Worm, throwing his right leg out and around and toeing in - with his right foot. - </p> - <p> - As they neared the little theater, Peter's pulse beat a tattoo against his - temples. What if old Wilde hadn't received the letter! If he had, would he - come! If he came, what would happen? - </p> - <p> - He came. - </p> - <p> - Peter and the Worm were standing near the inner entrance, Waiting for Hy, - who, cigarette drooping from his nether lip, stood in the me at the ticket - window. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly a man appeared—a stranger, from the casually curious - glances he drew—elbowing in through the group in the outer doorway - and made straight for the young poet who was taking tickets. - </p> - <p> - Peter did not see him at first. Then the Worm nudged his elbow and - whispered—“Good God, it's the Walrus!” - </p> - <p> - Peter wheeled about. He had met the man only once or twice, a year back; - now he took him in—a big man, heavy in the shoulders and neck, past - middle age, with a wide thin orator's mouth surrounded by deep lines. He - had a big hooked nose (a strong nose!) and striking vivid eyes of a pale - green color. They struck you, those eyes, with their light hard surface. - There were strips of whiskers on each cheek, narrow and close-clipped, - tinged with gray. His clothes, overcoat and hat were black; his collar a - low turnover; his tie a loosely knotted white bow. - </p> - <p> - He made an oddly dramatic figure in that easy, merry Bohemian setting; a - specter from an old forgotten world of Puritanism. - </p> - <p> - The intruder addressed the young poet at the door in a low but determined - voice. - </p> - <p> - “I wish to see Miss Susan Wilde.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm afraid you can't now, sir. She will be in costume by this time.” - </p> - <p> - “In costume, eh?” Doctor Wilde was frowning. And the poet eyed him with - cool suspicion. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, she is in the first play.” - </p> - <p> - Still the big man frowned and compressed that wide mobile mouth. Peter, - all alert., sniffing out the copy trail, noted that he was nervously - clasping his hands. - </p> - <p> - Now Doctor Wilde spoke, with a sudden ring in his voice that gave a - fleeting hint of inner suppressions. “Will you kindly send word to Miss - Wilde that her father is here and must see her at once?” - </p> - <p> - The poet, surprised, sent the message. - </p> - <p> - Peter heard a door open, down by the stage. He pressed forward, peering - eagerly. A ripple of curiosity and friendly interest ran through that part - of the audience that was already seated. A young man called, “What's your - hurry, Sue?” and there was laughter. - </p> - <p> - Then he saw her, coming lightly, swiftly up the side aisle; in the boy - costume—the knickerbockers, the torn stockings, the old coat and - ragged hat, the tom shirt, open at the neck. She seemed hardly to hear the - noise. Her lips were compressed, and Peter suddenly saw that she in her - fresh young way looked not unlike the big man at the door, the nervously - intent man who stood waiting for her with a scowl that wavered into an - expression of utter unbelief as his eyes took in her costume. - </p> - <p> - Hy came up just then with the tickets, and Peter hurried in after Doctor - Wilde; then let Hy and the Worm move on without him to their seats, - lingering shamelessly. His little drama was on. He had announced that he - would vivisect this girl! - </p> - <p> - He studied her. But she saw nothing but the big gray man there with the - deeply lined face and the pale eyes—her father! Peter noted now that - she had her make-up on; an odd effect around those deep blazing eyes. - </p> - <p> - Then the two were talking—low, tense. Some late comers crowded in, - chatting and laughing. Peter edged closer. - </p> - <p> - “But you shouldn't have come here like this,” he heard her saying. “It - isn't fair!” - </p> - <p> - “I am not here to argue. Once more, will you put on your proper clothes - and come home with me?” - </p> - <p> - “No, I will not.” - </p> - <p> - “You have no shame then—appearing like this?” - </p> - <p> - “No—none.” - </p> - <p> - “And the publicity means nothing to you?” - </p> - <p> - “You are causing it by coming here.” - </p> - <p> - “It is nothing to you that your actions are a public scandal?” With which - he handed her a folded paper. - </p> - <p> - She did not look at it; crumpled in in her hand. - </p> - <p> - “You feel, then, no concern for the position you put me in?” - </p> - <p> - Doctor Wilde was raising his voice. - </p> - <p> - The girl broke out with—“Listen, father! I came out here to meet you - and stop this thing, settle it, once and for all. It is the best way. I - will not go with you. I have my own life to live, You must not try to - speak to me again!” - </p> - <p> - She turned away, her eyes darkly alight in her printed face, her slim body - quivering. - </p> - <p> - “Sue! Wait!” - </p> - <p> - Wilde's voice had been trembling with anger; now, Peter thought, it was - suddenly near to breaking. He reached out one uncertain hand. And a wave - of sympathy for the man flooded Peter's thoughts. “This is where their - 'freedom,' their 'self-expression' leads them,” he thought bitterly. - Egotism! Selfishness! Spiritual anarchy! It was all summed up, that - revolt, in the girl's outrageous costume as she stood there before that - older man, a minister, her own father! - </p> - <p> - She caught the new note in her father's voice, hesitated the merest - instant, but then went straight down the aisle, lips tight, eyes aflame, - seeing and hearing nothing. - </p> - <p> - The stage door opened. She ran up the steps, and Peter caught a glimpse of - the hulking Zanin reaching out with a familiar hand to take her arm and - draw her within.... He turned back in time to see Doctor Wilde, beaten, - walking rapidly out to the street, and the poet at the door looking after - him with an expression of sheer uncomprehending irritation on his keen - young face. “There you have it again!” thought Peter. “There you have the - bachelor girl—and her friends!” - </p> - <p> - While he was thus indulging his emotions, the curtain went up on Zanin's - little play. - </p> - <p> - He stood there near the door, trying to listen. He was too excited to sit - down. Turbulent emotions were rioting within him, making consecutive - thought impossible. He caught bits of Zanin's rough dialogue. He saw Sue - make her entrance, heard the shout of delighted approval that greeted her, - the prolonged applause, the cries of “Bully for you, Sue!”... “You're all - right, Sue!” - </p> - <p> - Then Peter plunged out the door and walked feverishly about the Village - streets. He stopped at a saloon and had a drink. - </p> - <p> - But the Crossroads Theater fascinated him. He drifted back there and - looked in. The first play was over. Hy was in a dim corner of the lobby, - talking confidentially with Betty Deane. - </p> - <p> - Then Sue came out with the Worm, of all persons, at her elbow. So <i>he</i> - had managed to meet her, too? She wore her street dress and looked - amazingly calm. - </p> - <p> - Peter dodged around the corner. “The way to get on with women,” he - reflected savagely, “is to have no feelings, no capacity for emotion, be - perfectly cold blooded!” - </p> - <p> - He walked up to Fourteenth Street and dropped aimlessly into a - moving-picture show. - </p> - <p> - Toward eleven he went back to Tenth Street. He even ran a little, - breathlessly, for fear he might be too late, too late for what, he did not - know. - </p> - <p> - But he was not. Glancing in at the door, he saw Sue, with Betty, Hy, the - Worm, Zanin and a few others. - </p> - <p> - Hurriedly, on an impulse, he found an envelope in his pocket, tore off the - back, and scribbled, in pencil— - </p> - <p> - “May I walk back with you? I want vary much to talk with you. If you could - slip away from these people.” - </p> - <p> - He went in then, grave and dignified, bowing rather stiffly. Sue appeared - not to see him. - </p> - <p> - He moved to her side and spoke low. She did not reply. - </p> - <p> - The blood came rushing to Peter's face. Anger stirred. He slipped the - folded envelope into her hand. It was some satisfaction that she had - either to take it or let them all see it drop. She took it; but Still - ignored him. Her intent to snub him was clear now, even to the bewildered - Peter. - </p> - <p> - He mumbled something, he did not know what, and rushed away as erratically - as he had come. What had he wanted to say to her, anyway! - </p> - <p> - At the corner he turned and came part way back, slowly and uncertainly. - But what he saw checked him. The Worm was talking apart with her now. And - she was looking up into his face with an expression of pleased interest, - frankly smiling. While Peter watched, the two moved off along the street. - </p> - <p> - Peter walked the streets, in a fever of spirit. One o'clock found him out - on the high curve of the Williamsburg bridge where he could lean on the - railing and look down on the river with its colored splashes of light or - up and across at the myriad twinkling towers of the great city. - </p> - <p> - “I'll use her!” he muttered. “She is fair game, I tell you! She will find - yet that she must listen to me!” And turning about on the deserted bridge, - Peter clenched his fist and shook it at the great still city on the - island. - </p> - <p> - “You will all listen to me yet!” he cried aloud. “Yes, you will—you'll - listen!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V—PETER TREADS THE HEIGHTS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>E walked rapidly - back to the rooms. For his bachelor girl play was swiftly, like magic, - working itself out all new in his mind, actually taking form from moment - to moment, arranging and rearranging itself nearer and nearer to a - complete dramatic story. The big scene was fairly tumbling into form. He - saw it as clearly as if it were being enacted before his eyes.... Father - and daughter—the two generations; the solid Old, the experimental - selfish New. - </p> - <p> - He could see that typical bachelor girl, too. If she looked like Sue Wilde - that didn't matter. He would teach her a lesson she would never forget—this - “modern” girl who forgets all her parents have done in giving and - developing her life and thinks only of her own selfish freedom. It should - be like an outcry from the old hearthstone. - </p> - <p> - And he saw the picture as only a nerve-racked, soul-weary bachelor can see - it. There were pleasant lawns in Peter's ideal home and crackling - fireplaces and merry children and smiling perfect parents—no - problems, excepting that one of the unfilial child. - </p> - <p> - Boys had to strike out, of course. But the girl should either marry or - stay at home. He was certain about this. - </p> - <p> - On those who did neither—on the bachelor girls, with their - “freedom,” their “truth,” their cigarettes, their repudiation of all - responsibility—on these he would pour the scorn of his genius. Sue - Wilde, who so plainly thought him uninteresting, should be his target. - </p> - <p> - He would write straight at her, every minute, and a world should hear him! - </p> - <p> - In the dark corridor, on the apartment door, a dim square of white caught - his eye—the Worm's little placard. An inner voice whispered to light - a match and read it again. He did so. For he was all inner voices now. - </p> - <p> - There it was: - </p> - <h3> - DO NOT FEED OR ANNOY - </h3> - <h3> - BOLBOCERAS AMERICANUS MULS - </h3> - <h3> - HABITAT HERE! - </h3> - <p> - He studied it while his match burned out. He knit his brows, puzzled, - groping after blind thoughts, little moles of thoughts deep in dark - burrows. - </p> - <p> - He let himself in. The others were asleep. - </p> - <p> - The Worm, in his odd humors, never lacked point or meaning. The placard - meant something, of course... something that Peter could use.... - </p> - <p> - The Worm had been reading—that rather fat book lying even now on the - arm of the Morris 'chair It was <i>Fabre, on Insect Life</i>. - </p> - <p> - He snatched it up and turned the pages. He sought the index for that word. - There it was—Bolbuceras, page 225. Back then to page 225! - </p> - <p> - He read: - </p> - <p> - “... a pretty little black beetle, with a pale, velvety abdomen... Its - official title is <i>Bulbuceras Gallicus Muls</i>.” - </p> - <p> - He looked up, in perplexity. This was hardly self-explanatory. He read on. - The bolboceras, it began to appear, was a hunter of truffles. Truffles it - would, must have. It would eat no common food but wandered about sniffing - out its vegetable prey in the sandy soil and digging for each separate - morsel, then moving on in its quest. It made no permanent home for itself. - </p> - <p> - Peter raised his eyes and stared at the bookcase in the corner. Very - slowly a light crept into his eyes, an excited smile came to the corners - of his mouth. There was matter here! And Peter, like Homer, felt no - hesitation about taking his own where he found it. - </p> - <p> - He read on, a description of the burrows as explored by the hand of the - scientist: - </p> - <p> - “<i>Often the insect will be found at the bottom of its burrow; sometimes - a male, sometimes a female, but always alone. The two sexes work apart - without collaboration. This is no family mansion for the rearing of - offspring; it is a temporary dwelling, made by each insect for its own - benefit</i>.” - </p> - <p> - Peter laid the book down almost reverently and stood gazing out the window - at the Square. He quite forgot to consider what the Worm had been thinking - of when he printed out the little placard and tacked it on the door. He - could see it only as a perfect characterization of the bachelor girls. - Every one of those girls and women was a <i>Bolboceras</i>, a confirmed - seeker of pleasures and delicacies in the sober game of life, utterly - self-indulgent, going it alone—a truffle hunter. - </p> - <p> - He would call his play, <i>The Bolboceras</i>. - </p> - <p> - But no. “Buyers from Shreveport would fumble it,” he thought, shrewdly - practical. “You've got to use words of one syllable on Broadway.” - </p> - <p> - He paced the room—back and forth, back and forth. <i>The - Truffle-Hunter</i>, perhaps. - </p> - <p> - Pretty good, that! - </p> - <p> - But no—wait! He stood motionless in the middle of the long room, - eyes staring, the muscles of his face strained out of shape, hands - clenched tightly..He was about to create a new thing. - </p> - <p> - “<i>The Truffler!</i>” - </p> - <p> - The words burst from his lips; so loud that he tiptoed to the door and - listened. - </p> - <p> - “<i>The Truffler</i>,” he repeated. “<i>The Trifler</i>—no <i>The - Truffler</i>.” - </p> - <p> - He was riding high, far above all worldly irritations, tolerant even - toward the little person, Sue Wilde, who had momentarily annoyed him. - </p> - <p> - “I had to be stirred,” he thought, “that was all. Something had to happen - to rouse me and set my creative self working. New people had to come into - my life to freshen me. It did happen; they did come, and now I an myself - again. I shall not have time for them now, these selfish bachelor women - and there self-styled Jew geniuses. But still I am grateful to them all. - They have helped me.” - </p> - <p> - He dropped into the chair by the desk, pulled out his manuscript from a - drawer and fell to work. It was five in the morning before he crept into - bed. - </p> - <p> - Four days later, his eyes sunken perceptibly, face drawn, color off, Peter - sat for two hours within a cramped disorderly office, reading aloud to a - Broadway theatrical manager who wore his hat tipped down over his eyes, - kept his feet on the mahogany desk, smoked panatelas end on end and who, - like Peter, was deeply conservative where women were concerned. - </p> - <p> - At five-thirty on this same afternoon, Peter, triumphant, acting on a - wholly unconsidered impulse, rushed around the corner of Broadway and - Forty-second Street and into the telephone room of a glittering hotel. He - found Betty Deane's name in the telephone book, and called up the - apartment. - </p> - <p> - A feminine voice sounded in his ear. He thought it was Sue Wilde. - </p> - <p> - It <i>was</i> Sue Wilde. - </p> - <p> - He asked if she could not dine with him. - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence at the other end of the wire. - </p> - <p> - “Are you there?” he called anxiously. “Hello! Hello!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I'm here,” came the voice. “You rather surprised me, Mr. Mann. I - have an engagement for this evening.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, then I can't see you!” - </p> - <p> - “I have an engagement.” - </p> - <p> - He tried desperately to think up conversation; but failed. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he said—“<i>good-by</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - That was all. Peter ate alone, still overstrung but gloomy now, in the - glittering hotel. - </p> - <p> - The dinner, however, was both well-cooked and hot. It tended to soothe and - soften him. Finally, expansive again, he leaned hack, fingered his coffee - cup, smoked a twenty-cent cigar and observed the life about him. - </p> - <p> - There, were many large dressy women, escorted by sharp-looking men of two - races. There were also small dressy women, some mere girls and pretty, but - nearly all wearing make-up on cheeks and lips and quite all with extreme, - sophistication in their eyes. There was shining silver and much white - linen. Chafing dishes blazed. French and Austrian waiters moved swiftly - about under the commanding eye of a stern captain. Uniformed but - pocketless hat boys slipped it and out, pouncing on every loose article of - apparel.... It was a gay scene; and Peter found himself in it, of it, for - it. With rising exultation in his heart he reflected that he was back on - Broadway, where (after all) he belonged. - </p> - <p> - His manager of the afternoon came in now, who believed, with Peter, that - woman's place was the home. He was in evening dress—a fat man. At - his side tripped a very young-appearing girl indeed—the youngest and - prettiest in the room, but with the make-up and sophistication of the - others. Men (and women) stared at them as they passed. There was - whispering; for this was the successful Max Neuerman, and the girl was the - lucky Eileen O'Rourke. - </p> - <p> - Neuerrman sighted Peter, greeted him boisterously, himself drew up an - unoccupied chair. Peter was made acquainted with Miss O'Rourke. “This is - the man, Eileen,” said Neuerman, breathing confidences, “Wrote <i>The - Trufiler</i>. Big thing! Absolutely a new note on Broadway! Eric here has - caught the new bachelor woman, shown her up and put a tag on her. After - this she'll be called a truffler everywhere.... By the way, Eric, I sent - the contract down to you to-night by messenger. And the check.” - </p> - <p> - Miss Eileen O'Rourke smiled indulgently and a thought absently. While - Peter lighted, thanks to Neuermnn, a thirty-cent cigar and impulsively - told Miss O'Rourke (who continued to smile indulgently and absently) just - how he had come to hit on that remarkable tag. - </p> - <p> - It was nearly nine o'clock when he left and walked, very erect, from the - restaurant, conscious of a hundred eyes on his back. He gave the hat boy a - quarter. - </p> - <p> - Out on Forty-second Street he paused to clear his exuberant but confused - mind. He couldn't go back to the rooms; not as he felt now. Cabarets bored - him. It was too early for dancing. Irresolute, he strolled over toward - Fifth Avenue, crossed it, turned south. A north-bound automobile bus - stopped just ahead of him. He glanced up at the roof. There appeared to be - a vacant seat or two. In front was the illuminated sign that meant - Riverside Drive. It was warm for February. - </p> - <p> - He decided to take the ride. - </p> - <p> - Just in front of him, however, also moving toward the bus, was a young - couple. There was something familiar about them. The girl—he could - see by a corner light—was wearing a boyish coat, a plaid coat. Also - she wore a tam o'shanter. She partly turned her head... his pulse started - racing, and he felt the colour rushing into his face. It was Sue Wilde, no - other! - </p> - <p> - But the man? No overcoat. That soft black hat! A glimpse of a flowing tie - of black silk! The odd trick of throwing his right leg out and around as - he walked and toeing in with the right foot! - </p> - <p> - It was the Worm. - </p> - <p> - Peter turned sharply away, crossed the street and caught a south-bound - bus. Wavering between irritation, elation and chagrin, he walked in and - out among the twisted old streets of Greenwich Village. Four distinct - times—and for no clear reason—he passed the dingy apartment - building where Sue and Betty lived. - </p> - <p> - Later he found himself standing motionless on a curb by a battered - lamp-post, peering through his large horn-rimmed eye-glasses at a - bill-board across the street on which his name did not appear. He studied - the twenty-four-sheet poster of a cut plug tobacco that now occupied the - space. There was light enough in the street to read it by. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly he turned and looked to the right. Then he looked to the left. - Fumbling for a pencil, he moved swiftly and resolutely across the street. - Very small, down in the right-hand corner of the tobacco advertisement, he - wrote his name—his pen name—“Eric Mann.” - </p> - <p> - Then, more nearly at peace with himself, he went to the moving pictures. - </p> - <p> - Entering the rooms later, he found the Worm settled, in pajamas as usual, - with a book in the Morris chair. He also found a big envelope from - Neuerman with the contract in it and a check for a thousand dollars, - advanced against royalties. - </p> - <p> - It was a brown check. He fingered it for a moment, while his spirits - recorded their highest mark for the day. Then, outwardly calm, he put it - in an inside coat pocket and with a fine air of carelessness tossed the - contract to the desk. - </p> - <p> - The Worm put down his book and studied Peter rather thoughtfully. - </p> - <p> - “Pete,” he finally said, “I've got a message for you, and I've been - sitting here debating whether to deliver it or not.” - </p> - <p> - “Let's have it!” replied <i>the</i> Eric Mann shortly. - </p> - <p> - The Worm produced a folded envelope from the pocket of his pajamas and - handed it ever. “I haven't been told what's in it,” he said. - </p> - <p> - Peter, with a tremor, unfolded the envelope and peered inside. There were - two enclosures—one plainly his scribbled note to Sue; the other (he - had to draw it partly out and examine it)—yes—no—yes, - his anonymous letter, much crumpled. - </p> - <p> - Deliberately, rather white about the mouth, Peter moved to the fireplace, - touched a match to the papers and watched them burn. That done, he turned - and queried: - </p> - <p> - “Well? That all?” - </p> - <p> - The Worm shook his head. “Not quite all, Pete.” - </p> - <p> - Words suddenly came from Peter. “What do I care for that girl! A creative - artist has his reactions, of course. He even does foolish things. Look at - Wagner, Burns, Cellini, Michael Angelo—look at the things they used - to do!...” - </p> - <p> - The words stopped. - </p> - <p> - “Her message is,” continued the Worm, “the suggestion that next time you - write one of them with your left hand.” - </p> - <p> - Peter thought this over. The check glowed next to his heart. It thrilled - him. “You tell your friend Sue Wilde,” he replied then, with dignity, - “that my message to her—and to you—will be delivered next - September across the footlights of the Astoria Theater.” And he strode - into the bedroom. - </p> - <p> - The Worm looked after him with quizzical eyes, smiled a little and resumed - his book. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI—THE WORM POURS OIL ON A FIRE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>ETER came - stealthily into the rooms on the seventh floor of the old bachelor - apartment building in Washington Square. His right hand, deep in a pocket - of his spring overcoat, clutched a thin, very new book bound in - pasteboard. It was late on a Friday afternoon, near the lamb-like close of - March. - </p> - <p> - The rooms were empty. Which fact brought relief to Peter. - </p> - <p> - He crossed the studio to the decrepit flat-top desk between the two - windows. With an expression of gravity, almost of solemnity, on his long - face, lie unlocked the middle drawer on the end next the wail. Within, on - a heap of manuscripts, letters and contracts, lay five other thin little - books in gray, buff and pink. He spread these in a row on the desk and - added the new one. On each was the name of a savings bank, printed, and - his own name, written. They represented savings aggregating now nearly - seven thousand dollars. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0071.jpg" alt="0071 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0071.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - Seven thousand dollars, for a bachelor of thirty-three may seem enough to - you. It did not seem enough to Peter. In fact he was now studying the six - little books through his big horn-rimmed glasses (not spectacles) with - more than a suggestion of anxiety. Peter was no financier; and the thought - of adventuring his savings on the turbulent uncharted seas of finance - filled his mind with terrors. Savings banks appealed to him because they - were built solidly, of stone, and had immense iron gratings at windows and - doors. And, too, you couldn't draw money without going to some definite - personal trouble.... It is only fair to add that the books represented all - he had or would ever have unless he could get more. Nobody paid Peter a - salary. No banker or attorney had a hand in taxing his income at the - source. <i>The Truffler</i> might succeed and make him mildly rich. Or it - might die in a night, leaving the thousand-dollar “advance against - royalties” as his entire income from more than a year of work. His last - two plays had failed, you know. Plays usually failed. Eighty or ninety per - cent, of them—yes, a good ninety! - </p> - <p> - Theoretically, the seven thousand dollars should carry him two or three - years. Practically, they might not carry him one. For he couldn't possibly - know in advance what he would do with them. Genius laughs at savings - banks. - </p> - <p> - Peter sighed, put the six little books away and locked the drawer. - </p> - <p> - Locked it with sudden swiftness and caution, for Hy Lowe just then burst - in the outer door and dove, humming a one-step, into the bedroom. - </p> - <p> - Peter, pocketing the keys carefully so that they would not jingle, put on - a casual front and followed him there. - </p> - <p> - Hy, still in overcoat and hat, was gazing with rapt eyes at a snap-shot of - two girls. He laughed a little, self-consciously, at the sight of Peter - and set the picture against the mirror on his side of the bureau. - </p> - <p> - There were other pictures stuck about Hy's end of the mirror; all of girls - and not all discreet. One of these, pushed aside to make room for the new - one, fell to the floor. Hy let it lie. - </p> - <p> - Peter leaned ever and peered at the snap-shot. He recognized the two girls - as Betty Deane and Sue Wilde. - </p> - <p> - “Look here,” said Peter, “where have you been?” - </p> - <p> - “Having a dish of tea.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't you ever work?” - </p> - <p> - “Since friend Betty turned up, my son, I'm wondering if I ever shall.” - </p> - <p> - Peter grunted. His gaze was centered not on Hy's friend Betty, but on the - slim familiar figure at the right. - </p> - <p> - “Just you two?” - </p> - <p> - “Sue came in. Look here, Pete, I'm generous. We're going to cut it in - half. I get Betty, you get Sue.” - </p> - <p> - Peter, deepening gloom on his face, sat down abruptly on the bed. - </p> - <p> - “Easy, my son,” observed Hy sagely, “or that girl will be going to your - head. That's your trouble, Pete; you take 'em seriously. And believe me, - it won't do!” - </p> - <p> - “It isn't that, Hy—I'm not in love with her.” - </p> - <p> - There was a silence while Hy removed garments. - </p> - <p> - “It isn't that,” protested Peter again. “No, it isn't that. She irritates - me.” - </p> - <p> - Hy took off his collar. - </p> - <p> - “Any—anybody else there?” asked Peter. - </p> - <p> - “Only that fellow Zanin. He came in with Sue. By the way, he wants to see - you. Seems to have an idea he can interest you in a scheme he's got. - Talked quite a lot about it.” - </p> - <p> - Peter did not hear all of this. At the mention of Zanin he got up suddenly - and rushed off into the studio. - </p> - <p> - Hy glanced after him; then hummed (more softly, out of a new respect for - Peter) a hesitation waltz as he cut the new picture in half with the - manicure scissors and put Sue on Peter's side of the bureau. - </p> - <p> - The Worm came in, dropped coat and hat on a chair and settled himself to - his pipe and the evening paper. Peter, stretched on the couch, greeted him - with a grunt. Hy appeared, in undress, and attacked the piano with - half-suppressed exuberance. - </p> - <p> - It was the Worm's settled habit to read straight through the paper without - a word; then to stroll out to dinner, alone or with the other two, as it - happened, either silent or making quietly casual remarks that you didn't - particularly need to answer if you didn't feel like it. He made no demands - on you, the Worm. He wasn't trivial and gay, like Hy; or burning with - inner ambitions and desires, like Peter. - </p> - <p> - On this occasion, however, he broke bounds. Slowly the paper, not half - read, sank to his knees. He smoked up a pipeful thus. His sandy thoughtful - face was sober. - </p> - <p> - Finally he spoke. - </p> - <p> - “Saw Sue Wilde to-day. Met her outside the Parisian, and we had lunch - together.” - </p> - <p> - Peter shot a glance at him. - </p> - <p> - The Worm, oblivious to Peter, tamped his pipe with a pencil and spoke - again. - </p> - <p> - “Been trying to make her out. She and I have had several talks. I can't - place her.” - </p> - <p> - This was so unusual—from the Worm it amounted to an outburst!—that - even Hy, swinging around from the yellow keyboard, waited in silence. - </p> - <p> - “You fellows know Greenwich Village,” the musing one went on, puffing - slowly and following with his eyes the curling smoke. “You know the dope—-'Oats - for Women!' somebody called it—that a woman must be free as a man, - free to go to the devil if she chooses. You know, so often, when these - feminine professors of freedom talk to you how they over-emphasize the sex - business—by the second quarter-hour you find yourself solemnly - talking woman's complete life, rights of the unmarried mother, birth - control; and after you've got away from the lady you can't for the life of - you figure out how those topics ever got started, when likely as not you - were thinking about your job or the war or Honus Wagner's batting slump. - You know.” - </p> - <p> - Hy nodded, with a quizzical look. Peter was motionless and silent. - </p> - <p> - “You know—I don't want to knock; got too much respect for the real - idealists here in the Village—but you fellows do know how you get to - anticipating that stuff and discounting it before it comes; and you can't - help seeing that the woman is more often than not just dressing up - ungoverned desires in sociological language, that she's leaping at the - chance to experiment with emotions that women have had to suppress for - ages. Back of it is the new Russianism they live and breathe—to know - no right or wrong, trust your instincts, respond to your emotions, bow to - your desires.... Well, now, here's Sue Wilde. She looks like a regular - little radical. And acts it. Breaks away from her folks—lives with - the regular bunch in the Village—takes up public dancing and acting—smokes - her cigarettes—knows her Strindberg and Freud—yet... well, - I've dined with her once, lunched with her once, spent five hours in her - apartment talking Isadora Duncan as against Pavlowa, even walked the - streets half a night arguing about what she calls the Truth... and we - haven't got around to 'the complete life' yet.” - </p> - <p> - “How do you dope it out?” asked Hy. - </p> - <p> - “Well”—the Worm deliberately thought out his reply—“I think - she's so. Most of 'em aren't so. She's a real natural oasis in a desert of - poseurs. Probably that's why I worry about her.” - </p> - <p> - “Why worry?” From Hy. - </p> - <p> - “True enough. But I do. It's the situation she has drifted into, I - suppose. If she was really mature you'd let her look out for herself. It's - the old he protective instinct in me, I suppose. The one thing on earth - she would resent more than anything else. But this fellow Zanin...” - </p> - <p> - He painstakingly made a smoke ring and sent it toward the tarnished brass - hook on the window-frame. It missed. He tried again. - </p> - <p> - Peter stirred uncomfortably, there on the couch. “What has she told you - about Zanin?” he asked, desperately controlling his voice. - </p> - <p> - “She doesn't know that she has told me much of anything. But she has - talked her work and prospects. And the real story comes through. Just this - afternoon since I left her, it has been piecing itself together. She is - frank, you know.” - </p> - <p> - Peter suppressed a groan. She was frank! “Zanin is in love with her. He - has been for a year or more. He wrote <i>Any Street</i> for her, - incorporated some of her own ideas in it. He has been tireless at helping - her work up her dancing and pantomime. Why, as near as I can see, the man - has been downright devoting his life to her, all this time. It's rather - impressive. But then, Zanin <i>is</i> impressive.” - </p> - <p> - Peter broke out now. “Does he expect to marry her—Zanin?” - </p> - <p> - “Marry her? Oh, no.” - </p> - <p> - “'Oh, no!' Good God then—” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, come, Pete, you surely know Zanin's attitude toward marriage. He has - written enough on the subject. And lectured—and put it in those - little plays of his.” - </p> - <p> - “What <i>is</i> his attitude?” - </p> - <p> - “That marriage is immoral. Worse than immoral—vicious. He has - expounded that stuff for years.” - </p> - <p> - “And what does she say to all this?” This question came from Hy, for Peter - was speechless. - </p> - <p> - “Simply that he doesn't rouse any emotional response in her. I'm not sure - that she isn't a little sorry he doesn't. She would be honest you know. - And that's the thing about Sue—my guess about her, at least—that - she won't approach love as an experiment or an experience. It will have to - be the real thing.” - </p> - <p> - He tried again, in his slow calm way, to hang a smoke ring on the brass - hook. - </p> - <p> - “Proceed,” said Hy. “Your narrative interests me strangely.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said the Worm slowly, “Zanin is about ready to put over his big - scheme. He has contrived at last to get one of the managers interested. - And it hangs on Sue's personality. The way he has worked it out with her, - planning it as a concrete expression of that half wild, natural self of - hers, I doubt if it, this particular thing, could be done without her. It - <i>is</i> Sue—an expressed, interpreted Sue.” - </p> - <p> - “This must be the thing he is trying to get Pete in on.” - </p> - <p> - “The same. Zanin knows that where he fails is on the side of popularity. - He has intelligence, but he hasn't the trick of reaching the crowd. And he - is smart enough to see what he needs and go after it.” - </p> - <p> - “He is going after the crowd, then?” - </p> - <p> - “Absolutely.” - </p> - <p> - “And what becomes of the noble artistic standards he's been bleeding and - dying for?” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know. He really has been bleeding and dying. You have to admit - that. He lives in one mean room, over there in Fourth Street. A good deal - of the little he eats he cooks with his own hands on a kerosene stove. - Those girls are always taking him in and feeding him up. He works twenty - and thirty hours at a stretch over his productions at the Crossroads. Must - have the constitution of a bull elephant. If it was just a matter of - picking up money, he could easily go back into newspaper work or the - press-agent game.... I'm not sure that the man isn't full of a struggling - genius that hasn't really begun to find expression. If he is, it will - drive him into bigger and bigger things. He won't worry about consistency—he'll - just do what every genius does. he'll fight his way through to complete - self-expression, blindly, madly, using everything that comes in his way, - trampling on everything that he can't use.” - </p> - <p> - Peter, twitching with irritation, sat up and snorted out: - </p> - <p> - “For God's sake, what's the <i>scheme!</i>” - </p> - <p> - The Worm regarded Peter thoughtfully and not unhumorously, as if - reflecting further over his observations on genius. Then he explained: - </p> - <p> - “He's going to preach the Greenwich Village freedom on every little - moving-picture screen in America—shout the new naturalism to a - hypocritical world.” - </p> - <p> - “Has he worked out his story?” asked Hy. - </p> - <p> - “In the rough, I think. But he wants a practical theatrical man to give it - form and put it over. That's where Pete comes in.... Get it? It's during - stuff. He'll use Sue's finest quality, her faith, as well as her grace of - body. What I could get out of it sounds a good deal like the Garden of - Eden story without the moral. An Artzibasheff paradise. Sue says that - she'll have to wear a pretty primitive costume.” - </p> - <p> - “Which doesn't bother her, I imagine,” said Hy. - </p> - <p> - “Not a bit.” - </p> - <p> - Peter, leaning back on stiff arms, staring at the opposite wall, suddenly - found repictured to his mind's eye a dramatic little scene: In the - Crossroads Theater, out by the ticket entrance; the audience in their - seats, old Wilde, the Walrus himself, in his oddly primitive', early - Methodist dress—long black coat, white bow tie, narrow strip of - whisker on each grim cheek; Sue in her newsboy costume, hair cut short - under the ragged felt hat, face painted for the stage, her deep-green eyes - blazing. The father had said: “You have no shame, then—appearing - like this?” To which the daughter had replied: “No—none!” - </p> - <p> - Hy was speaking again. “You don't mean to say that Zanin will be able to - put this scheme over on Sue?” - </p> - <p> - The Worm nodded, very thoughtful. “Yes, she is going into it, I think.” - </p> - <p> - Peter broke cut again: “But—but—but—but.... - </p> - <p> - “You fellows want to get this thing straight in your heads,” the Worm - continued, ignoring Peter. “Her reasons aren't by any means so weak. In - the first place the thing comes to her as a real chance to express in the - widest possible way her own protest against conventionality. As Zanin has - told her, she will be able to express naturalness and honesty of life to - millions where Isadora Duncan, with all her perfect art, can only reach - thousands. Yes, Zanin is appealing to her best qualities. And, at that, - I'm not at all sure that he isn't honest in it.' - </p> - <p> - “Honest!” snorted Peter. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, honest. I don't say he is. I say I'm not sure.... Then another - argument with her is that he has really been helping her to grow. He has - given her a lot—and without making any crude demands. Obligations - have grown up there, you see. She knows that his whole heart is in it, - that it's probably his big chance; and while the girl is modest enough she - can see how dependent the whole plan is on her.” - </p> - <p> - “But—but—but”—Peter again!—“think what she'll find - herself up against—the people she'll have to work with—the - vulgarity. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know,” mused the Worm. “I'm not sure it would bother her much. - Those things don't seem to touch her. And she isn't the sort to be stopped - by conventional warnings, anyway. She'll have to find it out all for - herself.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm gave himself up again to the experiment with smoke rings. He blew - one—another—a third—at the curtain hook..The fourth - wavered down over the hook, hung a second, broke and trailed off into the - atmosphere. “.Got it!” said the Worm, to himself. - </p> - <p> - “Who's the manager he's picked up?” asked Hy. - </p> - <p> - “Fellow named Silverstone. Head of a movie producing company.” - </p> - <p> - Peter, to whom this name was, apparently, the last straw, shivered a - little, sprang to his feet, and for the second time within the hour rushed - blindly off into solitude. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII—PETER THINKS ABOUT THE PICTURES - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN Hy set out for - dinner, a little later, he found Peter sitting on a bench in the Square. - </p> - <p> - “Go in and get your overcoat,” said Hy. “Unless you're out for pneumonia.” - </p> - <p> - “Hy,” said Peter, his color vivid, his eyes wild, “we can't let those - brutes play with Sue; like that. We've got to save her.” - </p> - <p> - Hy squinted down at his bamboo stick. “Very good, my son. But just how?” - </p> - <p> - “If I could talk with her, Hy!... I know that game so well!” - </p> - <p> - “You could call her up—” - </p> - <p> - “Call her up nothing! I can't ask to see her and start cold.” He gestured - vehemently. “Look here, you're seeing Betty every day—you fix it.” - </p> - <p> - Hy mused. “They're great hands to take tramps in the country, those two. - Most every Sunday.... If I could arrange a little party of four.... See - here! Betty's going to have dinner with me to-morrow night.” - </p> - <p> - “For God's sake, Hy, get me in on it!” - </p> - <p> - “Now you just wait! Sue'll be playing to-morrow night at the Crossroads, - It's Saturday, you know.” - </p> - <p> - Peter's face fell. - </p> - <p> - “But it gives me the chance to talk it over with friend Betty and perhaps - plan for Sunday. If Zanin'll just leave her alone that long.” - </p> - <p> - “It isn't as if I were thinking of myself, Hy...” - </p> - <p> - “Of course not, Pete.” - </p> - <p> - “The girl's in danger. We've <i>got</i> to save her.” - </p> - <p> - “What if she won't listen! She's high-strung.” - </p> - <p> - “Then,” said Peter, flaring up with a righteous passion that made him feel - suddenly like the hero of his own new play—“then I'll go straight to - Zanin and force him to declare himself! I will face him, as man to man!” - </p> - <p> - Thus the two Seventh-Story Men! - </p> - <p> - At moments, during the few weeks just past, thoughts of his anonymous - letter had risen to disturb Peter; on each occasion, until to-night, to be - instantly overwhelmed by the buoyant egotism that always justified Peter - to himself. But the thoughts had been there. They had kept him from - attempts to see Sue, had even restrained him from appearing where there - was likelihood of her seeing him; and they had kept him excited about her. - Now they rose again in unsuspected strength. Of course she would refuse to - see him! He slept hardly at all that night. The next day he was unstrung. - And Saturday night (or early Sunday morning) when Hy crept in, Peter, in - pajamas, all lights out, was sitting by the window nursing a headache, - staring out with smarting eyeballs at the empty Square. - </p> - <p> - “Worm here?” asked Hy guardedly. - </p> - <p> - “Asleep.” - </p> - <p> - Hy lighted the gas; then looked closely at the wretched Peter. - </p> - <p> - “Look here, my son,” he said then, “you need sleep.” - </p> - <p> - “Sleep”—muttered Peter, “good God!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I know, but you've got a delicate job on your hands. It'll take - expert handling. You've got to be fit.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you—did you see Sue?” - </p> - <p> - “No, only Betty. But they've been talking you over. Sue told Betty that - you interest her.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh—she did! Say anything else?” - </p> - <p> - “More or less. Look here—has anything happened that I'm not in on? I - mean between you and Sue.” - </p> - <p> - Peter shivered slightly. “How could anything happen? I haven't been seeing - her.” - </p> - <p> - “Well—Sue says you're the strangest man she ever knew. She can't - figure you out. Betty was wondering.” - </p> - <p> - Hy was removing his overcoat now. Suddenly he gave way to a soft little - chuckle. - </p> - <p> - “For Heaven's sake, don't laugh!” - </p> - <p> - “I was thinking of something else. Yes, I fixed it. But there's something - up—a new deal. This here Silverstone saw <i>Any Street</i> last - night and went dippy over Sue. Betty told me that much but says she can't - tell me the rest because it's Sue's secret, not hers. Only it came out - that Zanin has dropped the idea of bringing you into it. Silverstone - bought supper for the girls and Zanin last night, and this afternoon he - took Zanin out to his Long Beach house for the night, in a big car. And - took his stenographer along. Everybody's mysterious and in a hurry. Oh, - there's a hen on, all right!” - </p> - <p> - “So I'm out!” muttered Peter between set teeth. “But it's no mystery. - Think I don't know Silverstone?” - </p> - <p> - “What'll he do?” - </p> - <p> - “Freeze out everybody and put Sue across himself. What's that guy's is - his. Findings is keepings.” - </p> - <p> - “But will Sue let him freeze Zanin out?” - </p> - <p> - “That's a point.... But if she won't, he'll he wise in a minute. Trust - Silverstone! He'll let Zanin <i>think</i> he's in, then.” - </p> - <p> - “Things look worse, I take it.” - </p> - <p> - “A lot.” - </p> - <p> - Hy was undressing. He sat now, caught by a sudden fragrant memory, holding - a shoe in midair, and chuckled again. - </p> - <p> - “Stop that cackle!” growled Peter. “You said you fixed it.” - </p> - <p> - “I did. Quit abusing me and you'll realize that I'm coming through with - all you could ask. We leave at eleven, Hudson Tunnel, for the Jersey hills—we - four. I bring the girls; you meet us at the Tunnel. Zanin is safe at Long - Beach. We eat at a country road house. We walk miles in the open country. - We drift home in the evening, God knows when!... Here I hand you, in one - neat parcel, pleasant hillsides, purling brooks, twelve mortal hours of - the blessed damosel, and”—he caught up the evening paper—“'fair - and warmer'—and perfect weather. And what do I get? Abuse. Nothing - but abuse!” - </p> - <p> - With this, he deftly juggled his two shoes, caught both in a final - flourish, looked across at the abject Peter and grinned. - </p> - <p> - “Shut up,” muttered Peter wearily. - </p> - <p> - “Very good, sir. And you go to bed. Your nerves are a mess.” - </p> - <p> - Into Peter's brain as he hurried toward the Tunnel Station, the next - morning, darted an uninvited, startling thought. - </p> - <p> - Here was Zanin, idealist in the drama, prophet of the new Russianism, - deserting the stage for the screen! - </p> - <p> - What was it the Worm had represented him as saying to Sue... that she - would be enabled to express her ideals to millions where Isadora Duncan - could reach only thousands? - </p> - <p> - Millions in place of thousands! - </p> - <p> - His imagination pounced on the thought. He stopped short on the street to - consider it—until a small boy laughed; then he hurried on. - </p> - <p> - He looked with new eyes at the bill-boards he passed. Two-thirds of them - flaunted moving-picture features.... He had been passing such posters for - a year or more without once reading out of them a meaning personal to - himself. He had been sticking blindly, doggedly to plays—ninety per - cent, of which, of all plays, failed utterly. It suddenly came home to him - that the greatest dramatists, like the greatest actors and actresses, were - working for the camera. All but himself, apparently!... The theaters were - fighting for the barest existence where they were not surrendering - outright. Why, he himself patronized movies more often than plays! Yet he - had stupidly refused to catch the significance of it.... <i>The Truffler</i> - would fail, of course; just as the two before it had failed. Still he had, - until this actual minute, clung to it as his one hope. - </p> - <p> - Millions for thousands! - </p> - <p> - He was thinking now not of persons but of dollars. - </p> - <p> - Millions for thousands. - </p> - <p> - He paused at a news stand. Sprawled over it were specimens of the new sort - of periodical, the moving-picture magazines. So the publishers, like the - theatrical men, were being driven back by the invader. - </p> - <p> - He bought the fattest, most brightly colored of these publications and - turned the pages eagerly as he descended into the station. - </p> - <p> - He stood half-hidden behind a pillar, his eyes wandering from the magazine - to the ticket gate where Hy and the two girls would appear, then back to - the magazine. Those pages reeked of enthusiasm, fresh ideas, prosperity. - They stirred new depths within his soul. - </p> - <p> - He saw his little party coming in through the gate. - </p> - <p> - The two girls wore sweaters. Their skirts were short, their tan shoes low - and flat of heel. - </p> - <p> - They were attractive, each in her individual way; Sue less regular as to - features, but brighter, slimmer, more alive. Betty's more luxurious figure - was set off almost too well by the snug sweater. As she moved, swaying a - little from the hips, her eyelids drooping rather languidly, the color - stirring faintly under her fair fine skin, she was, Peter decided, - unconscious neither of the sweater nor of the body within it.... Just - before the train roared in, while Sue, all alertness, was looking out - along the track, Peter saw Hy's hand brush Betty's. For an instant their - fingers intertwined; then the hands drifted casually apart. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII—SUE WALKS OVER A HILL - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>ETER joined them—a - gloomy man, haunted by an anonymous letter. Sue was matter-of-fact. It - seemed to Hy that she made some effort to put the well-known playwright - more nearly at his ease. - </p> - <p> - They lurched, an hour's ride out in Northern New Jersey, at a little - motorists' tavern that Hy guided them to. They sat on a shaded veranda - while the men smoked cigars and the girls smoked cigarettes. After which - they set forth on what was designed to be a four-hour tramp through the - hills to another railroad—Sue and Peter ahead (as it turned out); Hy - and Betty lagging behind. - </p> - <p> - The road curved over hills and down into miniature valleys. There were - expanses of plowed fields, groves of tall bare trees, groups of - farmhouses. Robins hopped beside the road. The bright sun mitigated the - crisp sting in the air. A sense of early spring touched eye and ear and - nostril. - </p> - <p> - Peter felt it; breathed more deeply; actually smiled. - </p> - <p> - Sue threw back her head and hummed softly. - </p> - <p> - Hy and Betty dropped farther and farther behind. - </p> - <p> - Once Sue turned and waved them on; then stood and laughed with sheer good - humor at their deliberate, unrhythmical step. - </p> - <p> - “Come on,” she said to Peter “They don't get it—the joy of it. You - have to walk with a steady swing. It takes you a mile or two, at that, to - get going. When I'm in my stride, it carries me along so I hate to stop at - all. You know, you can't pick it up again right off—the real swing. - Walking is a game—a fine game!” - </p> - <p> - Peter didn't know. He had never thought of walking as a game. He played - golf a little, tennis a little less. It had always been difficult for him - to hold his mind on these unimportant pursuits. But he found himself - responding eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “You've gone in a lot for athletics,” said he, thinking of the lightness, - the sheer ease, with which she had moved about the little Crossroads - stage. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes—at school and college—basket ball, running, fencing, - dancing and this sort of thing. Dancing especially. I've really worked - some at that, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said he moodily, “I know.” - </p> - <p> - They swung down into a valley, over a bridge, up the farther slope, - through a notch and out along a little plateau with a stream winding - across it. - </p> - <p> - Peter found himself in some danger of forgetting his earnest purpose. He - could fairly taste the fresh spring air. He could not resist occasionally - glancing sidelong at his companion and thinking—“She is great in - that sweater!” A new soft magic was stealing in everywhere among what he - had regarded as his real thoughts and ideas. Once her elbow brushed his; - and little flames rose in his spirit.... She walked like a boy. She talked - like a boy. She actually seemed to think like a boy. The Worm's remark - came to him, with an odd stabbing effect... “We haven't got around to 'the - complete life' yet!” - </p> - <p> - She quite bewildered him. For she distinctly was not a boy. She was a - young woman. She couldn't possibly be so free from thoughts of self and - the drama of life, of man and the all-conquering urge of nature! As a - dramatist, as a student of women, he knew better. No, she couldn't—no - more than “friend Betty” back there, philandering along with Hy, The Worm - had guaranteed her innocence... but the Worm notoriously didn't understand - women. No, it couldn't be true. For she <i>had</i> broken away from her - folks. She <i>did</i> live with the regular bunch in the Village. She <i>did</i> - undoubtedly know her Strindberg and Freud. She <i>had</i> taken up public - dancing and acting. She <i>did</i> smoke her cigarettes—had smoked - one not half an hour back, publicly, on the veranda of a road house! ... - He felt again the irritation she had on other occasions stirred in him. - </p> - <p> - He slowed down, tense with this bewilderment. He drew his hand across his - forehead. - </p> - <p> - Sue went on a little ahead; then stopped, turned and regarded him with - friendly concern! - </p> - <p> - “Anything the matter?” - </p> - <p> - “No—oh, no!” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps we started too soon after lunch.” - </p> - <p> - She was babying him! - </p> - <p> - “No—no... I was thinking of something!...” - </p> - <p> - Almost angrily he struck out at a swift pace. He would show her who was - the weakling in <i>this</i> little party! He would make her cry for mercy! - </p> - <p> - But she struck out with him. Swinging along at better than four miles an - hour they followed the road into another valley and for a mile or two - along by a bubbling brook. - </p> - <p> - It was Peter who slackened first. His feet began hurting: an old trouble - with his arches. And despite the tang in the air, he was dripping with - sweat. He mopped his forehead and made a desperate effort to breathe - easily. - </p> - <p> - Sue was a thought flushed, there was a shine in her eyes; she danced a few - steps in the road and smiled happily. - </p> - <p> - “That's the thing!” she cried. “That's the way I love to move along!” - </p> - <p> - Apparently she liked him better for walking like that. It really seemed to - make a difference. He set his teeth and struck out again, saying—“All - right. Let's have some more of it, then!” And sharp little pains shot - through his insteps. - </p> - <p> - “No,” said she, “it's best to slow down for a while. I like to speed up - just now and then. Besides, I've got something on my mind. Let's talk.” He - walked in silence, waiting. - </p> - <p> - “It's about that other talk we had,” said she. “It has bothered me since. - I told you your plays were dreadful. You remember?” - </p> - <p> - He laughed shortly. “Oh, yes; I remember.” - </p> - <p> - “There,” said she, “I did hurt you. I must have been perfectly - outrageous.” - </p> - <p> - He made no reply to this; merely mopped his forehead again and strode - along. The pains were shooting above the insteps now, clear up into the - calves of his legs. - </p> - <p> - “I ought to have made myself plainer,” said she. “I remember talking as if - you couldn't write at all. Of course I didn't mean that, and I had no - right to act as if I held myself superior to a man of your experience. - That was silly. What I really meant was that you didn't write from a point - of view that I could accept.” - </p> - <p> - “What you said was,” observed Peter, aiming at her sort of good-humored - directness, and missing, “'the difficulty is, it's the whole thing—your - attitude toward life—your hopeless sentimentality about women, the - slushy horrible Broadway falseness that lies back of everything you do—the - Broadway thing, always.'... Those were your words.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no!” She was serious now. He thought she looked hurt, almost. The - thought gave him sudden savage pleasure. “Surely, I didn't say that.” - </p> - <p> - “You did. And you added that my insight into life is just about that of a - hardened director of one-reel films.” - </p> - <p> - She was hurt now. She walked on for a little time, quite silent. - </p> - <p> - Finally she stopped short, looked right at him, threw out her hands (he - noted and felt the grace of the movement!) and said— - </p> - <p> - “I don't know how to answer you. Probably I did say just about those - words.” - </p> - <p> - “They are exact... and of course, in one sense, I meant them. I do feel - that way about your work. But not at all in the personal sense that you - have taken it. And I recognize your ability as clearly as anybody. Can't - you see, man—that's exactly the reason I talked that way to you?” - There was feeling in her voice now. “I suppose I had a crazy, kiddish - notion of converting you, of making you work for us. It was because you - are so good at it that I went after you like that. You are worth going - after.” She hesitated, and bit her lip. “That's why I was so pleased when - Zanin thought he needed you for our big plan and disappointed now that he - can't include you in it—because you could help us and we could - perhaps help you. Yes, disappointed—in spite of—and—and - don't forget the other thing I said, that those of us that believe in - truth in the theater owe it to our faith to get to work on the men that - supply the plays.... Can't you see, man!” - </p> - <p> - She threw out her arms again. His eyes, something of the heady spirits - that she would perhaps have called sex attraction shining in them now, - could see little more than those arms, the slim curves of her body in the - sweater and short skirt, her eager glowing face and fine eyes. And his - mind could see no more than his eyes. - </p> - <p> - An automobile horn sounded. He caught her arm and hurried her to the - roadside. There were more of the large bare trees here; and a rail fence - by which they stood. - </p> - <p> - “You say Zanin has given up the idea of coming to me with his plan?” He - spoke guardedly, thinking that he must not betray the confidences of Betty - and Hy. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, he has had to.” - </p> - <p> - “He spoke to me about it, once.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I know. But the man that is going to back him wants to do that part - of it himself or have his own director do it.” - </p> - <p> - Pictures unreeled suddenly before his mind's eye—Sue, in “a pretty - primitive costume,” exploited at once by the egotistical self-seeking - Zanin, the unscrupulous, masterful Silverstone, a temperamental, - commercial director! He shivered. - </p> - <p> - “Look here,” he began—he would fall back on his age and position; he - would control this little situation, not drift through it!—“you - mentioned my experience. Well, you're right. I've seen these Broadway - managers with their coats off. And I've seen what happens to enthusiastic - girls that fall into their hands.” - </p> - <p> - He hesitated; that miserable letter flashed on his brain. He could fairly - see it. And then his tongue ran wild. - </p> - <p> - “Don't you know that Broadway is paved with the skulls of enthusiastic - girls!... Silverstone? Why, if I were to give you a tenth of Silverstone's - history you would shrink from him—you wouldn't touch the man's ugly - hand. Here you are, young, attractive—yes, beautiful, in your own - strange way!—full of a real faith in what you call the truth, on the - edge of giving up your youth and your gifts into the hands of a bunch of - Broadway crooks. You talk about me and the Broadway Thing. Good God, can't - you see that it's girls like you that make the Broadway Thing possible!... - You talk of my sentimentality about women, my 'home-and-mother-stuff,' - can't you see the reason for that home-and-mother stuff, for that - sentimentality, is the tens of thousands of girls, like you and unlike you - who wanted to experiment, who thought they could make the world what they - wanted it!” - </p> - <p> - He paused to breathe. The girl before him was distinctly flushed now, and - was facing him with wide eyes—hard eyes, he thought. He had poured - out a flood of feeling, and it had left her cold. - </p> - <p> - She was leaning back against the fence, her arms extended along the top - rail, looking and looking at him. - </p> - <p> - “Silverstone!” he snorted, unable to keep silence “Silverstone! The man's - a crook, I tell you. Nothing that he wants gets away from him. Understand - me? Nothing! You people will be children beside him.... Zanin is bad - enough. He's smart! He'll wait you out! He doesn't believe in marriage, he - doesn't! But Zanin—why, Silverstone'll play with him!” - </p> - <p> - Her eyes were still on him—wide and cold. Now her lips parted, and - she drew in a quick breath, “How on earth,” she said, “did you learn all - this! Who told you?” - </p> - <p> - He shut his lips close together. Plainly he had broken; he had gone wild, - cleared the traces. Staring at her, at that sweater, he tried to think.... - She would upbraid Betty. How would he ever square things with Hy! - </p> - <p> - He saw her hands grip the fence rail so tightly that her finger-tips went - white. - </p> - <p> - “Tell me,” she said again, with deliberate emphasis, “where you learned - these things. Who told you?” - </p> - <p> - He felt rather than saw the movement of her body within the sweater as she - breathed with a slow inhalation. His own breath came quickly. His throat - was suddenly dry. He swallowed—once, twice. Then he stepped forward - and laid his hand, a trembling hard, on her forearm. - </p> - <p> - She shook it off and sprang back. - </p> - <p> - “Don't look at me like that!” his voice said. And rushed on: “Can't you - see that I'm pleading for your very life! Can't you see that I <i>know</i> - what you are headed for—that I want to save you from yourself—that - I love you—that I'm offering you my life—that I want to take - you out of this crazy atmosphere of the Village and give...” - </p> - <p> - He stopped, partly because he was out of breath, and felt, besides, as if - his tonsils had abruptly swollen and filled his throat; partly because she - turned deliberately away from him. - </p> - <p> - He waited, uneasily leaning against the fence while she walked off a - little way, very slowly; stood thinking; then came back. She looked rather - white now, he thought. - </p> - <p> - “Suppose,” she said, “we drop this and finish our walk. It's a good three - hours yet over to the other railroad. We may as well make a job of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Sue,” he cried—“how can you!...” - </p> - <p> - She stopped him. “Please!” she said. - </p> - <p> - “But—but—” - </p> - <p> - “Please!” she said again. - </p> - <p> - “But—but—” - </p> - <p> - She turned away. “I simply can not keep up this personal talk. I would be - glad to finish the walk with you, but...” - </p> - <p> - He pulled himself together amid the wreckage of his thoughts and feelings. - “But if I won't or can't, you'll have to walk alone,” he said for her. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I did mean that. I am sorry. I did hope it would be possible.” She - compressed her lips, then added: “Of course I should have seen that it - wasn't possible, after what happened.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well,” said he. - </p> - <p> - They walked on, silent, past the woods, past more plowed fields, up - another hillside. - </p> - <p> - She broke the silence. Gravely, she said: “I will say just one thing more, - since you already know so much. Zarin signs up with Silverstone to-morrow - morning. Or as soon as they can finish drawing up the contracts. Then - within one or two weeks—very soon, certainly—we go down to - Cuba or Florida to begin taking the outdoor scenes. That, you see, settles - it.” - </p> - <p> - Peter's mind blurred again. Ugly foggy thoughts rushed over it. He stopped - short, his long gloomy face workhing nervously. - </p> - <p> - “Good God!” he broke out. “You mean to say—you're going to let those - crooks take you off—to Cuba! Don't you see...” - </p> - <p> - There was no object in saying more. Even Peter could see that. For Sue, - after one brief look at his sputtering, distorted face, had turned away - and was now walking swiftly on up the hill. - </p> - <p> - “Wait!” he called. “Sue!” - </p> - <p> - She reached the top of the hill, passed on over the crest. Gradually she - disappeared down the farther slope—the tam o'shanter last. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX—THE NATURE FILM PRODUCING CO. INC. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HEN Peter, - muttering, talking out loud to the road, the fence, the trees, the sky, - turned back to retrace the miles they had covered so lightly and rapidly. - His feet and legs hurt him cruelly. He found a rough stick, broke it over - a rock and used it for a cane. - </p> - <p> - He thought of joining Hy and Betty. There would be sympathy there, - perhaps. Hy could do something. Hy would have to do something. Where were - they, anyway! - </p> - <p> - Half an hour later he caught a glimpse of them. They were sitting on a - boulder on a grassy hillside, some little distance from the road. They - appeared to be gazing dreamily off across a valley. - </p> - <p> - Peter hesitated. They were very close together. They hardly seemed to - invite interruption. Then, while he stood, dusty and bedraggled, in real - pain, watching them, he saw Betty lean back against the boulder—or - was it against Hy's arm? - </p> - <p> - Hy seemed to be leaning over her. His head bent lower still. It quite hid - hers from view. - </p> - <p> - He was kissing her! - </p> - <p> - Blind to the shooting pains in his feet and legs, Peter rushed, stumbling, - away. In his profound self-pity, he felt that even Hy had deserted him. He - was alone, in a world that had no motive or thought but to do him evil, to - pervert his finest motives, to crush him! - </p> - <p> - Somehow he got back to that railroad. An hour and a half he spent - painfully sitting in the country station waiting for a train. There was - time to think. There was time for nothing but thinking. - </p> - <p> - And Peter, as so often when deeply stirred either by joy or misery, found - himself passing into a violent and soul-wrenching reaction. It was misery - this time. He was a crawling abject thing. People would laugh. Sue would - laugh... - </p> - <p> - But would she! Would she tell? Would Hy and Betty, if they ever did get - home, know that she had returned alone? - </p> - <p> - Those deep-green eyes of hers, the strong little chin.... She was Miss - Independence herself. - </p> - <p> - Zanin was signing with Silverstone in the morning! Or as soon as the - contracts could be drawn. - </p> - <p> - The train came rumbling in. Peter, in, physical and spiritual agony, - boarded it. - </p> - <p> - All these painful, exciting experiences of the day were drawing together - toward some new unexpected result. He was beaten—yet was he beaten! - A news agent walked through the train with a great pile of magazines on - his arm. - </p> - <p> - Peter suddenly thought of the moving-picture periodical he had dropped, so - long, long ago, in the Tunnel Station. He bought another copy; and again - turned the pages. Then he let it fall to his knees and stared out the - window with eyes that saw little. - </p> - <p> - Zanin—Silverstone—Sue walking alone over a hill!... Peters - little lamp of genius was burning once more. He was thrilled, if - frightened, by the ideas that were forming in that curious mind of his. - </p> - <p> - Shortly after seven o'clock of the same evening Jacob Zanin reached his - mean little room in Fourth Street, after a stirring twenty-four hours at - Silver-stone's house at Long Beach and an ineffectual attempt to find Sue - in her rooms. Those rooms were dim and silent. No one answered his ring. - No one answered his knock when he finally succeeded in following another - tenant of the building into the inner hall. Which explains why he was at - his room, alone, at a quarter to eight when Peter Ericson Mann called - there. - </p> - <p> - Peter, pale, nerves tense, a feverish glow in his eyes behind the - horn-rimmed glasses, leaned heavily on a walking stick in the dark - hallway, listening to the sound of heavy footsteps coming across the - creaking boards on the other side of the door. Then the door opened; and - Zanin, coatless, collarless, hair rumpled over his ears on either side of - his head, stood there; a hulking figure of a man, full of force, not - untouched with inner fire; a little grim; his face, that of a vigorously - intellectual Russian peasant, scarred perceptibly by racial and personal - hardship. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, hello, Mann!” said he. “Come in.” Then, observing the stick: “What's - the matter?” - </p> - <p> - “A little arch trouble. Nothing at all.” And Peter limped in. - </p> - <p> - Peter, as on former occasions, felt the power of the fellow. It was - altogether in character that he should exhibit no surprise, though Peter - Ericson Mann had never before appeared before him at that door. (He would - never know that it was Peter's seventh call within an hour and a half.) - </p> - <p> - Peter was at his calmest and most effective. - </p> - <p> - He looked casually about at the scant furniture, the soap boxes heaped - with books, the kerosene stove, symbol of Zanin's martyrdom to his art. - </p> - <p> - “Zanin,” he said, “two things stuck in my mind the other night when you - and I had our little talk. One was the fact that you had got hold of a big - idea; and that a man of your caliber wouldn't be giving his time to a - proposition that didn't have something vital in it.... The other thing is - Sue Wilde.” - </p> - <p> - Zanin was tipped back in an armless wooden chair, taking Peter in with - eyes that were shrewd and cold, but not particularly hostile. - </p> - <p> - “I didn't realize at the time what an impression that girl was making on - me. But I haven't been able to shake it off. She has something distinctly - unusual—call it beauty, charm, personally—I don't know what it - is. But she has it.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said Zanin, “she has it. But see here, Mann, the whole situation - has changed since then—” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” Peter broke in. “I know.” - </p> - <p> - “You know?” - </p> - <p> - Peter nodded, offhand. “Betty Deane has talked to Hy Lowe about it, and Hy - has told me. I'm pretty well informed, as a matter of fact.” - </p> - <p> - “You know about—” - </p> - <p> - “Silverstone? Yes. Tell me, have you closed with him?” - </p> - <p> - “Well”—Zanin hesitated.. He was disturbed. “Not in writing, no.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't you do it, then.” - </p> - <p> - Zanin pursed his lips, hooked his feet around the legs of his chair and - tapped on the front of the seat with his large fingers. - </p> - <p> - “It's regular money, Mann,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “You said you could interest me. Why don't you try?” - </p> - <p> - “Regular money is regular money.” - </p> - <p> - “Not if you don't get it.” - </p> - <p> - “Why shouldn't I get it?” - </p> - <p> - “Because Silverstone will. And look what he'll do to your ideas—a - conventional commercialist!” Zanin considered this. “I've got to risk - that. Or it looks so. This thing can't possibly be done cheap. I propose - to do something really new in a feature film—new in groupings, new - in lighting, new in the simplicity and naturalness of the acting. It will - be a daring theme, highly controversial, which means building up - publicity. It will take regular money. Sue is in just the right frame of - mind. A year from now God knows what she'll be thinking and feeling. She - might turn square against our Village life, all of a sudden. I've seen it - happen.... And now, with everything right, here the money comes to me on a - platter. Lord, man, I've got to take it—risk or no risk!” - </p> - <p> - They were about to come to grips. Peter felt his skin turning cold. His - throat went dry again, as in the afternoon. - </p> - <p> - “How much”—he asked, outwardly firmer than he would have dared hope—“how - much do you need?” - </p> - <p> - Zanin really started now, and stared at him. - </p> - <p> - “See here,” he said, “I've gone pretty far in with Silver stone.” - </p> - <p> - “But you haven't signed?” - </p> - <p> - “No.” - </p> - <p> - “Nor taken his money?” - </p> - <p> - “No.” - </p> - <p> - Peter laughed shortly. “Do you think <i>he</i> would consider himself - bound by anything you may have said! Silverstone!” - </p> - <p> - This was a point. He could see Zanin thinking it over. - </p> - <p> - “How much do you need?” he asked again. - </p> - <p> - “Well—” - </p> - <p> - “What do you think will happen the minute Sue really discovers the sort of - hands she's in? Even if she would want to stick to you!” - </p> - <p> - This was another point. - </p> - <p> - “Well”—said Zanin, thinking fast—“it needn't be lavish, like - these big battle films and such. But it will take money.” - </p> - <p> - “How much money?” - </p> - <p> - “Three or four thousand. Maybe five or six. It means going south for the - outdoor scenes. I want tropical foliage, so my people won't look frozen. - And publicity isn't cheap, you know.” - </p> - <p> - Peter gulped; but plunged on. “I'll tell you what you do, Zanin. Get - another man—a littler producer than Silverstone—and have him - supply studio, operators, and all the plant necessary, on a partnership - basis, you to put in some part of the cash needed.” - </p> - <p> - “Great!” said Zanin. “Fine! And where's the cash to come from?” - </p> - <p> - “From me.” - </p> - <p> - The front legs of Zanin's chair came to the floor with a bang. - </p> - <p> - “This is new stuff, Mann.” - </p> - <p> - “New stuff. I'm not rich, but I believe you've got a big thing here, and I - stand willing to put up a few thousand on a private contract with you. - This can be just between ourselves. All I ask is a reasonable control of - the expenditure.” - </p> - <p> - Zanin thought—and thought. Peter could see the shifting lights in - his cold clear eyes. - </p> - <p> - He moved over to the window and stared out into the area-way, where - electric lamps and gas flames twinkled from a hundred other rear - buildings. He came back to his chair and lit a cigarette. - </p> - <p> - “You're on!” he finally said. “If you want to know, I <i>am</i> worried - about Silverstone. And I'm certainly in no position to turn down such an - offer as this.” - </p> - <p> - Which was the genesis of The Nature Film Producing Co., Inc., Jacob Zanin, - Pres't. They talked late, these new partners. - </p> - <p> - It was nearly one o'clock in the morning when Peter limped into the rooms. - </p> - <p> - He found Hy pitting by the window in his pajamas, gazing rapturously at a - lacy handerchief. - </p> - <p> - “Aha!” said Hy, “he comes! Never mind the hour, my boy! I take off my hat. - You're better than I am—better than I! A <i>soupçon</i> of speed, - ol' dear!”' - </p> - <p> - Peter dropped limply into the Morris chair. “What's the matter?” said Hy, - observing him more closely. “You look done. Where's Sue?” Peter composed - himself. “I left Sue a long while ago. Hours ago.” - </p> - <p> - “What on earth have you been doing?” - </p> - <p> - “Exactly what I promised you I'd do.” - </p> - <p> - This was a new, an impressive Peter. - </p> - <p> - “I don't get you—” - </p> - <p> - “You said Sue might not listen to my warning.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh—and she didn't?” - </p> - <p> - “She did not.” - </p> - <p> - “And you—oh, you said you'd go to Zanin...” - </p> - <p> - “As man to man, Hy.” - </p> - <p> - “Good lord, you haven't... Pete, you're limping! You didn't fight!...” - </p> - <p> - Peter solemnly shook his head. “It wasn't necessary, Hy,” he said huskily; - then cleared his throat. “What was the matter with his throat to-day, - anyway?” - </p> - <p> - He sank back in his chair. His eyes closed. - </p> - <p> - Hy leaned forward with some anxiety. “Pete, what's the matter? You're - white!” - </p> - <p> - Peter's head moved slowly. “Nothing's the matter.” He slowly opened his - eyes. “It has been a hard day, Hy, but the job is done.” - </p> - <p> - “The job...?” - </p> - <p> - “I have saved her, Hy.” - </p> - <p> - “But the pictures?” - </p> - <p> - “They will be taken under my direction.” - </p> - <p> - “And Silverstone?” - </p> - <p> - “Silverstone is out. I control the company.” He closed his eyes again and - breathed slowly and evenly in a deliberate effort to calm his tumultuous - nerves. “Well!” said Hy, big-eyed. “Well!” - </p> - <p> - “Something to drink, Hy,” Peter murmured. “I put it over, Hy! I put it - over!” He said this with a little more vigor, trying to talk down certain - sudden misgivings regarding six thin little books with pasteboard covers - that lay at the moment in the middle drawer of the desk, next the wall. - </p> - <p> - Hy got slowly to his feet; stood rubbing his head and staring down in - complete admiration at the apparently triumphant if unmistakably exhausted - Peter. - </p> - <p> - “It's a queer time for them,” Hy remarked, solemn himself now. “But in - this case cocktails are certainly indicated.” - </p> - <p> - He picked up the telephone. “John,” he said to the night man below, “some - ice!” - </p> - <p> - Then he shuffled to the closet, struck a match and found the shaker. - </p> - <p> - In the amber fluid they pledged the success of The Nature Film Producing - Co., Inc., these Seventh-Story Men! Dwelling, the while, each in his own - thoughts, on the essential nobility of sacrificing one's self to save - another. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X—PETER THE MAGNIFICENT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>F she strikes you - as a girl you'd like to kiss, I should say, as a general principle—well, - kiss her.” - </p> - <p> - Thus Hy Lowe, musingly, seated on the decrepit flat-top desk between the - two windows of the studio, swinging his legs. - </p> - <p> - Peter Ericson Mann met this observation with contempt. “Right off, I - suppose! First time you meet her—just like that!” - </p> - <p> - The expert waved his cigarette. “Sure. Kiss her.” - </p> - <p> - “She murmurs her thanks, doubtless.” - </p> - <p> - “Not at all. She hates you. Won't ever speak to you again.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, really!” Peter was caustic. - </p> - <p> - “She didn't think you were that sort; and won't for a minute permit you to - think she's that sort.” - </p> - <p> - “And then?” - </p> - <p> - Another wave of the cigarette. “Slow down. Be kind to her. If she's a - cross old thing, forgive her. Let her see that you're a regular fellow, - even if you did start from third base instead of first. Above all, keep - cool. Avoid tragedy, scenes. Keep smiling. When she does swing round—well, - you've kissed her. There you are!” - </p> - <p> - Peter surveyed his apartment mate with gloomy eyes. “Sue and Betty are two - very different girls,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “My son,” replied Hy, “I am not discussing persons. I am enunciating a - principle. What may have passed between friend Betty and me has nothing to - do with it.” He glanced at his watch. “Though I'll admit she is expecting - me around this evening. She doesn't hate me, Pete.... Funny thing about - Betty—she was telling me—there's a man up in her town - pestering her to death. Letters and telegrams. Wants to marry her. He - makes gas engines. Queer about these small-town fellows—they can't - understand a free-spirited woman. Imagine Betty cooped up like that!” - </p> - <p> - “I'm not likely to be kissing Sue,” growled Peter. - </p> - <p> - “My son, you've as good as done it already. From your own admission. Asked - her to marry you. Right off, too—just like that! Can't you see it's - the same thing in principle—shock and reaction! She'd have preferred - the kiss of course—” - </p> - <p> - “You don't know that?” - </p> - <p> - “The trouble with you, Pete, is that you don't understand women. According - to your own story again, you startled her so that she left you on a - country road and walked ten miles alone rather than answer you. I tell - you, get a woman real angry at you just once, and she can't be indifferent - to you as long as she lives. Hate you—yes. Love you—yes. - Indifferent—no.... You've started something. Give her time.” - </p> - <p> - “Time!” snorted Peter. “Time!” He paced the long room; kicked the closet - door shut; gave the piano keys a savage bang. - </p> - <p> - Hy watched Peter with growing concern. His eyes roved about the - smoke-dimmed, high-ceiled studio. They had lived well here—himself, - Peter and the Worm. Thanks to some unknown law of personality, they had - got on, this odd trio, through the years. Girls and women had drifted into - and out of their individual lives (for your New York bachelor does not - inhabit a vacuum)—but never before had the specter of marriage - stalked with disruptive import through these dingy rooms. - </p> - <p> - “Look here, Pete,” he said, “why be so dam' serious about it!” - </p> - <p> - Peter paused in his pacing and stared at Hy.... “Serious!” He repeated the - word under his breath. His long face worked convulsively behind the large - horn-rimmed glasses (not spectacles) and their black ribbon. Then abruptly - he rushed into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him. - </p> - <p> - Hy sighed, glanced out at the weather (it was April), picked up hat, stick - and gloves and sauntered forth to dine comfortably at his club as a - ritualistic preliminary to a pleasant evening. That, he thought now, was - the great thing about bachelor life in town. You had all the advantages of - feminine companionship—in assorted varieties—and then when you - preferred or if the ladies bored you you just went to the club. - </p> - <p> - Peter sat on the edge of the bed, all nerves, and thought about Sue Wilde. - Also about six little bank books. - </p> - <p> - They had been his secret inner life, the bank books locked away in the - middle drawer of the desk on the side next the wall. Nearly seven thousand - dollars were now entered in those books—Peter's all. He was staking - it on a single throw. He had rushed in where a shrewder theatrical angel - might well have feared to tread. It was the wild outbreak of a cautious - impractical man. - </p> - <p> - He thought it all over, sitting there on the edge of the bed. It was - terrifying, but stirring. In his plays some one was always saving a girl - through an act of personal sacrifice. Now he was acting it out in life. - Indicating the truth to life of his plays.... He was risking all. But so - had Napoleon, returning from Elba, risked all (he did not pursue the - analogy). So had Henry V at Agincourt. After all, considered in this - light, it was rather fine. Certain persons would admire him if they knew. - It was the way big men did things. He was glad that Sue didn't know; it - was finer to take the plunge without so much as asking a return. It was - magnificent. - </p> - <p> - The word, popping into his thoughts, gave Peter a thrill. Yes, it was - magnificent. He was doing a magnificent thing. All that remained was to - carry it off magnificently. - </p> - <p> - He dragged his trunk from the closet. The lower tray and the bottom were - packed with photographs and with letters tied in flat bundles—letters - in various feminine hands. He stirred the bundles about. Some were old—years - old; others less so. - </p> - <p> - Peter regarded them with the detachment of exaltation. They could not - possibly mean anything to him; his life had begun the day he first saw Sue - Wilde. - </p> - <p> - He carried them into the studio, great armsful, and piled them about the - hearth. In the bottom drawer of the bureau were other packets of intimate - documents. He brought those as well. Then he set to work to burn, packet - by packet, that curiously remote past life of his. And he smiled a little - at this memory and that. - </p> - <p> - Closely packed papers do not burn easily. He was seated there on the floor - before the fireplace, stirring up sheets at which the flames had nibbled, - when Jacob Zanin came in. - </p> - <p> - Zanin stared and laughed. - </p> - <p> - “Bad as that?” said he. - </p> - <p> - Peter met this sally with dignified silence. He urged his caller to sit - down. - </p> - <p> - Zanin dropped his hat on the desk and disposed his big frame in the Morris - chair. His coat was wrinkled, his trousers baggy. Under his coat was an - old gray sweater. The head above the sweater collar was big and - well-poised. The face was hard and strong; the eyes were alight with - restlessness. - </p> - <p> - “I'm dog tired,” said Zanin. “Been rehearsing six hours straight.” And he - added: “I suppose you haven't had a chance to go over my scenario.” - </p> - <p> - “I've done more than that,” replied Peter calmly; “I've written a new - one.” And as Zanin's brows came down questioningly he added: “I think - you'll find I've pointed up your ideas. The thing was very strong. Once I - got to thinking about it I couldn't let go. What it needed was clarifying - and rearranging and building for climaxes. That's what makes it so hard - for our people to understand you Russians—you are formless, - chaotic.” - </p> - <p> - “Like life,” said Zanin. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps. But not like our stage traditions. You wanted me to help you - reach a popular audience. That's what I'm trying to do for you.” - </p> - <p> - “Fine!” said Zanin doubtfully. “Let me take it along. I'll read it - to-night—go over it with Sue, perhaps.” - </p> - <p> - Peter shook his head. - </p> - <p> - “But I'll have to see it, Mann.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll read it to you—to you and Sue,” said Peter. - </p> - <p> - Zanin looked at him, faintly surprised and thinking. - </p> - <p> - Peter went back to the hearth, dropped on his knees and threw another - bundle of letters into the fire. - </p> - <p> - “The fact is,” said Zanin, hesitating, “I had some work planned for Sue - this evening.” - </p> - <p> - “No hurry,” remarked Peter. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, but there is.” Zanin hitched forward in his chair. The eager hardness - came again into his eyes. His strong, slightly husky voice rose a little. - </p> - <p> - “Why? How so?” Peter settled back on his heels and poked the fire. - </p> - <p> - “Look here, Mann—everything's just right for us now. I've interested - the Interstellar people—-that's partly what I came to say—they'll - supply studio stuff for the interior scenes and a camera man. Also they'll - stand a third of the expense. They're ready to sign whenever you are. And - what's more important—well, here's the question of Sue.” - </p> - <p> - “What's the question?” - </p> - <p> - “It's delicate—but I'll be frank.” - </p> - <p> - “Better be. You and I are going into this as business men, Zanin.” - </p> - <p> - “Exactly. As business men. Well—Sue's a girl, after all. In this - thing we are staking a lot on her interest and enthusiasm—pretty - nearly everything.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course. - </p> - <p> - “Well, she's ready—eager. I know her pretty thoroughly, Mann. I've - studied her. We have no real hold on her. She isn't a professional - actress, to be hired at so much a week. Her only reason for going into it - at all, is that she believes, with you and me, that the thing ought to be - done. Now that's all right. It's fine! But it's going to take delicate - handling. A girl acts as she feels, you know. Right now Sue feels like - doing my Nature film with all her might.” He spread out his hands. In his - eyes was an eager appeal. “God, Maun, that's all we've got! Don't you see? - Just Sue's feelings!” - </p> - <p> - “I see,” Peter replied. He threw the last heap of photographs on the fire. - “But what was the frank thing?” - </p> - <p> - Zanin hesitated; drummed nervously on the chair-arm. “I'm coming to that. - It's a bit awkward, Mann. It's—well, I am more or less in Sue's - confidence, you know. I'm with her so much, I can sense her moods.... The - fact is, Mann, if you'll let me say so, you don't seem to understand - women.” - </p> - <p> - “So I've been told,” remarked Peter dryly. “Go on with it.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, Sue's got it into her head that you don't get the idea of - intelligent radicalism. That you're... - </p> - <p> - “That I'm a reactionary.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes—that you're a reactionary. She's worried about the scenario—afraid - you'll miss the very point of it.” Again he spread out his large strong - hands. “So don't you see why I'm eager to get hold of it and read it to - her”—he hesitated again, and knit his brows—“so I can reassure - her... You see, Mann, Sue just doesn't like you. That's the plain fact. - You've hit her all wrong.” He raised a hand to ward off Peter's - interruption. “Oh, we'll straighten that out all right! But it'll take - delicate handling—just now, while we're working out the scenario and - planning the trip south—and so, meantime...” - </p> - <p> - “You would like me to keep out of Sue's way as much as possible.” - </p> - <p> - “And leave everything to me, Mann. As it stands now, here she is, keen, - all ready, once she's solid in her mind about the right spirit of the - scenario, to start south with me...” - </p> - <p> - Peter waved the poker in a series of small circles and figure eights; then - held it motionless and sighted along it with squinted-up eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Why go south?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - Zanin gave a start and stared at him; then controlled himself, for the - expenses of that little trip, two-thirds of them, at least, must be paid - out of the funds entered in Peter's six little bank books. - </p> - <p> - “Why go south?” Zanin repeated, gropingly; then came back at Peter with a - rush of words. “Good lord, Mann, don't you see that we're putting over a - big piece of symbolism—the most delicate and difficult job on earth. - This isn't <i>Shore Acres!</i> It isn't the <i>Doll's House!</i> It's a - realized dream, and it's got to be put across with such quality and power - that it will fire a new dream in the public mind. I propose to spring - right out at 'em, startle 'em—yes, shock 'em; and all the time keep - it where they can't lay their vulgar hands on it. We can't show our Nature - effects—primitive, half-nude people—against a background of a - New Jersey farm land with a chestnut tree and a couple of oaks in the - middle distance!” - </p> - <p> - “Pretty fine trees, those!” observed Peter. - </p> - <p> - “Not for a minute!” Zanin sprang to his feet; his voice rang. “Got to be - remote, exotic—dream quality, fantasy all through. Florida or - California—palm trees and such. Damn it, the thing's a poem! It's - got to be done as a poem.” - </p> - <p> - He strode down the room and back. - </p> - <p> - Peter got up, very calm, rather white about the mouth and watched him.... - Dream quality? His thoughts were woven through and through with it at this - moment. A voice at his inner ear, a voice curiously like Hy's, was - murmuring over and over: “Sure! Kiss her.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't you see?” cried Zanin, confronting him, and spreading out those big - hands. Peter wished wildly that he would keep them in his pockets, put - them behind his back—anything to get them out of sight!... “Lets be - sensible, Maun. As you said, we're business men, you and I. You let me - take the scenario. I'm to see Sue this evening—I'll read it to her. - I'm sure it's good. It'll reassure her. And it will help me to hold her - enthusiasm and pave the way for a better understanding between her and - you.” - </p> - <p> - Quite unforeseen by either, the little matter of reading the scenario had - struck up an issue between them. All was not harmony within the - directorate of The Nature Film Producing Co., Inc., Jacob Zanin, Pres't. - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Peter. “I won't let you have it now.” - </p> - <p> - “But—good lord!—” - </p> - <p> - “I will think it over.” - </p> - <p> - Magnificent was the word. Zanin gulped down a temperamental explosion and - left. - </p> - <p> - Peter, as he came slowly back from the elevator to the apartment, - discovered that he still held the poker tightly in his right hand, like a - sword. He thought again of Napoleon and Henry V. - </p> - <p> - He stood motionless, by the window, staring out; moved by the histrionic - emotionalism that was almost his soul to stiffen his shoulders like a - king's. Out there—beyond old Washington Square where the first buds - of spring tipped the trees—beyond the glimpse, down a red-brick - vista of the Sixth Avenue Elevated—still beyond and on, were, he - knew, the dusty wandering streets, the crumbling houses with pasts, the - flimsy apartment buildings decorated in front with rococo fire escapes, - the bleak little three-cornered parks, the devastating subway excavations - of Greenwich Village. Somewhere in that welter of poverty and art, at this - very moment (unless she had walked up-town) was Sue Wilde. He tried to - imagine just where. Perhaps in the dim little rear apartment she shared - with Betty Deane, waiting for Zarin. - </p> - <p> - His gaze wandered down to the Square. There was Zanin, crossing it, under - the bare trees. - </p> - <p> - His grip on the poker relaxed. He moved toward the telephone; glanced out - again at the swift-striding Zanin; then with dignity, replaced the poker - by the fireplace, consulted the telephone book and called up Sue's - apartment. - </p> - <p> - Sue herself answered. - </p> - <p> - “This is Eric Mann,” he told her. “I want very much to talk with you”—his - voice was none too steady—“about the scenario.” - </p> - <p> - “Well”—over the wire he could feel her hesitation—“if it is - important....” - </p> - <p> - “I think it is.” - </p> - <p> - “Any time, almost, then... - </p> - <p> - “Are you busy now?” - </p> - <p> - “Why—no.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps you'd dine with me.” - </p> - <p> - “Why—all right. At Jim's, say.” - </p> - <p> - The color came rushing to Peter's face. - </p> - <p> - “Right away?” he suggested, controlling his voice. “All right. I'll meet - you there.” - </p> - <p> - Peter hung up the receiver and smiled. So Zanin was to see Sue this - evening, was he? “He'll need a telescope,” mused Peter with savage joy as - he hurried out. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI—PROPINQUITY-PLUS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>E caught up with - her at the corner nearest Jim's—the same Sue he had first met, here - in the Village, on a curbstone, eating an apple—wearing her old tarn - o'shanter; good shoulders, no hips, well-shaped hands and feet; odd, - honest deep-green eyes. - </p> - <p> - She was a wreck from endless rehearsing she told him smilingly and ordered - a big English chop and a bigger baked potato. These were good at Jim's. - She ate them like a hungry boy. - </p> - <p> - He offered her with inner hesitation, a cigarette. She shook her head. - “Zanin won't let me,” she explained. “He says it's going to be a big hard - job, coming right on top of all the work at the Crossroads, and I must - keep fit.” - </p> - <p> - “Zanin! Zanin!...” But Peter maintained his studied calm. “I've got the - scenario in my pocket,” he announced, “I want to read it to you. And if - you don't mind I'll tell you just why I want to.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I don't mind,” said she, with just one half-covert glance. - “Tell me.” - </p> - <p> - “Please hear me out,” said he. - </p> - <p> - Her lids did droop a little now. This was the Eric Mann whose plays she - had seen in past years and who had pounced on her so suddenly with a crazy - avowal of love.... A man she hardly knew! - </p> - <p> - He spoke quietly now and patiently; even with dignity. - </p> - <p> - “We—you and Zanin and I—are starting a serious job.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I know.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I began all wrong by taking a personal attitude toward you, and we - quarreled rather absurdly...” - </p> - <p> - “We won't speak of that,” said she. - </p> - <p> - “Only to this extent: Any little personal misunderstandings—well, - we've got to be businesslike and frank.... I'll tell you. This afternoon—just - now, in fact—when I suggested to Zanin that I read it to the two of - you, he objected. In fact he told me in so many words that you disliked me - and didn't trust my understanding and that it would be necessary for him - to act as a buffer between you and me.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” said she quickly, “that's absurd, of course!” - </p> - <p> - “Of course. He rather insisted on taking the scenario and reading it to - you himself. Now that won't do.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't care who reads it to me,” said Sue coolly. - </p> - <p> - “Certainly not. Now, if you'll agree with me that there's nothing personal - between us, that we're just whole-hearted workmen on a job, I...” - </p> - <p> - She raised her eyebrows a little, waking. - </p> - <p> - “...I came here with the idea of asking you to hunt Zanin up with me—making - it a matter of company business, right now.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” said she, her independent spirt stirred, “I don't see that that's - necessary. Why don't you go ahead—just read it to me?” She looked - about the smoky busy room. “But it's noisy here. And people you know come - in and want to talk. I'd ask you around to the rooms, only...” - </p> - <p> - “Only, Hy Lowe will be there.” Peter, feeling new ground under his feet, - smiled. - </p> - <p> - Sue smiled a little herself. - </p> - <p> - “How about your place?” she asked them. - </p> - <p> - The question took Peter's breath. She said it in unmistakable good faith, - like a man. But never, never, in Peter's whole adult life, had a woman - said such a thing to him. That women came occasionally; into the old - bachelor apartment building, he knew. But the implications! What would - Hamer-ton, across the hall, think of him were he to meet them together in - the elevator? What would John the night man think? Above all (this thought - came second) what would they think of Sue? - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” observed Sue, with real good humor, “I remember! That's the building - where women callers can't stay after eleven at night.” - </p> - <p> - Peter nearly succeeded in fighting back the flush that came. - </p> - <p> - “Which,” Sue continued, “has always seemed to me the final comment on - conventional morality. It's the best bit of perfectly unconscious humor in - New York.” - </p> - <p> - Peter was thinking—in flashes and leaps, like Napoleon—startled - by his own daring, yet athrill with new determination. The Worm was out of - town; Hy very much engaged.... Besides, Sue was honest and right. This was - the sincere note in the New Russianism. Being yourself, straight-out. He - must rise to it, now or never, if he was not to lose Sue for good. - </p> - <p> - So he smiled. “It's only eight,” he said. “I can read you the whole thing - and we can discuss it within a couple of hours. And we won't be - interrupted there.” - </p> - <p> - Walking straight into that building with Sue at his side, nodding with his - usual casual friendliness to John the night man, chatting while the - elevator crawled endlessly upward to the seventh floor, overcoming the - impulse to run past the doors of the other apartments, carrying it all off - with easy sophistication; this was unquestionably the bravest single act - in the whole life of Peter Ericson Mann. - </p> - <p> - Peter could be a pleasant host. He lighted the old gas-burning student - lamp on the desk; started a fire; threw all the cushions in one large pile - on the couch. - </p> - <p> - Sue threw aside her coat and tarn o'shanter, smoothed her hair a little, - then curled up on the couch with her feet under her where she could watch - the fire; and where (as it happened) the firelight played softly on her - alert face. She filled the dingy old room with a new and very human - warmth. - </p> - <p> - Peter settled back in the Morris chair and after one long look at her - plunged with a sudden fever of energy into the reading of the scenario. - </p> - <p> - It was the thing Peter did best. He read rapidly; moved forward in his - chair and gestured now and then for emphasis with his long hands; threw - more than a little sense of movement and power into it. - </p> - <p> - Sue listened rather idly at first; then, as Peter's trained, nicely - modulated voice swept on, lifted her head, leaned forward, watched his - face. Peter felt her gaze but dared not return it. Once he stopped, - flushed and hoarse, and telephoned down for ice-water. Those eyes, all - alight, followed him as he rushed past her to the door and returned with - the clinking water pitcher. He snatched up the manuscript and finished it—nearly - half an hour of it—standing. Then he threw it on the desk with a - noise that made Sue jump, and himself strode to the fireplace and stood - there, mopping his face, still avoiding her eyes. She was still leaning - eagerly forward. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said he now, with a rather weak effort at casualness, “what do you - think of it? Of course it's a rough draft—” - </p> - <p> - “Of course it is no such thing,” said she. - </p> - <p> - She got up; moved to the table: took up the manuscript and turned the - first pages. Then she came to the other side of the hearth with it, “What - I want to know is—How did you do it?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it's Zanin's ideas, of course; but they needed rearranging and - pointing up.” - </p> - <p> - “This isn't a rearrangement,” said she; and now he awoke to consciousness - of the suppressed stirring quality in her voice, a quality he had not - heard in it before. “It isn't a rearrangement. It's a created thing.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” he cried, “you really think that!” - </p> - <p> - “It carries the big idea. It's the very spirit of freedom. It's a—a - sort of battle-cry—” She gave a little laugh—“Of course it - isn't that, exactly; it's really a big vital drama. I'm talking rather - wildly. But—” She confronted him; he looked past her hair at the - wall. She stamped her foot. “Don't make me go on saying these inane - things, please! You know as well as I do what you've done.” - </p> - <p> - “What have I done?” - </p> - <p> - “You've stated our faith with a force and a fineness that Zanin, even, - could never get. You've said it all for us.... Oh, I owe you an apology! - Zanin told you part of the truth. I didn't dream—from your plays and - things you have said—that you could do this.” - </p> - <p> - Peter looked at her now with breathless solemnity. “I've changed,” he - said. - </p> - <p> - “Something has happened.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm not ashamed of changing.” - </p> - <p> - She smiled. - </p> - <p> - “Or of growing, even.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course not,” said she. “But listen! You don't know what you've done. - Do you suppose I've been looking forward to this job—making myself - sensationally conspicuous, working with commercial-minded people? Oh, how - I've dreaded that side of it! And worrying all the time because the - scenario wasn't good. It just wasn't. It wasn't real people, feeling and - living; it was ideas—nothing but ideas—stalking around. That's - Zanin, of course. He's a big man, he has got the ideas, but he hasn't got - <i>people</i>, quite; he just doesn't understand women,... Don't you see,” - she threw out her hands—“the only reason, the only excuse, really, - for going through with this ordeal is to help make people everywhere - understand Truth. And I've known—it's been discouraging—that - we couldn't possibly do that unless it was clearly expressed for us.... - Now do you see what you've done? It's <i>that!</i> And it's pretty - exciting.” - </p> - <p> - “Zanin may not take it this way.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, he will! He'll have to. It means so much to him. That man has lost - everything at the Crossroads, you know. And now he is staking all he has - left—his intelligence, his strength, his courage, on this. It means - literally everything to him.” - </p> - <p> - Peter stared at her. “And what do you suppose it means to me!” - </p> - <p> - “Why—I don't know, of course...” - </p> - <p> - Peter strode to the desk, unlocked the middle drawer next the wall, drew - out the six little bank books, and almost threw them into her lap. - </p> - <p> - “Look at those,” he said—“all of them!” - </p> - <p> - “Why—” she hesitated. - </p> - <p> - “Go through them, please! Add them up.” - </p> - <p> - Half smiling, she did so. Then said: “It seems to come to almost seven - thousand dollars.” - </p> - <p> - “That's the money that's going to work out your dream.” - </p> - <p> - She glanced up at him, then down at the books. - </p> - <p> - “It's all I've got in the world—all—all! That, and the three - per cent, it brings in. My play—they're going to produce it in the - fall. You won't like it. It's the old ideas, the old Broadway stuff.” - </p> - <p> - “But you've changed.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Since I wrote it. It doesn't matter. It may bring money, it may not. - Likely not. Ninety per cent, of 'em fail, you know. This is all I've got—every - cent All my energy and what courage I've got goes after it—into The - Nature Film Producing Company. Please understand that! I'm leading up to - something.” - </p> - <p> - She looked a thought disturbed. He rushed on. - </p> - <p> - “Zanin's got it into his head that he's going to take you south to do all - the outdoor scenes.” - </p> - <p> - “I haven't agreed to that. He feels that it's necessary.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, he does. He's sincere enough. Remember, I'm talking impersonally. As - I told you, we've got to be businesslike—and frank. We've got to!” - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” said she. - </p> - <p> - “I'm beginning to see that Zanin is just as much of a hero with other - people's money as he is with his own.” - </p> - <p> - “That goes with the temperament, I suppose.” - </p> - <p> - “Undoubtedly. But now, see! That trip south—taking actors and camera - man and outfit—staying around at hotels—railway fares—it - will cost a fortune.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” said she, very grave, “I hadn't realized that.” - </p> - <p> - “If we can just keep our heads—-more carefully—spend the money - where it will really show on the film—don't you see, we can swing - it, and when we've done it, it won't belong to the Interstellar people—or - to Silverstone; it'll be ours. And that means it'll be what we—you—want - it to be and not something vulgar and—and nasty. The other way, it - we give Zanin his head and begin spending money magnificently, we'll run - out, and then the price of a little more money, if we can get it at all, - will be, the control.” - </p> - <p> - Re reached down for the books, threw them back into the drawer, slammed it - and locked it. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said, “that's all I've got. I pledge it all, here and now, to - the dream you've dreamed. All I ask is, keep in mind what may happen when - it's gone.” - </p> - <p> - She rose now; stood thinking; then drew on her lam o'shanter and reached - for her coat. - </p> - <p> - “Let me think this over,” she said soberly. - </p> - <p> - “We must be businesslike,” said he. “Impersonal.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said she, and stepped over to the fire, low-burning now with a mass - of red coals. - </p> - <p> - Peter's eyes, deep, gloomy behind the big glasses, followed her. He came - slowly and stood by her. - </p> - <p> - “I must go,” she said gently. “It'll he eleven first thing we known It - would be a bit too amusing to be put out.” - </p> - <p> - They lingered. - </p> - <p> - Then Peter found himself lifting his arms. He tried to keep them down, but - up, up they came—very slowly, he thought. - </p> - <p> - He caught her shoulders, swung her around, drew her close. It seemed to - him afterward, during one of the thousand efforts he made to construct a - mental picture of the scene, that she must have been resisting him and - that he must have been using his strength; but if this was so it made no - difference. Her head was in the hollow' of his arm. He bent down, drew her - head up, kissed, as it happened, her nose; forced her face about and at - the second effort kissed her lips. If she was struggling—and Peter - will never be quite clear on that point—she was unable to resist - him. He kissed her again. And then again. A triumphant fury was upon him. - </p> - <p> - But suddenly it passed. He almost pushed her away from him; left her - standing, limp and breathless, by the mantel, while he threw himself on - the couch and plunged his face into his hands. - </p> - <p> - “You'll hate me,” he groaned. “You won't ever speak to me again. You'll - think I'm that sort of man, and you'll be right in thinking so. What's - worse, you'll believe I thought you were the sort to let me do it. And all - the time I love you more than—Oh God, what made me do it! What could - I have been thinking of! I was mad!” - </p> - <p> - Then the room was still. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XII—THE MOMENT AFTER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>ETER tried to - think. He could not lie there indefinitely with his face in his hands. But - he couldn't think. His mind had stopped running.... At last he must face - her. He remembered Napoleon. Slowly he lifted his head; got up. - </p> - <p> - She had seated herself on an arm of the Morris chair, taken off her tarn - o'shanter and was running her fingers through her rumpled short hair. She - did not look at him. After a moment she put the tam o'shanter on again, - but did not instantly get up; instead, reached out and drew the manuscript - toward her. - </p> - <p> - Peter stood over the fire. - </p> - <p> - “Is it any good saying I'm sorry,” he began... “Please don't talk about - it,” said she. - </p> - <p> - There was a long silence. Peter, helpless, tried and tried to think.... hy - had brought him to this. In his heart he cursed Hy. - </p> - <p> - “I've been thinking,” said Sue, fingering the manuscript; then suddenly - turning and facing him—“you and I can't do this sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, of course not,” he cried eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “If there's going to be emotional tension between us, why—-it's - going to Be hard to do the work.” She took the manuscript up now and - looked thoughtfully from page to page. “As I see the situation—if I - see it at all—it's like this: You have solved our problem. - Splendidly. There's our play. Like the rest of us, you are giving all you - have. We've got to work hard. More, we've got to cooperate, very finely - and earnestly. But we've got to be IMpersonal, businesslike. We've simply - <i>got</i> to.” - </p> - <p> - “I know it,” said he ruefully. - </p> - <p> - “So, if our wires—yours and mine—are going to get crossed like—like - this, well, you and I just mustn't see each other, that's all.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “It's too bad. When you were reading the scenario, and I saw what power - and life you have put into it, I thought it would be particularly - interesting to have you coach me. You could help me so. But it is - something, at least—” she threw out her arms again with the gesture - that he was sure he would associate with her as long as he lived—as - he would remember the picture she made, seated there on an arm of the - Morris chair, in his rooms.... - </p> - <p> - His rooms! How often in his plays had he based his big scene on Her visit - to His Rooms! And how very, very different all those scenes had been from - this. He was bewildered, trying to follow her extraordinarily calm survey - of the situation. - </p> - <p> - She was talking on. “—it is something at least to know that you have - been able to do this for us.” - </p> - <p> - She slipped off the arm of the chair now and stood before him—flushed, - but calm enough—and extended her hand. - </p> - <p> - “The best way, I think,” she said, “is for you not to see much of me just - now. That won't interfere with work at rehearsals, of course. If there's - something you want to tell me about the part, you can drop me a line or - call me up.” - </p> - <p> - Peter took her hand, clasped it for a moment, let it fall. - </p> - <p> - She moved deliberately to the door. He followed her. - </p> - <p> - “But—” said Peter huskily—“but, wouldn't I better walk home - with you?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said she, momentarily compressing her lips. “No! Better not! The - time to start being businesslike is right now. Don't you see?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he murmured. “You are right, of course.” The telephone bell rang. - </p> - <p> - “Just a moment,” said Peter. - </p> - <p> - And Sue waited, by the door. - </p> - <p> - Peter took up the receiver. She heard him stammer— - </p> - <p> - “Oh—oh, all right—eleven o'clock—all right.” - </p> - <p> - “There,” said she, laughing a little. “It has happened, you see! I'm being - put out.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm awfully sorry, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that doesn't matter! It's just amusing.” - </p> - <p> - “But I wouldn't have had it happen——” - </p> - <p> - His voice trailed off. - </p> - <p> - “Good night,” said she again. - </p> - <p> - “Good night, Sue. You are treating me better than I deserve.” - </p> - <p> - “We won't talk any more about it. Good night.” She tried to turn the catch - on the lock. He reached out to help. His hand closed over hers. He turned; - his eyes met hers; he took her in his arms again. - </p> - <p> - They moved slowly back toward the fire. “Peter—please!” she - murmured. “It won't do.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Sue—Sue!” he groaned. “If we feel this way, why not marry and - make a good job of it?” - </p> - <p> - Peter said this as she might have said it—all directness, - matter-of-fact. “I wouldn't stop you, Sue. I wouldn't ever dominate you or - take you for granted. I'd live for you, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - “I know.” She caught her breath and moved away from him. “You wouldn't - stop me, but marriage and life would. No, Peter; not now. Marriage isn't - on my calendar.... And, Peter, please don't make love to me. I don't want - you to.” - </p> - <p> - Peter moved away, too, at this. - </p> - <p> - “Look here, Sue,” he said, after a moment's thought, rather roughly, “you - go. We won't shake hands again. Just go. Right now. I promise I won't - bother you. And we—we'll put the play through—put it through - right.” - </p> - <p> - Her eyes were on his again, with a light in them. - </p> - <p> - A slow smile was coming to the corners of her mouth. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Peter,” she said very gently, “don't you—when you say that—you - make me—” - </p> - <p> - “Please—please go!” cried Peter. - </p> - <p> - The telephone rang. - </p> - <p> - “I'll think over the matter of the trip south,” said she, “and—” - </p> - <p> - “Sue, I want you to go!” - </p> - <p> - “—and let you know”. I'm not sure but what you're right. If we <i>can</i> - do it up here....” - </p> - <p> - “Good God, Sue! Please! Please!” - </p> - <p> - She moved slowly toward the door, turned the catch herself, then glanced - hesitatingly back. - </p> - <p> - Peter was standing rigidly before the fire, staring into it. He had picked - up the poker and was holding it stiffly in his right hand. - </p> - <p> - She did not know that the man standing there was not Peter at all, but a - very famous personage, shorter than Peter, and stouter, whose name had - rung resoundingly down the slope of a hundred years. - </p> - <p> - He would not turn. So she went out. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIII—TWO GIRLS OF THE VILLAGE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T is not a simple - matter to record in any detail the violent emotional reaction through - which Peter now passed. Peter had the gift of creative imagination, the - egotism to drive it far, and, for background, the character of a - theatrical chameleon. Of these qualities, I have always believed that the - egotism predominated. He could appear dignified, even distinguished; he - could also appear excitable, ungoverned. Either would be Peter. - </p> - <p> - Nothing that had happened hitherto in his life had excited him as had the - events of this evening. The excitement was, indeed, greater than he could - bear. It set his imagination blazing, and there was among Peter's - intricate emotional processes no hose of common sense adequate to the task - of subduing the flames. He stood, breathless, quivering, at the window, - looking out over the dim Square, exulting to the point of nervous - exhaustion. He walked the floor. He laughed aloud. Finally, his spirit - went on around the emotional circle through a high point of crazy - happiness to an equally crazy despondency. More time passed. The - despondency deepened. She had made stipulations. He was not to see her - again. If it should be necessary to communicate, he was to write. She had - been kind about it, but that was what she had said. Yes, she had been - kind, but her reaction would come as his had. She would hate him. - Necessarily. Hy was to that extent right. - </p> - <p> - He sat on the couch (where she had sat), held the paper in shaking hands - and stared wildly into the dying fire. Thoughts, pictures, were now racing - through his mind, in a mad tangle, hopelessly confused. One notion he laid - hold of as it went by... She had been his guest—here in his rooms. - She had trusted herself with him. He had violated the trust. If he - permitted a man to do such a thing in one of his plays, it would be for - the purpose of exhibiting that man as a cad at least—probably as a - villain. The inference was clear. Any audience that Peter was capable of - mentally projecting would instantly, automatically, accept him as such. - Peter himself knew no other attitude. And now to find himself guilty of - this very act brought the final bewilderment. - </p> - <p> - So he, Peter, was a cad at least—perhaps a villain. - </p> - <p> - And then, at the lowest ebb of his reaction, his imagination set to work - building up grotesque plans for a new different life. All these plans were - out of the conventional stuff of his plays; all were theatrical. They had - to do with self-effacement and sacrifice, with expiation, with true - nobility. There was a moment when he considered self-destruction. If you - think this wholly fantastic, I can only say that it was Peter. Another - notion was of turning explorer, becoming a world's rough hand, of meeting - hardship and privation. He pictured himself writing Sue manly letters, - once a year, say. He would live then in her memory not as a cad or - villain, but (perhaps) as a man who had been broken by a great love. Then, - in reminiscent moments, as when she saw a log fire burning low, she would - think tenderly of him. She might even sigh.... And he tried to think out - acceptable devices for leaving his money in her hands. For he must see the - Nature Film through. - </p> - <p> - He had just finished deciding this when Hy Lowe came. - </p> - <p> - Had Peter been less preoccupied, he would have noted that Hy was unusually - silent. As it was, conscious only that the atmosphere of magical - melancholy had been shattered when the door opened, Peter undressed, put - out the gas lamp and went to bed, his bed being the very couch on which - she had curled up while he read the scenario. He knew that sleep would be - impossible, but he felt that he should make every possible effort to - control himself. Hy was fussing about in the bedroom. - </p> - <p> - After a while—a long while—he heard Hy come tiptoeing into the - room and stand motionless. - </p> - <p> - “What the devil do you want!” cried Peter, starting up, all nerves. - </p> - <p> - “Just wanted to make sure you weren't asleep.” And Hy chuckled - breathlessly. - </p> - <p> - “Quit your cackling! What do you want?” - </p> - <p> - “Let me sit down, Pete. Damn it. I've got to talk—to somebody. Pete, - I'm crazy. I'm delirious. Never mind what I say. Oh, my boy. My boy, you - don't know—you can't imagine!... She's the darling of the gods, - Peter! The absolute darling of the absolute gods!” - </p> - <p> - “Is that any reason why you should come driveling all over my room at this - time of night?” - </p> - <p> - “Wait, Pete—serious now. You've got to stand by me in this. The way - I've stood by you once or twice. To-day was Friday, wasn't it? Or am I - crazy?” - </p> - <p> - “Both.” - </p> - <p> - “Then it's to-morrow! I'm just trying to believe it, Pete, that's all.” - </p> - <p> - “Believe <i>what?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Look here—you've got to know, and protect me if any unexpected - thing should come up. We're going on a little trip, Peter.” Hy was solemn - now, but his voice was uncertain. “Betty and I, Pete. To-morrow. On the - night boat.” - </p> - <p> - Peter was silent. Hy stood there for what seemed rather a long time, then - suddenly bolted back into the bedroom. In the morning he was less - expansive, merely asking Peter to respect his confidence. Which request - Peter gloomily resented as he resented Hy's luck. The fortunate young man - then packed a hand-bag and hurried off to breakfast at the club. - </p> - <p> - Peter tried to work on an empty stomach, but the effort gave him a - headache, so he made himself a cup of coffee. - </p> - <p> - He walked the streets for a while with increasing restlessness; then, to - soothe his nerves, went to the club and listlessly read the magazines. At - noon he avoided his friends, but managed to eat a small luncheon. At two - o'clock he went out aimlessly and entered the nearest moving-picture - theater. At five he wandered back to the club and furtively asked the - telephone boy if there' had been any messages for him. There had not. - </p> - <p> - He permitted himself to be drawn into a riotous game of Kelly pool. Also - he permitted himself a drink or two. - </p> - <p> - During the evening, I regret to note, he got himself rather drunk and went - home in a taxicab. This was unusual with Peter and not successful. It - intensified his self-consciousness and his sorrow, made him even gloomier. - But it did help him to sleep. - </p> - <p> - He was awakened, just before nine o'clock on Sunday morning, by the - banging of a door. Then Hy, dusty, bedraggled, haggard of face, rushed in - and stared at him. - </p> - <p> - Peter decided it was a dream and rolled over. - </p> - <p> - Hy shook him. “For God's sake, Pete!” he cried. How hoarse he was! “Where - is she? Have you heard anything?” - </p> - <p> - Peter was coming awake. - </p> - <p> - “God, Pete, I'm crazy! Don't you understand—She wasn't on the boat. - Must have got the wrong one. Oh, it's awful!... I walked that deck nearly - all night—got off way up the river and came back to New York with - the milk cans. Something terrible may have happened.” - </p> - <p> - Peter sat up. - </p> - <p> - “It seems to me,” he said, rubbing his tousled head, “that I remember - something—last night—” - </p> - <p> - Hy waited, panting. - </p> - <p> - “Look on the desk. Didn't I bring up a note or something and lay it - there?” - </p> - <p> - Hy was on the desk like a panther. There was a note. He tore it open, then - thrust it into Peter's hands, crying hoarsely, “Read it!”—and - dropped, a limp, dirt-streaked wreck of a man, into the Morris chair. - </p> - <p> - This was the note: - </p> - <p> - “<i>Henry, I'm not going. I hope this reaches you in time. Please - understand—forgive if you can. You won't see me again. B.</i>” - </p> - <p> - Peter read it again, thoughtfully; then looked up. His own none-too-clear - eyes met Hy's distinctly bloodshot ones. - </p> - <p> - “And what do you think of that!” cried Hy. “What do you think of that!... - Damn women, anyway! They don't play the game. They're not square.”... He - was clenching and unclenching his hands. Suddenly he reached for the - telephone. - </p> - <p> - But just as his hand closed on it, the bell rang. - </p> - <p> - Hy snatched up the receiver. “Yes!” he cried shortly—“Yes! Yes! He - lives here. Wait a moment, please. It's for you, Fete.” - </p> - <p> - Peter sprang out of bed and hurried to the instrument. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said he, “this is Mr. Mann.” - </p> - <p> - “Peter, it's Sue—Sue Wilde.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh—hello! I was going to call up myself in a few minutes. How have - you been?” - </p> - <p> - “Not awfully fit. This constant rehearsing seems to be on my nerves, or - something.” - </p> - <p> - There was a pause. Hy went off into the bedroom to get out of his - travel-stained clothes. - </p> - <p> - “I wanted to say, Peter—I've been thinking it all over—” - </p> - <p> - Peter braced himself. - </p> - <p> - “—and I've come to the conclusion that you are right about that - southern trip. It really isn't necessary.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm glad you feel that way.” - </p> - <p> - “I do. And we must make Zanin see it as we do.” - </p> - <p> - “We'll try.” - </p> - <p> - Another pause. Then this from Peter— - </p> - <p> - “Busy to-day?” - </p> - <p> - “I ought to be. Are you?” - </p> - <p> - “No. Can't work. Wish we could do something.” - </p> - <p> - “I'd like some air—to get away from the streets and that stuffy - theater. What could we do?” - </p> - <p> - “I'll tell you what you need, child—just the thing! We'll run down - to one of the beaches and tramp. Pick up lunch anywhere. What do you say?” - </p> - <p> - “I'll do it, Peter. Call for me, will you?... And oh, Peter, here's an odd - thing! Betty packed up yesterday while I was out and went home. Just left - a note. She has run away—given up. Going to marry a man in her town. - He makes gas engines.” - </p> - <p> - Peter started the coffee machine, smiling as he worked. A sense of deep - utter calm was flowing into his harassed spirit, pervading it. - </p> - <p> - He went into the bedroom and gazed with tolerant concern at the downcast - Hy. - </p> - <p> - “The trouble with you, my boy,” he began, then paused. - </p> - <p> - “What's the trouble with me?” growled Hy. - </p> - <p> - “The trouble with you, my boy, is that you don't understand women.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIV—THE WORM TURNS FROM BOOKS TO LIFE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE Worm worked - hard all of this particular day at the Public Library, up at Forty-second - Street and Fifth Avenue. At five o'clock he came out, paused on the vast - incline of marble steps to consider the spraying fountains of pale green - foliage on the terraces (it was late April) and the brilliant thronging - avenue and decided not to ride down to Washington Square on an autobus, - but to save the ten cents and walk. Which is how he came to meet Sue - Wilde. - </p> - <p> - She was moving slowly along with the stream of pedestrians, her old coat - open, her big tarn o'shanter hanging down behind her head and framing her - face in color. The face itself, usually vital, was pale. - </p> - <p> - She turned and walked with him. She was loafing, she said listlessly, - watching the crowds and trying to think. And she added: “It helps.” - </p> - <p> - “Helps?” - </p> - <p> - “Just feeling them crowding around—I don't know; it seems to keep - you from forgetting that everybody else has problems.” - </p> - <p> - Then she closed her lips on this bit of self-revelation. They walked a - little way in silence. - </p> - <p> - “Listen!” said she. “What are you doing?” - </p> - <p> - “Half an hour's work at home clearing up my notes, then nothing. Thinking - of dinner?” - </p> - <p> - She nodded. - </p> - <p> - “I'll meet you. Wherever you say.” - </p> - <p> - “At the Muscovy, then. By seven.” - </p> - <p> - She stopped as if to turn away, hesitated, lingered, gazing out with sober - eyes at the confusion of limousines, touring cars and taxis that rolled - endlessly by, with here and there a high green bus lumbering above all the - traffic. “Maybe we can have another of our talks, Henry,” she said. “I - hope so. I need it—or something.” - </p> - <p> - “Sue,” said he, “you're working too hard.” - </p> - <p> - She considered this, shook her head, turned abruptly away. - </p> - <p> - When he reached the old bachelor rookery in the Square he did not enter, - but walked twice around the block, thinking about Sue. It had disturbed - him to see that tired look in her odd deep-green eyes. Sue had been vivid, - striking, straightforward; fired with a finely honest revolt against the - sham life into an observance of which nearly all of us, soon or late, get - beaten down. He didn't want to see Sue beaten down like the rest. - </p> - <p> - It was pleasant that she, too, had felt deeply about their friendship. - This thought brought a thrill of the sort that had to be put down quickly; - for nothing could have been plainer than, that he stirred no thrill in - Sue. No, he was not in the running there. He lived in books, the Worm; and - he reflected with a rather unaccustomed touch of bitterness that books are - pale things. - </p> - <p> - Peter, now—he had seemed lately to be in the running. - </p> - <p> - But it hardly seemed that Peter could be the one who had brought problems - into Sue's life.... Jacob Zanin—there was another story! He was in - the running decidedly. In that odd frank way of hers, Sue had given the - Worm glimpses of this relationship. - </p> - <p> - He rounded the block a third time—a fourth—a fifth. - </p> - <p> - When he entered the apartment Peter was there, in the studio, telephoning. - To a girl, unquestionably. You could always tell, “You aren't fair to me. - You throw me aside without a word of explanation.” - </p> - <p> - Thus Peter; his voice, pitched a little high, near to breaking with - emotion; as if he were pleading with the one girl in the world—though, - to be fair to Peter, she almost always was. - </p> - <p> - The Worm stepped into the bedroom, making as much noise as possible. But - Peter talked on. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, you are taking exactly that position. As you know, I share your - interest in freedom—but freedom without fairness or decent human - consideration or even respect for one's word, comes down to selfish - caprice. Yes, selfish caprice!” - </p> - <p> - The Worm picked up a chair and banged it against the door-post. But even - this failed to stop Peter. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, my dear, of course I didn't mean that. I didn't know what I was - saying. You can't imagine how I have looked forward to seeing you this - evening. The thought of it has been with me all through this hard, hard - day. I know my nerves are a wreck. I'm all out of tune. But everything - seems to have landed on me at once...” - </p> - <p> - Finding the chair useless as a warning, the Worm sat upon it, made a wry - face, folded his arms. - </p> - <p> - “... I've got to go away. You knew that, dear. This was my last chance to - see you for weeks—and yet you speak of seeing me any time. It hurts, - little girl. It just plain hurts to be put off like that. It doesn't seem - like us.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm wondered, rather casually, to how many girls Peter had talked in - this way during the past three years—stage girls, shop girls—the - pretty little Irish one, from the glove counter up-town; and that young - marred person on the upper West Side of whom Peter had been unable to - resist bragging a little; and Maria Tonifetti, manicurist at the sanitary - barber shop of Marius; and—oh, yes, and Grace Herring. Only last - year. The actress. She played Lena in Peter's <i>The Buzzard</i>, and - later made a small sensation in <i>The Gold Heart</i>. That affair had - looked, for several months, like the real thing. The Worm recalled one - tragic night, all of which, until breakfast rime, he had passed in that - very studio talking Peter out of suicide. - </p> - <p> - He wondered who this new girl could be. Was it Sue, by any chance? Were - they that far along? - </p> - <p> - The Worm got up with some impatience and went in there—just as Peter - angrily slammed the receiver on its hook. - </p> - <p> - “I hear you're going away,” the Worm observed - </p> - <p> - Peter swung around and peered through his big glasses. He made a visible - effort to compose himself. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” he said, “hello! What's that? Yes, I'm leaving to-morrow afternoon. - Neuerman is going to put <i>The Truffler</i> on the road for a few; weeks - this spring to try out the cast.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm regarded him thoughtfully. “Look here, Pete,” said he, “it isn't - my fault that God gave me ears. I heard your little love scene.” - </p> - <p> - Peter looked blankly at him; then his face twisted convulsively and he - buried his face in his hands. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Henry!” he groaned. “It's awful. I'm in love, man!” His voice was - really trembling. “It's got me at last—the real thing. I must tell - somebody—it's racking me to pieces—I can't work, can't sleep. - It's Sue Wilde. I've asked her to marry me—she can't make up her - mind. And now; I've got to go away for weeks and leave things... - Za-Zanin...” - </p> - <p> - He sat up, stiffened his shoulders, bit his lip. The Worm feared he was - going to cry. But instead he sprang up, rushed from the room and, a moment - later, from the apartment. - </p> - <p> - The Worm sat on a corner of the desk and looked after him, thought about - him, let his feelings rise a little.... Peter, even in his anger and - confusion, had managed to look unruffled, well-groomed. He always did. No - conceivable outburst of emotion could have made him forget to place his - coat on the hanger and crease his trousers carefully in the frame. His - various suits were well made. They fitted him. They represented thought - and money. His shoes—eight or nine pairs in all—were custom - made and looked it. His scarfs were of imported silk. His collars came - from England and cost forty cents each. His walking sticks had - distinction.... And Peter was successful with women. No doubt about that. - </p> - <p> - The Worm gazed down at himself. The old gray suit was; a shapeless thing. - The coat pockets bulged—note-book and wad of loose notes on one - side, a paper-bound volume in the Russian tongue on the other. He had just - one other suit. It hung from a hook in the closet, and he knew that it, - too, was shapeless. - </p> - <p> - A clock, somewhere outside, struck seven. - </p> - <p> - He started; stuffed his note-book and papers into a drawer; drew the - volume in Russian from his other pocket, made as if to lay it on the - table, then hesitated. It was his custom to have some reading always by - him. Sue might be late. She often was. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly he raised the book above his head and threw it against the wall - at the other end of the room. Then he picked up his old soft hat (he never - wore an overcoat) and rushed out. - </p> - <p> - The Muscovy is a basement restaurant near Washington Square. You get into - it from the street by stumbling down a dark twisting flight of uneven - steps and opening a door under a high stoop. Art dines here and Anarchism; - Ideas sit cheek by jowl with the Senses. - </p> - <p> - Sue was not late. She sat in the far corner at one of the few small tables - in the crowded room. Two men, a poet and a painter, lounged against the - table and chatted with her languidly. She had brightened a little for - them. There was a touch of color in her cheeks and some life in her eyes. - The Worm noted this fact as he made his way toward her. - </p> - <p> - The poet and the painter wandered languidly away. The chatter of the - crowded smoky room rose to its diurnal climax; passed it as by twos and - threes the diners drifted out to the street or up-stairs to the dancing - and reading-rooms of the Freewoman's Club; and then rapidly died to - nothing. - </p> - <p> - Two belated couples strolled in, settled themselves sprawlingly at the - long center table and discussed with the offhand, blandly sophisticated - air that is the Village manner the currently accepted psychology of sex. - </p> - <p> - The Worm was smoking now—his old brier pipe—and felt a bit - more like his quietly whimsical self. Sue, however, was moody over her - coffee. - </p> - <p> - A pasty-faced, very calm young man, with longish hair, came in and joined - in the discussion at the center table. - </p> - <p> - Sue followed this person with troubled eyes, “Listen, Henry!” she said - then, “I'm wondering—” - </p> - <p> - He waited. - </p> - <p> - “—for the first time in two years—if I belong in Greenwich - Village.” - </p> - <p> - “I've asked myself the same question, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - This remark perturbed her a little; as if it had not before occurred to - her that other eyes were reading her. Then she rushed on—“Take - Waters Coryell over there”—she indicated the pasty-faced one—“I - used to think he was wonderful. But he's all words, Like the rest of us. - He always carries that calm assumption of being above ordinary human - limitations. He talks comradeship and the perfect freedom. But I've had a - glimpse into his methods—Abbie Esterzell, you know—” - </p> - <p> - The Worm nodded. - </p> - <p> - “—and it isn't a pretty story. I've watched the women, too—the - free lovers. Henry, they're tragic. When they get just a little older.” - </p> - <p> - He nodded again. “But we were talking about you, Sue. You're not all - words.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes I am. All talk, theories, abstractions. It gets you, down here. You - do it, like all the others. It's a sort of mental taint. Yet it has been - every thing to me. I've believed it, heart and soul. It has been my - religion.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm not much on generalizing, Sue,” observed the Worm, “but sometimes I - have thought that there's a lot of bunk in this freedom theory—'self-realization,' - 'the complete life,' so on. I notice that most of the men and women I - really admire aren't worried about their liberty, Sometimes I've thought - that there's a limit to our human capacity for freedom just as there's a - limit to our capacity for food and drink and other pleasant things—sort - of a natural boundary. The people that try to pass that boundary seem to - detach themselves in some vital way from actual life. They get unreal—act - queer—<i>are</i> queer. They reach a point where their pose is all - they've got. As you say, it's a taint. It's a noble thing, all right, to - light and bleed and die for freedom for others. But it seems to work out - unhappily when people, men or women, insist too strongly on freedom for - their individual selves.” - </p> - <p> - But Sue apparently was not listening. Her cheeks—they were flushed—rested - on her small fists. - </p> - <p> - “Henry,” she said, “it's a pretty serious thing to lose your religion.” - </p> - <p> - “Losing yours, Sue?” - </p> - <p> - “I'm afraid it's gone.” - </p> - <p> - “You thought this little eddy of talk was real life?” - </p> - <p> - She nodded. “Oh, I did.” - </p> - <p> - “And then you encountered reality?” - </p> - <p> - Her eyes, startled, vivid, now somber, flashed up at him. “Henry, how did - you know? What do you know?” - </p> - <p> - “Not a thing, Sue. But I know you a little. And I've thought about you.” - </p> - <p> - “Then,” she said, her eyes down again, suppression in her voice—“then - they aren't talking about me?” - </p> - <p> - “Not that I've heard. Sue. Though it would hardly come to me.” - </p> - <p> - She bit her lip. “There you have it, Henry. With the ideas I've held, and - talked everywhere, I ought not to care what they say. But I do care.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course. They all do.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you think so?” She considered this. “You said something a moment ago - that perhaps explains—about the natural boundary of human - freedom.... Listen! You knew Betty Deane, the girl that roomed with me? - Well, less than a year ago, after letting herself go some all the year—it's - fair enough to say that, to you; she didn't cover her tracks—she - suddenly ran off and married a manufacturer up in her home town. I'm sure - there wasn't any love in it. I know it, from things she said and did. All - the while he was after her she was having her good times here. I suppose - she had reached the boundary. She married in a panic. She was having a - little affair with your friend—what's his name?” - </p> - <p> - “Hy Lowe?” - </p> - <p> - The Worm smiled faintly. The incorrigible Hy had within the week set up a - fresh attachment. This time it was a new girl in the Village—one - Hilda Hansen, from Wisconsin, who designed wall-paper part of the time. - </p> - <p> - But he realized that Sue, with a deeper flush now and a look in her eyes - that he did not like to see there, was speaking. - </p> - <p> - “When I found out what Betty had done I said some savage things, Henry. - Called her a coward. Oh, I was very superior—very sure of myself. - And here's the grotesque irony of it.” Her voice was unsteady. “Here's - what one little unexpected contact with reality can do to the sort of - scornful independent mind I had. Twenty-four hours—less than that—after - Betty went I found myself soberly considering doing the same thing.” - </p> - <p> - “Marrying?” The Worm's voice was suddenly low and a thought husky. - </p> - <p> - She nodded. - </p> - <p> - “A man you don't love?” - </p> - <p> - “I've had moments of thinking I loved him, hours of wondering how I could, - possibly.” - </p> - <p> - He was some time in getting out his next remark. It was, “You'd better - wait.” - </p> - <p> - She threw out her hands in an expressive way she had. “Wait? Yes, that's - what I've told myself, Henry. But I've lost my old clear sense of things. - My nerves aren't steady. I have queer reactions.” - </p> - <p> - Then she closed her lips as she had once before on this day, up there on - the avenue. She even seemed to compose herself. Waters Coryell came over - from the other table and for a little time talked down to them from his - attitude of self-perfection. - </p> - <p> - When he had gone the Worm said, to make talk, “How are the pictures coming - on?” - </p> - <p> - Then he saw that he had touched the same tired nerve center. Her flush - began to return. - </p> - <p> - “Not very well,” she said; and thought for a moment, with knit brows and - pursed lips. - </p> - <p> - She threw out her hands again. “They're quarreling, Henry.” - </p> - <p> - “Zanin and Peter?” - </p> - <p> - She nodded. “It started over Zanin's publicity. He is a genius, you know. - Any sort of effort that will help get the picture across looks legitimate - to him.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” mused the Worm, trying to resume the modestly judicial habit - of mind that had seemed lately to be leaving him, “I suppose, in a way, he - is right. It is terribly hard to make a success of such an enterprise. It - is like war—-the only possible course is to win.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose so,” said she, rather shortly. “But then there's the expense - side of it. Zanin keeps getting the bit in his teeth.... Lately I've begun - to see that these quarrels are just the surface. The real clash lies - deeper. It's partly racial, I suppose, and partly—” - </p> - <p> - “Personal?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” She threw out her hands. “They're fighting over me. I don't mind it - so much in Peter. He has only lately come to see things our way. He never - made the professions Zanin has of being superior to passions, jealousies, - the sense of possession.” - </p> - <p> - She paused, brooding, oblivious now to her surroundings, slowly shaking - her head. “Zanin has always said that the one real wrong is to take or - accept love where it isn't real enough to justify itself. But now when I - won't see him—those are the times he runs wild with the business. - Then Peter has to row with him to check the awful waste of money. Peter's - rather wonderful about it. He never loses his courage.” - </p> - <p> - This was a new picture of Peter. The Worm gave thought to it. - </p> - <p> - “First he took Zanin's disconnected abstractions and made a real film - drama out of them. It's big stuff, Henry. Powerful and fine. And then he - threw in every cent he had.” - </p> - <p> - “Peter threw in every cent!...” The Worm was startled upright, pipe in - hand. - </p> - <p> - “Every cent, Henry. All his savings. And never a grudging word. Not about - that.” - </p> - <p> - She dropped her chin on her hands. Tears were in her eyes. Her boy-cut - short hair had lately grown out a little, and was rumpled where she had - run her fingers through it. It was fine-spun hair and thick on her head. - It was all high lights and rich brown shades. The Worm found himself - wishing it was long and free, rippling down over her shoulders. He - thought, too, of the fine texture of her skin, just beneath the hair. A - warm glow was creeping through his nervous system and into his mind.... He - set his teeth hard on his pipestem. - </p> - <p> - She leaned back more relaxed and spoke in a quieter tone. “You know how I - feel about things, Henry. I quit my home. I have put on record my own - little protest against the conventional lies we are all fed on from the - cradle here in America. I went into this picture thing with my eyes open, - because it was what I believed in. It wasn't a pleasant thought—making - myself so conspicuous, acting for the camera without clothes enough to - keep me warm. I believed in Zanin, too. And it seemed to be a way in which - I could really do something for him—after all he had done for me. - But it hasn't turned out well. The ideals seem to have oozed out of it.” - </p> - <p> - There she hesitated; thought a little; then added: “The thing I didn't - realize was that I was pouring out all my emotional energy. I had Zanin's - example always before me. He never tires. He is iron. The Jews are, I - think. But—I—” she tried to smile, without great success—“Well, - I'm not iron. Henry, I'm tired.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm slept badly that night. - </p> - <p> - The next morning, after Peter and Hy Lowe had gone, the Worm stood - gloomily surveying his books—between two and three hundred of them, - filling the case of shelves between the front wall and the fireplace, - packed in on end and sidewise and heaped haphazard on top. - </p> - <p> - Half a hundred volumes in calf and nearly as many in Morocco dated from a - youthful period when bindings mattered. College years were represented by - a shabby row—Eschuylus, Euripides, Aristophanes, Plato, Plutarch, - Virgil and Horace. He had another Horace in immaculate tree calf. There - was a group of early Italians; an imposing Dante; a Boccaccio, very rare, - in a dated Florentine binding; a gleaning of French history, philosophy - and <i>belles-lettres</i> from Phillippe de Comines and Villon through - Rabelais, Le Sage. Racine, Corneille and the others, to Bergson, Brieux, - Rolland and Anatole France—with, of course, Flaubert, de Maupassant - and a tattered series of <i>Les Trois Mousquetaires</i> in seven volumes; - some modern German playwrights, Hauptmann and Schnitzler among them; Ibsen - in two languages; Strindberg in English; Gogol, Tchekov, Gorky, - Dostoïevski, of the Russians (in that tongue); the modern psychologists—Forel, - Havelock Ellis, Freud—and the complete works of William James in - assorted shapes and bindings, gathered painstakingly through the years. - Walt Whitman was there, Percy's <i>Reliques</i>, much of Galsworthy, Wells - and Conrad, <i>The Story of Gosta Berling</i>, John Masefield, and a - number of other recent poets and novelists. All his earthly treasures were - on those shelves; there, until now, had his heart been also. - </p> - <p> - He took from its shelf the rare old Boccaccio in the dated binding, tied a - string around it, went down the corridor with it to the bathroom, filled - the tub with cold water and tossed the book in. - </p> - <p> - It bobbed up to the surface and floated there. - </p> - <p> - He frowned—sat on the rim of the tub and watched it for ten minutes. - It still floated. - </p> - <p> - He brought it back to the studio then and set to work methodically making - up parcels of books, using all the newspapers he could find. Into each - parcel went a weight—the two ends of the brass book-holder on the - desk, a bronze elephant, a heavy glass paper-weight, a pint bottle of ink, - an old monkey-wrench, the two bricks from the fireplace that had served as - andirons. - </p> - <p> - He worked in a fever of determination. By two o'clock that afternoon he - had completed a series of trips across the West Side and over various - ferry lines, and his entire library lay at the bottom of the North River. - </p> - <p> - From the last of these trips, feeling curiously light of heart, he - returned to find a taxi waiting at the curb and in the studio Peter, hat, - coat and one glove on, his suit-case on a chair, furiously writing a note. - </p> - <p> - Peter finished, leaned back, mopped his forehead. “The books,” he - murmured, waving a vague hand toward the shelves. “Where are they?” - </p> - <p> - “I'm through with books. Going in for reality.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” mused the eminent playwright—“a girl.” - </p> - <p> - “Pete, you're wonderful.” - </p> - <p> - “Chucking your whole past life?” - </p> - <p> - “It's chucked.” Then the Worm hesitated. For a moment his breath nearly - failed him. He stood balancing on the brink of the unknown; and he knew he - had to make the plunge. “Pete—I've got a few hundred stuck away—and, - anyhow, I'm going out for a real job.” - </p> - <p> - “A job! You! What kind?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh—newspaper man, maybe. I want the address—who is your - tailor?” - </p> - <p> - Peter jotted it down. “By the way,” he said, “here's our itinerary. Stick - it in your pocket.” Then he gazed at the Worm in a sort of solemn humor. - “So the leopard is changing his spots,” he mused. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know about that,” replied the Worm, flushing,' then reduced to a - grin—as he pocketed the tailor's address—“but this particular - Ethiop is sure going to make a stab at changing his skin.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XV—ZANIN MAKES HIMSELF FELT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>UE was in her - half-furnished living-room—not curled comfortably on the couch-bed, - as she would have been a month or two earlier, but sitting rather stiffly - in a chair, a photograph in her listless hand. - </p> - <p> - Zanin—big, shaggy, sunburnt—walked the floor. “Are you turning - conventional, Sue?” he asked. “What is it? You puzzle me.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't want that picture used, Jacob.” - </p> - <p> - He lighted a cigarette, dropped on a wooden chair, tipped it Lack against - the wall, twisted his feet around the front legs, drummed on the front of - the seat with big fingers. - </p> - <p> - He reached for the photograph. It was Sue herself, as she would appear in - one of the more daring scenes of Nature. - </p> - <p> - “It's an honest picture, Sue—right off the film.” She was very - quiet. “It's the singling it out, Jacob. In the film it is all movement, - action—it passes. It doesn't stay before their eyes.” A little - feeling crept into her voice. “I agreed to do the film, Jacob. I'm doing - it. Am I not?” - </p> - <p> - “But you're drawing a rather sharp line, Sue. We've got to hit them hard - with this thing. I don't expect Mann to understand. I've got to work along - with him as best I can and let it go at that. But I count on you.” The - legs of the chair came down with a bang. He sprang up and walked the floor - again. His cigarette consumed, he lighted another with the butt, which - latter he tossed into a corner of the room. Sue's eyes followed it there. - She was still gazing at it when Zanin paused before her. She could feel - him looking down at her. She wished it were possible to avoid discussion - just now. There had been so many discussions during these crowded two - years.... She raised her eyes. There were his, fixed on her. He was not - tired. His right hand was plunged into his thick hair; his left hand held - the cigarette. - </p> - <p> - “You're none too fit, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - She moved her hands in assert. - </p> - <p> - “And that's something to be considered seriously. We need you fit.” - </p> - <p> - She did not answer at once. She would have liked to send him away. She - tried to recall the long slow series of events, each dovetailed so - intricately into the next that had brought them so close. Her mind—her - sense of fairness—told her that he had every right to stand there - and talk at her; yet he seemed suddenly and oddly a stranger. - </p> - <p> - “Suppose,” she said, “we stop discussing me.” - </p> - <p> - He shook his head. “It's quite time to begin discussing you. It's - suppressions, Sue. You've played the Village game with your mind, but - you've kept your feelings under. The result is natural enough—your - nerves are in a knot. You must let go—trust your emotions.” - </p> - <p> - “I trust my emotions enough,” said she shortly. - </p> - <p> - He walked back and forth. “Let's look at this dispassionately, Sue. We - can, you and I. Of course I love you—you know that. There have been - women enough in my life, but none of them has stirred my blood as you - have. Not one. I want you—desperately—every minute—month - in, month out. But”—he stood before her again—“if you can't - let go with me, I'd almost—surely, yes, I can say it, I'd rather it - would be somebody else then. But somebody, something. You're all buttled - up. It's dangerous.” - </p> - <p> - She stirred restlessly. - </p> - <p> - “You know that as well as I.” He was merciless. - </p> - <p> - The worst of it was he really seemed dispassionate. For the moment she - could not question his sincerity. He went on—“As lately as last - winter you would have carried all this off with a glorious flare. It's - this suppression that has got to your nerves, as it was bound to. You're - dodging, I'm afraid. You're refusing life.” He lit another cigarette. - “It's damn puzzling. At heart you are, I know, a thoroughbred. I can't - imagine you marrying for a living or to escape love. You're intelligent—too - intelligent for that.” She moved restlessly, picked up the photograph and - studied it again. - </p> - <p> - “You can't go back to that home of yours...” - </p> - <p> - “I'm not going back there,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “And you can't quit. We're too deep in.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't talk about that, Jacob!” she broke out. “I'm not going to quit.” - </p> - <p> - He dropped casually on the arm of her chair. One big hand rested on the - chair-back, the other took hers and held it, with the picture, a little - higher. - </p> - <p> - She seemed for an instant to shrink away; then, with slightly compressed - lips, sat motionless. - </p> - <p> - “You think I am squeamish,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I do.” They both looked at the photograph. - </p> - <p> - “Really, Sue—why on earth!... What is it, anyway? Are you all of a - sudden ashamed of your body?” - </p> - <p> - “Don't expect me to explain. I know I'm inconsistent.” - </p> - <p> - He pressed her hand; then his other big hand very quietly stroked her - hair, slid down to her forehead, rested slightly on her flushed temple and - cheek. - </p> - <p> - “You poor child,” he said, “you're almost in a fever. You've got to do - something. Don't you see that?” - </p> - <p> - She was silent. - </p> - <p> - “It's tearing you to pieces, this giving the lie to your own beliefs. - You've got to let go, Sue! For God's sake, be human! Accept a little - happiness. You're not a small person. You are gifted, big. But you've got - to live the complete life. It's the only answer.... See here. Peter's - away, isn't he?” - </p> - <p> - “He left last Thursday... I had a note...” - </p> - <p> - “I didn't,” Zanin smiled grimly. “It's Tuesday, now. We can't do those - outdoor scenes yet. You come away with me. I'll take you off into the - hills somewhere—over in Pennsylvania or up-state. Let's have some - happiness, Sue. And give me a chance to take a little real care of you. - Half my strength is rusting right now because you won't use it.” - </p> - <p> - He drew her closer. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly she sprang up, leaped across the room, whirled against the wall - and faced him. - </p> - <p> - Then she faltered perceptibly, for on his face she saw only frank - admiration. - </p> - <p> - “Fine, Sue!” he cried. “That's the old fire! Damn it, girl, don't let's be - childish about this! You and I don't need to get all of a flutter at the - thought of love. If I didn't stir an emotional response in you do you - think I'd want you? But I do.” He rose and came to her. He gripped her - shoulders and made her look at him. “Child, for God's sake, don't all at - once forget everything you know! Where's your humor? Can't you see that - this is exactly what you've got to have—that somebody has got to - stir you as I'm stirring you now! If I couldn't reach you, it would have - to be some one else. A little love won't hurt you any. The real danger - I've been fearing is that no man would be able to stir you. That would be - the tragedy. You're a live vital girl. You're an artist. Of course you've - got to have love. You'll never do real work without it. You'll never even - grow up without it.” - </p> - <p> - She could not meet his eyes. And she had a disheartening feeling that he - was reasonable and right, granting the premises of their common - philosophy. - </p> - <p> - He took his hands away. She heard him strike a match and light a - cigarette, then move about the room. Then his voice— - </p> - <p> - “What do you say, Sue—will you pack a bag and start off with me? - It'll do both of us good. It'll give us new life for our job.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0185.jpg" alt="0185 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0185.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - She was shaking her head. “No,” she said. “No.” - </p> - <p> - “If it was only this,” he said, thoughtfully enough—“but it's - everything. Peter is lying down on me and now you are failing me utterly.” - </p> - <p> - She dropped on a chair by the door. “That's the hardest thing you ever - said to me, Jacob.” - </p> - <p> - “It is true. I'm not blaming you. But it is a fact I have to meet.... Sue, - do you think for one moment I intend being beaten in this enterprise? - Don't you know me better than that? You are failing me. Not in love—that - is personal. But in the work. Lately I have feared that Peter had your - love. Now, Sue, if I am not to have you I can almost wish he had. When you - do accept love it will hurt you. I have no doubt of that. There will be - reactions. The conventional in you will stab and stab. But you are not - little, and you will feel the triumph of it. It will make you. After all, - however it may come, through door or window, love is life.” - </p> - <p> - She had folded her hands in her lap and was looking down at them. “I have - no doubt you are right,” she said slowly and quietly. - </p> - <p> - He gave a weary sigh. “Of course. Your own intelligence tells you.... If - you won't go with me, Sue, I may slip away alone. I've got to think. I've - got to get money. I can get it, and I will. A little more energy, a little - more expenditure of personality will do it. It can always be done.” - </p> - <p> - Her mind roused and seized on this as a momentary diversion. “Do you mean - to go outside for it?” - </p> - <p> - “If it comes to that. Don't you know, Sue, that we're too far in with this - thing to falter. The way to make money is to spend money. Peter's a - chicken. If he won't come through, somebody's got to. Why it would cost - more than a thousand dollars—perhaps two thousand—merely to do - what I have planned to do with the picture you so suddenly dislike,” He - looked about for his hat. “I'm going, Sue. I've let myself get stirred up; - and that, of course, is foolishness. I'm just tiring you out. You can't - help, I see that—not as you are.” - </p> - <p> - She rose and leaned against the wall by the door. He took her arm as he - reached her side. “Buck up, little girl,” he said; “don't blame yourself.” - </p> - <p> - She did not answer, and for a long moment they stood thus. Then she heard - him draw in his breath. - </p> - <p> - His arms were around her. He held her against him. - </p> - <p> - “Have you got a kiss for me, Sue?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - She shook her head. - </p> - <p> - He let her go then, and again she leaned against the walk - </p> - <p> - “Good-by,” said he. “If you could bring yourself to share the real thrill - with me, I could help you. But I'm not going to wear you out with this - crude sex-duel stuff. Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - “Wait,” she said then. She moved over to the table, and fingered the - photograph. He stood in the doorway and watched her. She was thinking—desperately - thinking. He could see that. The flush was still on her temples and - cheeks. Finally she straightened up and faced him. - </p> - <p> - “Jacob,” she said, “I can't let you go like that. This thing has got to be - settled. Really settled.” - </p> - <p> - He slowly nodded. - </p> - <p> - “Give me till Saturday, Jacob. I promise you I'll try to think it all out. - I'll go through with the pictures anyway—somehow. As for this - photograph, go ahead. Use it. Only please don't commit yourself in a money - way before I see you. Come to tea Saturday, at four. I'll either tell you - finally that we are—-well, hardly to be friends beyond the rest of - this job of ours, or I'll—I'll go along with you, Jacob.” - </p> - <p> - Her voice faltered over the last of this, but her eyes did not. And her - chin was high. - </p> - <p> - “It's too bad,” said he. “But you're right. It isn't me. You've come to - the point where you've got to find yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “That's it,” she said. “I've got to try to find out what I am. If my - thoughts and feelings have been misleading me—well, maybe I <i>am</i> - conventional—maybe I <i>am</i> little—” - </p> - <p> - Her voice broke. Her eyes filled. But she fought the tears back and still - faced him. - </p> - <p> - He took a step toward her. She shook her head. - </p> - <p> - He went out then. - </p> - <p> - And when the outer door shut she dropped limply on the couch-bed. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVI—THE WORM PROPOSES MARRIAGE IN GENERAL - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>WO days later, on - Thursday, the Worm crossed the Square and Sixth Avenue and entered - Greenwich Village proper. - </p> - <p> - He was dressed, at the top, in a soft gray hat from England. Next beneath - was a collar that had cost him forty cents. The four-in-hand scarf was an - imported foulard, of a flowering pattern in blues and greens; with a jade - pin stuck in it. The new, perfectly fitting suit was of Donegal homespun - and would cost, when the bill was paid, slightly more than sixty dollars. - The shoes, if not custom made, were new. And he carried a slender stick - with a curving silver head. - </p> - <p> - He felt uncomfortably conspicuous. His nerves tingled with an emotional - disturbance that ignored his attempts to dismiss it as something beneath - him. For the first time in nearly a decade he was about to propose - marriage to a young woman. As he neared the street on which the young - woman lived, his steps slackened and his mouth became uncomfortably - dry.... All this was absurd, of course. He and Sue were good friends. - “There needn't be all this excitement,” he told himself with a desperate - clutching at the remnants of his sense of humor, “over suggesting to her - that we change from a rational to an irrational relationship.” - </p> - <p> - At the corner, however, he stopped dead. Then with a self-consciousness - worthy of Peter himself, he covered his confusion by buying an afternoon - paper and walking slowly back toward Sixth Avenue. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly, savagely, he crumpled the paper into a ball, threw it into the - street, strode resolutely to Sue's apartment-house and rang her bell. - </p> - <p> - Sue promptly lighted the alcohol lamp under her kettle and they had tea. - Over the cups, feeling coldly desperate, the Worm said: - </p> - <p> - “Been thinking you all over, Sue.” It was a relief to find that his voice - sounded fairly natural. - </p> - <p> - She took the remark rather lightly. “I'm not worth it, Henry.... I've - thought some myself—your idea of the boundary...” - </p> - <p> - His thoughts were moving on with disconcerting rapidity. He must take the - plunge. It was his fate. He knew it. - </p> - <p> - “We talked marriage,” he said. - </p> - <p> - She nodded. - </p> - <p> - “Since then I've tried to figure but what I do think, and crystallize it. - Sue, I'm not so sure that Betty was wrong.” - </p> - <p> - “That's a new slant,” said she thoughtfully. - </p> - <p> - “Or very old. Just try to look through my eyes for a moment. Betty had - tried freedom—had something of a fling at it. Now, it is evident - that in her case it didn't work very well. Isn't it?” - </p> - <p> - “In her case, yes,” Sue observed quietly. - </p> - <p> - “Precisely, in her case. She had reached the boundary. You'll admit that?” - </p> - <p> - Sue smiled faintly at his argumentative tone. “Yes, I'll admit it.” - </p> - <p> - “Betty isn't a great soul. A stronger nature would have taken longer to - reach the boundary. But doesn't it indicate that the boundary is there?” - </p> - <p> - “Well”—Sue hesitated. “All right. For the sake of the argument I'll - admit that, too.”. - </p> - <p> - “Well, now, just what has Betty done? She doesn't love this manufacturer - she has married.” - </p> - <p> - “Not a bit.” - </p> - <p> - “And the marriage may fail. The majority of them, from an idealistic point - of view, undoubtedly do fail. Admitting all that, you have let me see that - you yourself in a weak moment have considered the same course.” - </p> - <p> - Sue's brow clouded. But she nodded slowly. - </p> - <p> - “Well, then”—he hitched forward in his chair, and to cover his - burning eagerness talked, if possible, a shade more stiffly and - impersonally—“doesn't this, Betty's act and your momentary - consideration of the same act, suggest that a sound instinct may be at - work there?” - </p> - <p> - “If cowardice is an instinct, Henry.” - </p> - <p> - “How do you know it is cowardice? From what data do you get that - conclusion? Betty, after all her philandering, has undertaken a definite - contract. It binds her. It is a job. There is discipline in it, a chance - for service. It creates new conditions of life which will certainly change - her unless she quits. Haven't you noticed, all your life, what a relief it - is to get out of indecision into a definite course, even if it costs you - something?” - </p> - <p> - Again that faint smile of hers. “Turning conservative, Henry?” - </p> - <p> - He ignored this. “Life moves on in epochs, Sue. If you don't start getting - educated when you're a youngster, you go most awfully wrong. If you don't - accept the discipline of work as soon as you've got a little education and - grown up, you're a slacker and before long you're very properly rated as a - slacker. So with a woman—given this wonderful function of motherhood - and the big emotional capacity that goes with it—if she waits too - long after her body and Spirit have ripened she goes wrong, emotionally - and spiritually. There's a time with a normal woman when love and - maternity are—well, the next thing. Not with every woman of course. - But pretty certainly with the woman who reaches that time, refuses - marriage, and then is forced to admit that her life isn't working out. - Peter has coined the word for what that woman becomes—a better word - than he himself knows... she's a truffler.” - </p> - <p> - She was gazing at him. “Henry,” she cried, “what has struck you? Where's - that humorous balance of yours?” - </p> - <p> - “I'm in earnest, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I see. But why on earth—” - </p> - <p> - “Because I want you to marry—” - </p> - <p> - It was at this moment that the Worm's small courage fled utterly out of - his inexperienced heart. And his tongue, as if to play a saturnine trick - on that heart, repeated the phrase, unexpectedly to what was left of his - brain, with an emphatic downward emphasis that closed the discussion. - </p> - <p> - “I want you to marry,” he said. - </p> - <p> - A sudden moisture came to Sue's eyes, and much of the old frankness as she - surveyed him. - </p> - <p> - “Henry,” she said then, “you are wonderful, coming at me like this, as if - you cared—” - </p> - <p> - “I do care—” - </p> - <p> - “I know. I feel it. Just when I thought friends were—well...” She - did not finish this, but sat erect, pushed her teacup aside and gazed at - him with something of the old alertness in the green-brown eyes. There was - sudden color in her cheeks. “Henry, you've roused me—just when I - thought no one could. I've got to think.... You go away. You don't mind, - do you? Just let me be alone. I've felt lately as if I was losing—my - mind, my will, my perceptions—something. And, Henry—wait!” For - he had risen, with a blank face, and was looking for his hat. - </p> - <p> - “Wait—did Peter leave you his itinerary?” - </p> - <p> - The Worm felt in his pockets and produced it. - </p> - <p> - “He sent me one, but I tore it up.” She laughed a little, then colored - with a nervous suddenness; and walked after him to the door. “You've - always had the faculty of rousing me, Henry, and steadying me. To-day - you've stirred me more than you could possibly know. I don't know what - will come of it—I'm dreadfully; confused—but I can at least - try to think it out.” - </p> - <p> - That was all—all but a few commonplace phrases at the doer. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” said he, with a touch of awkwardness, “I meant to tell you that I've - made a change myself.” - </p> - <p> - “You?” Again her eyes, recalled to him, ran over his new clothes. - </p> - <p> - “I start work to-morrow, on <i>The Evening Courier</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Henry, I'm glad. Good luck! It ought to be interesting.” - </p> - <p> - “At least,” said he heavily, “it will be a slight contact with reality,” - and hurried away. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVII—ENTER GRACE DERRING - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE TRUFFLER opened - at Albany. Before ten o'clock of that first evening even the author knew - that-something was wrong with the second act. - </p> - <p> - The company wandered across New York State into Pennsylvania; Peter, by - day and night, rewriting that unhappy act. The famous producer, Max - Neuerman, fat but tireless, called endless rehearsals. There was hot - coffee at one a. m., more hot coffee at five A. m., but it was never so - hot as the scalding tears of the leading lady, Miss Trevelyan, who - couldn't, to save her, make Peter's lines come real. - </p> - <p> - 'There were, also, dingy Eagle Houses and Hotel Lincolns where soggy food - was hurled at you in thick dishes by strong-armed waitresses. - </p> - <p> - Finally, Neuerman himself dictated a new scene that proved worse than any - of Peter's. The publicity man submitted a new second-act curtain. The - stage manager said that you couldn't blame Miss Trevelyan; she was an - emotional actress, and should not be asked to convey the restraint of - ironic comedy—in which belief he rewrote the act himself. - </p> - <p> - By this time, the second act had lost whatever threads of connecting - interest it may have had with the first and third; so Neuerman suggested - that Peter do those over. Peter began this—locked up over Sunday in - a hotel room. - </p> - <p> - Then Neuerman made this announcement: - </p> - <p> - “Well—got one more string to my bow. Trevelyan can't do your play, - and she's not good enough to swing it on personality. We're going to try - some one that can.” - </p> - <p> - “Who, for instance?” muttered Peter weakly. - </p> - <p> - “Grace Derring.” - </p> - <p> - We have spoken of Grace Derring. It was not a year since that tumultuous - affair had brought Peter to the brink of self-destruction. And that not - because of any coldness between them. Not exactly. You see—well, - life gets complicated at times. You are not to think harshly of Peter; for - your city bachelor does <i>not</i> inhabit a vacuum. There have usually - been—well, episodes. Nor are you to feel surprise that Peter's face, - in the space of a moment, assumed an appearance of something near helpless - pain. - </p> - <p> - So Grace Herring was to be whirled back into his life—caught up out - of the nowhere, just as his devotion to Sue had touched exalted heights! - </p> - <p> - The voice of the fat manager was humming in his ears. - </p> - <p> - “She made good for us in <i>The Buzzard</i>. Of course her work in <i>The - Gold Heart</i> has put her price up. But she has the personality. I guess - we've got to pay her.” - </p> - <p> - Peter started to protest, quite blindly. Then, telling himself that he was - too tired to think (which was true), he subsided. - </p> - <p> - “Can you get her?” he asked cautiously. - </p> - <p> - “She's due here at five-thirty.” - </p> - <p> - Peter slipped away. Neuerman had acted without consulting him. It seemed - to him that he should be angry. But he was merely dazed. - </p> - <p> - He walked the streets, a solitary, rather elegant figure, conspicuously a - New Yorker, swinging his stick savagely and occasionally muttering to - himself. He roved out to the open country. Maple buds were sprouting. New - grass was pushing upward into the soft air. The robins were singing. But - there were neither buds nor robins in Peter's heart. He decided to be - friendly with Grace, but reserved. - </p> - <p> - It was nearly six when he entered the barnlike office of the hotel, his - eyes on the floor, full of himself. Then he saw her, registering at the - desk. - </p> - <p> - He had stopped short. He could not very well turn and go out. She might - see him.. And he was not afraid. - </p> - <p> - She did see him. He raised his hat, Their hands met—he extremely - dignified, she smiling a very little. - </p> - <p> - “Well, Peter!” - </p> - <p> - “You're looking well, Grace.” - </p> - <p> - “Am I?” - </p> - <p> - They moved, tacitly, into the adjoining parlor and stood by the window. - </p> - <p> - “I thought—” he began. - </p> - <p> - “What did you think, Peter?” Then, before he could reply, she went on to - say: “I've been working through the Middle West. Closed in Cincinnati last - week.” - </p> - <p> - “Had a hard season?” - </p> - <p> - “Hard—yes.” She glanced down at a large envelope held under her arm. - “Mr. Neuerman sent your play. I've just read it—on the train.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you've read it?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” Again that hint of a smile. Peter's eyes wandered about the room. - “It's funny,” she murmured. - </p> - <p> - “What's funny?” said he severely. - </p> - <p> - “I was thinking of this play.” She took it out of the envelope and rapidly - turned the typewritten pages. “So bachelor women are—what you call - 'trufflers,' Peter!” - </p> - <p> - “It is quite impersonal, Grace.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, of course—a work of art—” - </p> - <p> - Not clear what that twisted little smile of hers meant, he kept silent. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Peter!” she said then, and left him. Everything considered, he felt - that he had handled it rather well. - </p> - <p> - This was Tuesday. It was arranged that Miss Derring should make her first - appearance Thursday night. Meantime, she was to get up her part and watch - the play closely with the idea of possible suggestions. Peter kept - austerely aloof, working day and night on the revision of Acts I and III. - Neuerman and Miss Derring consulted together a good deal. On Thursday, - Peter caught them at the luncheon table, deep in a heap of scribbled - sheets of paper that appeared to be in Grace's large hand. - </p> - <p> - They urged him to join them, but he shook his head. He did agree, however, - to sit through the rehearsal, later in the afternoon. - </p> - <p> - Thus it was that he found himself seated next to Grace in one of the rear - rows of a dim empty theater, all but lost in the shadows under the - balcony. Neuerman left them, and hurried down to the stage to pull his - jaded company together. - </p> - <p> - It seemed to Peter that they were very close, he and Grace, there in the - shadow. He could feel her sleeve against his arm. He wished Neuerman would - come back. - </p> - <p> - Unexpectedly to himself, Peter started nervously. His hat slipped from his - knees. He caught it. His hand brushed Grace's skirt, then her hand. Slowly - their fingers interlocked. - </p> - <p> - They sat there, minute after minute, without a sound, her fingers tight in - his. Then, suddenly, he threw an arm about her shoulders and tried to kiss - her. With a quick little rustle, she pressed him back. - </p> - <p> - “Don't,” she whispered. “Not here.” - </p> - <p> - So Peter leaned back and sat very still again, holding her hand down - between the two seats. - </p> - <p> - Finally the rehearsal was over. They evaded the manager and walked. There - was a river in this town, and a river road. Peter sought it. And out there - in the country, with buds and robins all about them and buds and robins in - his heart, he kissed her. He knew that there had never been any woman in - all the world but Grace, and told her so. All of his life except the hours - he had spent with her faded into an unreal and remote dream. - </p> - <p> - Grace had something on her mind. But it was a long time before she could - bring Peter to earth. Finally he bethought himself. - </p> - <p> - “My dear child,” he said—they were strolling hand in hand—“here - it is after seven! You've had no dinner—and you're going on - to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “Not to-night, Peter. Not until Monday.” - </p> - <p> - “But—but—” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Neuerman and I have been trying to explain what we were doing, but - you wouldn't listen. Peter, I've made a lot of suggestions for the part, - He asked me to. I want your approval, of course. I'm going to ask him to - show you what I've done.” But Peter heard only dimly. Near the hotel, she - left him, saying, with a trace of anxiety: “I don't want to see you again, - Peter, until you have read it. Look me up for lunch to-morrow, and tell me - if you think I've hurt your play.” - </p> - <p> - Neuerman came to him late that night with a freshly typed manuscript. He - tried to read it, but the buds and robins were still alive, the play a - stale dead thing. - </p> - <p> - Friday morning, there was a letter for Peter, addressed in Sue's hand. The - sight of it confused him, so that he put it in his pocket and did not open - it until after his solitary breakfast. It had the effect of bringing Sue - suddenly to life again in his heart without, at first, crowding Grace out. - </p> - <p> - “It's love that is the great thing,” he thought, explaining the phenomenon - to himself. “The object of it is an incident, after all. It may be this - woman, or that—or both. But the creative artist must have love. It - is his life.” - </p> - <p> - Then he read Sue's letter; and pictures of her arose. It began to appear - to him that Sue had inspired him as Grace never had. Perhaps it was Sue's - youth. Grace, in her way, was as honest as Sue, but she was not so young. - And the creative artist must have youth, too! - </p> - <p> - The letter was brief. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Could you, by any chance, run back to New York Saturday—have tea - with me? I want you here. Come about four</i>.” - </p> - <p> - But it fired his imagination. It was like Sue to reach out to him in that - abrupt way, explaining nothing. - </p> - <p> - Then he settled down in his room, a glow in his heart, to find out just - what Grace and Neuerman had done, between! them, to <i>The Truffler</i>. - </p> - <p> - At noon that day a white Peter, lips trembling, very still and stiff, - knocked at Miss Derring's door. - </p> - <p> - She opened it, just dressed for luncheon. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” she cried—“Peter!” - </p> - <p> - “Here,” said he frigidly, “is the manuscript of your play.” - </p> - <p> - Her eyes, very wide, searched his face. - </p> - <p> - “It is not mine. I wash my hands of it.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Peter—please don't talk like this.” - </p> - <p> - “You have chosen to enter into a conspiracy with Neuerman to wreck what - little was left of my play. With Neuerman!” He emphasized the name. “I am - through.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Peter—be sensible. Come to lunch and we'll straighten this up - in five minutes. Nothing is being forced on you. I was asked...” - </p> - <p> - “You were brought here without my knowledge. And now—this!” - </p> - <p> - He strode away, leaving the manuscript in her hands. - </p> - <p> - She stood there in the door, following him with bewildered eyes until he - had disappeared around a turn in the hall. - </p> - <p> - Peter, feeling strongly (if vaguely) that he had sacrificed everything for - a principle, packed his suitcase, caught a train to Pittsburgh, and later, - a sleeper for New York. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XVIII—THE WORM CONSIDERS LOVE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Z</span>ANIN came in - quietly, for him; matter of fact; dropped his hat on the couch; stood with - his hands in his pockets and looked down at Sue who was filling her - alcohol lamp. - </p> - <p> - “Well, Sue,” said he, “it's Saturday at four. I've kept my part of the - agreement. You haven't had a word from me. But”—and he did show - feeling here—“you are not to think that it has been easy. We've - talked like sensible people, you and I, but I'm not sensible.” Still she - bent over the lamp. “So you'd better tell me. Are we starting off together - to-night?” - </p> - <p> - “Don't ask me now,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, come, Sue. Now, really!” - </p> - <p> - She straightened up. “I'm not playing with you, Jacob. I promised to - answer you to-day.” - </p> - <p> - “Well—why don't you? Now. Why wait?” - </p> - <p> - “Because I don't know yet.” - </p> - <p> - “But good God, Sue! If you don't know yet—” - </p> - <p> - She threw out her hands. - </p> - <p> - He dropped into a chair; studied her gloomily. - </p> - <p> - Then the bell rang and Peter came in. And Sue faced two grave silent men. - </p> - <p> - “First,” she said, as briskly as she could, “we shall have tea.” - </p> - <p> - This much accomplished and the biscuits distributed, she curled herself up - on the couch. “Now,” she said, “this has been a difficult week. And I can - see only one thing to do. The Nature Film Company is in a bad way.” - </p> - <p> - For the first time the two men looked squarely at each other. Sue, her - color up, a snap in her eyes, suppressed a perverse impulse to laugh, and - steadied herself. - </p> - <p> - “Here we are,” she went on. “I've been worn out—no good for weeks. - You men are fighting each other—oh, yes, you are!—and yet we - three are the ones that have got to do it. Now, Jacob, you have hinted at - new expenses, new money problems, to me. I want you to say it all to - Peter. Every word. Wait, please! And, Peter, you have felt that Jacob was - inclined to run wild. Say it to him.” She wound up in a nervous little - rush and stopped short as if a thought frightened—“And as for me, - it's not a question of what I will or won't do. I'm afraid, if we don't - straighten things out, it's going to be a question what I shall be able to - do. We must get all this—what do you say?—'on the carpet.' - Please begin!” - </p> - <p> - She sank back, drew a long breath and watched them with eyes in which - there was a curious nervous alertness. - </p> - <p> - More than Sue could have dreamed, it was a situation made to Peter's hand. - Without a moment's warning she had called on him to play, in some small - degree, the hero. She had given him the chance to be more of a hero than - Zanin. His very soul glowed at the thought. Given an audience, Peter could - be anything. - </p> - <p> - So it turned out that just as Zanin gave an odd little snort, caught - squarely between impatience and pride, Peter turned on him and said, very - simply: - </p> - <p> - “Sue is right, Zarin. We have been knifing each other. And I'm ashamed to - say that I haven't even had the sense to see that it wasn't business.” And - he put out his hand. - </p> - <p> - Zanin hesitated a faint fraction of a second and took it. - </p> - <p> - Then Peter—sure now that he knew how the late J. P. Morgan must have - felt about things, full of still wonder at himself and touched by the - wistful thought that had he chosen differently in youth he might easily - have become a master of men—hit on the compromise of giving full - play to Zanin's genius for publicity, provided Zanin, for his part, - submitted to a budget system of expenditure. - </p> - <p> - “And a pretty small budget, too,” he added. “We've got to do it with - brains, Zanin, as you did things at the Crossroads.” - </p> - <p> - This settled, however, a silence fell. Each of the three knew that nothing - had been settled. Sue, that quiet light in her eyes, watched them. - </p> - <p> - Then suddenly, with her extraordinary lightness of body, she sprang to her - feet. Peter, all nerves, gave a start. Zanin merely followed her with - eyes.—heavy puzzled eyes. - </p> - <p> - Sue picked up the tea kettle. “One of you—Peter—bring the - tray!” she commanded as she went out into the dark kitchenette. - </p> - <p> - Peter, with a leap almost like Sue's, followed. He could not see clearly - out there, but he thought she was smiling as she set down the kettle. - </p> - <p> - “Sue,” he whispered, still in the glow of his quiet heroism, “I knew I - loved you, but never before today did I realize how much.” No one could - have uttered the words with simpler dignity. - </p> - <p> - She stood motionless, bending Over the kettle, - </p> - <p> - “Something has happened to-day,” she said very low. - </p> - <p> - “Sue—nothing serious!...” - </p> - <p> - She raised her head now. She <i>was</i> smiling. “How much do you want me, - Peter?” - </p> - <p> - “I can only offer you my life, Sue, dear.” - </p> - <p> - “Supposing—what if—I—were—to accept it?” - </p> - <p> - She slipped away from his outstretched arms then, and back to the - living-room. Peter, in a wordless ecstasy, followed. - </p> - <p> - “Jacob,” she said, without faltering. “I want you to congratulate me. - Peter and I are going to”—she gave a little excited laugh now—“to - try marriage.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm wandered into the Muscovy for dinner. - </p> - <p> - Sue and Peter caught him there just as he was paying Lis check. - </p> - <p> - “Peter,” she said, not caring who might hear—“we owe a lot to Henry. - Perhaps everything. In that dreadful mood I wouldn't have listened to - reason from any one else—never in the world.” - </p> - <p> - “You Worm,” Peter chuckled. “Looks like a little liquid refreshment.” - </p> - <p> - So the Worm had to drink with them, but conviviality was not in his heart. - He raised his glass; looked over it, grimly, at Peter. “I drink,” he said, - “to Captain Miles Standish.” - </p> - <p> - Peter let it go as one of Henry Bates' quaint whimsies. - </p> - <p> - But Sue looked puzzled. And the Worm, suddenly contrite, got away and - walked the streets, carrying with him a poignantly vivid picture of a - fresh girlish face with high color and vivid green-brown eyes. - </p> - <p> - After a while he tried going home, weakly wishing he might find something - to read; instead he found Hy Lowe and an extremely good-looking girl with - mussed hair. They fairly leaped apart as he came stumbling in. - </p> - <p> - “We're trying a new step,” panted Hy quite wildly. “Oh, yes, this is Miss - Hilda Hansen—Henry Bates.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm liked the way she blushed. But he suddenly and deeply hated Hy. - </p> - <p> - The Worm went out and sat on a bench in the Square. He was still sitting - there when the moon came up over the half-clothed trees. - </p> - <p> - Little Italians from the dark streets to the southward played about the - broad walks. Busses rumbled by on the central drive. A policeman passed. - </p> - <p> - Full-breasted girls arm in arm with swarthy youthful escorts strolled - past. One couple sat on his bench and kissed. He got up hurriedly. - </p> - <p> - At last, rather late he stood, a lonely figure under the marble arch, - gazing downward at his shoes, his stick, his well made, neatly pressed - trousers. He took off his new hat and stared at it. - </p> - <p> - The policeman, passing, paused to take him in, then satisfied as to his - harmlessness, moved on. - </p> - <p> - “Busy day, to-morrow,” the Worm told himself irrelevantly. “Better turn - in.” - </p> - <p> - He saw another moon-touched couple approaching. He kept out of their - sight. The man was Hy Lowe, dapper but earnest, clutching the arm of his - very new Miss Hansen, bending close over her. - </p> - <p> - The Worm watched until he lost them in the shadows of Waverley Place. - Next, as if there were some connection, he stared down again at his own - smart costume. - </p> - <p> - “Love,” he informed himself, “is an inflammation of the ego.” - </p> - <p> - Then he went home and to bed. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIX—BUSINESS INTERVENES - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE Worm met Sue - Wilde one afternoon as she stepped down from a Seventh Avenue car—carried - it off with a quite successful air of easy surprise. He couldn't see that - it harmed Peter or anybody, for him to meet her now and then. If it gave - him pleasure just to see her walk—even in a middy blouse, old skirt - and sneakers, she was graceful as a Grecian youth!—to speak and then - listen to her voice as she answered, to glimpse her profile and sense the - tint of health on her olive skin, whose business was it! So long as he was - asking nothing! Besides, Sue didn't dream. He didn't intend that she - should dream. He had lied to her with shy delight regarding his set habit - of walking every afternoon. He hated walks—hated all forms of - exercise. He knew pretty accurately when she would be through her day's - work at the plant of the Interstellar Film Company, over in Jersey, - because they were doing outside locations now, and outdoor work, even in - April, needs light. He knew precisely what trains she could catch; had, - right now, a local time table in a convenient pocket. Sue was an outdoor - girl and would prefer ferry to tube. From the ferry it was car or - sidewalk; either way she couldn't escape him unless she headed elsewhere - than toward her dingy little apartment. - </p> - <p> - To-day he walked home with her. - </p> - <p> - She suggested tea. He let his eyes dwell on her an instant—she on - the top step, he just below—and in that instant he forgot Peter. - “All right,” said he, a pleasant glow in his breast, “if you'll have - dinner with me. They have a fresh lot of those deep-sea oysters at Jim's.” - </p> - <p> - Then he caught her hesitation and recalled Peter. For a moment they stood - in silence, then: “Don't let's trade,” she said. “Come in for tea anyway.” - </p> - <p> - He followed her in, reflecting. Peter or no Peter, it disturbed him to sec - this restraint in Sue Wilde. He felt that it disturbed her a little, too. - It was possible, of course, that this was one of the evenings when Peter - expected to appropriate her. The Worm was the least obtrusive of men, but - he could be stubborn. Then and there he asked if this was Peter's evening. - </p> - <p> - She was stooping to unlock the apartment door. “No,” she replied rather - shortly, “he's working tonight.” - </p> - <p> - They had hardly got into the apartment before the bell rang, and Sue went - out to answer it. The Worm, sandy of hair, mild of feature, dropped into - the willow armchair, rested elbows on knees, surveyed the half-furnished - living-room and smiled. - </p> - <p> - In a mason jar on the mantel, next to a hit-or-miss row of Russian novels, - Havelock Ellis's <i>Sex in Relation to Society, Freud on Dreams and - Psychanalysis</i>, and two volumes of Schnitzler's plays, blazed a large - cluster of jonquils. At the other end of the mantel, drooping over the rim - of a green water pitcher, were dusty yellow roses, full blown, half their - petals scattered on books, mantel and hearth, their scent heavy in his - nostrils. A tin wash basin, on the mission table by the wall, was packed, - smothered, with pansies—buff, yellow, orange, purple, velvet black. - A bunch of violets surmounted an old sugar bowl that shared with cigarette - boxes, matches and an ash receiver, the tabouret by the couch-bed. But - what widened the Worm's faint smile into a forthright grin, square and - huge on the table, towering over the pansies, was a newly opened - five-pound box of sweets. - </p> - <p> - Sue came in, smiling herself, with a hint of the rueful, bearing before - her a long parcel with square ends. - </p> - <p> - “I'll bet it's roses,” observed the Worm. - </p> - <p> - She tore off the paper, opened the box with quick fingers—it <i>was</i> - roses—deep red ones. - </p> - <p> - She took a chocolate, nibbled it; then stepped back, laughing a little and - threw out her hands. “Henry,” she cried, “what on earth am I to do with - him! I've hinted. And I've begged. I'm afraid I'll hurt him—” - </p> - <p> - “You would go and get engaged to him, Sue. And I must say he plays the - rôle with all his might.” After which remark, the Worm produced, scraped, - filled and lighted his pipe. - </p> - <p> - “I'll start the water,” said Sue; then instead, stood gazing at the - flowers. “It's so—Victorian!” - </p> - <p> - The Worm grinned cheerfully. “Peter isn't so easy to classify as that.” - </p> - <p> - “I know.” She reached for another chocolate. “He isn't Victorian.” - </p> - <p> - “Not all the time, certainly. And not all over. Just in spots.” - </p> - <p> - Her color deepened slightly. “You've never read the scenario he did for - us, Henry. Nothing Victorian about that. There's a ring to it—and - power. Nobody who misses the modern spirit <i>could</i> have written it. - Not possibly. It's the real battle cry of woman's freedom. And a blow for - honesty! It is when I think of that—how the pictures are to be shown - in every city and every village, all over this country—reaching - people that the books never reach and touching their emotions, yes, their - hearts where feminist speakers and such just antagonize them—” - </p> - <p> - The sentence died out in mid-air. Sue, a flash in her deep-green eyes, - stared out the window at the old red brick walls that surrounded the score - of fenced-in little back yards, walls pierced with hundreds of other rear - windows and burdened with cluttered fire-escapes, walls hidden here and - there by high-hung lines of washing. - </p> - <p> - She spoke again. “Don't you see, Henry, that's what makes this miserable - business worth while, that's what justifies it—all this posing - before those camera people, working with hired actors that don't for a - moment know what it's all about and don't understand my being in it or my - relations with Peter or the friendly feeling I have for Zanin—it's - getting so I have to fight it out with myself all over again every morning - to get through it at all. But when I'm almost hopelessly stale all I have - to do is come home here and shut the door and curl up on the couch and - read the thing as Peter wrote it—it brings the vision back, Henry!—and - then I think of him staking all his savings to make it a success—Oh, - I know that's personal, just for me...” - </p> - <p> - Sue was having some trouble with sentences today. This one didn't get - finished either. She stood there brooding; started another one: “Henry, - Zanin couldn't do it—with all his intelligence and drive—it - took Peter to phrase Zanin's own ideas and then add the real quality to - them and form and human feeling—Zanin is cold, an intellectualist - not an artist.” Suddenly she broke out with this—“Of course this - marriage means a long series of adjustments. Do you suppose I don't know - that? Doesn't every marriage?” - </p> - <p> - The Worm was silent; smoking slowly and watching her. He was thinking very - soberly. “Whom among women the gods would destroy they first make honest.” - </p> - <p> - Sue felt his gaze and raised her chin with a little jerk; tried to smile; - finally caught up the box of roses and buried her face in them. - </p> - <p> - “Peter oughtn't to spend the money,” she cried, not unhumorously, “but it - is dear of him. Every time I come into the room the flowers sing to me.” - </p> - <p> - “After all,” said he, helping her out, “it's a relief, in these parts, to - see some one taking marriage seriously. Date set yet?” - </p> - <p> - She nodded. - </p> - <p> - “Not telling?” - </p> - <p> - She shook her head. - </p> - <p> - “Soon?” - </p> - <p> - She nodded. “That's all. No more questions.” - </p> - <p> - “Religious ceremony?” - </p> - <p> - “Hardly, Henry.” She was a thought grim about this. - </p> - <p> - “You can be as rationalistic as you like,” said he, musing, “but marriage - <i>is</i> a fairy story. Like the old-fashioned Christmas with tree and - candles and red bells—yes, and Santa Claus. You can't rationalise - love, and you can't casualize it. Not without debasing it. Love isn't - rational. It is exclusive, exacting, mysterious. It isn't even wholly - selfish.” His tone lightened. “All of which is highly heterodox, here on - Tenth Street.” - </p> - <p> - She smiled faintly and busied herself over the teakettle. - </p> - <p> - “I'm glad to see that Zanin keeps friendly, Sue.” She sobered, and said: - “There, it's boiling.” The bell sounded again—two short rings, a - pause, one long ring. - </p> - <p> - She started, bit her lip. “That's Zanin now,” she said. “He hasn't been - here since—” She moved toward the door, then hesitated. “I wish you - would—” - </p> - <p> - She bit her lip again, then suddenly went. He heard the door open and - heard her saying: “Henry Bates is here. Come in.” - </p> - <p> - Zanin entered the room, and the Worm quietly considered him. The man had a - vision. And he had power—unhindered by the inhibitions of the - Anglo-Saxon conscience, undisciplined by the Latin instinct for form, - self-freed from the grim shackles of his own ancestry. He wore a wrinkled - suit, cotton shirt with rolling collar, his old gray sweater in lieu of - waistcoat. - </p> - <p> - He drank three cups of tea, chatted restively, drummed with big fingers on - the chair-arm and finally looked at his watch. - </p> - <p> - The Worm knocked the ashes from his pipe and considered. Just what did Sue - wish he would do? No use glancing at her for further orders, for now she - was avoiding his glances. He decided to leave. - </p> - <p> - Out on the sidewalk he stood for a moment hesitating between a sizable - mess of those deep-sea bivalves at Jim's oyster bar and wandering back - across Sixth Avenue and Washington Square to the rooms. It wasn't dinner - time; but every hour is an hour with oysters, and Jim's was only a step. - But then he knew that he didn't want to eat them alone. For one moment of - pleasant self-forgetfulness he had pictured Sue sitting on the other side - of the oysters. They went with Sue to-night, were dedicated to her. He - considered this thought, becoming rather severe with himself, called it - childish sentimentality; but he didn't go to Jim's. He went to the rooms. - </p> - <p> - When he had gone Zanin hitched forward in his chair and fixed his eyes on - Sue over his teacup. - </p> - <p> - “What is it, Jacob?” she asked, not facing him. - </p> - <p> - He wasted no words. “You know something of our business arrangements, Sue—Peter's - and mine.” - </p> - <p> - She nodded. - </p> - <p> - “There's a complication. When we formed The Nature Film Company we had, as - assets, my ideas and energy and Peters money and theatrical experience. - And we had you, of course. You were vital—I built the whole idea - around your personality.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I know,” she broke in with a touch of impatience. - </p> - <p> - “Peter stood ready to put in not more than four to five thousand dollars. - That was his outside figure. He told me that it was nearly all he had—and - anyway that he is living on his capital.” - </p> - <p> - “I know all that,” said she. - </p> - <p> - “Very good!” He put down his teacup and spread his hands in a sweeping - gesture. “Now for the rest of it. Of course we had no organization or - equipment, so we made the deal with the Interstellar people. They took a - third interest. They supply studio, properties, camera men, the use of - their New Jersey place and actors and hand us a bill every week. Naturally - since we got to work with all our people on the outside locations, the - bills have been heavy—last week and this—especially this. - Before we get through they'll be heavier.” He drew a folded paper from his - pocket; spread it out with a slap of a big hand; gave it to her. - </p> - <p> - “Why, Jacob,” she faltered and caught her breath. “Eight hundred and—” - </p> - <p> - He nodded. “It's running into regular money. And here we are! Peter has - put in three thousand already.” - </p> - <p> - “Three thousand!” - </p> - <p> - “More—about thirty-two hundred.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Jacob, at this rate—” - </p> - <p> - “What will the whole thing cost? My present estimate is twelve to fifteen - thousand.” - </p> - <p> - Sue flushed with something near anger. “This is new, Jacob! You said three - or four thousand.” - </p> - <p> - He shrugged his shoulders. His face was impassive. - </p> - <p> - “It was as new to me as to you. The situation is growing. We must grow - with it. We've got a big idea. It has all our ideals in it, and it's going - to be a practical success, besides. It's going to get across, Sue. We'll - all make money. Real money. It'll seem queer.” - </p> - <p> - Sue, eyes wide, was searching that mask of a face. - </p> - <p> - “But here's the difficulty. Peter isn't strong enough to swing it. Within - another week we'll be past his limit—and we can't stop. <i>He</i> - can't stop. Don't you see?” - </p> - <p> - She was pressing her hands against her temples. “Yes,” she replied, in a - daze, “I see.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, now.” He found a cigarette on the tabouret; lighted it, squared - around. “The Interstellar people aren't fools. They know we're stuck. - They've made us an offer.” - </p> - <p> - “For the control?” - </p> - <p> - He nodded. “For the control, yes. But they leave us an interest. They'd - have to or pay us good big salaries. You see, they're in, too. It means - some sacrifice for us, but—oh, well, after all, 't means that the - Nature Film has a value. They'll finance it and undertake the - distribution. There's where we might have come a cropper anyway—the - distribution. I've just begun to see that. You keep learning.” - </p> - <p> - She was trying to think. Even succeeding after a little. - </p> - <p> - “Jacob,” she said, very quiet, “why do you bring this to me?” - </p> - <p> - He spread his hands. “This is business, now. I'll be brutal.” - </p> - <p> - She nodded, lips compressed. - </p> - <p> - “You and Peter—you're to be married, the minute we get the picture - done, I suppose.” - </p> - <p> - “But that—” - </p> - <p> - He waved at the flowers, stared grimly at the huge box of candy. “Peter's - an engaged man, an idiot. He's living in 1880. I'm the man who offered you - love with freedom. Don't you realize that the time has come when Peter and - I can't talk. It's the truth, Sue. You know it. You're the only human link - between us. Therefore, I'm talking to you.” He waited for her to reply; - then as she was still, added this quite dispassionately: “Better watch - Peter, Sue. He's not standing up very well under the strain. I don't - believe he's used to taking chances. Of course, when a nervous cautious - man does decide to plunge—” - </p> - <p> - She interrupted him. “I take it you're planning to go ahead, regardless, - Jacob.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course.” he shrugged his shoulders. “I've told you—we can't - stop. Peter least of all. It's pure luck to us that the Interstellar folks - can't stop either.” - </p> - <p> - “You mean—if they could—we'd...” - </p> - <p> - “Fail? Certainly. Smash.” - </p> - <p> - Sue felt his strength; found herself admiring him, as she had admired him - in the past—coldly, with her mind only. - </p> - <p> - “I will not go to him as your messenger,” she said, again partly angry. - </p> - <p> - “All right—if you won't! Call him—” He waved toward the - telephone. “Is he home now?” She nodded. - </p> - <p> - “It's a partnership for him—a good offer—responsible people. - See here, Sue, you must be made to grasp this. We're going straight on. - Got to! The problem is to make Peter understand—the shape he's in, - frightened to death... he won't listen to me.... It's up to you, Sue. It's - a job to be handled. I'm trying to tell you. One way or another, it's got - to be broken to him tonight. We've got precious little time to give him - for his nervous upset before he comes around.” - </p> - <p> - Sue looked at him. Her hands were folded in her lap.. - </p> - <p> - “Well—?” said he. - </p> - <p> - “Jacob, you shouldn't have come to me.” - </p> - <p> - “You won't even call him?” - </p> - <p> - “No.” - </p> - <p> - “May I?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course.” - </p> - <p> - He got up, moved toward the telephone, hesitated midway, changed his mind - and picked up his hat. Holding it between his hands he stood over her. She - waited. But instead of speaking, he went out. - </p> - <p> - She sat there a brief time, thinking; went over to the telephone herself; - even fingered the receiver; gave it up; busied herself hunting a - receptacle for Peter's roses, finally settling on an earthenware crock. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XX—PETER GETS A NOTE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE Worm walked - slowly and thoughtfully across to Washington Square and the old brick - apartment building. - </p> - <p> - Peter was there—a gloomy intense figure, bent over the desk at the - farther end of the nearly dark studio, his long face, the three little - pasteboard bank books before him, the pad on which he was figuring and his - thin hands illuminated in the yellow circle from the drop light on the - desk. Just behind him on the small table was his typewriter, and there - were sheets of paper scattered on the floor. He lifted his face, peered at - the Worm through his large glasses, then with nervous quickness threw the - bank books into a drawer which he locked. He tore up the top sheet of the - pad; noted pencil indentations on the sheet next under it, and tore that - up too. - </p> - <p> - “Hello!” he remarked listlessly. - </p> - <p> - “Hello!” replied the Worm. Adding with a touch of self-consciousness: - “Just had a cup of tea with Sue.” - </p> - <p> - “Over at her place?” - </p> - <p> - The Worm nodded. - </p> - <p> - “Any—any one else there?” - </p> - <p> - “Zanin came in.” - </p> - <p> - Peter winced and whitened a little about the mouth; then suddenly got up - and with an exaggerated air of casualness set about picking up the papers - on the floor. This done he strode to the window and stared out over the - Square where hundreds of electric lights twinkled. Suddenly he swung - around. - </p> - <p> - “It's a strain,” he said in a suppressed, clouded voice. - </p> - <p> - “Doubtless,” murmured the Worm, reaching for the evening paper. - </p> - <p> - “Zanin used to try to—to make love to her.” - </p> - <p> - Some effort must be made to stem this mounting current. “Oh, well,” said - the Worm, rather hurriedly, “you're free from worry, Pete.” - </p> - <p> - “God—if I were!” muttered the eminent modernist. - </p> - <p> - “But you are! Good lord, man, here I've just asked her to have dinner with - me, and she ducked. Wouldn't even eat with me.” - </p> - <p> - “But—” - </p> - <p> - “But nothing! It was flatly because she is engaged to you.” - </p> - <p> - Peter thought this over and brightened. “But see here!” he cried—“I'm - not a Turk. I'm not trying to lock her up.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm was silent. - </p> - <p> - Peter confronted him; spoke with vehemence. “Sue is free—absolutely. - I want her to be free. I wouldn't have it otherwise. Not for a moment. - It's absurd that she should hesitate about dining with you, or—or”—this - with less assurance—“with any man.” - </p> - <p> - Peter walked around the room, stopping again before the Worm who was now - sitting on the desk, looking over the evening paper. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, come now!” said Peter. “Put up that paper. Listen to me. Here you - are, one of my oldest friends, and you make me out a Victorian monster - with the woman I love. Damn it, man, you ought to know me better! And you - ought to know Sue better. If her ideas are modern and free, mine are, if - anything, freer. Yes, they are! In a sense—in a sense—I go - farther than she does. She is marrying me because it is the thing she - wants to do. That's the only possible basis on which I would accept her - love. If that love ever dies”.... Peter was suddenly all eloquence and - heroism. Self-convinced, all afire, he stood there with upraised arm. And - the Worm, rather fascinated, let his paper drop and watched the man... “If - that love ever dies,” the impressive voice rang on, “no matter what the - circumstances, engaged, married, it absolutely does not matter, Sue is - free. Good God! You should know better—you, of all people! You know - me—do you suppose I would fasten on Sue, on that adorable, inspired - girl, the shackles of an old-fashioned property marriage! Do you suppose I - would have the hardihood to impose trammels on that free spirit!” - </p> - <p> - Carried away by his own climax Peter whirled, snatched up the desk - telephone, called Sue's number, waited tense as a statue for the first - sound of her voice, then said, instantly assuming the caressingly gentle - voice of the perfect lover: “Sue, dear, hello! How are you? Tired? Oh, I'm - sorry. Better get out somewhere. Wish I could come, but a job's a job. - I'll stick it out. Wait though! Here's Henry Bates with nothing to do. I'm - going to send him over to take you out—make you eat something and - then walk a bit. It's what you need, little girl. No, not a word! I'm - going to ring off now. He'll come right over. Good-by, dear.” - </p> - <p> - He put down the instrument, turned with an air of calm triumph. “All - right,” he said commandingly. “Run along. Take her to the Muscovy. I may - possibly join you later but don't wait for me. I'll tell you right now, - we're not going to have any more of this fool notion that Sue isn't free.” - With which he sat down at his typewriter and plunged into his work. - </p> - <p> - The Worm, taken aback, stared at him. Then, slowly, he smiled. He didn't - care particularly about the Muscovy. It was too self-consciously - “interesting”—too much like all the semi-amateur, short-lived little - basement restaurants that succeed one another with some rapidity in the - Greenwich Village section. The Worm was thinking again of Jim's - exceedingly Anglo-Saxon chop house and of those salty deep-sea oysters, - arrived this day. At the Muscovy you had Russian table-cloths and napkins. - The tables were too small there, and set too close together. You couldn't - talk. You couldn't think. He wondered if Peter hadn't chosen the place, - thus arbitrarily, because Sue's friends would be there and would see her - enacting this freedom of his. - </p> - <p> - Peter was now pecking with a rather extraordinary show of energy at the - typewriter. The Worm, studying him, noted that his body was rigidly erect - and his forehead beaded with sweat, and began to realize that the man was - in a distinct state of nerves. It was no good talking to him—not - now. So, meekly but not unhumorously obeying orders, the Worm set out. - </p> - <p> - Sue met him at her door with a demure smile. - </p> - <p> - “Where is it?” she asked—“Jim's?” - </p> - <p> - He shook his head. His face, the tone of his voice, were impenetrable. - There was not so much as a glimmer of mischief in his quietly expressive - eyes; though Sue, knowing Henry Bates, looked there for it. “No,” he said, - “we are to go to the Muscovy.” - </p> - <p> - Peter, meanwhile, continued his frenzy of work for a quarter-hour; then - slackened; finally stopped, sighed, ran his long fingers through his hair, - and gloomy again, turned wearily around to the desk, unlocked his own - particular drawer, brought out the three bank books and resumed his - figuring on the pad. If you could have looked over his shoulder you would - have seen that his pencil faltered; that he added one column, slowly and - laboriously, six or seven times, getting a different result each time; and - that then, instead of keeping at it or even throwing the book back into - the drawer, he fell to marking over the figures, shading the down strokes, - elaborating the dollar signs, enclosing the whole column within a - two-lined box and then placing carefully-rounded dots in rows between the - double lines. This done, he lowered his head and sighted, to see if the - rows were straight. They were not satisfactory. He hunted through the top - drawers and then on the bookcase for an eraser.... - </p> - <p> - There was a loud knock at the door. - </p> - <p> - He started, caught his breath, then sank back, limp and white, in his - chair. At the third knocking he managed to get up and go to the door. It - was a messenger boy with a note. - </p> - <p> - Peter held the envelope down in the little circle of yellow light on the - desk. It was addressed in Zarin's loose scrawl. The handwriting definitely - affected him. It seemed to touch a region of his nervous system that had - been worn quiveringly raw of late. He tore the envelope open and unfolded - the enclosure. There were two papers pinned together. The top paper was a - bill from the Interstellar people for eight hundred and twenty dollars and - fifty cents. The other was in Zanin's hand—penciled; “It's getting - beyond us, Mann. They offer to carry it through for a sixty per cent, - interest. It's a good offer. We've got to take it. Come over to the - Muscovy about eight, and I'll have copies of the contract they offer. - Don't delay, or the work will stop to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - Peter carefully unpinned the two papers, laid them side by side on the - desk, smoothed them with his hands. Doing this, lie looked at his hands. - The right one he raised, held it out, watched it. It trembled. He then - experimented with the left. That trembled, too. He stood irresolute; - opened the three savings bank books—spread them beside the papers; - stared at the collection long and steadily until it began to exert a - hypnotic effect on his unresponsive mind. He finally stopped this; stood - up; stared at the Wall. “Still,” ran his thoughts, “I seem to be fairly - calm. Perhaps as a creative artist, I shall gain something from the - experience. I shall see how men act in utter catastrophe. Come to think of - it, very few artists ever see a business failure at short range. This, of - course, borders <i>on</i> tragedy. I am done for. But from the way I am - taking this now I believe I shall continue to be calm. I must tell Sue, of - course... it may make a difference.... I think I shall take one stiff - drink. But no more. Trust the one. It will steady my nerves. And I won't - look at those things any longer. After the drink I think I shall take a - walk. And I shall be deliberate. I shall simply think it out, make my - decision and abide by it.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXI—OYSTERS AT JIM'S - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>UE and the Worm - had no more than seated themselves at the Muscovy when Zanin came briskly - in, hat in hand—still in the wrinkled old suit, still wearing the - gray sweater for a waistcoat—but keen of face, buoyant even. He - threaded his way between the tables, nodding here and there in response to - the cries of “Hello, Jacob!”—came straight to Sue, and, with a - casual greeting for the Worm, bent over and claimed her ear. - </p> - <p> - “Sue,” he said low; “I called up, then took a chance on finding you here. - I've sent the bill to Peter. And I've told him of the break in our plans. - The lawyer for the Interstellar people is coming with the new contract—meets - me up-stairs in the club. I've told Peter to be here at eight. But I've - got to know about you. Is there any danger that you won't go through—finish - the pictures?” - </p> - <p> - “You mean—in case—” - </p> - <p> - He nodded. “If Peter and I smash up. Whatever happens. I can't see ahead - myself. But the pictures are half done, and they're all you. It would be - serious if you—” - </p> - <p> - Sue silenced him with a nervous glance about; compressed her lips; turned - her fork over and over on the table; then slowly nodded. “I'll finish,” - she said very soberly. - </p> - <p> - “All right,” he replied. “I knew you would, of course. But I had to ask. - Things have changed so.... I'll be down later.” - </p> - <p> - Sue watched him, still turning the fork with tense fingers, as he made his - way to the door, paused for a word with one of the girl waitresses—an - impoverished young writer and idealist, Jewish, rather pretty, who had - played with them at the Crossroads—and finally disappeared in the - hall, turning back toward the stairway that led up to the rooms of the - Free woman's Club. - </p> - <p> - The Worm was studying the menu. He waited until her eyes and her thoughts - returned to the table, then looked up at her with a quiet grin. “How about - food, Sue?” said he. - </p> - <p> - She gazed at him, collected her thoughts, looked down at the card. Then - she made an effort to smile. - </p> - <p> - “Sorry, Henry—I've lost my appetite.” She pressed the edge of the - card against her pursed lips. “Henry, let's get out—go over to - Jim's.” - </p> - <p> - He shook his head. “We can't,” he said. Then he saw her gaze narrow - intently, over his shoulder—so intently that he turned. - </p> - <p> - Peter was standing in the doorway, peering about the room—a - repressed, elaborately self-contained Peter. His mouth drooped at the - corners. The lines that extended downward from his nose were deeper than - usual, had something the appearance of being carved in a gray marble face. - </p> - <p> - Peter's gaze—he seemed to find it difficult to focus his eyes, was - laborious about it—finally rested on their table. Slowly he got - through the crowd, approaching them. He jostled one of the girl waiters; - and turning, apologized with rather extraordinary formality. The girl - glanced after him, curious. - </p> - <p> - The Worm looked around, perceived an unoccupied chair at a neighboring - table, lifted it over the heads of his neighbors and set it down beside - his own. Peter dropped into it, saying, “I'm sorry to disturb you two... - something has come up.” The Worm found it rather uncomfortable. His first - impulse was to withdraw and let Peter and Sue talk. But people were - looking at them; there were audible whispers; he decided to do nothing - conspicuous. He sat back in his chair and studied the menu again. “I'll - know the thing by heart pretty soon!” he thought. - </p> - <p> - Peter leaned forward, toward Sue. She was watching him calmly, the Worm - thought; but she was a little hushed. There was no escaping the - conversation that followed. Peter managed to keep his voice fairly low; - but it was plain that he barely realized where he was. The whole engine of - his mind—racing now at several thousand R. P. M.—was headed - inward. - </p> - <p> - “We'll have to quit the pictures, Sue, dear. I can't tell you the whole - story now—not here—but Zanin has absolutely broken faith. He - has wrecked me... not that I mind that... it's the crookedness of the - thing... the ideals he professed... he's sold us out, it's a dirty - commercial scheme after all that he's dragged you into.”... The inner - pressures were evident now in Peter's voice. It was still low, but it - shook and came out jerkily and huskily. He was stopping frequently to - swallow. - </p> - <p> - Sue's fingers strayed toward the fork; turned it slowly. Her eyes followed - her fingers. A waitress came toward them, stood unnoticed and turned away, - exchanging an amused glance with friends at the next table. - </p> - <p> - “It's a complete smash,” Peter went on. “Any way you look at it, it's a - smash. There's just that last step to take—we must get out.” - </p> - <p> - “Please—” Sue murmured, “not here!” - </p> - <p> - “But, Sue—” - </p> - <p> - “Don't, Peter. We can talk later.” - </p> - <p> - “But there's nothing to say.” Now the Worm caught in his voice Peter's - uncertainty of her. “Is there, Sue?” - </p> - <p> - She turned and turned the fork. Peter's eyes were fastened on her face, - hungrily, abjectly. She slowly nodded. - </p> - <p> - “But, Sue, you and I—” - </p> - <p> - She drew a long breath, faced him. “I've got to finish the pictures, - Peter.” - </p> - <p> - “Sue, you can't—” - </p> - <p> - “I simply won't talk about this out here. But it would wreck Jacob if I - stopped now.” - </p> - <p> - It seemed to the Worm that Peter had to make a desperate effort to - comprehend this. His brows were knit, his eyes wandering. Finally he said: - “But, Sue, good God! You don't understand. Zanin has wrecked me.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm not sure about that. If we finish the pictures. If we don't—yes.” - </p> - <p> - Peter's hands gripped the edge of the table. “Sue—Zanin has been - talking with you!” - </p> - <p> - “Please, Peter—not so loud!” - </p> - <p> - “Has he? Answer me!” - </p> - <p> - Slowly she nodded. - </p> - <p> - “Are you playing fair with me?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Peter—yes! I am.” - </p> - <p> - “You are still engaged to be my wife?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Please, Peter....” - </p> - <p> - “Then”—the moment Henry Bates had shrewdly, painfully waited as he - watched the man, came now; the suppressions that had been struggling - within Peter's breast broke bounds; his voice suddenly rang out—“then, - I forbid you to go on!” - </p> - <p> - Sue paled; seemed to sink down a little in her chair; knit her brows; said - nothing. - </p> - <p> - The room was very still. Even the Greenwich Village group was startled, - hushed, by the queer sense of impending drama that filled the room. - </p> - <p> - During the long hush several girls went out, hurriedly. Others struggled - unsuccessfully to make talk. One laughed. - </p> - <p> - Peter looked around with half-hearted defiance, then dropped his eyes. - “Evidently,” he said, addressing the Worm with queer precise formality, - “the thing for me to do is to go. I am not desired here.” But he sat - motionless. - </p> - <p> - It was at this point that Zanin came in. He saw Peter, crowded bruskly - across the room, laid a legal appearing document on the table at Peter's - elbow and said: “Look this over, Peter, and meet me up-stairs a little - later. Their man is coming. They give us no choice—we must sign - to-night.” - </p> - <p> - Peter squared around at the first tones of the strong, slightly husky - voice, drew in his chin, scowled. It appeared to the Worm that he was - making a desperate effort to look dignified. But at the last words, Zanin - dropped a large hand on Peter's shoulder. That was what made the tremble; - or rather what set it off. - </p> - <p> - I have explained that the Muscovy occupied a basement. The ceiling was - low. The tables—small ones around the walls and two longer ones - across the center space with their chairs (common kitchen chairs, they - were) filled the room except for an opening near the door. In the opening, - at one side of the door, was the small table that served as a cashier's - desk. It was covered with slips of paper and little heaps of coin and some - bank notes under an iron paper-weight. The whole in charge of a meek girl - with big spectacles. - </p> - <p> - There were twenty-five or thirty persons in the room—mostly women - and girls. Of the four or five men, two, in a party near the door, were - painters with soft curling beards; the others, young anarchists and - talkers, were seated over in the farther corner near one of the barred - front windows. - </p> - <p> - A feature of the scene that Henry Bates will never forget was that Peter - first rose, very deliberately, produced an eye-glass case from an inner - pocket and carefully put his glasses away. Then he sprang at Zanin—apparently - not striking cleanly with clenched fists but clawing and slapping, and - shouting breathlessly. I suppose that in every man who has been a boy and - a youth there is a strain of vulgarity, innate or acquired. It is - exhibited when reason flees. Reason had certainly, at last, fled from - Peter. For what he was shouting was this——over and over—“A - Jew won't fight! A Jew won't fight!” - </p> - <p> - In the surprise of this first rush Zanin retreated, sparring - ineffectually; backed into the corner of a table; crashed over it; went - down with it to the floor amid broken dishes, steaming food and the - wreckage of a chair. Two young women were thrown also. One of them - screamed; the other appeared to be stunned, and the Worm somehow got to - her, lifted her up and supported her out the service door to the kitchen. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0245.jpg" alt="0245 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0245.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - When he returned the panic was on. Gasping and shrieking, various hitherto - calm young women whom nothing in life could surprise, were fighting past - one another for the door. But one young man, pasty-faced, longish hair—name - of Waters Coryell—went through the struggling group like a thin - tornado, tearing aside the women that blocked his way, symbolizing, in a - magnificent burst of unselfconscious energy, the instinct of - self-preservation, with a subconscious eye, doubtless to later - achievements in self-expression.... The Worm saw his flight and smiled. He - had heard Waters Coryell expound the doctrine that a man should do what he - wants to do. “He wants to get out,” mused the Worm. - </p> - <p> - Peter did not at once leap upon the fallen Zanin. He first cast about for - a weapon. At Sue's elbow was a large water pitcher. He seized this and for - a moment stood over his opponent, blandishing it and again shouting, “A - Jew won't fight!” He was in this attitude when the Worm returned from the - kitchen. - </p> - <p> - The room was nearly empty now. Over at the door, the meek little cashier - with the big spectacles was calling out in a sharp small voice, “Pay your - checks, please! Pay your checks!” And one girl, her eyes glassy with - fright, automatically responding to the suggestion, was fumbling in her - wrist bag, saying, “I don't seem to have the change.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm hesitated for a moment between getting Sue out and trying to stop - the fight. Sue had pushed back her chair a little way but was still - sitting there. - </p> - <p> - At this moment Zanin, who was trying to draw himself away on his elbows to - a point where he could get up in reasonable safety, saw an opportunity to - trip Peter. Instantly he put the idea into effect. Peter went down. The - water pitcher was shattered on the floor. The two men clinched and rolled - over and over among the chairs and against the legs of another table. - </p> - <p> - The Worm turned to Sue. “You'd better get out,” he said. - </p> - <p> - She was quite white. “I suppose,” she managed to say, “I'm no use here.” - </p> - <p> - “Not a bit.” - </p> - <p> - He took her arm and steadied her until she was clear of the wreckage. - Every one else had got out now excepting the girl with the big spectacles. - She stood flattened against the wall, apparently all but unable to - breathe. As Sue Wilde passed, however, she gasped out, “Check, please!” - </p> - <p> - The Worm snorted, caught Sue's arm again and rushed her out and up the - steps to the sidewalk. Out here most of those who had been in the basement - stood about in groups. Others, street children and loungers, were - appearing. The situation was ripening swiftly into a street crowd with its - inevitable climax of police interference. “Move away!” said the Worm to - Sue. “As far as the Square.” And he spoke to others whom he knew. The - crowd thinned. Then making a wry face in the dim light, the Worm headed - back down the steps, muttering, “Physical prowess is not my specialty, - but...” - </p> - <p> - He carefully shut the street door after him and turned the key. The little - cashier was on the stairs now, crouching low against the wall. The Worm - half listened for a “Check, please!” as he came down the corridor; but she - was silent. There was, too, a suspicious, silence in the dining-room. The - Worm hurried to the door. - </p> - <p> - There, just within the door, stood Peter. His right coat sleeve had been - ripped nearly off, at the shoulder seam, and hung down over his hand. He - was fumbling at it with the left hand, frantically trying, first to roll - it back, then to tear it off. Zanin, over against the farther wall, was - getting heavily to his feet. He paused only an instant, then charged - straight at Peter. - </p> - <p> - One glance at the eminent playwright made it plain that his frenzy already - was tempered with concern. He had made, it appeared, a vital - miscalculation. This particular Jew <i>would</i> fight—was, - apparently, only just beginning to fight. There was blood on Zanin's - cheek, trickling slowly down from a cut just under the eye. His clothes, - like Peter's, were covered with the dirt of the floor. His eyes were - savage. - </p> - <p> - Peter again groped blindly for a weapon. His hand, ranging over the - cashier's table, closed on the iron paper-weight. He threw it at the - onrushing Zanin, missed his head by an inch; caught desperately at a neat - little pile of silver quarters; threw these; then Zanin struck him. - </p> - <p> - The thing was no longer a comedy. Zanin, a turbulent hulk of a man, was - roused and dangerous. The Worm caught his arm and shoulder, shouted at - him, tried to wrench the two apart. Zanin threw him off with such force - that his head struck hard against the wall. The Worm saw stars. - </p> - <p> - The fighters reeled, locked together, back into the dining-room, knocked - over the cashier's table and fell on it. Zanin gave a groan of pain and - closed his big hands on Peter's neck. - </p> - <p> - The Worm ran up the stairs. Three men were sitting, very quiet, in the - reading-room of the Free-woman's Club. Waters Coryell dominated. - </p> - <p> - “For God's sake,” said the Worm quietly, “come down!” - </p> - <p> - Waters Coryell, who professed anarchism, surveyed him coolly. “The thing - to do,” he replied, “obviously, is to telephone the police.” - </p> - <p> - “Telephone your aunt!” said the Worm, and ran back down-stairs. - </p> - <p> - Peter and Zanin were still on the floor, at grips. But their strength - seemed to have flagged. One fact, noted with relief, was that Zanin had - not yet choked Peter to death. They were both purple of face; breathing - hard; staring at each other. Some of Zanin's still trickling blood had - transferred itself to Peter's face and mixed with the dirt there. - </p> - <p> - The Worm caught up a chair, swung it over his head and cried, in deadly - earnest, “You two get up or I'll smash both your heads!” - </p> - <p> - They glared at each other for a moment. Then Zanin managed to catch enough - breath to say— - </p> - <p> - “But the man's insane!” - </p> - <p> - Peter gulped. “I am not insane! Nothing of the kind!” - </p> - <p> - “Get up,” commanded the Worm. - </p> - <p> - Very slowly, eying each other, they obeyed. Zanin brushed off his clothes - as well as he could with his hands; then, for the first time conscious of - the blood on his face, mopped at it with his handkerchief. Peter went off - under the low-hanging center chandelier and examined with a pained - expression, his ruined coat. - </p> - <p> - There were steps and voices on the stairs. She of the big spectacles - appeared in the doorway. - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon,” observed Peter with breathless formality, “but have - you got a pin?” - </p> - <p> - She stared at him; then at Zanin, finally at the Worm. - </p> - <p> - “There's a gentleman up-stairs,” she said mechanically in a lifeless - voice. - </p> - <p> - The Worm went up. A businesslike young man was standing in the upper hall, - looking about him with mild curiosity. - </p> - <p> - “Whom did you wish to see?” asked the Worm. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Zanin and Mr. Mann.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh—you must be the attorney for the Interstellar people.” - </p> - <p> - “I am.” - </p> - <p> - “Come this way,” said the Worm with calm, and ushered him down the stairs - and into the dining-room. - </p> - <p> - Sue was sitting alone on a bench in Washington Square. She saw Henry Bates - approaching and rose hurriedly to meet him. - </p> - <p> - “It's all over,” said he cheerfully. - </p> - <p> - “But, Henry—tell me—what on earth!” - </p> - <p> - “No particular damage beyond what court plaster and Peter's tailor can fix - up.” - </p> - <p> - “But—but—-how is it over so soon? What are they doing?” - </p> - <p> - “When I left, Zanin was entertaining that attorney chap.” - </p> - <p> - “And Peter?” - </p> - <p> - “Down on his hands and knees trying to find the contract.” - </p> - <p> - “Is he—will he—” - </p> - <p> - “Sign it? Yes. They want you to sign, too. But I told them you'd do it in - the morning. You're to have a ten per cent, interest—Zanin and Peter - each fifteen.” - </p> - <p> - “But I don't want—” - </p> - <p> - “May as well take it. You've earned it.... Look here, Sue, has it occurred - to you that we—you and I—haven't had a morsel to eat yet?” - </p> - <p> - She started in genuine surprise; looked up at him with an intent - expression that he could not, at the moment, fathom; then suddenly threw - back her head. - </p> - <p> - “Henry',” she said, a ring in her voice, “I—I'm not engaged any more—not - to anybody! I want—” she gave a slow little laugh—“some - oysters.” - </p> - <p> - “At Jim's!” he cried. - </p> - <p> - He slipped his arm through hers. Free-hearted as the birds that slumbered - in the trees overhead they strolled over to the congenial oyster bar. - </p> - <p> - So passed The Nature Film Producing Co., Inc., Jacob Zanin, Pres't. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXII—A BACHELOR AT LARGE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>OU are to picture - Washington Square at the beginning of June. Very early in the morning—to - be accurate, eight-fifty. Without the old bachelor apartment building, - fresh green trees, air steaming and quivering with radiation and - evaporation from warm wet asphalt, rumbling autobusses, endless streams of - men and girls hurrying eastward and northward to the day's work or turning - into the commercial-looking University building at our right, and hard at - it, the inevitable hurdy gurdy; within, seventh floor front, large dim - studio, Hy Lowe buttoning his collar and singing lustily— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “I want si-<i>imp</i>-athee, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Si-<i>imp</i>-athee, just <i>symp</i>-ah-thee!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The collar buttoned, Hy, still roaring, clasped an imaginary partner to - his breast and deftly executed the bafflingly simple step of the - hesitation waltz over which New York was at the moment, as Hy would put - it, dippy. Hy's eyes were heavy and red and decorated with the dark - circles of tradition, but his feet moved lightly, blithely. Hy could dance - on his own tombstone—and he would dance well. - </p> - <p> - At one of the two front windows Henry Bates, of <i>The Courier</i>, - otherwise the Worm, in striped, buttonless pajamas caught across the chest - with a safety-pin, gazed down at the Square while feeling absently along - the sill for the cream bottle. - </p> - <p> - The third member of our little group of bachelors, Peter Ericson Mann, was - away; down at Atlantic City, working on something. Also nursing a broken - heart. For everybody knew now that he and Sue Wilde were not to be - married. - </p> - <p> - The desk served as breakfast table; an old newspaper as cloth. There were - flaked cereal in bowls, coffee from the percolator on the bookcase, rolls - from a paper sack. - </p> - <p> - The Worm lingered over his coffee. Hy gulped his, glancing frequently at - his watch, propped against the inkstand. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” observed the Worm, pausing in his task of cleaning his pipe with a - letter opener, “I nearly forgot. A lady called up. While you were in the - hath tub.” - </p> - <p> - “This morning?” Hy's face went discreetly blank. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Miss—Miss—sounded like Banana.” - </p> - <p> - “Miss Sorana.” Hy's eyelids fluttered an instant. Then he lit a cigarette - and was again his lightly imperturbable self. “What an ungodly hour!” he - murmured, “for Silvia, of all girls. But she knows she mustn't call me at - the office.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm regarded his roommate with discerning, mildly humorous eyes. - “Who, may I ask, is Silvia? And what is she?” - </p> - <p> - Hy missed the allusion. “If <i>The Evening Earth</i> were ever to come - into possession of my recent letters which I devoutly hope and trust they - won't”—Hy staged a shudder—“they would undoubtedly refer to - her as 'an actress.' Just like that. An actress.” - </p> - <p> - “Hm!” mused the Worm, “it's in writing already, eh!” - </p> - <p> - Hy shrugged his shoulders. “The old world has to go round,” said he. Then - his eyes grew dreamy. “But, my boy, my boy! You should see her—the - darling of the gods! Absolutely the darling of the gods! Met her at the - Grand Roof. Good lord! figured in cold calendar arithmetic, it isn't eight - days. But then, they say eternity is but a moment.” - </p> - <p> - “A dancing case?” queried the Worm. - </p> - <p> - Hy nodded. “After ten steps, my son, we knew! Absolutely knew! She knew. I - knew. We were helpless—it had to be.” - </p> - <p> - At this point Hy pocketed his watch and settled back to smoke comfortably. - He always bolted his breakfast by the watch; he always chatted or read the - paper afterward; he was always late at the office. - </p> - <p> - The Worm was studying him quizzically. “Hy,” he said, “how do you do it?” - </p> - <p> - “Do what?” queried Hy, struggling with a smile of self-conscious elation. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, come! You know. This!” The Worm gestured inclusively with his pipe. - “Ten days ago it was that Hilda Hansen person from Wisconsin. Two weeks - before that—” - </p> - <p> - Hy raised his hand. “Go easy with the dead past, my son.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm pressed on. “Morally, ethically, you are doubtless open to - criticism. As are the rest of us. That is neither here nor there. What I - want to know is, how do you do it? You're not beautiful. You're not witty—though - the younger among 'em might think you were, for the first few hours. But - the ladies, God bless 'em!—overlooking many men of character and - charm, overlooking even myself—come after you by platoons, - regiments, brigades. They fairly break in your door. What is it? How do - you do it?” - </p> - <p> - “It's a gift,” said Hy cheerily, “plus experience.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm was slowly shaking his head. “It's not experience,” he said. - “That's a factor, but that's not it. You hit it the first time. It's a - gift—perhaps plus eyelashes.” - </p> - <p> - “But, my boy, I sometimes fail. Take the case you were about to mention—Betty - Deane. I regard Betty as my most notable miscalculation—my - Dardanelles.” - </p> - <p> - “Not for a minute, Hy. As I've heard the story, Betty was afraid of you, - ran away, married in a panic. She, a self-expresser of the - self-expressers, a seeker of the Newest Freedom, marries a small - standpatter who makes gas engines. To escape your hypnotic influence. No—I - can't concede it. That, sir, was a tribute to your prowess, no less.” - </p> - <p> - Hy assumed an expression of modesty. “If you know all about it, why ask - me? I don't know. A man like me, reasonably young, reasonably hardworking, - reasonably susceptible—well, good lord! I need the feminine—” - </p> - <p> - “I'm not puzzled about the demand,” said the Worm, “but the supply.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, come! There aren't so many. I did have that little flare-tip with - Betty. She promised to go away with me on the night boat. She didn't turn - up; I took that trip alone.” - </p> - <p> - “It got as far as that, eh?” - </p> - <p> - “It did. Whatever her reasons she skipped back to her home town and - married the maker of gas engines. The Hilda Hansen matter caught me on the - rebound. There couldn't ever have been anything in that, anyway. The - girl's a leaner. Hasn't even a protective crust. Some kind uncle ought to - take her and her little wall-paper designs back to Wisconsin. But this is—different!” - He fumbled rather excitedly in his pocket and produced a letter—pages - and pages of it, closely written m a nervous hand that was distinguished - mainly by unusually heavy down strokes of a stub pen. He glanced eagerly - through it, coloring as his eyes fell on this phrase and that. “You know, - I'd almost like to read you a little of it. Damn it, the girl's got - something—courage, fire, personality! She's perfectly wild—a - pagan woman! She's—” - </p> - <p> - The Worm raised an arresting pipe. “Don't,” he said dryly. “Never do that! - Besides, your defense, while fairly plausible, accounts for only about - three months of your life.” - </p> - <p> - Slightly crestfallen, Hy read on in silence. Then he turned back and - started at the beginning. Finally, looking up and catching the Worm's - interested, critical eyes on him, he stuffed the document back into his - pocket, lit a new cigarette, got up, found his hat and stick, stood a - moment in moody silence, sighed deeply and went out. - </p> - <p> - The telephone rang. As the Worm drew the instrument toward him and lifted - the receiver the door opened and Hy came charging back. - </p> - <p> - The voice was feminine. “Is Mr. Lowe there?” it said. - </p> - <p> - “Gimme that phone!” breathed Hy, reaching for it. - </p> - <p> - The Worm swung out of his reach. “No,” he said into the transmitter, “he's - gone out. Just a moment ago. Would you like to leave any message?” And - dodging behind the desk, he grinned at Hy. - </p> - <p> - That young man was speechless. - </p> - <p> - “Who did you say?” Thus the Worm into the telephone. “Mrs. Bixbee?” He - spoke swiftly to Hy. “It's funny. I've heard the voice. But Mrs. Bixbee!” - Then into the telephone. “Yes, this is Mr. Bates. Oh, you were Betty - Deane? Yes, indeed! Wait a moment. I think he has just come in again. I'll - call him.” - </p> - <p> - But at that name Hy bolted. The door slammed after him. The Worm could - hear him running along the outer corridor and down the stairs. He had not - stopped to ring for the elevator. - </p> - <p> - “No,” said the Worm now unblushingly, “I was mistaken. He isn't here. That - was the floor maid.” As he pushed the instrument back on the desk, he - sighed and shook his head. “That's it,” he said aloud, with humility. - “It's a gift.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIII—THE BUZZER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>EW YORK, as much - as Paris or Peking, is the city of bizarre contrasts. One such is modestly - illustrated in the life of Hy Lowe. - </p> - <p> - Hy hurried on this as on every working morning eastward across Broadway - and through Astor Place to the large five-story structure, a block in - length, near the heart of the Bowery, that had been known for seventy - years as Scripture House. Tract societies clustered within the brownstone - walls, publishers of hymn books and testaments, lecture bureaus, church - extension groups, temperance and anti-cigarette societies, firms of lady - typists, and with these, flocks of shorter-lived concerns whose literature - was pious and whose aims were profoundly commercial. Long years before, - when men wore beavers and stocks and women wore hoopskirts, the building - had symbolized the organized evangelical forces that were to galvanize and - remake a corrupt world. - </p> - <p> - But the world had somehow evaded this particular galvanizing process. It - had plunged wildly on the little heretical matter of applied science; - which in its turn had invaded the building in the form of electric light - and power and creakily insecure elevators. The Trusts had come, and Labor - Unions and Economic Determinism—even the I. W, W. and the mad - Nietzschean propaganda of the Greenwich Village New Russianists. Not to - mention War. Life had twisted itself into puzzling shapes. New York had - followed farther and farther up-town its elevated roads, subways, - steel-built sky-scrapers and amazing palaces of liquors and lobsters, - leaving the old building not even the scant privilege of dominating the - slums and factories that had crept gradually to and around it. And now as - a last negligent insult, a very new generation—a confused generation - of Jews, Italians, Irish, Poles, Slavs, serving as bookkeepers, - stenographers, messengers, door girls, elevator boys—idled and - flirted and enacted their little worldly comedies and tragedies within the - very walls of Scripture House—practised a furtive dance step or two - in the dim stock rooms, dreamed of broiled lobsters (even of liquors) - while patient men with white string neckties and routine minds sat in - inner offices and continued the traditional effort to remake that - forgotten old world. - </p> - <p> - But if the vision had failed, many a successful enterprise, then and now, - thrived under the cover of Scripture House. One had thrived there for - thirty years—the independent missionary weekly known to you as <i>My - Brother's Keeper</i>. This publication was the “meal ticket” to which Hy, - at rare intervals, referred. On the ground glass of his office door were - the words, lettered in black, “Assistant Editor.” To this altitude had - eight years of reporting and editing elevated Hy Lowe. The compensating - honorarium was forty-five dollars a week. Not a great amount for one whose - nature demanded correct clothing, Broadway dinners, pretty girls and an - occasional taxicab; still a bachelor who lives inexpensively as to rooms, - breakfasts and lunches and is not too hard on his clothes can go - reasonably far on forty-five dollars, even in New York. - </p> - <p> - On this as on other mornings Hy, after a smile and a wink for the - noticeably pretty little telephone girl in the outer office, slid along - the inner corridor dose to the wood and glass partition. Though the - Walrus' open doorway dominated the corridor, there was always a chance of - slipping in unnoted. - </p> - <p> - He opened and closed his own door very softly; whipped off and hung up his - street coat; donned the old black alpaca that was curiously bronzed from - the pockets down by thousands of wipings of purple ink: and within twenty - seconds was seated at his desk going through the morning's mail. - </p> - <p> - A buzzer sounded—on the partition just above his head. Hy started; - turned and stared at the innocent little electrical machine. His color - mounted. He compressed his lips. He picked up the editorial shears and - deliberately slipped one blade under the insulated wires that led away - from the buzzer. - </p> - <p> - Again the sound! Hy's fingers relaxed. He snorted, tossed the shears on - the desk, strode to the door, paused to compose his features; then wearing - the blankly innocent expression that meant forty-five dollars a week, - walked quietly into the big room at the end of the corridor where, behind - a flat mahogany desk seven feet square, sat the Reverend Hubbell Harkness - Wilde, D. D. - </p> - <p> - On the wall behind him lettered in gold leaf on black enamel, hung the - apothegm (not from the eloquent pen of Doctor Wilde)—“It is more - blessed to give than to receive.” Beneath, in a long mahogany bookcase, - were hundreds of volumes, every one inserted in gratitude and admiration - to the editor of <i>My Brothers Keeper</i>. The great desk was heaped with - books, manuscripts, folders of correspondence. Beside it, pencil warily - poised, sat Miss Hardwick, who for more than twenty years had followed - Doctor Wilde about these offices—during most of every working day - taking down his most trivial utterances, every word, to be transcribed - later on the typewriter by her three six-dollar-a-week girls. It was from - the resulting mass of verbiage that Miss Hardwick and the doctor dug out - and arranged the weekly sermon-editorials that you read when you were a - Sunday-school pupil and that your non-citified aunts and uncles are - reading in book form to this day. They were a force, these sermons. Make - no mistake about that! They had a sensational vigor that you rarely heard - from the formal pulpit. The back-cover announcements of feature-sermons to - come were stirring in themselves. If your mind be “practical,” scorning - all mystical theorizings, let me pass on to you the inside information - that through sermons and advertisements of sermons and sensational - full-page appeals in display type this man whom Hy light-mindedly - dismissed with the title of “the Walrus” had collected more than two - million dollars in twenty years for those mission stations of his in - Africa or Madagascar (or whenever they were). That is slightly upward of a - hundred thousand a year in actual money, as a net average! - </p> - <p> - We have had a momentary glimpse of Doctor Wilde. That was at the - Crossroads Theater, where his runaway daughter was playing a boy in Jacob - Zanin's playlet, <i>Any Street</i>. But the Walrus was then out of his - proper setting—was merely a grim hint of a forgotten Puritanism in - that little Bohemian world of experimental compliance with the Freudian - Wish. - </p> - <p> - We see him in his proper setting here. The old-fashioned woodcut of him - that was always in the upper left corner of sermon or announcement was - made in 1886—-that square, young, strong face, prominent nose, - penetrating eyes. Even then it flattered him. The man now sitting at the - enormous desk was twenty-nine years older. The big hooked nose was still - there. The pale-green eyes were still a striking feature; but they looked - tired now. There was the strip of whisker on each cheek, close-clipped, - tinged now with gray. He was heavier in neck and shoulders. There were - deep lines about the wide, thin, orator's mouth. Despite the nose and eyes - there was something yielding about that mouth; something of the old - politician who has learned to temper strength with craft, who has learned, - too, that human nature moves and functions within rather narrow limits and - is assailed by subtle weaknesses. It was an enigmatic face. Beneath it - were low turnover collar, the usual white string tie and a well-worn black - frock coat. - </p> - <p> - Doctor Wilde was nervous this morning. His eyes found it difficult to meet - those of his mild-faced assistant in the old alpaca office coat. - </p> - <p> - “Miss Hardwick—you may go, please!” Thus Doctor Wilde; and he threw - out his hands in a nervous gesture. - </p> - <p> - For an instant, sensing some new tension in the office atmosphere, Hy - caught himself thinking of Sue Wilde. She had a trick of throwing out her - hands like that. Only she did it with extraordinary grace. In certain ways - they were alike, this eccentric gifted man and his eccentric equally - gifted daughter. Not in all particulars; for Sue had charm. “Must get it - from her mother's side,” mused Hy. He knew that the mother was dead, that - the house from which Sue had fled to Greenwich Village and Art and Freedom - was now presided over by a second wife who dressed surprisingly well, and - whose two children—little girls—were on occasions brought into - the office. - </p> - <p> - His reverie ended abruptly. Miss Hardwick had gathered up her note-books - and pencils; was rising now; and as she passed out, released in Hy's - direction one look that almost frightened him. It was a barbed shaft of - bitter malevolence, oddly confused with trembling, incredible triumph. - </p> - <p> - “Sit down, please!” It was Doctor Wilde's voice. Hy sat down in the chair - that was always kept for him across the huge desk from the doctor. That - gentleman had himself risen, creaked over to the door, was closing it - securely. - </p> - <p> - What had that queer look meant? From Miss Hardwick of all people! To Hy - she had been hardly more than an office fixture. But in that brief instant - she had revealed depths of hatred, malignant jealousy—something! - </p> - <p> - The doctor sank heavily into his own chair. Hy, mystified, watched him and - waited. The man reached for a paper-weight—a brass model of his - first mission house from Africa or Madagascar or somewhere—and - placed it before him on top of the unopened morning's mail, moved it this - way, then a little that way and looked at it critically. Hy, more and more - startled, a thought hypnotized, leaned forward on the desk and gazed at - that little brass house. Finally the doctor spoke: - </p> - <p> - “I have an unpleasant duty—but it is not a matter that I can lightly - pass over—” - </p> - <p> - Hy paled a little, knit his brows, stared with increasing intensity at - that mission house of brass. - </p> - <p> - “For a long time, Mr. Lowe, I have felt that your conduct was not—” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” thought Hy, in a daze, “my conduct was not—” - </p> - <p> - “—was not—well, in keeping with your position.” - </p> - <p> - “With my position.” Hy's numb mind repeated. - </p> - <p> - “This is not a matter of a particular act or a particular occasion, Mr. - Lowe. For a long time it has been known to me that you sought undesirable - companions, that you have been repeatedly seen in—in Broadway - resorts.” - </p> - <p> - Hy's mind was stirring awake now, darting this way and that like a - frightened mouse. Some one had been talking to the doctor—and very - recently. The man was a coward in office matters; he had been goaded to - this. The “for a long time,” so heavily repeated, was of course a verbal - blind. Could it have been—not Miss Hardwick. Then Hy was surprised - to hear his own voice: - </p> - <p> - “But this is a charge, Doctor Wilde! A charge should be definite.” The - words came mechanically. Hy must have read them somewhere. “I surely have - a right to know what has bcen said about me.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't know that it is necessary to be specific,” said the doctor, - apparently now that the issue was joined, finding his task easier. - </p> - <p> - “I must insist!” cried Hy, on his feet now. He was thinking—“What - has she told him? What does she know? What does she know!” - </p> - <p> - “Sit down!” said Doctor Wilde. - </p> - <p> - Hy sat down. His chief moved the mission house a trifle to square it with - the edge of the desk. - </p> - <p> - “To mention only one occasion,” went on the doctor's voice—“though - many are known to me, I am well informed regarding the sort of life you - are known to be leading. You see, Mr. Lowe, you must understand that the - office atmosphere of <i>My Brother's Keeper</i> is above reproach. Ability - alone will not carry a man here. There are standards finer and truer than—” - </p> - <p> - A rhetorical note was creeping into the man's voice. He turned - instinctively to sec if Miss Hardwick was catching the precious words as - they fell from his lips; then with his eyes on her empty chair he - floundered. - </p> - <p> - The telephone rang. Hy, with alacrity grown out of long practise in - fending for his chief, reached for it. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Mr. Lowe—” It was the voice of the pretty little telephone - girl: “It's a lady! She simply won't be put off! Could you—” - </p> - <p> - “Tell him,” said Hy with cold solemnity, “that I am in an important - Conference.” - </p> - <p> - “I did tell her that, Mr. Lowe.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well—ask him to leave his number. I can not be disturbed now.” - </p> - <p> - He hung up the receiver. “Doctor Wilde,” he said in the same Solemn tone. - “I realize of course that you are asking for my resignation. But first I - must know the charge against me. There has been an attack on my character. - I have the right to demand full knowledge of it.” - </p> - <p> - “To mention only one occasion,” said the doctor, as if unaware of the - interruption, still fussing with the mission house, “you were seen, as - recently as last evening, leaving a questionable restaurant in company - with a still more questionable young woman.” - </p> - <p> - So that was all he knew! Hy breathed a very little more easily. Then the - telephone rang again, and Hy's overstrained nerves jumped like mad. “Very - well,” said he to the pretty telephone girl, “put him on my wire.” And to - his chief: “You will have to excuse me, Doctor. This appears to be - important.” He rose with extreme dignity and left the room. - </p> - <p> - Once within his own office he stood clinging to the door-knob, breathing - hard. It was all over! He was fired. He must begin life again—like - General Grant. His own telephone bell was ringing frantically. At first he - hardly heard it. Finally he pulled himself together and moved toward the - desk. It would be Betty, of course. She ought to have more sense! Why - hadn't she stayed up-state with that new husband of hers, anyway! Wasn't - life disastrous enough without a very much entangled, contrite Betty on - his own still more entangled hands. - </p> - <p> - But the voice was not that of Betty. Nor was it the voice of Silvia. It - was a soft little voice, melodious, hesitating. It was familiar, yet - unfamiliar. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” it said, “is that you? I've had such a hard time getting you.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm sorry!” breathed Hy. Who was she? - </p> - <p> - “Are you awfully busy?” - </p> - <p> - Hy hesitated. Deep amid the heaped and smoking runs of his life a little - warm thing was stirring. It was the very instinct for adventure. He looked - grimly about the room, to be his office no longer. He didn't care - particularly what happened now. His own voice even took on something of - the strange girl's softness. - </p> - <p> - “Not so awfully,” said he. Then groping for words added: “Where are you - now?” - </p> - <p> - “Up at the Grand Central.” - </p> - <p> - “Goodness! You're not going away—now?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes—going home. I feel awfully bad about it.” - </p> - <p> - A silence intervened. Then this from Hy: - </p> - <p> - “You—you're not alone up there?” - </p> - <p> - “All alone.” - </p> - <p> - What a charmingly plaintive little voice it was, anyway! The healthy color - was returning to Hy's cheeks. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said he—“well, say—” - </p> - <p> - “Yes?” she murmured. - </p> - <p> - “How long—when does your train go?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, could you? I didn't dare ask—you seemed so busy!” - </p> - <p> - “I could be there in—well, under fifteen minutes.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, good. I've got—let me see—nearly half an hour.” - </p> - <p> - “Be by the clock in the main waiting-room Good-by!” - </p> - <p> - Hy slammed down the receiver; tore off the alpaca coat and stuffed it into - the waste basket; got into his street coat; observed the editorial shears - on the desk; seized them, cut the buzzer wires, noted with satisfaction - the nick he made in one blade; threw the shears to the floor and rushed - from the office. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIV—THE WILD FAGAN PERSON - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>T the flower store - in the station he bought a red carnation for his lapel and walked briskly - toward the big clock. - </p> - <p> - A slim girl was there at the inquiry desk, very attractively dressed. His - pulse bounded. She turned a forlornly pretty face and he saw that it was - Hilda Hansen of Wisconsin. - </p> - <p> - Their hands met. They wandered off toward the dim corridor where the - telephones are. - </p> - <p> - “It was dear of you to come,” said she rather shyly. “I shall feel better - now. I was beginning to think—well, that you didn't like me very - well.” - </p> - <p> - “Hilda—that's not fair!” he murmured. Murmured, IF the whole truth - were told, rather blithely. For Hilda was pretty. Her soft dependence was - the sweetest flattery. Her simple, easily satisfied mind was a relief - after certain slightly more desperate adventures. And so, when he said, - “I'm sorry you're going, Hilda. Is it for long?” he spoke as sincerely as - is commonly done. - </p> - <p> - “For good!” she blurted out in reply to this; and the tears came. He took - her arm and walked her farther down the corridor. The little story was - tumbling out now, helter skelter. Her father had stopped her allowance, - ordered her home. She was leaving forever the freedom of dear old - Greenwich Village. Naturally Hy kissed her. - </p> - <p> - He kissed her again, right out on the train platform, with belated - passengers elbowing by and porters looking on. It was Hy's little - sacrament of freedom. He could kiss them now—in public—as he - chose! For he was fired. No more gloomy old office! No more of the gliding - Miss Hardwick! No more of the doctor's oratory! No more of that damn - buzzer! - </p> - <p> - The thing to do, of course, was to go back and pack up his belongings; but - he couldn't bring himself to it. So he stayed out until lunch time, - filling in the odd hour with an eleven o'clock movie show. He lunched - expensively and alone at the club, off a porterhouse steak with mushrooms, - potatoes “au gratin,” creamed spinach, musty ale in pewter, romaine salad, - Camembert cheese with toasted biscuit and black coffee. - </p> - <p> - When he reentered his office, who should be sitting there but the Worm. - Before he could overcome a slight embarrassment and begin the necessary - process of telling his story, a heavy crushing step sounded in the - corridor, passed the door, went on into the big room in the corner. - </p> - <p> - The Worm rose abruptly. - </p> - <p> - “Isn't that the Walrus?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “The same,” said Hy. - </p> - <p> - “I've got to see him. Will you take me in?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, sit down! I can tell you more than he can.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps, but at another time.” - </p> - <p> - Hy emerged from his self-absorption at this point sufficiently to observe - that the Worm, usually smiling and calm, was laboring under some - excitement. - </p> - <p> - “All right,” said he, “come along!” And quite light of heart, afraid of - nothing now, he led the Worm in and introduced him as, “My friend, Mr. - Bates of <i>The 'Courier</i>.” Then, hearing his telephone ringing again, - he hurried back to his own office. - </p> - <p> - It would be Betty, of course. Well, as far as the office was concerned, it - didn't matter now. She could call! Anybody could call.... He picked up the - receiver. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” he murmured—“hello, Silvia! Wait a moment.” He got up and - closed the door. “All right,” he said then. “What is it, little girl?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” said she, “thank God, I've found you! Hy, something dreadful has - almost happened. It has done such things to my pride! But I knew you - wouldn't want me to turn to any one else for help, would you?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no,” said he, with sudden queer misgivings, “of course not! Not for a - minute!” - </p> - <p> - “I knew you'd feel that way, dear. Are you dreadfully busy? Could you—I - know it's a lot to ask—but could you, for me, dear, run out for five - minutes?” - </p> - <p> - “I will!” said he, with an emphasis aimed as much at himself as at her. - “Where are you?” - </p> - <p> - “I'm talking from the drug store across the street, right near you. I'll - wait outside.” - </p> - <p> - The misgivings deepened as Hy walked slowly out to the elevator and then - out to the street. Hy would have to be classified, in the last analysis, - as a city bachelor, a seasoned, hardened city bachelor. The one prospect - that instantly and utterly terrifies a hardened city bachelor is that of - admitting that another has a moral claim upon him. The essence of - bachelordom is the avoidance of personal responsibility. Therefore it was - a reserved, rather dignified Hy who crossed the street and joined the - supple, big-eyed, conspicuous young woman in the perfect-fitting tailor - suit. Another factor in Hy's mood, perhaps, was that the memory of Hilda - Hansen's soft young lips against his own had not yet wholly died. - </p> - <p> - He and Silvia walked slowly around the corner. “I don't know how to tell - you,” she said in an unsteady voice. There were tears in her eyes, too. - “Hy, it's awful! It's my—my furniture!” The tears fell now. She - wiped them away. “They say positively they'll take it away tonight. Every - stick. I've cried so! I tried to explain that I'm actually rehearsing with - Cunningham. Before the end of the month I can take care of it easily. But—” - Hy stopped short, stood on the curb, looked at her. His head was clear and - cold as an adding machine. “How much would it take?” said he. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Hy.” She was crying again. “Don't talk in that way—so cold—” - </p> - <p> - “I know,” he broke in, “but—” - </p> - <p> - “It's fifty dollars. You see—” - </p> - <p> - “I haven't got it,” said he. - </p> - <p> - There was a perceptible ring in his voice. She looked at him, puzzled. - </p> - <p> - “Silvia, dear—I'm fired.” - </p> - <p> - “Fired? Hy—when?” - </p> - <p> - “To-day. Chucked out. I haven't got half of that—to live on, even.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, my dear boy, you oughtn't to live in this careless way, not saving a - cent—” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I oughtn't. But I do. That's me.” - </p> - <p> - “But what on earth—what reason—” - </p> - <p> - “Conduct. I'm a bad one.” He was almost triumphant. “Only last night I was - seen leaving a questionable restaurant—where they dance and drink—with - a young lady—” - </p> - <p> - The tears were not falling now. Miss Silvia So-rana was looking straight - at him, thoughtful, even cool. - </p> - <p> - “Are you telling me the truth, Hy Lowe?” - </p> - <p> - “The gospel. I'm not even the proletariat. I'm the unemployed.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” said she—“well!” And she thought it deliberately out. “Well—I - guess you can't be blamed for that!” - </p> - <p> - Which impressed Hy later when he thought it over, as a curious remark. - They parted shortly after this. - </p> - <p> - But first she said, “Hy, dear, I don't like to seem to be leaving you on - account of this. It must be dreadfully hard for you.” So they had a soda, - sitting in the drug store window. Hy almost smiled, thinking of the - madness of it—he and an unmistakable actress, in working hours, here - actually in the shadow of grim old Scripture House! And it was nobody's - business! It could hurt nobody! He had not known that freedom would be - like this. There was a thrill about it; so deep a thrill that after he had - put the sympathetic but plainly hurrying Silvia on an up-town car and had - paid for her as she entered, he could not bring himself to return to the - office. Even with the Worm up there, wondering what had become of him. - Even with all his personal belongings waiting to be cleared from the desk - and packed. - </p> - <p> - He wandered over to Washington Square, his spirit reveling in the lazy - June sunshine. He stopped and listened to the untiring hurdy gurdy; threw - coins to the little Italian girls dancing on the pavement. He thought of - stopping in at the Parisian, ordering a “sirop” and reading or trying to - read, those delightfully naughty French weeklies. He knew definitely now - that he was out for a good time. - </p> - <p> - There was a difficulty. It is easier to have a good time when there is a - girl about. Really it was rather inopportune that Hilda Hansen had flitted - back to Wisconsin. She needed a guardian; still she had been an appealing - young thing up there at the Grand Central. But she had gone! And Silvia—well, - that little affair had taken an odd and not over-pleasant turn. The pagan - person had, plainly, her sophisticated moments. He was glad that he had - seen through her. For that matter, you couldn't ever trust her sort. - </p> - <p> - Then creeping back into his mind like a pet dog after a beating, hesitant, - all fears and doubts of a welcome, came the thought of Betty Deane. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXV—HE WHO HESITATED - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HERE was Betty, - anyway! And why hadn't she called up the office. It began to seem to him - that she might have done that after her little effort of the morning. - Hitherto, before that ridiculous marriage of hers, she had always put up - with Sue Wilde, over in Tenth Street. Perhaps she was there now. Mental - pictures began to form of Betty's luxuriant blonde beauty. And it was - something for a peach like that to leave home and rich husband, come - hurrying down to New York and call you up at an ungodly hour in the - morning. He remembered suddenly, warmly, the time he had first kissed - Betty—over in New Jersey, on a green hillside, of a glowing - afternoon. His laziness fell away. Briskly he walked around into Tenth - Street and rang Sue's bell. - </p> - <p> - Betty answered—prettier than ever, a rounded but swaying young - creature who said little and that slowly. - </p> - <p> - “Hello!” she said, “Sue's out.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't want Sue. Came to see you, Betty. I'm fired—out of a job—and - while it lasts, hilariously happy. How about a bite at the Parisian?” - </p> - <p> - So they had humorously early tea at the old French restaurant near the - Square. Then Betty went up-town on the bus for a little shopping, and Hy - walked, at last, back to the office. They had decided to meet again for - dinner. - </p> - <p> - Scripture House loomed before him—long, dingy, grim in the gay - sunshine. He stood motionless on the farther curb, staring at it. Had - three years of his life been spent, miserably spent, on a treadmill, in - that haunt of hypocrisy? Had he been selling his presumably immortal soul - on the instalment plan, at forty-five a week? Or was it a hideous dream? - Was he dreaming now? - </p> - <p> - He shuddered. Then, slowly, he walked across the street, deriding to pack - up and get out for good just as swiftly as the thing could be done. He was - glad, downright glad, that it was his character that had been so crudely - assailed. That let him out. He needn't be decent—needn't wait a - month to break in a new man—nothing like that! He wondered mildly - what the Worm would say, and Peter? It might be necessary to borrow a bit - until he could get going again. Though perhaps they would take him back on - the old paper until he could find something regular. - </p> - <p> - The sense of being haunted by a dream grew as he went up in the elevator - and walked along the hall. He saw with new eyes the old building he had so - long taken for granted—saw the worn hollows in the oak floors, the - patched cracks in the plaster; he smelt the old musty odor with new' - repugnance; noted the legends on office doors he passed with a wry smile, - the Reverend This and the Reverend That, the Society for the Suppression - of Such and Such, the commercially religious Somebody & Company. - </p> - <p> - He had to will his hand to open the door lettered, “My Brother's Keeper; - Hubbell Harkness Wilde, D. D.” He had to will his feet to carry him - within. But once within, he stood motionless and the queerness seized on - him, widened his eyes, caught at his breath. For the place was absolutely - still. Not a typewriter sounded. Not an argumentative voice floated out - over the seven-foot partitions. It was like a dead place—uncanny, - awful. For an instant he considered running; wondered fantastically - whether his feet would turn to lead and hold him back as feet do in - dreams. - </p> - <p> - But he stood his ground and looked cautiously about. There within the - rail, in the corner, the pretty little telephone girl sat motionless at - her switchboard, watching him with eyes that stared stupidly out of a - white face. - </p> - <p> - He stepped to her side—tiptoeing in spite of himself—tried to - smile, cleared his throat, started at the sound; then whispered, “For - Heaven's sake, what's the matter?” and patted the girl's cheek. - </p> - <p> - Ordinarily she would have dodged away and looked anxiously about in fear - of being seen. Now she did nothing of the sort. After a moment she said, - also whispering and quite incoherently—“Is Miss Hardwick going to - have your room?” - </p> - <p> - At the sound of her voice and out of sheer nervousness, he gulped. She was - alive, at least. He pinched her cheek; and shook his head, rather - meaninglessly. Then he braced himself and went on in, wholly unaware that - he was still tiptoeing. - </p> - <p> - Two girl stenographers sat in a coiner, whispering. At sight of him they - hushed. He passed on. The other girls were not at their desks, though he - thought that most of their hats and coats hung in the farther corner as - usual. The office boy was not to be seen. The copy editor and proof-reader - was not in her cubby-hole at the end of the corridor. Miss Hardwick's door - was shut; but as he passed he thought he heard a rustle within, and he was - certain that he saw the tip of a hat feather over the partition. - </p> - <p> - He came to his own door. It was ajar. He felt sure he had closed it when - he left. It was his regular practise to close it. He stopped short, - considering this as if it was a matter of genuine importance. Then it - occurred to him that the boy might have been in there with proofs. - </p> - <p> - Doctor Wilde's door at the end of the corridor stood open. The seven-foot - square mahogany desk, heaped with papers and books, looked natural enough, - but the chair behind it was empty. - </p> - <p> - He tiptoed forward, threw his door open. Then he literally gasped. For - there, between the desk and the window, stood the Walrus. He held the - nicked editorial shears in his hand—he must have picked them up from - the floor—and was in the act of looking from them to the cut ends of - the wires by the buzzer. - </p> - <p> - Hy's overcharged nervous system leaped for the nearest outlet. “I cut the - damn things myself,” he said, “this morning.” - </p> - <p> - The Walrus turned toward him an ashen face. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes,” he said. “I didn't know they were objectionable to you.” - </p> - <p> - “I've hated them for three years,” said Hy. - </p> - <p> - “You should have spoken. It is better to speak of things.” - </p> - <p> - “Speak nothing!” Hy sputtered. “I stood a fine chance.” - </p> - <p> - “You know,” observed Doctor Wilde, as if he had not heard—his voice - was husky and curiously weak—“we were interrupted this morning. You - were wrong in imagining that a resignation was necessary. You jumped at - that conclusion. I should say that you were unnecessarily touchy.” - </p> - <p> - “But my character—” - </p> - <p> - “I repeat, it seems to me that you were unnecessarily touchy. A man must - not be too sensitive. He should be strong to take as well as give blows. - Your actions, it seemed to me, perhaps wrongly, were a blow to me, to the - prestige of this establishment. You must understand, Mr. Lowe, that in - this life that we all must live”—absently he looked about to see if - Miss Hardwick's pencil was poised to render imperishable the thought that - he was about to put into words, caught himself, brushed a limp hand (with - the shears in them) across his eyes, then went on with an effort—“I - will say further that when we spoke this morning I had not seen the dummy - for the issue of July tenth. Now I don't mind telling you that I regard - that as a good dummy. You have there caught my ideas of sound make-up - better than ever before. And I have—” - </p> - <p> - “But my character—” - </p> - <p> - “—and I have just written instructions to Mr. Hennessy to make a - change in your salary beginning with next Saturday's envelope. You are now - doing the work of a full managing editor. Your income should be sufficient - to enable you to support the position with reasonable dignity. Hereafter - you will draw sixty dollars a week.” - </p> - <p> - He moved toward the door. He seemed suddenly a really old man, grayer of - hair and skin, more bent, less certain of his footing. - </p> - <p> - “Here!” cried Hy, sputtering in uncontrollable excitement, “those are my - shears.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, so they are. I did not notice.” And the Walrus came back, laid them - carefully on the desk: then walked out, entered his own room, closed the - dour. - </p> - <p> - Hy shut his door, stood for a moment by the desk, sank, an inert figure, - into his chair. His eyes focused on the old alpaca coat, stuffed into the - waste basket. He took it out; spread it on the desk and stared at the ink - stains. “I can have it cleaned,” he thought. Suddenly he pressed two - shaking hands to his throbbing head. - </p> - <p> - “My God!” he muttered, aloud. “What did I say to him. What didn't I say to - him? I'm a loon! I'm a nut! This is the asylum!” - </p> - <p> - He stiffened up; sat there for a moment, wildeyed. He reached down and - pinched his thigh, hard. He sprang up and paced the room. He wheeled - suddenly, craftily, on the silent buzzer, there on the partition. So far - all right—the wires were cut! - </p> - <p> - He saw the shears lying on the desk; pounced on them and feverishly - examined the blades. One was nicked. - </p> - <p> - So far, so good. But the supreme test remained. He plunged out into the - silent corridor, hesitated, stood wrestling with the devils within him, - conquered them and white as all the ghosts tapped at Doctor Wilde's door, - opened it a crack, stuck in his head, and said: - </p> - <p> - “How much did you say it was to be, Doctor?” - </p> - <p> - The Walrus compressed his lips, and then drew a deep breath that was not - unlike a sigh. “The figure I mentioned,” he replied, “was sixty dollars a - week. If that is satisfactory to you.” - </p> - <p> - Hy considered this. “On the whole,” he said finally, “considering - everything, I will agree to that.” - </p> - <p> - At ten minutes past midnight Hy let himself into the rooms. One gas jet - was burning dimly in the studio. As he stood on the threshold he could - just make out the long figure of the Worm half reclining in the Morris - chair by a wide-open window, attired in the striped pajamas of the - morning. From one elevated foot dangled a slipper of Chinese straw. He was - smoking his old brier. - </p> - <p> - “Hello!” said Hy cheerfully. - </p> - <p> - Silence. Then, “Hello!” replied the Worm. - </p> - <p> - Hy tossed his hat on the couch-bed of the absent Peter, then came and - stood by the open window, thrust hands deep into trousers packets, sniffed - the mild evening air, gazed benevolently on the trees, lights and little - moving figures of the Square. Then he lit a cigarette. - </p> - <p> - “Great night, my son!” said he. - </p> - <p> - The Worm lowered his pipe, looked up with sudden sharp interest, studied - the gay young person standing so buoyantly there before him; then replaced - the pipe and smoked on in silence. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, come!” cried Hy, after a bit. “Buck up! Be a live young newspaper - man!” - </p> - <p> - “I'm not a newspaper man,'” replied the Worm. - </p> - <p> - “You're not a—-you were this afternoon.” - </p> - <p> - “True.” - </p> - <p> - “Say, my son, what were you around for today?” - </p> - <p> - The pipe came down again. “You mean to say you don't know?” - </p> - <p> - “Not a thing. Except that the place went absolutely on the fritz. I - thought I had 'em.” - </p> - <p> - “I don't wonder,” muttered Henry Bates. - </p> - <p> - “And the Walrus raised me fifteen bucks per. Just like that!” - </p> - <p> - “He raised you?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, my child.” Hy came around, sat on the desk, dangled his legs. - </p> - <p> - “Then,” observed the Worm, “he certainly thinks you know.” - </p> - <p> - “Elucidate! Elucidate!” - </p> - <p> - The Worm knocked the ashes from his pipe; turned the warm bowl around and - around in his hand. “Our paper—I should say <i>The Courier</i>—. - has a story on Doctor Wilde—a charge that he has misappropriated - missionary funds. They sent me up to-day to ask if he would consent to an - accounting.” - </p> - <p> - Hy whistled. - </p> - <p> - “The amount is put roughly at a million dollars. I didn't care much about - the assignment.” - </p> - <p> - “I should think not.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm fond of Sue. But it was my job. When I told him what I was there for, - he ran me out of his office, locked the door and shouted through the - transom that he had a bottle of poison in his desk and would take it if I - wouldn't agree to suppress the story. As if he'd planned exactly that - scene for years.” - </p> - <p> - “Aha,” cried Hy—“melodrama.” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely. Melodrama. It was unpleasant.” - </p> - <p> - “You accepted the gentleman's proposition, I take it.” - </p> - <p> - “I dislike murders.” - </p> - <p> - Hy, considering this, stiffened up. “Say,” he cried, “what's the paper - going to do about it?” - </p> - <p> - “I saw the assistant city editor this evening at the Parisian bar. He - tells me they have decided to drop the story. But they dropped me first.” - He looked shrewdly at Hy. “So don't worry. You can count on your raise.” - </p> - <p> - Hy's cigarette had gone out. He looked at it, tossed it out the window, - lit a fresh one. - </p> - <p> - “Of course,” said he, “a fellow likes to know where he gets off.” - </p> - <p> - “Or at least that he is off,” said the Worm, and went to bed. - </p> - <p> - Hy let him go. A dreamy expression came into his eyes. As he threw off - coat and waistcoat and started unbuttoning his collar, he hummed softly: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “I want si-<i>imp</i>-athee, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Si-<i>imp</i>-athee, just <i>symp</i>-ah-thee.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - He embraced an imaginary young woman—a blonde who was slow of speech - and luxurious in movements—and danced slowly, rather gracefully - across the room. - </p> - <p> - All was right with the world! - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVI—ENTER MARIA TONIFETTI - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HOUGH there is no - known specific for heartache, there are palliatives. One such Peter - Ericson Mann found in the head barber's chair at the strictly sanitary - shop of Manus. The necessity, during all the spring months, of avoiding - this shop had irked Peter; for he was given to worry in the matter of - bacteria. And he could not himself shave his thin and tender skin without - irritating it to the point of eruption. - </p> - <p> - The shop of Marius was in the basement of that most interesting of New - York restaurants, the Parisian. The place is wholly French, from the large - trees out front and in their shade the sleepy victorias always waiting at - the curb to the Looeys and Sharlses and Gastongs that serve you within. It - is there a distinction to be known of the maître d'hôtel, an achievement - to nod to the proprietor. - </p> - <p> - Greenwich Village, when in funds, dines, lunches, breakfasts at the - Parisian. Upper West Side, when seeking the quaintly foreign dissociated - from squalor, dines there. Upper West Side always goes up the wide front - steps and through the busy little office into the airy eating rooms with - full length hinged windows. There is music here; a switchboard youth who - giftedly blends slang with argot; even, it has been reported, an interior - fountain. Greenwich Village now and again ascends those wide front steps; - but more often frequents the basement where is neither fountain nor music, - merely chairs, tables and ineffable food; these latter in three or four - small rooms which you may enter from the Avenue, directly under the steps, - or from the side street through the bar. The corner room, nearest the bar, - is a haunt of such newspaper men as live in the neighborhood. Also in the - basement is a rather obscure and crooked passage extending from the bar - past the small rooms and the barber shop of Marius to the equally obscure - and crooked stairway that leads by way of telephone booths and a passage - to the little office hallway and the upper restaurant. The whole, - apparently, was arranged with the mechanics of French farce uppermost in - the mind of the architect. - </p> - <p> - Peter's large horn-rimmed eye-glasses hung by their heavy black ribbon - from the frame of the mirror; his long person lay, relaxed, in the chair. - His right foot rested on a bent-wire stand; and kneeling respectfully - before it, polishing the shoe, was the boy called Theophile. His left hand - lay on the soft palm of Miss Maria Tonifetti who was working soothingly, - head bowed, on the thumb nail. Miss Tonifetti was pretty. She happens to - be the reason why Peter had kept away from the shop of Marius all spring. - These Italian girls, from below Washington Square, were known to be of an - impetuous temper. Hy Lowe had on several occasions advised Peter to let - them alone. Hy believed that they, carried knives. Now, however, finding - Maria so subdued, if gloomily emotional, of eye, experiencing again the - old soft thrill as her deft smooth fingers touched and pressed his own, he - was seriously considering asking her out to dinner. He had first thought - of this while Marius (himself) was plying the razor. (What a hand had - Marius!) The notion grew during the drowsily comfortable shampoo that came - next. With the face massage, and the steaming towels that followed it—one - of these now covered his face, with a minute breathing hole above the nose—came - a gentle glow of tenderness toward all the world and particularly toward - Miss Tonifetti. After all, he had never intended neglecting her. Life is - so complex! - </p> - <p> - I had hoped to slip through this narrative with no more than an occasional - and casual allusion to Maria. But this, it appears, is not possible. She - matters. And even at the risk of a descent into unromantic actuality, into - what you might call “realism,” she enters at this point. - </p> - <p> - Peter himself, like most of us, disliked actuality. His plays were all of - duty and self-sacrifice and brooding tenderness and that curious structure - that is known throughout the theatrical district as Honor. Honor with a - very large H—accompanied, usually, with a declamatory gesture and a - protruding chest. Sue, at her first meeting with Peter, when she talked - out so impulsively, really said the last word about his plays. Peter's - thoughts of himself (and these never flagged) often took the form of - recollecting occasions when he had been kind to newsboys or when he had - lent a helping hand to needy young women without exacting a quid pro quo. - The occasions when he had not been kind took the memory-shape of proper - indignation aroused by bitter injustice to himself. He had suffered - greatly from injustice as from misunderstanding. Few, indeed, understood - him; which fact added incalculably to the difficulties of life. - </p> - <p> - Now just a word of recent history and we shall get on with our story. When - Sue broke her engagement to Peter he took his broken heart away to - Atlantic City, where he had before now found diversion and the impulse to - work. He had suffered deeply, these nearly two weeks. His food had not set - well. The thought of solitary outdoor exercise, even ocean swimming, had - been repellent. And until the last two or three nights, his sleeplessness - had been so marked as really to worry him. Night after night he had caught - himself sitting straight up in bed saying, aloud, harsh things to the - penitent weeping Sue of his dreams. Usually after these experiences his - thoughts and nerves had proved to be in such a tangle that his only - recourse had been to switch on the lights and, with a trembling hand and - an ache at the back of his head, plunge into his work. The work, therefore - (it was a new play), had gone rather well—so well that when the - expensiveness of the life began to appear really alarming he was ready to - come back to the old haunts and make the effort to hold up his head. He - had got into New York at four-ten and come down to the shop of Marius by - taxi. His suit-case and grip were over in the corner by the coat rack. - </p> - <p> - It was now nearly five-thirty. The face massage was over with; his thick - dark hair had been brushed into place by the one barber in New York who - did not ask “Wet or dry?” And he was comfortably seated, across the shop, - at Miss Tonifetti's little wire-legged table, for the finishing strokes of - the buffer and the final soap-and-water rinsing in the glass bowl. He - looked at the bent head and slightly drooping shoulders of the girl. The - head was nicely poised. The hair was abundant and exceptionally fine. It - massed well. As at certain other moments in the dim past his nature - reacted pleasantly to some esthetically pleasing quality in hair, head, - shoulders and curve of dark cheek. Just then she glanced up, flushed - perceptibly, then dropped her eyes and went on with her work—which - consisted at the moment in giving a final polish by-brushing the nails - lightly with the palm of her hand. - </p> - <p> - The glow in Peter's heart leaped up into something near real warmth. He - leaned forward, glanced swiftly about, then said, low: “It has been hard, - Maria—not seeing you.” - </p> - <p> - The dark head bent lower. - </p> - <p> - “It did seem best. You know.” - </p> - <p> - The head nodded a very little—doubtfully. “There's no sense in being - too hard on ourselves, Maria. Suppose—oh, come on and have dinner - with me.” - </p> - <p> - Again the head was inclined in assent. And he heard her whisper, “Where?” - </p> - <p> - Peter thought swiftly. This was not a matter for his acquaintances of the - Square and Greenwich Village. Then, too, a gentleman always “protected the - girl.” Suddenly he remembered: - </p> - <p> - “Meet me at the old place—corner of Tenth. We can take the bus - up-town. You can't get off early?” She shook her head. - </p> - <p> - “All right. Say twenty after to half-past seven. I'll leave my bags here - for the present.” - </p> - <p> - This, after all, was living! It was best. You had to keep on. And it would - be nice to give Maria a good time. She had been exacting in the past, - given to unexpected outbursts, a girl of secretive ways, but of violent - impulses, that she seemed always struggling to suppress. He had noted - before now a passionate sort of gloom in the girl. To-day, though, she was - charming, gentle enough for anybody. Yes, for old times' sake—in - memory of certain intense little episodes they two had shared, he would - give her a nice evening.... With such thoughts he complacently lighted a - cigarette, smiled covertly at the girl, who was following him furtively, - with her big dark eyes and went back through the crooked corridor to the - bar. - </p> - <p> - Here we find Hy Lowe engaged in buying a drink for Sumner Smith, one of - the best-known reporters on that most audaciously unscrupulously brilliant - of newspapers, <i>The Evening Earth</i>. Sumner Smith was fat, - sleepy-eyed, close-mouthed. He was a man for whom Peter felt profound if - cautious respect. - </p> - <p> - But his thoughts were not now concerned with the locally famous reporter, - were not concerned, for the moment, even with himself. He was impressed by - the spectacle of Hy Lowe standing treat, casually tossing out a - five-dollar bank note; so much so that he promptly and with a grin - accepted Hy's nod as an invitation and settled, after a moment's - thoughtful consideration, on an old-fashioned whisky cocktail. - </p> - <p> - It was not that Hy was stingy; simply that the task of dressing well, - taking in all the new shows and entertaining an apparently inexhaustible - army of extraordinarily pretty girls with taxis and even occasional wine - was at times too much for the forty-five a week that Hy earned. - </p> - <p> - Now, as it happened, while Peter thought about Hy, Hy was thinking about - Peter. Not six times in the more than three years of his life with Peter - and the Worm had Hy seen so jovial an expression on the long face of the - well-known playwright. - </p> - <p> - The man was self-conscious to the point of morbidity. This at all times, - dating far, far back of his painful relationship with Sue Wilde, back of - his tempestuous affair with Grace Derring, back of the curious little - mix-up with that Tonifetti girl. Lately he had been growing worse. Why, it - was not yet a fortnight since he had fought Zanin, over at the Muscovy. - Then Sue had broken their engagement, and Peter had left town a crushed - and desperate man. Hy had gone to the trouble of worrying about him; an - exertion which he was now inclined to resent a bit. He had even mentioned - his fears to the Worm; which sage young man had smiled and observed dryly - and enigmatically, “Peter will never really love anybody else.”... And - now, of all times, Peter was grinning! - </p> - <p> - The journalist left them to read <i>Le Sourire</i> and nibble toast in the - corner room. Peter cheerfully regarded Hy's new homespun suit, his real - Panama hat with a colored stripe in the white fluffy band, his flaming new - tie and the silk shirt of exclusive pattern beneath it. Hy caught this - scrutiny, and returned the grin. - </p> - <p> - “I'm in soft, Pete,” he murmured. “Got a raise.” - </p> - <p> - “Not out of old Wilde?” - </p> - <p> - Hy nodded. “Considerable story, my son. First the old boy fired me. That - was at nine-thirty A. m. I went out and made a day of it. Then, of all - things, the Worm comes into the office—” - </p> - <p> - “The Worm! Henry Bates?” - </p> - <p> - “Yep. He was on <i>The Courier</i>, you know.” - </p> - <p> - “Was?” - </p> - <p> - “Was—and isn't. They sent him up with a stiff story about the - missionary funds we've collected through the paper. And what does the old - boy do but lock him out and holler through the transom that he'll eat - poison, just like that, unless the Worm goes back and kills the story.” - </p> - <p> - “And what does the Worm?” - </p> - <p> - “As per instructions.” - </p> - <p> - “Kills the story?” - </p> - <p> - “And his job with it. He's writing a novel now—like everybody else. - Have another,” Hy added cheerfully, “on the old Walrus' partner in crime.” - Peter had another. - </p> - <p> - “The rest of it is”—this from Hy—“I come in at four-thirty - that afternoon to pack up my things, and the Reverend Doctor Wilde hands - me a raise. I get sixty now. I am on that famous road to wealth.” - </p> - <p> - “But what on earth—” - </p> - <p> - Hy chuckled. “Worm says the old boy thought I knew.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah!” breathed Peter. “Ah!” - </p> - <p> - “Can't say I wonder at Sue's leaving home, hitting out for the - self-expression thing.” Hy grew more expansive as the liquor spread its - glowing warmth within his person. Otherwise he would hardly have spoken of - Sue, even on the strength of that genial grin of Peter's. - </p> - <p> - Peter leaned an elbow on the mahogany bar and slowly sipped. “I wonder if - Sue suspects this.” It was not easy for him to speak her name. But he did - speak it, with an apparent casualness worthy of Waters Coryell. - </p> - <p> - “Probably not. I've worked at his elbow for years and never dreamed.” He - sighed. “It's hard to see where a girl of any spirit gets off these days. - From my experience with 'em, I'm convinced that home is the safest place - for 'em, and yet it's only the dead ones that'll give up and stay there.” - </p> - <p> - Peter did not reply. His brows were knit, but not, apparently, in - concentration, for his eyes wandered. He said something about getting his - bags over to the rooms; started irresolutely down the passage toward the - barber shop; stopped; pressed his fingers to his mouth; came back, passing - Hy as if he didn't see him and went on out to the side street. Here he - stopped again. - </p> - <p> - The side street was narrow. A cross-town car shut off most of his view of - the Avenue, a few yards away. Then it passed, and he saw a young couple - strolling across toward the restaurant. The man—large, heavy of hand - and foot, a peasant-like, face curiously lighted by burning eyes, better - dressed than usual—was Jacob Zanin. The girl—slim, - astonishingly fresh and pretty, not wearing the old tarn o' shanter and - haphazard costume he associated with her, but a simple light suit—was - Sue Wilde; the girl who by her hardness and selfishness had hurt Peter - irreparably. There they were, chatting casually, quite at ease—Zanin, - who didn't believe in marriage, who had pursued Sue with amazing patience - for nearly two years, who had wrecked Peter's pocket; Sue, who had broken - his heart. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVII—PETER IS DRIVEN TO ACT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE spectacle - stopped Peter's brain. Among all the wild pictures that had rushed helter - skelter through his overwrought mind of late there had been nothing like - this. Why, it was only a matter of days since he and Zanin had pummeled - each other to an accompaniment of broken chairs, overturned tables, - wrecked china, torn clothing, actual blood. He had pictured Sue, a - confused disillusioned girl, rushing back to her home; Zanin a marked man, - even in the Village, cowering away from his fellows. But this! - </p> - <p> - They passed the corner. With a great gulp of sheer emotion Peter followed, - almost running. They turned into the Parisian—-but not into the - familiar basement. Instead they mounted the wide front steps, as - matter-of-fact as any two Upper West Siders out of a limousine. Peter - pressed his hands to his eyes. He looked again. They had vanished within - the building. - </p> - <p> - Peter walked back and forth. He told himself that he must think. But the - fact clear even to his overwhelmed consciousness was that he was not - thinking and that there was no immediate prospect of his being able to - think. He went a whole block up the side street, stemming the thick tide - of Jewish working girls from University Place and the lower Broadway - district and men in overalls—muttering aloud, catching himself, - compressing his lips, then muttering again. “She played with me!” So ran - the muttering. “She is utterly lacking in responsibility, in any sense of - obligation. She lacks spirituality. That is it, she lacks spirituality. - She has no fineness. She is hard—hard! She is drifting like a leaf - on these crazy Village currents of irrepressible self-indulgence. I tried - to save her—God knows I tried! I did my best! I can't be blamed if - she goes to pieces now! I can do no more—I must let her go!” But - even while he spoke he gulped again; his face, nearly gray now, twisting - painfully. He suddenly turned and rushed back to the Parisian. - </p> - <p> - He paused at the side doorway and peered in. Hy was not in evidence. A - later glance, from within the barroom, disclosed that slightly illuminated - young man in the corner room of the restaurant hanging over the table at - which the taciturn Sumner Smith was still trying to read <i>Le Sourire</i>. - </p> - <p> - Peter went on into the crooked passage, passed the open doors of two - eating rooms where only the first early diners had as yet drifted in, - found himself at the door of the barber shop, stopped short, then seeing - the familiar figure of Maria Tonifetti approaching her table in the - corner, dodged back and into the washroom. Here the boy named Anatole - said, “Good evening, Meester Mann,” and filled a basin for him. Peter - dipped his hands into the warm water and washed them. He was surprised to - find his forehead dripping with sweat. He dried his hands, removed his - glasses and scrubbed his face. He turned on the cold water, wet a towel - and pressed it to his temples and the back of his head, taking care not to - wet his collar. His hands were trembling. And that impulse to talk aloud - was rising uncontrollably. He went back to the corridor; stood motionless, - breathing deeply; recalled with the force of an inspiration that Napoleon - had feared nothing, not even the ladies with whose lives his own had - become so painfully entangled and walked deliberately, staring straight - before him, past that barber shop door. - </p> - <p> - At the foot of the crooked stairway he paused again. And again his face - was twisting. “I've got to make the one more effort,” he said. “It isn't - for myself, God knows! I gave her my love—I pledged her my life—I - have suffered for her—I would have saved her if she had played fair! - I've got to make this last effort!” - </p> - <p> - He mounted the stairs, crowded past the telephone booths, staging at them - as he went. They conveyed a suggestion to his mind. He stepped cautiously - to the restaurant door, nodded to the maître d'hôtel and glanced in. The - nearer room was empty; but beyond the second doorway, Zanin's shoulder and - profile were visible. Sue he could not see, but she must be sitting there. - Yes, Zanin was leaning forward, was speaking, even smiling, in that - offhand way of his! - </p> - <p> - Peter, flushing now, turned away; confronted the boy called Raoul; pressed - a silver quarter into his palm. “Page, Miss Wilde,” he breathed huskily. - “Tell her she is wanted on the phone.” - </p> - <p> - The boy named Raoul obeyed. At the Parisian it is not regarded as - surprising that a gentleman should wish to speak to a lady. - </p> - <p> - Peter rushed around the turn and Waited at the farther end of the row of - booths. - </p> - <p> - Finally he heard her step. - </p> - <p> - When she saw him she stopped. “Oh,” she said, “Peter!” And she frowned a - very little. - </p> - <p> - “It was a deception,” he broke out, “but I had to see you, Sue! I know you - are with Zanin. I saw you come in. I don't see how you can do it, but - we'll let that pass. I—” - </p> - <p> - “What is it, Peter? What do you want with me?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Sue! Are you as hard as that? What do I want of you! Good God! When I - see you, after all I have suffered for your sake, plunging back into this - life—taking up with that crock Zanin as if nothing had happened, as - if—Why, he—” - </p> - <p> - Sue grew a little white about the mouth and temples. She glanced back at - the empty passage. - </p> - <p> - “Peter,” she said, curiously quiet, “if you think it fair to follow me - into a public place, if you really mean to make another hideous scene, you - will have to come into the dining-room to do it.” - </p> - <p> - He reached out, caught her arm. She wrenched away and left him there. For - a long moment he stared out the window at the rush of early evening - traffic on the Avenue, his hands clenched at his sides. Then he hurried - past the office and down to the street. - </p> - <p> - He stood on the curb and addressed a rattling autobus. “It is unbearable—unbelievable. - The girl has lost all sense of the fitness of things. She is beside - herself. I must act—act! I must act at once—to-night!” - </p> - <p> - People were passing. He turned, suddenly aware of the bustlingly - unsympathetic, world about him. Had any one heard his voice? Apparently - none had. All were hurrying on, up-town, down-town. Standing there on the - curb he could see in at the basement window. Sumner Smith was alone at - last and deep in <i>Le Sourire</i>. Hy had drifted away—back to the - bar, doubtless. - </p> - <p> - Peter, you recall, was a genius. As a genius he fed on his emotional - reactions; they were his life. Therefore do not judge him too harshly for - the wild thought that at this point rushed over his consciousness with a - force that left him breathless. He was frightened and by himself. But - there was a barbarous exaltation in his fear. “It'll bring her to her - senses,” he thought. “I've got to do it. Then she'll listen to me. She'll - <i>have</i> to listen to me then.” - </p> - <p> - Peter appeared in the corner room down-stairs, almost as curiously quiet - as Sue had been in their brief talk. He, too, was rather pale. He came - over to Sumner Smith's table, dropped down opposite the fat journalist, - beckoned a waiter, ordered a light dinner, and, that done, proffered a - cigarette. - </p> - <p> - “I've got a tip for you, Smith,” he said, “a real one. If <i>The Evening - Earth</i> hasn't lost its vigor you can put it over big.” - </p> - <p> - The fat man merely lighted his cigarette and looked inscrutably over it at - Peter's drawn face. - </p> - <p> - “I can't give you the details. You'll have to take my word for them. Did - you ever hear a question raised regarding the Reverend Doctor Wilde?” - Sumner Smith glanced out toward the bar and Hy. The corners of his mouth - twitched. “His boss?” - </p> - <p> - “Right. Editor of <i>My Brother's Keeper</i>. Author of the famous - missionary sermons.” - </p> - <p> - “There was a little talk last year. You mean the big mission funds he has - raised?” - </p> - <p> - Peter nodded. His eyes were overbright now. “Nobody has the evidence, - Mann. It isn't news as it stands.” - </p> - <p> - “Suppose you could <i>make</i> it news—big news.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, of course—” the journalist gestured with his cigarette. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you can. To-night. Go straight to his house—over in - Stuyvesant Square, not five minutes in a taxi, not ten on the cars—and - ask him point-blank to consent to an accounting. Just ask him.” Sumner - Smith mused. “It might be worth trying,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Take my word for it.” - </p> - <p> - The journalist paid his check, rose, nodded to an acquaintance across the - room, said: “I'll think it over, Mann. Much obliged—” and sauntered - out. - </p> - <p> - This was unsatisfactory. Peter, crestfallen, forgot that Sumner Smith was - hardened to sensations. And peering gloomily after the great reporter, he - only half saw the man pause at the small desk near the bar, then speak - casually to the now somewhat wobbly Hy Lowe: he only half heard a taxi - pull up outside, a door slamming, the sudden grinding of gears as the taxi - darted away. There were so many noises outside: you hardly noticed one - more. - </p> - <p> - The waiter brought his dinner. He bolted it with unsteady hands. “I must - think this all out,” he told himself. “If Sumner Smith won't do it, one of - the other <i>Earth</i> men will. Or some one on <i>The Morning - Continental.</i>” - </p> - <p> - He lit a cigar, sat bark and gazed out at the dim street where dimmer - figures and vehicles moved forever by. It occurred to him that thus would - a man sit and smoke and meditate who was moved by an overmastering love to - enact a tremendous deed. But it was difficult to sustain the pose with his - temples throbbing madly and a lump in his throat. His heart, too, was - skipping beats, he thought. Surreptitiously he felt his left wrist. - </p> - <p> - He beckoned the waiter; ordered paper and ink. The lump in his throat was - suddenly almost a pain. He wrote— - </p> - <p> - “It was wrong of me, of course, Sue, dear. But I really must see you. Even - though your hostile attitude makes it difficult to be myself. There is - trouble impending. It concerns you vitally. If you will only hear me; meet - me for half an hour after dinner, I know I can help you more than you - dream. - </p> - <p> - “I am not speaking for myself but for you. In all this dreadful trouble - between us, there is little I can ask of you. Only this—give me half - an hour. I will wait down-stairs for an answer. P. E. M.” - </p> - <p> - He sent this up-stairs. Then followed it as far as the telephones, called - up his old acquaintance, Markham, of <i>The Morning Continental</i>, and - whispered darkly to him over the wire. - </p> - <p> - As he ran down-stairs and dodged past the barber shop door, he became - conscious that the dinner he had eaten felt now like a compact, insoluble - ball in the region of his solar plexus. So he stopped at the bar and - gulped a bicarbonate of soda while buying a highball for Hy Lowe whom he - found confidentially informing the barkeeper of his raise from forty-five - a week to sixty. - </p> - <p> - Then he resumed his seat by the window in the corner room; tried to find - amusement in the pages of <i>Le Sourire</i>; failed; watched the door with - wild eyes, starting up whenever a waiter entered the room, only to sink - back limply at each fresh disappointment. - </p> - <p> - He wondered suddenly about Sumner Smith. What if he had followed the - trail! This thought brought something like a chill. If he, Peter, an old - newspaper man, were to be caught in the act of passing on an “exclusive” - tip to friends on competing papers—violating the sacred basis of - newspaper ethics! You couldn't tell about Smith. He rarely showed - interest, never emotion, seldom even smiled. He would receive the news - that Emperor William had declared himself King of All the Americas with - that same impassive front. - </p> - <p> - Peter looked at his watch. It was twenty-five minutes of seven. He had - thought it at least eight. - </p> - <p> - One thing was certain—he must get his bags out of that awful barber - shop before it closed. Accordingly he had a messenger called to take them, - over to the rooms. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXVIII—SUE DOES NOT SEND FOR PETER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE familiar person - of the Worm came in through the bar, stood in the doorway, looked about - with quiet keen eyes—tall, carelessly dressed, sandy of hair but - mild and reflective of countenance. - </p> - <p> - The Worm's eyes rested on Peter. He came across the room. - </p> - <p> - “Sit down,” said Peter, smiling, his mouth a curving crack in a ghastly - face. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” said the Worm, “you've heard?” - </p> - <p> - “Heard what?” - </p> - <p> - The Worm studied him a moment; then said, not without a touch of grave - sympathy, “Tell me, Pete—do you happen to know where Sue is?” - </p> - <p> - Peter heard this; tried to steady himself and speak in the properly casual - tone. He swallowed. Then the words rushed out—low, trembling, all - bitterness: “She's up-stairs—with Zanin!” - </p> - <p> - The Worm turned away. Peter caught his arm. “For God's sake!” he said. - “What is it? What do you want of her? If anybody's got to tell her - anything, it'll be me!” And he pushed back his chair. - </p> - <p> - The Worm laid a strong hand on his shoulder, held him firmly down in the - chair. - </p> - <p> - “Pete,” he said—quiet, deliberate—“if you try to go up those - stairs I myself will throw you down.” - </p> - <p> - Peter struggled a little. “But—but—good God! Who do you think - you are! You mean to say—” He stopped short, stared up at the Worm, - swallowed again. Then, “I get you!” he said. “I get you! Like the damn - fool I am, I never dreamed. So you're after her, too. You, with your - books, your fine disinterestedness, your easy friendly ways—you're - out for yourself, behind that bluff, just like the rest of us!” - </p> - <p> - The Worm glanced about the room. Neither had raised his voice. No one was - giving them any particular attention. He relaxed his grip of Peter's arm; - dropped into the chair opposite; leaned over the table on folded arms; - fixed his rather compelling eyes on Peter's ashen face. - </p> - <p> - “Pete,” he said, very quiet, very steady, “listen to me carefully. And - don't spill any paranoia tonight. If you do—if you start anything - like that crazy fight at the Muscovy—I'll take a hand myself. Now - sit quiet and try to hear what I say.” - </p> - <p> - Peter was still swallowing. The Worm went steadily on. “A neighbor of the - Wilde's just now called up the apartment. They thought they might get Hy - Lowe to find Sue and fetch her home. But Hy-” - </p> - <p> - “He's—” began Peter. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I saw him. He's outside here. He wants to sit on the curbstone and - read the evening paper. A couple of chauffeurs were reasoning with him - when I came in. I'm going to find her myself.” - </p> - <p> - “But what's happened! You—” - </p> - <p> - “Her father has taken poison. They think he is dying. His wife went right - to pieces. Everything a mess—and two young children. They hadn't - even got the doctor in when this man telephoned. He thinks the old boy is - gone.” - </p> - <p> - “But—but—that's absurd! It couldn't act so quickly!” - </p> - <p> - The Worm stared; his face set perceptibly. “It has acted. He didn't take - the bichloride route. He drank carbolic.” - </p> - <p> - “But that—that's awful!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it's awful. There's a newspaper man there, raising hell. They can't - get him out—or couldn't. Now keep this straight—if you go one - step up those stairs or if you try to come out and speak to Sue before I - get her away, I'll break your head.” - </p> - <p> - “She'll send for me,” said Peter, sputtering. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps,” observed Henry Bates; and swiftly left the room. - </p> - <p> - Sue Wilde returned from her brief interview with Peter. Two or three - groups of early diners greeted her as she passed. - </p> - <p> - Jacob Zanin watched her—her brisk little nod and quiet smile for - these acquaintances, her curiously boylike grace, the fresh tint of her - olive skin. She was a bit thin, he thought; her hard work as principal - actress in the Nature Film, coupled with the confusion he knew she had - passed through during that brief wild engagement to Peter Mann, had worn - her down. - </p> - <p> - She had always puzzled him. She puzzled him now, as she resumed her seat, - met his gaze, said: “Jacob, give me a cigarette.” - </p> - <p> - “Sue—you're off them.” - </p> - <p> - “While the film job was on. Breaking training now, Jacob.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he mused aloud, “I made you stop for good reason enough. But now - I'm not sure that you're not wise.” And he tossed his box across the - table. - </p> - <p> - While she lighted the cigarette, he studied her. - </p> - <p> - None knew better than he the interesting variety of girls who came to the - Village to seek freedom—some on intense feministic principles (Sue - among these), others in search of the nearly mythical country called - Buhemia, still others in the knowledge that there they might walk - unquestioned without the cap of good repute. There were cliques and - cliques in the Village; but all were in agreement regarding a freedom for - woman equal to the experimental freedom of man. Love was admitted as a - need. The human race was frankly a welter of animals struggling upward in - the long process of evolution—struggling wonderfully. Conventional - morality was hypocrisy and therefore a vice. Frankness regarding all - things, an open mind toward any astonishing new theory in the psychology - of the human creature, the divine right of the ego to realize itself at - all costs, a fine scorn for all proverbial wisdom, something near a horror - of the home, the church, and the practical business world—a blend of - these was the Village, to be summed up, perhaps, in Waters Coryell's - languid remark: “I find it impossible to talk with any one who was born - before 1880.” - </p> - <p> - Zanin had known many women. In his own way he had loved not a few. With - these he had been hard, but not dishonest. He was a materialist, an - anarchist, a self-exploiter, ambitious and unrestrained, torn within by - the overmastering restlessness that was at once the great gift and the - curse of his blood. He wanted always something else, something more. He - was strong, fertile of mind, able. He had vision and could suffer. The - companionship of a woman—here and there, now and then—meant - much to him; but he demanded of her that she give as he would give, - without sacrifice of work or self, without obligation. Nothing but what - the Village terms “the free relation” was possible for Zanin. Within his - peculiar emotional range he had never wanted a woman as he had wanted Sue. - He had never given himself to another woman, in energy and companionship, - as he had given himself to her. - </p> - <p> - She had eluded him. She had also eluded Peter. Zanin was capable of - despising young women who talked freedom but were afraid to live it. There - were such; right here in the Village there were such. But he did not think - Sue's case so simple as that. He spoke out now: - </p> - <p> - “Been thinking you over, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - She deposited the ash of her cigarette on a plate, glanced gravely up at - him, then lowered her eyes again. - </p> - <p> - “Any result, Jacob?” - </p> - <p> - “You haven't found yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “That's right,” said she, “I haven't. Have you found me?” - </p> - <p> - He slowly shook his head. “I think you're doomed to grope for a while - longer. I believe you have a good deal to find—more than some. You - remember a while back when I urged you to take a trip with me?” - </p> - <p> - She did not lift her eyes at this; merely gazed thoughtfully down at her - cigarette. He went on: - </p> - <p> - “I thought I could help you. I thought you needed love. It seemed to be - the next thing for you.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said she rather shortly—“you told me that.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I was wrong. Or my methods were. Something, I or some force, - stirred you and to a bad result. You turned from me toward marriage. That - plan was worse.” - </p> - <p> - She seemed about to protest; looked up now, threw out her hands. - </p> - <p> - “At least,” he pressed on, “as a plan, it didn't carry.” - </p> - <p> - Her fine brows drew together perceptibly. “That's over, Jacob.” - </p> - <p> - “All right.” He settled back in his chair and looked about the lung room. - It was filling rapidly. There were long hair and flowing ties, evening - suits, smart gowns, bright lights, gay talk in two tongues, and just now, - music. “Tell me this much, Sue. What are you up to? There's no more - Crossroads, no more Nature Film—lord, but that was a job! No more of - that absurd engagement. This is why I dragged you out to-night. I'm - wondering about you. What are you doing?” - </p> - <p> - “Jacob,” she said, “I'm drifting.” - </p> - <p> - “I heard you were trying to write.” - </p> - <p> - “Trying—yes! A girl has to appear to be doing something.” - </p> - <p> - “No plans at all, eh?” - </p> - <p> - She met this with silent assent. - </p> - <p> - Again he looked about the sprightly room; deliberately thinking. Once she - glanced up at him; then waited. - </p> - <p> - “Sue,” he said, “I think I see you a little more clearly. If I'm wrong, - correct me. You have an unusual amount of strength—or something. I - don't know what it is. I'll fall back on the safe old word, personality. - You've got plenty of intelligence. And your stage work, your dancing—you're - gifted as all get-out. But you're like clockwork, you're no good unless - your mainspring is working. You have to be wound up.” - </p> - <p> - For the first time in this talk Sue's green-brown eyes lighted. She leaned - over the table now and spoke with a flash of feeling. - </p> - <p> - “That's it, I believe,” she said. “I've got to feel deeply—about - something. I've got to have a religion.” - </p> - <p> - “Exactly, Sue. There's a fanatical strain in you. You came into the - Village life fresh from college with a whole set of brand-new enthusiasms. - Fanatical enthusiasms. The attitude toward life that most of us take for - granted—like it, feel it, just because it is us—you came at us - like a wild young Columbus. You hadn't always believed it.” - </p> - <p> - “I always resented parental authority,” said she. “Yes, I know. I'm not - sure your revolt wasn't more a personal reaction than a social theory. - They tried to tie you down. Your father—well, the less said about - him the letter. Preaching that old, old, false stuff, commercializing it, - stifling your growth.” - </p> - <p> - “Don't let's discuss him, Jacob.” - </p> - <p> - “Very good. But the home was a conspiracy against you. His present wife - isn't your mother, you told me once.” - </p> - <p> - “No, she isn't my mother.” - </p> - <p> - “Well”—he paused, thinking hard—“look here, Sue, what in - thunder are you to do! You're no good without that mainspring, that - faith.” - </p> - <p> - She was silent, studying the table between them—silent, sober, not - hostile. Life was not a joyous crusade; it was a grim dilemma. And an - insistent pressure. She knew this now. The very admiration she felt for - this strong man disarmed her in resisting him. He told the bald truth. She - had fought him away once, only to involve herself with the impossible - Peter; an experience that now left her the weaker before him. He knew - this, of course. And he was a man to use every resource in getting what he - wanted. There was little to object to in him, if you accepted him at all. - And she had accepted him. As in a former crisis between them, he made her - feel a coward. - </p> - <p> - “It brings me back to the old topic, Sue. I could help you, if you could - let me. You have fought love down. You tried to compromise on marriage. - Nothing in that. Better live your life, girl! You've got to keep on. You - can't conceivably marry Peter; you can't drift along here without a spark - alight in you, fighting life; you can't go back home, licked. God knows - you can't do that! Give me a chance Sue. Try me. Stop this crazy - resistance to your own vital needs. Damn it, be human!” - </p> - <p> - Sue, lips compressed, eyes misty, color rising a little, looked up, - avoided Zanin's eyes; gazed as he had been doing, about the room. And - coming in through the wide door she saw the long figure of Henry Bates, - whom friends called the Worm. She watched him, compressing her lips a - little more, knitting her brows, while he stood looking from table to - table. His calm face, unassertive, reflective, whimsical in the slight - squint of the eyes, was deeply reassuring. She was fond of Henry Bates. - </p> - <p> - He came across the room; greeted Zanin briefly; gripped Sue's hand. - </p> - <p> - “Sit down, Henry,” said she. - </p> - <p> - He stood a moment, considering the two of them, then took the chair a - waiter slid forward. - </p> - <p> - “I'm here on a curious mission, Sue,” he said. She felt the touch of - solemnity in his voice and gave him a quick glance. “I've been sent to - find you.” - </p> - <p> - “What”—said she, all nerves—“what has happened?” - </p> - <p> - “An accident At your home, Sue. They believe that your father is dying. He - has asked for you. It was a neighbor who called—a Mr. Deems—and - from what little he could tell me I should say that you are needed there.” - </p> - <p> - Her hands moved nervously; she threw them out in the quick way she had and - started to speak; then giving it up let them drop and pushed back her - chair. For the moment she seemed to see neither man: her gaze went past - them; her mouth twitched. - </p> - <p> - Zanin sat back, smoked, looked from one to the other. He was suddenly out - of it. He had never known a home, in Russia or America. There was - something between Henry Rates and Sue Wilde, a common race memory, a - strain in their spiritual fiber that he did not share; something he could - not even guess at. Whatever it was he could see it gripping her, touching - and rousing hidden depths. So much her face told him. He kept silent. - </p> - <p> - She turned to him now. “You'll excuse me, Jacob?” she said, very quiet. - </p> - <p> - “You're going, then?” said he. He was true to his creed. There was no - touch of conventional sentiment in his voice. He had despised everything - her father's life meant; he despised it now. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” she said, and nodded with sudden nervous energy—a rising - color in her cheeks, her head erect, shoulders stiffened, a flash in her - eyes—such a flash as no one had seen there for a long time—“Yes, - I'm going—home.” - </p> - <p> - Zanin sat alone, looking after them as they walked quietly out of the - restaurant. He lighted a fresh cigarette, deliberately blew out the match, - stared at it as if it had been a live thing, then flicked it over his - shoulder with a snap of his thumb. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXIX—AT THE CORNER OF TENTH - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>ETER sat alone in - the corner room downstairs. Mechanically he turned the pages of <i>Le - Sourire</i>—turned them forward and back, tried to see what lay - before his eyes, tried indeed, to appear as should appear that well-known - playwright, “Eric” Mann. “I must think objectively,” he told himself. - “That's the great thing—to think objectively.” - </p> - <p> - Time was passing—minutes, hours, years. He was trying to think out - how long it had been since the Worm went up-stairs. “Was it one minute or - ten?” - </p> - <p> - There was a sudden new noise outside—a voice. He listened intently. - It was Hy Lowe's voice; excited, incoherent, shouting imprecations of some - sort. Somebody ought to take Hy home. On any occasion short of the present - crisis he would do it himself. Gradually the voice died down. - </p> - <p> - He heard the side-street door open and close. - </p> - <p> - Some One had entered the barroom. He tipped back and peered out there. He - could see part of a bulky back, a familiarly bulky back. It moved over a - little. It was the back of Sumner Smith. - </p> - <p> - Peter got up, turned, then stood irresolute. It was not, he told himself, - that he was afraid of Sumner Smith, only that the mere sight of the man - stirred uncomfortable and wild emotions within him. - </p> - <p> - The best way to get out, in fact the only way now, was through the - adjoining room to the door under the front steps. Certainly he couldn't go - up-stairs. There might be trouble on the Avenue if the Worm should see him - coming out. For a moment he even considered swallowing down all this - outrageous emotional upheaval within him and staying there. He had said - that Sue would send for him. During ten or twelve seconds out of every - sixty he firmly believed she would. It was so in his plays—let the - heartless girl, in her heyday, jilt a worthy lover, she was sure in her - hours of trial to flee, chastened, to his arms. - </p> - <p> - But he looked again at the back of Sumner Smith. It was a solid back. It - suggested, like the man's inscrutable round face, quiet power. Peter - decided on flight via that front door. - </p> - <p> - He moved slowly across the room. Then he heard a voice that chilled his - hot blood. - </p> - <p> - “Mann,” said this voice. - </p> - <p> - He turned. One or two men glanced up from their papers, then went on - reading. - </p> - <p> - Peter stood wavering. Sumner Smith's eye was full on him from the barroom - door; Sumner Smith's head was beckoning him with a jerk. He went. - </p> - <p> - “What'll you have?” he asked hurriedly, in the barroom. - </p> - <p> - “What'll I have?” mimicked Sumner Smith in a voice of rumbling calm. - “You're good, Maun. But if anybody was to buy, it'd be me. The joke, you - see, is on me. Only nobody's buying at the moment. You send me out—an - <i>Evening Earth</i> man!—to pull off a murder for the morning - papers. Oh, it's good! I grant you, it's good. I do your little murder; - the morning papers get the story. Just to make sure of it you send Jimmie - Markham around after me. It's all right, Mann. I've done your murder. <i>The - Continental's</i> getting the story now—a marvel of a story. There's - a page in it for them to-morrow. As for you—I don't know what you - are. And I don't care to soil any of the words I know by putting 'em on - you!” - </p> - <p> - Even Peter now caught the rumble beneath the calm surface of that voice. - And he knew it was perhaps the longest speech of Sumner Smith's eventful - life. Peter's stomach, heart, lungs and spine seemed to drop out of his - body, leaving a cold hollow frame that could hardly be strong enough to - support his shoulders and head. But he drew himself up and replied with - some dignity in a voice that was huskier and higher than his own: - </p> - <p> - “I can't match you in insults, Smith. I appear to have a choice between - leaving you and striking you. I shall leave you.” - </p> - <p> - “The choice is yours,” said Smith. “Either you say.” - </p> - <p> - “I shall leave you,” repeated Peter; and walked, very erect, out to the - side street. - </p> - <p> - Here, near the corner of the Avenue, he found Hy Lowe, leaning against the - building, weeping, while four taxi chauffeurs and two victoria drivers - stood by. It occurred to Peter that it might, be best, after all, to give - up brooding over his own troubles and take the boy home. He could bundle - him into a taxi. And once at the old apartment building in the Square, - John the night man would help carry him up. It would be rather decent, for - that matter, to pay for the taxi just as if it was a matter of course and - never mention it to Hy. Of course, however, if Hy were to remember the - occurrence—A fist landed in Peter's face—not a hard fist, - merely a limp, folded-over hand. Peter brushed it aside. It was the fist - of Hy Lowe. Hy lurched at him now, caught his shoulders, tried to shake - him. He was saying things in a rapidly rising voice. After a moment of - ineffectual wrestling, Peter began to catch what these things were: - </p> - <p> - “Call yourself frien'—take bread outa man's mouth! Oh, I know. No - good tryin' lie to me—tellin' me Sumner Smith don' know what he's - talkin'! Where's my raise? You jes' tell me—where's my raise? Ol' - Walrus gone—croaked—where's my raise?” - </p> - <p> - Peter propped him against the building and walked swiftly around the - corner. - </p> - <p> - There he stopped; dodged behind a tree. - </p> - <p> - Sue and the Worm were running down tire wide front steps. She leaped into - the first taxi. The Worm stood, one foot on the step, hand on door, and - called. One of Hy's audience hurried around, brushing past Peter, - receiving his instructions as he cranked the engine and leaped to his - seat. The door slammed. They were gone. - </p> - <p> - Peter was sure that something snapped in his brain. It was probably a - lesion, he thought. He strode blindly, madly, up the Avenue, crowding past - the other pedestrians, bumping into one man and rushing on without a word. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly—this was a little farther up the Avenue—Peter stopped - short, caught his breath, struggled with emotions that even he would have - thought mixed. He even turned and walked back a short way. For across the - street, back in the shadow of the corner building, his eyes made out the - figure of a girl; and he knew that figure, knew the slight droop of the - shoulders and the prise of the head. - </p> - <p> - She had seen him, of course. Yes, this was Tenth Street! With swift - presence of mind he stooped and went through the motion of picking up - something from the sidewalk. This covered his brief retreat. He advanced - now. - </p> - <p> - She hung back in the shadow of the building. Her dark pretty face was - clouded with anger, her breast rose and fell quickly with her breathing. - She would not look at him. - </p> - <p> - He took her arm—her softly rounded arm—in his hand. She - wrenched it away. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, come, Maria, dear,” he murmured rather weakly. “I'm sorry I kept you - waiting.” - </p> - <p> - She confronted him now. There was passion in her big eyes. Her voice was - not under control. - </p> - <p> - “Why don't you tell the truth?” she broke out. “You think you can do - anything with me—play with me, hurt me.” - </p> - <p> - “Hush, Maria!” He caught her arm again. “Some one will hear you!” - </p> - <p> - “Why should I care? Do you think I don't know—” - </p> - <p> - “Child, I don't know what on earth you mean!” - </p> - <p> - “You do know! You play with me! You sent for your bags. Why didn't you - come yourself?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, that—” - </p> - <p> - “When you saw me here you stopped—you went back—” - </p> - <p> - Peter gulped. “I dropped my keys,” he cried eagerly. “I was swinging them. - I had to go back and pick them up.” And triumphantly, with his free hand, - he produced them from his pocket. - </p> - <p> - Within the grip of his other hand he felt her soft arm tremble a little. - Her gaze drooped. - </p> - <p> - “It isn't just to-night—” he heard her trying to say. - </p> - <p> - “Come, dear, here's a bus! We'll ride up-town.” - </p> - <p> - She let him lead her to the curb. Solicitously he handed her up the - winding little stairway to a seat on the roof. - </p> - <p> - There is no one book of Peter's life. There are a great many little books, - some of them apparently unconnected with any of the others. Maria - Tonifetti, as you may gather from this unintelligible little scene on a - street corner, had one of those detached Peter books all to herself. - </p> - <p> - Up on the roof of the bus, Peter, reacting with great inner excitement - from his experiences of the last three hours, slipped an arm about Maria's - shoulders, bent tenderly over her, whispered softly into her ear. Before - the bus reached Forty-second Street he had the satisfaction of feeling her - nestle softly and comfortably against his arm, and he knew that once again - he had won her. Slowly within his battered spirit the old thrill of - conquest stirred and flamed up into a warm glow.... - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXX—FIFTY MINUTES FROM BROADWAY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE Worm sat on a - wooden chair, an expression of puzzled gravity on his usually whimsical - face. The room was a small kitchen. The two screened windows gave a view - of a suburban yard, bounded by an alley and beyond the alley other yards; - beyond these a row of small frame houses. There were trees; and the scent - of a honeysuckle vine. - </p> - <p> - Sue Wilde, her slim person enveloped in a checked apron, knelt by the - old-fashioned coal range. The lower door was open, the ash-pan drawn half - out. There were ashes on the floor about her knees. - </p> - <p> - Henry Bates absently drew out his old caked brier pipe; filled and lighted - it. Meditatively he studied the girl—her apron, the flush on her - face, the fascinating lights in her tousled hair—telling himself - that the scene was real, that the young rebel soul he had known in the - Village was this same Sue Wilde. The scent of the honeysuckle floated - thickly to his nostrils. He stared out at the row of little wooden houses. - He slowly shook his head; and his teeth closed hard on the pipe stem. - </p> - <p> - “Henry,” she cried softly, throwing out her fine hands, “don't you - understand! I had a conscience all the time. That's what was the matter!” - </p> - <p> - “I think I understand well enough, Sue,” said he. “It's the”—he - looked again about the kitchen and out the window—“it's the setting! - I hadn't pictured you as swinging so far to this extreme Though, as you - know, there in the Village, I have been rather conservative in my feelings - about you.” - </p> - <p> - “I know, Henry.” She settled back on her heels. He saw how subdued she - was. The tears were not far from her eyes. “I've been all wrong.” - </p> - <p> - “Wrong, Sue?” - </p> - <p> - “Absolutely. In all I said and tried to do in the Village.” He was shaking - his head; but she continued: “I was cutting at the roots of my own life. I - disowned every spiritual obligation. I put my faith in Nietzsche and the - Russian crowd, in egotism. Henry”'—her eyes unmistakably filled - now'; her voice grew unsteady—“once my father came over into the - Village after me. He tried to get me to come home. I was playing at the - Crossroads then.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said he shortly, “I remember that time.” - </p> - <p> - “I had on my boy costume. He came straight to the theater and I had to go - out front and talk with him. We quarreled—” - </p> - <p> - “I know,” said he quickly, “I was there.” - </p> - <p> - He saw that she was in the grip of an emotional revulsion and wished he - could stop her. But he couldn't. Suddenly she seemed like a little girl. - </p> - <p> - “Don't you see, Henry!” She threw out her hands. “Do you think it would be - any good—now—to tell me I'm not partly responsible. If I—if—” - she caught herself, stiffened up; there was a touch of her old - downrightness in the way she came out with, “Henry, he wouldn't have—killed - himself!” Her voice was a whisper. “He wouldn't!” - </p> - <p> - The Worm smoked and smoked. He couldn't tell her that he regarded her - father as a hypocritical old crook, and that her early revolt against the - home within which the man had always wished to confine her had, as he saw - it, grown out of a sound instinct. You couldn't expect her, now, to get - all that into any sort of perspective. Her revolt dated back to her - girlish struggle to get away to school and later, to college. Sue was - forgetting now how much of this old story she had let him see in their - many talks. Why, old Wilde had tried to change the course of her college - studies to head her away from modernism into the safer channels of - pietistic tradition. The Worm couldn't forgive him for that. And then, the - man's dreadful weekly, and his curious gift of using his great emotional - power to draw immense sums of money from thousands of faithful readers in - small towns and along country lanes, he hadn't killed himself on Sue's - account. - </p> - <p> - It was known, now, that the man had lived in an awful fear. It was known - that he had the acid right at hand in both office and home, the acid he - had finally drunk.... She was speaking. - </p> - <p> - The Worm smoked on. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder if you really know what happened.” - </p> - <p> - “What happened?” he repeated, all at sea. - </p> - <p> - “You must have seen the drift of it—of what I didn't tell you at one - time or another.” He saw now that she was talking of her own experiences. - He had to make a conscious struggle to bring his mind up out of those ugly - depths and listen to her. She went on. “It has been fine, Henry, the way I - could always talk to you. Our friendship—” - </p> - <p> - She began in another way. “It's the one thing I owe to Jacob Zanin. He - told me the blunt truth—about myself. It did hurt, Henry. But even - then I knew it for the truth.... You know how he feels about marriage and - the home”—she glanced up at the bare kitchen walls—“all that.” - </p> - <p> - He nodded. - </p> - <p> - “Well, he—Henry, he wanted to have an affair with me.” She said this - rather hurriedly and low, not at all with the familiar frankness of the - Village in discussing the old forbidden topics. “He knew I was all - confused, that I had got into an impasse. He made me see that I'd been - talking and thinking a kind of freedom that I hadn't the courage to go in - for, really—in living.” - </p> - <p> - “Courage, Sue?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, courage—or taste—-or something! Henry, you know as well - as I that the freedom we talk in the Village leads straight to—well, - to complete unmorality, to—to promiscuity, to anything.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps,” said he, watching her and wondering with a little glow suddenly - warming his heart, at her lack of guile. He thought of a phrase he had - once formulated while hearing this girl talk—-“Whom among women the - gods would destroy they first make honest.” - </p> - <p> - “When I was put to the test—and I <i>was</i> put to the test, Henry; - I found that I was caught in my own philosophy, was drifting down with it—if - turned out that I simply didn't believe the things I'd been saying. I - even”—she faltered here, but rushed on—“I very nearly rushed - into a crazy marriage with Peter. Just to save myself. Oh, I see it now! - It would have been as dishonest a marriage as the French-heeledest little - suburbanite ever planned.” - </p> - <p> - “You're severe with yourself,” he said. - </p> - <p> - She, lips compressed, shook her head. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose,” he mused aloud, “there's a lot of us radicals who'd be - painfully put to it if we were suddenly called on to quit talking and - begin really living it out. Lord, what would we do!” And mentally he - added: “Damn few of us would make the honest effort to find ourselves that - you're making right now.” Then, aloud: “What are you going to do?” - </p> - <p> - She dropped her eyes. “I'm going to take these ashes down cellar.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll do that,” said he. - </p> - <p> - When the small task was accomplished, she said more gently: - </p> - <p> - “Henry, please understand! I count on you. This thing is a tragedy. I'm - deep in it. I don't even want to escape it. I'll try not to sink into - those morbid thoughts—but he was my father, and he was buried - yesterday. His wife, this one, is not my mother, but—but she was his - wife. She is crushed, Henry. I have never before been close to a human - being who was shattered as she is shattered. There are the children—two - of them. And no money.” - </p> - <p> - “No money?” - </p> - <p> - “Father's creditors have seized the paper and the house in Stuyvesant - Square. Everything is tied up. There is to be an investigation. My Aunt - Matilda is here—this is her house—-but we can't ask her to - support us. Henry, here is something you can do! Betty is staying at my - old rooms. Try to see her to-day. Could you?” - </p> - <p> - He nodded. “Surely.” - </p> - <p> - “Have her get some one to come in with her—take the place off my - hands. Every cent of the little I have is needed here. She'll be staying. - That marriage of hers didn't work. She couldn't keep away from the - Village, anyway. And please have her pack up my things and send them out. - I only brought a hand-bag. Betty will pitch in and do that for me. She's - got to. I haven't even paid this month's rent yet. Have her send - everything except my books—perhaps she could sell those. It would - help a little.” - </p> - <p> - They heard a step on the uncarpeted back stairs. A door swung open. On the - bottom step, framed in the shadowed doorway, stood a short - round-shouldered woman. Lines drooped downward from her curving mouth. Her - colorless eyes shifted questioningly from the girl to the man and back to - the girl again. It was an unimaginative face, rather grim, telling its own - story of fifty-odd years of devotion to petty household and neighborhood - duties; the face of a woman all of whose girlhood impulses had been - suppressed until they were converted into perverse resentments. - </p> - <p> - The Worm, as he rose, hardly aware of the act, knocked the ashes from his - pipe into the coal hod. Then he saw that her eyes were on those ashes and - on his pipe. He thrust the pipe into his pocket. And glancing from the - woman to the girl, he momentarily held his breath at the contrast and the - thoughts it raised. It was youth and crabbed age. The gulf between them - was unbridgeable, of course; but he wondered—it was a new thought—if - age need be crabbed. Didn't the new sprit of freedom, after all, have as - much to contribute to life, as the puritan tradition? Were the risks of - letting yourself go any greater, after all, than the risks of suppression? - Weren't the pseudo-Freudians at least partly right? - </p> - <p> - “Aunt Matilda,” Sue was saying (on her feet now)—“this is an old - friend, Mr. Bates.” - </p> - <p> - The woman inclined her head. - </p> - <p> - Henry Bales, his moment of speculation past, felt his spirit sinking. He - said nothing, because he could think of nothing that could be said to a - woman who looked like that. She brought with her the close air of the - stricken chamber at the top of the stairs. By merely opening the door and - appearing there she had thrust a powerful element of hostility into the - simple little kitchen. Her uncompromising eyes drew Sue within the tragic - atmosphere of the house as effectively and definitely as it thrust himself - without it. - </p> - <p> - Sue's next remark was even more illuminating than had been his own curious - haste to conceal his pipe. - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” murmured Sue, “have we disturbed”—she hesitated, fought with - herself, came out with it—-“mother?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, the smoke annoys her.” Aunt Matilda did not add the word - “naturally,” but the tone and look conveyed it. “And she can hear your - voices.” - </p> - <p> - Henry Bates had to struggle with a rising anger. There were implications - in that queerly hostile look that reflected on Sue as on himself. But they - were and remained unspoken. They could not be met. - </p> - <p> - The only possible course was to go; and to go with the miserable feeling - that he was surrendering Sue to the enemy. - </p> - <p> - He turned to her now, speaking with quiet dignity; little realizing that - even this dignity aroused resentment and suspicion in the unreceptive mind - behind those eyes on the stairs—that it looked brazen coming from a - young man whose sandy hair straggled down over his ears and close to his - suspiciously soft collar, whose clothes were old and wrinkled, whose mild - studious countenance exhibited nothing of the vigor and the respect for - conformity that are expected of young men in suburbs who must go in every - morning on the seven-thirty-six and come out every evening on the - five-fifty-two, and who, therefore, would naturally be classed with such - queer folk as gipsies and actors. - </p> - <p> - “If you like, Sue,” he said, “I'll get Betty to hurry so I can bring a - suit-case out to-night.” - </p> - <p> - She waited a brief moment before answering; and in that moment was swept - finally within Aunt Matilda's lines. “Oh, no,” she said, speaking with - sudden rapidity, “don't do that. To-morrow will do—just send them.” - </p> - <p> - Then aware that she was dismissing him indefinitely, her eyes brimming - again (for he had been a good friend), she extended her hand. - </p> - <p> - The Worm gripped it, bowed to the forbidding figure on the stairs and - left. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXI—A PAIR OF RED BOOTS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE pleasant days - of quiet reading and whimsical reflection were over for the Worm, poor - devil! Life caught him up without warning—that complex fascinating - life of which he had long been a spectator—and swept him into swift - deep currents. He was to be a mere spectator no longer. - </p> - <p> - Washington Square glowed with June. The trees had not yet assumed the - faded, dispirited gray-green of midsummer. The bus tops were crowded with - pleasure riders, and a crowd of them pressed about the open-air terminal - station held in check by uniformed guards. On the wide curves of asphalt - hundreds of small Italians danced to the hurdy-gurdy or played hopscotch - or roller-skated. Perambulators lined the shady walks; nurses, slim and - uniformed, fat and unformed, lined the benches. Students hurried west, - south and north (for it was afternoon—Saturday afternoon, as it - happened). Beggars, pedlers, lovers in pairs, unkempt tenement dwellers, a - policeman or two, moved slowly about, but not so slowly as they would move - a few weeks later when the heat of July would have sapped the vitality of - every living thing in town. - </p> - <p> - But the Worm, standing near the marble arch where Fifth Avenue splendidly - begins, felt not June in his heart. He walked on through the Square to the - old red-brick building where for three years he and Hy Lowe and Pcter - Ericson Mann had dwelt in bachelor comfort. The dingy studio apartment on - the seventh floor had been his home. But it was a haunt of discord now. - </p> - <p> - He found the usually effervescent Hy pacing the lower hall like a leopard - in a cage. Hy wore an immaculately pressed suit of creamy gray flannel, - new red tie, red silk hosiery visible above the glistening low-cut tan - shoes, a Panama hat with a fluffy striped band around it. In his hand was - a thin bamboo stick which he was swinging savagely against his legs. His - face worked with anger. - </p> - <p> - He pounced upon the Worm. - </p> - <p> - “Wanted to see you,” he said in a voice that was low but of quavering - intensity. “Before I go. Got to run.” - </p> - <p> - At this point the elevator came creaking down. A messenger boy stepped - out, carrying Hy's suit-case and light overcoat. - </p> - <p> - “Excuse me,” breathed Hy, “one minute.” He whispered to the boy, pressed a - folded dollar bill into his hand, hurried him off. “This thing has become - flatly impossible—” - </p> - <p> - “What thing?” The Worm was moodily surveying him. - </p> - <p> - “Pete. He's up there now. I'm through. I shan't go into those rooms again - if he—look here! I've found a place for you and me, over in the - Mews. Eight dollars less than this and more light. Tell Pete. I. can't - talk to him. My God, the man's a—” - </p> - <p> - “He's a what?” asked the Worm. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you know what he <i>did!</i> As there's a God in the Heavens he - killed old Wilde.” - </p> - <p> - “Killed your aunt!” observed the Worm, and soberly considered his friend. - Hy's elaborate get-up suggested the ladies, a particular lady. The Worm - looked him over again from the fluff-bound Panama to the red silk socks. A - very particular lady! And he was speaking with wandering eyes and an - unreal sort of emphasis; as if his anger, though doubtless genuine enough, - were confused with some other emotion regarding which he was not explicit. - </p> - <p> - “Where are you going now—over to the Mews?” - </p> - <p> - Hy started at the abrupt question, took the Worm's elbow, became suddenly - confidential. - </p> - <p> - “No,” he said, “not exactly. You see—everything's gone to smash. The - creditors of the paper won't keep me on. They'll put in a country preacher - with a string tie, and he'll bring his own staff. That's what Pete's done - to me! That's what he's done. I wouldn't go off this way, right now, if it - wasn't for the awful depression I feel. I didn't sleep a wink last night. - Honest, not a wink! A man's got to have <i>some</i> sympathy in his life. - Damn it, in a crisis like this—” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps you can tell me with even greater lucidity when you are coming - back,” said the Worm dryly. - </p> - <p> - Hy gulped, stared blankly at his friend, uttered explosively the one word, - “Monday!” Then he glanced at his watch and hurried out of the building. - </p> - <p> - The Worm slowly shook his head and took the elevator. - </p> - <p> - The long dim studio was quite as usual, with its soft-toned walls, - dilapidated but comfortable furniture, Hy's piano, the decrepit flat-top - desk, the two front windows from which you could see all of the Square and - the mile of roofs beyond it, and still beyond, the heights of New Jersey. - The coffee percolator stood on the bookcase—on the empty bookcase - where once had been the Worm's library. In this room he had studied and - written the hundreds of futile book reviews that nobody ever heard of, - that had got him precisely nowhere. In this room he had lived in a state - of soul near serenity until he met Sue Wilde. Now it brought heartache. - Merely to push open the door and step within was to stir poignantly - haunting memories of a day that was sharply gone. It was like opening old - letters. The scent of a thoughtlessly happy past was faintly there. - </p> - <p> - Something else was there—a human object, sprawled abjectly in the - Morris chair, garbed in slippers and bathrobe, hair disheveled, but - black-rimmed eye-glasses still on his nose, the conspicuous black ribbon - still hanging from them down the long face. It was that well-known - playwright, Peter Ericson Mann, author of <i>The Buzzard, Odd Change and - Anchored</i>; and, more recently, of the scenario for Jacob Zanin's Nature - him. Author, too, of the new satirical comedy. <i>The Triffler</i>, - written at Sue Wilde and booked for production in September at the Astoria - Theater. - </p> - <p> - The Worm had not told Hy that he had just seen Sue. Now, standing - motionless, the thousand memory-threads that bound the old rooms to his - heart clinging there like leafless ivy, he looked down at the white-faced - man in the Morris chair and knew that he was even less likely to mention - the fact to Peter. He thought—“Why, we're not friends! That's what - it means!” - </p> - <p> - Peter's hollow eyes were on him. - </p> - <p> - “You, Worm!” he said huskily, and tried to smile. “I'm rather ill, I - think. It's shock. You know a shock can do it.” - </p> - <p> - “What shocked you?” asked Henry Bates rather shortly, turning to the - window. - </p> - <p> - “Hy. He's crazy, I think. It's the only possible explanation. He said I - was a”—Peter's expressive voice dropped, more huskily still, into - the tragic mood—“a murderer. It was a frightful experience. The boy - has gone batty. It's his fear of losing his job, of course. But the - experience has had a curious effect on me. My heart is palpitating.” His - right hand was feeling for the pulse in his left wrist. “And I have some, - difficulty in breathing.” Now he pressed both hands to his chest. - </p> - <p> - The Worm stared out the window. Peter would act until his dying day; even - then. One pose would follow another, prompted by the unstable emotions of - genius, guided only by an egotism so strong that it would almost certainly - weather every storm of brain or soul. In a very indirect way Pete had - murdered the old boy. No getting around that. An odd sort of murder—sending - Sumner Smith to ask that question. Peter himself, away down under his - egotism, knew it. Hence the play for sympathy. - </p> - <p> - Peter was still talking. “It really came out of a clear sky. Until very - lately I should have said that Hy and I were friends. As you know, we had - many points of contact. Last fall, when—” - </p> - <p> - The Worm turned. “Passing lightly over the next eight months,” he - remarked, “what do you propose to do now?” - </p> - <p> - Peter shrank back a little. The Worm's manner was hardly ingratiating. - “Why—” he said, “why, I suppose I'll stay on here. You and I have - always got on, Henry. We've been comfortable here. And to tell the truth, - I've been getting tired of listening to the history in detail of Hy's - amours. He wants to look out, that fellow. He's had a few too many of 'em. - He's getting careless. Now you and I, we're both sober, quiet. We were the - backbone of the Seventh-Story Men. We can go on—” - </p> - <p> - The Worm, though given to dry and sometimes cryptic ways, was never rude. - That is he never had been. But at this point he walked out of the - apartment and closed the door behind him. He had come in with the - intention of using the telephone. Instead now he walked swiftly through - the Square and on across Sixth Avenue, under the elevated road into - Greenwich Village, where the streets twist curiously, and the hopeless - poor swarm in the little triangular parks, and writers and painters and - sculptors and agitators and idea-venders swarm in the quaint tumble-down - old houses and the less quaint apartment buildings. - </p> - <p> - He entered one of the latter, pressed one of a row of buttons under a row - of brass mouthpieces. The door clicked. He opened it; walked through to - the rear door on the right. - </p> - <p> - This door opened slowly, disclosing a tall young woman, very light in - coloring, of a softly curving outline, seeming to bend and sway even as - she stood quietly there; charming to the eye even in the half-light, fresh - of skin, slow, non-committal in speech and of quietly yielding ways; a - young woman with large, almost beautiful, inexpressive eyes. She wore hat - and gloves and carried a light coat. - </p> - <p> - “You just caught me,” she said. - </p> - <p> - On the floor by the wall was a hand-bag. Henry Bates eyed this. “Oh,” he - murmured, distrait, “going away!” - </p> - <p> - “Why—yes. You wanted me?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. It's about Sue Wilde.” - </p> - <p> - She hesitated; then led him into the half-furnished living-room. - </p> - <p> - “Where is Sue, anyway?” - </p> - <p> - “When I left her she wras trying to make a fire in a kitchen range. Out in - Jersey.” - </p> - <p> - “But what on earth—” - </p> - <p> - “Trouble was she didn't understand about the damper in the pipe. I fixed - that.” - </p> - <p> - Betty glanced covertly at her wrist watch. “I don't want to appear - unsympathetic,” she said, “but I don't see why she undertakes to shoulder - that family. It's—it's quixotic. It's not her sort of thing. She's - got her own life to live.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm, very calm but a little white about the mouth, confronted her. - Betty moved restlessly. - </p> - <p> - “She wants you to pack up her things,” he said. “Sent me to ask.” - </p> - <p> - Betty knit her brows. “Oh,” she murmured, “isn't that too bad. I really - haven't a minute. You see—it's a matter of catching a train. I could - do it Monday. Or you might call up one of the other girls. I'm awfully - sorry. But it's something very important.” Her eyes avoided his. Her color - rose a little. She turned away. “Of course,” she was murmuring, “I hate - terribly to fail Sue at a time like this—” - </p> - <p> - She moved irresolutely toward the little hall, glanced again at her watch; - and suddenly in confusion picked up her bag and hurried out. - </p> - <p> - He could hear her light step in the outer corridor; then the street door. - All at sea, he started to follow. At the apartment door he paused. Her key - was in the lock; she had not even thought to take it. He removed it, put - it in his pocket; then wandered back into the living-room and stood over - the telephone, trying to think of some one he could call in. But his - rising resentment made clear thinking difficult. He sank into the - armchair, crossed his long legs, clasped his hands behind his head, stared - at the mantel. On it were Sue's books, in a haphazard row—a few - Russian novels (in English translations), Havelock Ellis's <i>Sex in - Relation to Society, Freud on Psychanalysis and Dreams</i>, two volumes of - Schnitzler's plays, Brieux's plays with the Shaw preface, a few others. - </p> - <p> - His gaze roved from the books to the bare walls. They <i>were</i> bare; - all Sue's pictures were pinned up on the burlap screen that hid a corner - of the room—half a dozen feminist cartoons from <i>The Masses</i>, a - futuristic impression of her own head by one of the Village artists, two - or three strong rough sketches by Jacob Zanin of costumes for a playlet at - the Crossroads, an English lithograph of Mrs. Pankhurst. - </p> - <p> - Henry Bates slowly, thoughtfully, filled and lighted his pipe. His brows - were knit. The room, in its unfeminine bareness as well as in its pictures - and books, breathed of the modern unsubmissive girl. No one had wasted a - minute here on “housekeeping.” Here had lived the young woman who, more, - perhaps, than any other of the recent lights of the old Village, had - typified revolt. She had believed, like the Village about her, not in - patriotism but in internationalism, not in the home but in the individual, - not in duty and submission, but in experiment and self-expression. - Already, like all the older faiths of men, this new religion had its cant, - its intolerance of opposition, its orthodoxy. His pipe went out while he - sat there flunking about it; the beginnings of the summer twilight - softened the harsh room and dimmed the outlines of back fences and rear - walls without the not overclean windows. - </p> - <p> - Finally he got up, turned on the lights, took off his coat, found Sue's - trunk behind the burlap screen and dragged it to the middle of the room. - He began with the coverings of the couch-bed; then went into the bedroom - and folded blankets, coverlet, sheets and comforter. Sue did not own a - great variety of clothing; but what was hanging in the closet he brought - out, folded and packed away. He took down the few pictures and laid them - flat within the upper tray of the trunk. In an hour living-room, bedroom - and closet were bare. The books he piled by the door; first guessing at - the original cost of each and adding the figures in his head. - </p> - <p> - Nothing remained but the bureau in the bedroom. He stood before this a - long moment before he could bring himself to open the top drawer. To - Peter, to Zanin, to Hy Howe, the matter would have been simple. Years back - those deeply experienced young bachelors had become familiar with all - manner of little feminine mysteries; but to Henry Bates these were - mysteries still. The color came hotly to his mild countenance; his pulses - beat faster and faster. He recalled with painful vividness, the last - occasion on which Reason, normally his God, had deserted him. That was the - day, not so long ago by the calendar, he had turned against all that had - been his life—dropped his books in the North River, donned the - costly new suit that Peter's tailor had made for him and set forth to - propose marriage to Sue Wilde. And with chagrin that grew and burned his - face to a hotter red he recalled that he had never succeeded in making - himself clear to her. To this day she did not know that his reflective, - emotionally unsophisticated heart had been torn with love of her. Why, - blindly urging marriage, he had actually talked her into that foolish - engagement with Peter!... What was the quality that enabled men to advance - themselves—in work, in love? Whatever it might be, he felt he had it - not. Peter had it. Zanin had it. Hy had it. Sue herself! Each was a - person, something of a force, a positive quality in life. But he, Henry - Bates, was a negative thing. For years he had sat quietly among his books, - content to watch others forge past him and disappear up the narrow lanes - of progress. Until now, at thirty-two, he found himself a hesitant - unfruitful man without the gift of success. - </p> - <p> - “It is a gift,” he said aloud; and then sat on the springs of the stripped - bed and stared at his ineffectual face in the mirror. “The trouble with - me,” he continued, “is plain lack of character. Better Hy's trifling - conquests; better Zanin's driving instinct to get first; better Peter's - hideously ungoverned ego; than—nothing!” - </p> - <p> - His pipe usually helped. He felt for it. It was not in the right-hand coat - pocket where he always carried it. Which fact startled him. Then he found - it in the left-hand pocket. Not once in ten years before this bitter hour - had he misplaced his pipe. “My God,” he muttered, “haven't I even got any - <i>habits!</i>” He was unnerved. “Like Pete,” he thought, “but without - even Pete's excuse.” - </p> - <p> - He lighted his pipe, puffed a moment, stood erect, drew a few deep - breaths, then drove himself at the task of packing the things that were in - the bureau. And a task it was! Nothing but the strong if latent will of - the man held him to it. There were soft white garments the like of which - his hands had never touched before. Reverently, if grimly, he laid them - away in the upper trays of the trunk. In the bottom drawer were Sue's - dancing costumes—Russian and Greek. Each one of these brought a - vivid picture of the girl as she had appeared at the Crossroads; each was - a stab at Henry Bates' heart. At the bottom, in the corner, were a pair of - red leather boots, very light, with metal clicks in the heels. He took - them up, stood motionless holding them. His eyes filled. He could see her - again, in that difficult crouching Russian step—her costume - sparkling with color, her olive skin tinted rose with the spirited - exercise of it, her extraordinary green eyes dancing with the exuberant - life that was in her. Then, as if by a trick shift of scene, he saw her in - a bare kitchen, wearing a checked apron, kneeling by a stove. The tears - brimmed over. He lifted the little red boots, stared wildly at them, - kissed them over and over. - </p> - <p> - “My God!” he moaned softly, “oh, my God!” - </p> - <p> - There was a faint smell of burning. His pipe lay at his feet, sparks had - fallen out and were eating their way into the matting. He stepped on them; - then picked up the pipe and resolutely lighted it again. The boots he - carried into the living-room; found an old newspaper and wrapped them up; - laid the parcel by his hat and coat in the hall. - </p> - <p> - He found a strap in the kitchen closet and strapped the trunk. There was a - suit-case that he had filled; he closed this and laid it on the trunk. - Then he turned all the lights off and stood looking out the open window. - He had had no dinner—couldn't conceivably eat any. It was evening - now; somewhere between eight and nine o'clock, probably. He didn't care. - Nothing mattered, beyond getting trunk and suit-case off to Sue before too - late—so that she would surely have them in the morning. The sounds - of evening in the city floated to his ears; and he realized that he had - not before been hearing them. From an apartment across the area came the - song of a talking machine. Blowsy women leaned out of rear windows and - visited. There was a faint tinkle from a mechanical piano in the corner - saloon. He could hear a street-car going by on Tenth Street. - </p> - <p> - Then another sound—steps in the corridor; the turning of a knob; - fumbling at the apartment door. - </p> - <p> - He started like a guilty man. In the Village, it was nothing for a man to - be in a girl's rooms or a girl in a man's. The group was too well - emancipated for that—in theory, at least. In fact, of course, - difficulties often arose—and gossip. Greathearted phrases were the - common tender of Village talk; but not all the talkers were great-hearted. - And women suffered while they smiled. He would have preferred not to be - found there. - </p> - <p> - A key grated. The door opened. - </p> - <p> - With a shrinking at his heart, a sudden great selfconsciousness, he - stepped into the hall. - </p> - <p> - It was Sue—in her old street suit. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXII—CHAPTER ONE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>UE stared at him, - caught her breath, laughed a little. - </p> - <p> - “Why—Henry! You startled me. Where's Betty?” - </p> - <p> - The Worm, thinking quickly, bitterness in his heart against the selfish - lightness of the Village, bed. “Haven't seen her. Waited for her to come - in. Finally decided I'd better not wait any longer.” They were in the dim - living-room now. Sue's eyes took in the strapped trunk and closed - suit-case, the bare screen and couch. - </p> - <p> - “But who—Henry, you don't mean that you—” He nodded. His pipe - was out—he simply couldn't keep it going! Still, it gave him - something to do, lighting it again. - </p> - <p> - Sue stood watching him, studying his face by the light of a match - reflected from his hollowed hands. “Why so dark in here?” she observed. - Then, abruptly, she came to him, laid a hand on his arm, broke out with - feeling: “You're a dear, Henry, to go to all this trouble! As it was, I - felt I was imposing on you. So I ran in to look after things myself.” - </p> - <p> - “Going back to-night?” he asked, talking around his pipe-stem. - </p> - <p> - “Oh. yes. I must.” She moved to the window and gazed out at the crowded - familiar scene. Suddenly she turned. - </p> - <p> - “Henry—didn't you see Betty?” - </p> - <p> - “No,” he muttered. - </p> - <p> - “Then how on earth did you get in? There are only the two keys.” - </p> - <p> - He lowered his pipe, stared at her with open mouth. As soon as his mind - cleared a little he thought—“Good God! I don't even lie well! I'm no - good—for anything!” - </p> - <p> - He turned with a jerk; walked down the room; walked back again; striding - out savagely, turning with a jerk. - </p> - <p> - “What is it you aren't felling me?” she asked, following him with troubled - eyes. - </p> - <p> - He paced and paced. Finally he came to the other side of the window, - stared gloomily out. Still she watched him, waiting. - </p> - <p> - “Sue,” he said—she had never known this vehemence in him—“you're - wrong.” - </p> - <p> - “Wrong, Henry?” - </p> - <p> - He threw out his arm in a strong gesture; his fist was clenched..The other - hand held his pipe high. “Yes, wrong! You're not a cook! You're not a - nurse maid. You're a girl with a soul—with spirit—fire! What - are you to that family? They've always wanted to hold you down—yes. - But why? For fear you'd start talk and make them uncomfortable. Oh, I knew - the feeling that has gripped you now. It's a big reaction. The tragedy of - your father's death has brought your childhood back—the old tribal - teachings—duty—self-sacrifice! The rush of it has swept your - reason aside. But it will come back. It's got to, girl! Even if you have - to take a long time working through to it. You and your father were not - friends. Denying your own life won't help him. Your emotions are stirred. - I know. But even if they are, for God's sake don't stop thinking! Keep - your head! I tell you, you've got to go on. You can't live some one else's - life—got to live your own! It's all you've gut to live—that - life—your gifts—” - </p> - <p> - He stopped, at the point of choking. Sue was staring now. - </p> - <p> - “Henry, this is strange—sounds more like—” - </p> - <p> - “Well, like whom?” - </p> - <p> - “Like Zanin. That's the way he talked to me.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps it's the way a man talks when he—” He could not control his - voice and stopped. - </p> - <p> - Sue kept very still; but anally, softly, rather wearily, she said: “I'm - sorry, Henry! I've got to catch the ten-fifteen back.” - </p> - <p> - He looked at his watch; seeing nothing. “You'll be hurrying then, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - “No, there's nearly an hour.” She turned on the light, moved into the - bedroom and glanced into an open bureau drawer. She drew out the one - below, then thoughtful, half smiling, came to the door. “Henry—-you - packed everything?” - </p> - <p> - “Everything, I'm sure. Though you might take a last look around.” - </p> - <p> - “But—Henry, you must have packed Betty's things, too.” - </p> - <p> - The color surged up over his collar. He was thinking of those soft - garments and the prayers that had rustled shyly upward from his torn heart - as he felt them in his hands. Wordless, he unstrapped the trunk and lifted - the lid. Sue repacked the trays. - </p> - <p> - She stood looking at the dancing clothes, fingering them. - </p> - <p> - “Henry,” she said, “I shall never wear these again.” - </p> - <p> - “That's silly, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - “No. It isn't silly. I've got a job now. That's what we need, all of us—a - job. You used to tell me that yourself. You were right.” She was turning - the costumes over with her slim hands. “Did you find a pair of boots, - Henry? Red leather with clicks in the heels? They should have been with - these Russian things.” - </p> - <p> - “No,” he replied, with a sudden huskiness, “I didn't see them.” - </p> - <p> - “That's odd. They were right with the others.” She turned away to give - rooms and closets a final scrutiny. She brought a rough parcel in from the - hall, feeling it with her hands. - </p> - <p> - “This yours or mine, Henry?” she asked. “I could swear it is those boots, - but—” - </p> - <p> - “It <i>is</i> the boots!” he cried, like an angry man. - </p> - <p> - She stared. He waved them and her roughly aside. - </p> - <p> - “They belong to you, not to me. I lied to you! Take them! Pack them!” - </p> - <p> - Brows knit, puzzled, her sensitive mouth softening painfully, she opened - the parcel and looked at the red boots—looked more closely, held - them up to the light; for she saw on them small round stains of a paler - red. Slowly she raised her eyes until they met his. - </p> - <p> - His face was twisted with pain. Her own gaze grew misty. - </p> - <p> - “Take them!” he cried in the same angry way. And she laid them in the - trunk. - </p> - <p> - He was desperately fighting himself now. And with momentary success. He - said abruptly: “I'm going to buy your books myself, Sue. So just leave - them there for the present.” - </p> - <p> - “You, Henry!” She bit her lip. “You know I can't let you do that.” - </p> - <p> - “You've got to let me!” He stood right over her now. - </p> - <p> - “But you—with your library—” - </p> - <p> - “I have no library.” His voice dropped here—and he stirred, walking - over to the window; stared out; finally turned and said, more quietly: “Am - I talking like a crazy man, Sue?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, Henry—” She tried to smile. “I have always counted on your - steadiness. Perhaps I've leaned too much on it.” - </p> - <p> - He stood considering her and himself. Suddenly he confronted her again, - raised his long arms and gripped her shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “And now, Sue,” he said, and she could fed his hands trembling with the - passion that she heard in his voice, “I'm failing you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, Henry; I won't let you say that—” - </p> - <p> - “No! And you won't say it yourself. But we both know it is true. I see it—the - whole thing. You've had your girlish fling here in the Village. You were - honest and natural. And you were maddeningly beautiful. We men have - crowded about you, disturbed you, pressed you. Zanin was crazy about you. - So was Peter. So were a lot of the others. So was I.” - </p> - <p> - He felt her shoulders stir under his strong hands. Her eyelids were - drooping. But he could not stop. “Everybody let it out but me. Do you know - why I didn't? Because I was a coward. I haven't made love to women. Why? - because I wasn't attractive to them. And I was timid. I stayed with my - books and let life go by. Then I found myself drawn into the circle about - you. And I lost <i>my</i> head, too. I gave up my books—-my - 'library.' Do you know where that 'library' is now, Sue? At the bottom of - the North River. Every book! I carried them over there myself, in parcels, - with a weight in every parcel, and dropped 'em off the ferry boat. I tried - to go in for reality, for what is called life. I had Peter's tailor make - me some good clothes. I got a newspaper job. Held that about two weeks. - Tried to ask you to marry me. Oh, yes, I did. But couldn't get away with - it. Sue, I never managed even to ask you. I talked marriage—almost - talked you into it—but couldn't manage to talk about myself. Until - now, just when you're worn out with work, with the pressures of men, with - all the desperate confusions of life, when your soul is sick for peace—that's - it, isn't it?”. - </p> - <p> - Very slowly her head moved. “Yes, Henry, that's it.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, then, I come along. And I'm the last straw. Stirring up the old - turbulence just when you need my friendship most. I'm doing it now—this - minute. I'm hurting you. I'm making you feel that you've lost me.” - </p> - <p> - “Henry”—he saw the effort it cost her to speak and winced—“I - can't bear to seem unsympathetic with you. But it's so hard. I can't see - any way—except this of giving up self.” - </p> - <p> - He let go her shoulders, swung away, and said: “There's just one thing to - do. I'll call a taxi.” He moved to the telephone, rummaged through the - directory, still talking, the flood of feeling that had for months been - impounded within his emotionally inarticulate self rushing now past all - barriers, sweeping every last protesting reticence before it. “I do - understand, Sue. What you feel now is as deep an urge, almost, as this old - sex impulse that muddles life so for all Of us. It is what has driven - millions of women into nunneries—to get away from life. Just as our - Village freedom is a protest against, unhealthy suppression and rigidity, - so these fevers of self-abnegation are inevitable uprushings of protest - against animalism.” He had found the number now. He lifted the receiver. - “It's Puritan against Cavalier—both right and both wrong! What - number—Oh, I beg your pardon! Bryant six thousand. It's the Greeks - against the Greatest of Jews—both right—both wrong! Taxi, - please! Right away. Two-thousand-twenty-six Tenth Street. All right. - Good-by. Beauty against duty—the instinct to express against the - instinct to serve—both right, both wrong!” - </p> - <p> - He confronted her again; caught up her two hands and gripped them within - his own. “You've had your little fling at expression, Sue. You were - wonderful. You've set flowers growing in our hearts, and thank God for - flowers! But life has trapped, you. You've swung over to service. And now - you've got to go through, work your way out of it. God knows where you'll - land. But if you've counted on my steadiness, by God, you may continue to - count or it!” - </p> - <p> - He pressed her hands to his lips; kissed her knuckles, her fingers, her - palms; then dropped them. - </p> - <p> - Sue sank into the armchair, very white. The tears ran down her cheeks. The - Worm could not look at her; after a moment of aimless pacing, he went out - to the front steps of the building and, bareheaded, still coatless, - watched for the taxi. He helped carry out the big trunk. On the ride to - the ferry he spoke only trivialities, and Sue spoke not at all. He did not - cross the river with her; merely, there in the ferry house, gripped her - hand—smiling after a fashion, limp of spirit (for the first great - emotional uprush of his life seemed to have passed like a wave) and said: - </p> - <p> - “Good night, Sue. You'll let me help?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course. Henry.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll sublet the place for you—to somebody. I'll take that on - myself.” - </p> - <p> - She considered this, then soberly inclined her head. “This is the key, - Henry. Give it to Betty. And here's the key to the outer door.” - </p> - <p> - He took the two keys; dropped them into his pocket, where they jingled - against the other one. - </p> - <p> - “It's a lonely road you're taking, Sue. Good luck.”. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I'll see you, Henry. It won't be so exacting as that.” - </p> - <p> - “But life is going to change—for me and for you. The kaleidoscope - won't fall again into the old combination. New crowds, new ideas, are - coming in—new enthusiasms.” - </p> - <p> - “The Village forgets pretty easily,” she murmured, rather wistful. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it forgets.... Sue, you'll marry—perhaps.” - </p> - <p> - She shook her head, lips compressed. “No—not as I feel now.... - Henry, you're too tragic! We needn't say good-by like this. Good heavens, - I'm only going over to Jersey—eighteen miles! That's all.” - </p> - <p> - “There are statute miles,” said he, “and nautical miles, and—another - kind.” - </p> - <p> - “But I'll see you again.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes! Of course, Sue!” - </p> - <p> - “You can run out—some day when—” - </p> - <p> - Her voice faltered. He <i>had</i> been out of place in that kitchen. And - she had been put to the necessity of explaining him. It was another sort - of thing—hopelessly another sort of thing. - </p> - <p> - He was looking down at her, something of the old whimsical calm in his - gaze, though sober, very sober. - </p> - <p> - “Anyway,” said she, weakly, groping, “you three will go on having your - good times over there in the Square. I find I like to think of you there. - What was it they called you—the—” - </p> - <p> - “The Seventh-Story Men, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, that was it. You've been together so long, you three. I've always - thought of your place as something stable in the Village. Everything else - was changing, all the time.” - </p> - <p> - “We've gone like the rest, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, Henry! Not really?” - </p> - <p> - “All gone! Hy goes one way, I another. And Pete stays alone. No more - Seventh-Story Men. Good-by, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - He watched her through the gate; waited to catch her last glance, then - turned back into the city. - </p> - <p> - Slowly, very slowly, he approached the old brick building in the Square—his - home. - </p> - <p> - In the lower hall he hesitated, wondering if Peter was in. Finally he - asked the night man. No, Mr. Mann was not in. The Worm drew a long breath - of relief and went up to the rooms. - </p> - <p> - It did not take long to pack his possessions. Now that there were no books - to consider everything went into one old suit-case. And with this he set - forth into the night. - </p> - <p> - The experience had a gloomy thrill of its own. He had no notion where he - was going. He hardly cared. The one great thing was to be going away—away - from those rooms, from the trifling, irritating Hy, from the impossible - Peter. He walked over to the bus station, set down his suit-case on the - sidewalk, felt in his pockets to see if he had any money. He was always - getting caught without it. He had given that taxi man an even bill. - </p> - <p> - Apparently he was without it again. But in one pocket he found three keys - that jingled together in his hand. - </p> - <p> - He caught his breath; threw back his head and stared straight up through - the trees at the stars. - </p> - <p> - “My God!” he whispered—“my God!” - </p> - <p> - He picked up the suit-case and marched off—a tall, thin, determined - young man with an odd trick of throwing his right leg out and around as he - walked and toeing in with the right foot—marched straight across - town, under the Sixth Avenue Elevated, on into Greenwich Village; let - himself into a rather dingy apartment building and then into a bare little - three-rooms-and-bath from which not two hours back he had helped carry a - big trunk, and dropped into the armchair in the living-room. And his hands - shook with excitement as he lighted his pipe. - </p> - <p> - “I'm a wild man!” he informed himself—“perfectly wild! It's not a - bad thing!” - </p> - <p> - He slept, the last few hours of the night, on a bare mattress. But then a - bachelor of a whimsical turn can make-shift now and then. - </p> - <p> - All this on the Saturday. On the Monday morning early, between eight and - nine, there was giggling and fumbling at the apartment door, followed by a - not over-resolute knock. - </p> - <p> - The Worm—pipe in mouth, wearing his old striped pajamas caught - across the chest with a safety-pin,—dropped his pen, snorted with - impatience, and strode, heedless of self to the door. - </p> - <p> - There stood an elated, abashed couple. Hy Lowe, still dapper, apparently - very happy; Betty, glancing at him with an expression near timidity. - </p> - <p> - “Of all things!” she murmured, taking in the somewhat unconventional - figure before her. - </p> - <p> - “You, Worm!” chuckled Hy blithely. “Why, you old devil!” - </p> - <p> - Henry Bates was looking impatiently from one to the other. “Well,” said he—“what - do you want?” - </p> - <p> - Hy looked at Betty; Betty looked at Hy. She colored very prettily; he - leaned against the wall and laughed softly there until his eyes filled, - laughed himself weak. Finally he managed to observe to the irate figure on - the sill, who held his pipe in a threatening attitude and awaited an - explanation—“My son, are you aware that the lady lives here? Also - that you could hardly be termed overdressed.” She spoke now, softly, with - hesitation— - </p> - <p> - “Where is Sue, Mr. Bates?” - </p> - <p> - He waved his pipe. “Gone—New Jersey.” - </p> - <p> - Betty seemed to recollect. “Oh, yes,” she murmured. “And wasn't there - something—the other day, when was it—” - </p> - <p> - She exchanged a helplessly emotional glance with the partly sobered Hy. - </p> - <p> - “—Saturday it must have been. Oh, of course, you wanted me to pack - Sue's things.” - </p> - <p> - “They're packed,” snapped the Worm. “And gone.” - </p> - <p> - “And what, pray, are you doing here?” This from Hy. - </p> - <p> - “Living here,” said the Worm. - </p> - <p> - Again the two sought each other's eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Well, really—” Hy began. - </p> - <p> - Betty rested her hand on his arm. “Perhaps, Mr. Bates—you see, some - of my things are here—some things I need—” - </p> - <p> - Suddenly the Worm remembered. He blushed; then seemed to grow more angry. - </p> - <p> - “You'd better come in and get them,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “Well—if I might—” - </p> - <p> - They came in. Betty repacked her bog in the bedroom. Once she called to - Hy; they whispered; then he brought her his bag. - </p> - <p> - Next Hy stood by the window and softly whistled a new rag. Meanwhile the - Worm with a touch of self-consciousness, slipped on his coat. He had no - bathrobe. - </p> - <p> - Hy, still whistling, looked at the litter of closely written sheets on the - table. - </p> - <p> - “What's this,” said he—“writing your novel?” - </p> - <p> - “I was,” growled the Worm. He stared at the manuscript; then at Hy; then - at the busy, beautiful, embarrassed young woman in the bedroom. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly and savagely, he gathered up the papers, tore them down and - across, handful by handful and stuffed them into the fireplace. - </p> - <p> - Hy looked on in amazement. - </p> - <p> - Betty was ready, and called to him. The Worm, set of face, showed them - out. He did not know that he slammed the door behind them. - </p> - <p> - On the steps Betty said—softly, the coo of a mating bird in her - voice—“What a funny man! I'm glad you're not like that, dear.” And - slipped her fingers into his. - </p> - <p> - Hy returned her pressure; then withdrew his hand, glanced nervously up and - down the street, and hurried her into the taxi that waited at the curb. - </p> - <p> - “One sure thing,” he muttered, “we can't eat breakfast <i>there!</i>” - </p> - <p> - Back in the rooms, the Worm—suddenly, feverishly, eager—laid - out a fresh block of paper, dipped his pen into the ink, and snatching up - a book for a ruler, drew a heavy line across near the top of the page. - Above this line he printed out carefully— - </p> - <h3> - THE BOUNDARY - </h3> - <h3> - A NOVEL - </h3> - <p> - By Henry Bates - </p> - <p> - Beneath the line he wrote, swiftly, all nervous energy, sudden red spots - on his haggard cheeks—“CHAPTER ONE.” - </p> - <p> - “They stood at the door...” - </p> - <p> - This, you recall, was the beginning of the strongest novel that has come - out of Greenwich Village in many a year. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXIII—EARTHY BROWNS AND GREENS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>T about two - o'clock in the afternoon on a Saturday in early September Sue Wilde opened - a letter from the Worm. - </p> - <p> - Before dropping on the stiff walnut chair Sue had closed the door; ruffled - by the feeling that it must be closed, conscious even of guilt. For it was - a tenet of Aunt Matilda's, as of Mrs. Wilde's, that a woman should not sit - down before mid-afternoon, and not then on Mondays, Wednesdays or - Saturdays. And here her bed was not yet made. - </p> - <p> - “Dear Sue (so the letter ran)—Herewith my check for the September - rent. Sorry to be late. I forgot it.” - </p> - <p> - The letter sank to her lap. Pictures rose—memories. She saw the - half-furnished little apartment on Tenth Street, in the heart of the old - Village where she had spent the two busiest, most disturbing, yet—yes, - happiest years of her life. - </p> - <p> - “There's a little news, some of which I can't tell you. Not until I know—which - may be by the time this reaches you. In that case, if the news is anywhere - near what I'm fool enough, every other minute, to hope, I shall doubtless - be rushing post haste to see you and tell you how it all came about. I may - reach you in person before this letter does. At present it is a new - Treasure Island, a wildly adventurous comedy of life, with me for the hero—or - the villain. That's what I'm waiting to be told. But it's rather - miraculous.” - </p> - <p> - It was like Henry Bates to write mysteriously. He was excited; or he - wouldn't be threatening to come out. It had been fine of him to keep from - coming out. He hadn't forced her to ask it of him. She knew he wanted to. - Now, at the thought that he almost certainly was coming, her pulse - quickened. - </p> - <p> - There was a sound in the hall, a cautious turning of the door-knob. - </p> - <p> - Flushing, all nerves and self-consciousness, she leaped up, thrust the - letter behind her, moved toward the bed that had not yet been made. - </p> - <p> - The shyly smiling face of a nine-year-old girl appeared. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, is it you, Miriam!” breathed Sue. - </p> - <p> - “And Becky. <i>If</i> we were to come in—” - </p> - <p> - “Come along and shut the door after you.” - </p> - <p> - The children made for the closet where hung certain dancing costumes that - had before this proved to hold a fascination bordering on the realm of - magic. Sue resumed her letter. - </p> - <p> - “Zanin is part of the news, Sue. He seems to have hit on prosperity. There - are whispers that the great Silverstone has taken him up in earnest, sees - in him the making of a big screen director. Z. himself told me the other - night at the Parisian that he is going to put on a film production that - will make <i>The Dawn of an Empire</i> and his own (and your) Nature look - like the early efforts of an amateur. - </p> - <p> - “There's still another piece of news I'm bursting with. I can't believe - you don't know. But you haven't asked—haven't mentioned it in your - letters. And Zanin told me he was wholly out of touch with you. It is hard - to believe that you don't know it. For this bit of news is about you. The - other that I spoke of first, is about me—a smaller matter. Lord, but - you have buried yourself. Sue! You certainly went the whole thing. - </p> - <p> - “Zanin, by the way, and that Belgian girl—Heléne something or other; - you know, works in pastels, those zippy little character portraits, and - dancing girls (didn't she do you, once?)—well, they're inseparable. - It bothers me a little, seeing them always together at the Muscovy and the - Parisian and Jim's. After all the stirring things you and he did together. - She has spruced him up a lot, too. She's dressing him in color schemes—nice - earthy browns and greens. Yes, J. Z. dresses amazingly well now. He has - picked up a little money in these new business connections of his. But I - resent the look of it—as if he had forgotten you. Though if he - hadn't I should be crudely, horribly jealous. - </p> - <p> - “If I do come out I'll do my best to look respectable. Tell you what—I'll - put on the good suit I had made especially to propose to you in. Remember? - The time I lost my nerve and didn't say the words. Haven't worn it since, - Sue. And the hat—shoes—cane. I'll wear 'em all! No one could - be more chastely 'suburbaniacal' than Henry Bates will appear on this - significant occasion. Even the forbidding aunt will feel a dawning respect - for the erstwhile Worm—who was not a Worm, after all, but a - chrysalis, now shortly to emerge a glittering, perfect creature. - </p> - <p> - “Think not unkindly of your abandoned Villager, - </p> - <p> - “Henry B.” - </p> - <p> - At the ending she chuckled aloud. The letter had carried her far from the - plain room in a rather severe little house which in its turn conformed - scrupulously in appearance to the uniformity that marked the double row of - houses on this suburban street. They were all eyes, those houses. - </p> - <p> - She tried to reconstruct a mental picture of that remarkable costume of - the Worm's. But it was difficult to remember; she had seen it only the - once, months ago, back in the spring. Would he look overdressed? That - would be worse than if he were to wear the old bagging gray suit, soft - collar and flowing tie—and the old felt hat. For the Street might - think him one of her mysteriously theatrical acquaintances from the wicked - city, in which event a new impetus would be given to the whispering that - always ran subtly back and forth between the houses that were all eyes. - </p> - <p> - There was other chuckling in the room. The two children stood before her—Miriam, - the elder, a big-eyed girl with a fluff of chestnut hair caught at the - neck with a bow; Becky, small for her seven years, with tiny hands and - feet and a demure mouth. Miriam had about head and shoulders the Spanish - scarf that Sue had worn in Zanin's Carmen ballet at the Crossroads; Becky - had thrust her feet into the red leather boots of Sue's Russian costume. - When they found their half-sister's eye upon them the two giggled - irresistibly. - </p> - <p> - Sue felt a warm impulse to snatch them both up in her arms. But she - sobered. This was old ground. Mrs. Wilde, as the wife and widow of an - evangelical minister, felt strongly against dancing. Sue had promised to - keep silent regarding this vital side of her own life. - </p> - <p> - Becky shuffled humorously to Sue's knee. Miriam came to her side, leaned - against her shoulder, and gently, admiringly stroked her thick short hair, - now grown to an unruly length but still short enough to disclose the fine - outline of Sue's boyish yet girlish head. - </p> - <p> - “Tell us about the time you were a movie actress.” This from Miriam. - </p> - <p> - Sue, dispirited, shook her head. “You must take off those things, - children., Put them back in the closet. Your mother wouldn't like it if - she saw you.” - </p> - <p> - Instead of obeying, Miriam leaned close to her ear and whispered: “I've - seen movies. Yesterday with the girls—after school. There was a wild - west one, <i>Clarice of the Canyon</i>, and a comedy where he falls - through the ceiling and all the plaster comes down on the bed and then the - bed goes through another ceiling and all. It was awfully funny.” - </p> - <p> - Sue mentally cast about her for guidance in the part she had promised to - play. She deliberately frowned. “Does your mother know about it, Miriam?” - </p> - <p> - The girl, bright-eyed, shook her head. - </p> - <p> - “Then it was wrong.” - </p> - <p> - Miriam still watched her, finally saying: “Do you know why I told you?” - </p> - <p> - Sue, feeling rather helpless, shook her head. - </p> - <p> - “Because I knew you wouldn't tell on me.” - </p> - <p> - Sue pursed her lips. - </p> - <p> - She heard a voice from the stair landing, Aunt Matilda's voice. - </p> - <p> - “Sue!” it called—“Sue! Some one to see you!” - </p> - <p> - The Worm, surely! She sprang up, smoothed her shirt-waist before the - mirror, tried to smooth her unmanageable hair. Her color was rising. She - waited a moment to control this. - </p> - <p> - “Sue! Come down!” - </p> - <p> - She passed her aunt on the stairs and was detained by a worn hand. - </p> - <p> - “It's a man,” whispered the older woman—“one of those city friends - cf yours, I take it. Looks like a Jew. Goodness knows what people will - think! As if they didn't have enough to talk about already, without—this!” - </p> - <p> - Sue shook off her hand and ran down the stairs, oblivious now to her color - as to the angry flash in her striking green eyes. It was Zanin, of course—-of - all men! What if he had heard! In Greenwich Village there was none of the - old vulgar race prejudice. Zarin was in certain respects the ablest man - she had ever known. But there was no possibility that he could be - understood, even tolerated, in this house on the Street. - </p> - <p> - She found him on the front porch where Aunt Matilda had left him. And for - an instant, before extending her hand, she stared. For there stood the new - Zanin—perceptibly fuller in face and figure, less wildly eager of - eye, clad in the earthy brown suit that had so impressed the Worm, with a - soft gray-green shirt that might have been flannel or silk or a mixture of - the two, and a large bow tie and soft hat of a harmonious green-brown. - </p> - <p> - He smiled easily, thoughtfully down at her as he took her hand. Then she - felt him, more sober, more critical, studying her appearance. - </p> - <p> - “Well, Sue,” he observed—this was indeed a calm, - successful-appearing Zanin—“you're not looking so fit as you might.” - </p> - <p> - She could say nothing to this. - </p> - <p> - “Dancing any?” - </p> - <p> - “No. None.” She was wondering what to do with him. The choice appeared to - lie between the stuffy parlor and this front porch. Within, the household - would hear every word; out here the eyes of the Street would watch - unrelentingly. With an impassive face and a little shrug, she remarked, - indicating a stiff porch chair— - </p> - <p> - “Sit down, Jacob.” - </p> - <p> - “I'll take this,” said he, dropping down on the top step in the most - conspicuous spot of all. And he smiled at her. - </p> - <p> - “You can't guess what brings me, Sue. First, I want you to run in town - this evening.” - </p> - <p> - She shook her head, slowly. - </p> - <p> - “You'd better. It's an unusual event. It wouldn't do to miss it.” - </p> - <p> - Her eyes wandered toward the hall behind the screen door, then off to the - row of wooden houses across the street. - </p> - <p> - “Nevertheless,” said she, “it's going to be missed, Jacob.” - </p> - <p> - He studied her. “I'm debating with myself whether to tell you about it, - Sue. Though it's a wonder you don't know. Haven't you followed the - papers?” - </p> - <p> - Again she shook her head. - </p> - <p> - “I'm wondering, though,” she observed: “from the way you are talking, and - from something Henry Bates said in a letter that came to-day—if it - isn't the Nature film.” - </p> - <p> - “That's it,” said he. “First performance tonight. Really don't you know?” - </p> - <p> - “Not a thing. Jacob.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, our old friend Silverstone is in on it. He bought out the - Interstellar interest. We're featuring it. At a two-dollar house, Sue—think - of that! <i>The Dawn of an Empire</i> is nowhere. Unless it falls flat—which - it won't!—there'll be a bit of money in it for all of us. What do - you say now, eh!” - </p> - <p> - “Money?” mused Sue, incredulous. - </p> - <p> - “Regular money—even for the small interest you and Peter and I hold. - But that's only the beginning. Listen here now, Sue! A little time has - gone by. You've hidden yourself out here—let your spirit sag—so - I suppose you may find some difficulty in grasping this. But the Nature - film is you, child. You're half famous already, thanks to the way we're - letting loose on publicity. You're going to be a sensation—a - knock-out—once the blessed public sees that film. Remember this: - just because you decided to be another sort of person you haven't become - that other person. Not for a minute! The big world is tearing right along - at the old speed and you with it. With it? No—ahead of it! That's - what our old <i>Nature</i>, that you worked so hard on, is doing for you - right now. Can you grasp that?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes,” said she listlessly, “I grasp it all right. But you're wrong in - saying it is me. I am another person. Jacob—I couldn't go to see - that film.” - </p> - <p> - “Couldn't see it?” - </p> - <p> - “No.” Her lips were compressed. - </p> - <p> - “But, Sue—that's outrageous! It's fanatical!” - </p> - <p> - “Maybe it is. I can't help it,” - </p> - <p> - “You mean the frankness—the costuming—” - </p> - <p> - She pressed her hands over her eyes. “And people from here will be - slipping in to see it—sneaking in when they think their neighbors - won't see them—and seeing me on exhibition there! And they will - whisper. Oh, the vulgarity of it!... Jacob, don't talk about it. I can't! - Please!” - </p> - <p> - He studied her, through narrowed eyes. “The poor kid <i>is</i> going - through it!” he thought. “I had no idea!” Deliberately, with the coldness, - the detachment, of his race, he considered the problem. At length he said: - </p> - <p> - “I'll tell you my main errand, Sue. I've got an enormous new production - on. It's in my hands, too, as director. Silverstone gives me carte blanche—that's - his way. Big man. Now I've got an eye in my head. I've seen our <i>Nature</i> - run off. And I happen to know that the big movie star of to-morrow, the - sensation of them all, is Miss Sue Wilde. You don't realize that, of - course. All right! Don't try to. But do try to get <i>this</i>. I want you - for my new production. And I can offer you more money than you ever saw in - all your life. Not two thousand a week, like Mabel Wakeford, but a lot. - And still you'll be cheaper to my company than women not half so good who - have built up a market value in the film business. It will be a bargain - for us. I brought out a contract ready for you to sign. Salary begins - to-morrow if you say the word. Would you like to read it over?” - </p> - <p> - Her hands were still over her eyes. She shook her head. - </p> - <p> - Instead of pressing his business he went on quietly studying her. He - studied the house, too; and the street. After a time he consulted a - time-table and his watch. - </p> - <p> - “Sue,” he said then, “I'm disappointed.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm sorry, Jacob.” She looked up now and threw out her hands. “But you - couldn't understand. I couldn't look at that film, at myself doing those - things. It's a thing that's—well, Jacob, it is repellent to me now. - It's a thing I wish I hadn't done. I thought I believed it—your - theory of freedom, naturalness, all that. I don't believe it. But all the - same I'm on record there. The most conspicuous girl in the United States—from - what you say—' - </p> - <p> - “Easily that, Sue. By to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “—picturing a philosophy I don't believe in. I've been daring almost - to forget it. Now you're bringing it home to me. It is branded on me now. - God knows what it is going to mean! Of course it will follow me into my - home here. And you know what people will think and say—these, - people”—she indicated the orderly street with a sweep of a fine arm - and hand—“they'll think and talk of me as a girl who has done what - no decent girl can do and stay decent—” - </p> - <p> - She stopped, choking. He was still coolly observing her. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” he said again, “I'm disappointed. I'm afraid it's just as well for - you to give up. You've lost something, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - He rose. And she let him go in silence; stood looking after him until he - disappeared around the corner. Then she went up to her room. - </p> - <p> - The children were still there, serenely happy in unheard-of mischief. They - had all her dancing clothes spread out on the bed. - </p> - <p> - She closed the door. The girls giggled nervously; she hardly saw them. She - lifted up the Russian costume and fingered the bright-colored silk. Dreams - came to her mind's eye. She looked at the little boots of red leather. - </p> - <p> - “I wonder,” she murmured. - </p> - <p> - “Please dance for us,” begged Miriam shyly, at her side. She hardly heard. - </p> - <p> - She moved to the side of the room, then leaped out in that bounding, - crouching Russian step. She was stiff, awkward. She stepped back and tried - it again. - </p> - <p> - The children laughed in sheer excitement and clapped their hands. Becky - tried to imitate the step, fell over and rolled, convulsed with laughter, - on the floor. - </p> - <p> - The door opened and Mrs. Wilde stood on the threshold. She was a tall thin - woman, all in black, with a heavy humorless mouth, pallid skin, flat - pouches under her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Miriam! Becky!” she cried. “Come here instantly!” - </p> - <p> - Becky got up. The two children, crestfallen, between sulkiness and a - measure of fear, moved slowly toward the door. The mother stood aside, - ushered them out, then confronted the younger woman. There was a tired - sort of anger in her eyes. The almost impenetrable egotism of her - widowhood had been touched and stirred by the merry little scene. - </p> - <p> - “You hold your promises lightly,” she said. - </p> - <p> - Sue bit her lip, threw out her hands. “It isn't that—” - </p> - <p> - “Then what is it?” Mrs. Wilde moved into the room and closed the door. “I - don't quite see what we are to do, Sue. I can't have this sort of - temptation put before them right here, in their home. You know what I have - taught them and what I expect of them. You know' I wish to be kind to you, - but this isn't fair. He—he...” She carried a handkerchief, heavily - bordered with black. This she pressed to her eyes. - </p> - <p> - A hot temper blazed in Sue. She struggled with it. Sharp words rushed to - her tongue. She drove them back. - </p> - <p> - It occurred to her that she must be considerate; the woman's life had been - torn from its roots, what mind she had was of course overwhelmed. Sue - stood there, her hands clenched at her sides, groping desperately for some - point of mental contact with the woman who had married her father—forgetting - that there had never been a print of mental contact. Suddenly she recalled - a few hot phrases of the Worm's, spoken in regard to this very matter of - her attempt to confine her life within this gloomy home—“It's - Puritan against Cavalier—both right, both wrong! It's the Greeks - against the Greatest of Jews—both right, both wrong! Beauty against - duty, the instinct to express against the instinct to serve—both - right, both wrong!”... Was Henry Bates right? Was the gulf between her - natural self and this home unbridgeable? Motionless, tense, she tried, all - in an instant, to think this through—and failed. A wave of emotion - overwhelmed her, an uprushing of egotism as blind as the egotism of the - woman in black who stood stiffly against the closed door. It was a clash—not - of wills, for Sue's will was to serve—but of natures. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXIV—ONE DOES FORGET ABOUT HAPPINESS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>UE felt that the - woman was about to speak, and suddenly she knew that she could not listen. - Fighting down the rather terrifying force of her emotions, fighting tears - even, she rushed to the door, mutely brushed Mrs. Wilde aside and ran down - the stairs. Sue let herself out on the front porch, closed the screen door - and leaned hack against it, clinging to the knob, breathless, unstrung. - The eyes of the Street would be on her, of course. She thought of this and - dropped into one of the porch chairs. - </p> - <p> - A man turned the corner—a tall, rather young man who wore a - shapeless suit of gray, a limp collar, a flowing bow tie, a soft hat; and - who had a trick of throwing his leg out and around as he walked and toeing - in with the right font. - </p> - <p> - He turned in, grinning cheerfully and waving a lean hand. He mounted the - steps. Sue sat erect, gripping the arms of her chair, eyes bright, and - laughed nervously. - </p> - <p> - “Henry,” she cred, “you're hopeless! Where's the new suit? You're not a - bit respectable.” - </p> - <p> - He seated himself on the porch railing and gazed ruefully downward. - </p> - <p> - “Sue, I'm sorry. Plum forgot. And I swore I'd never disgrace you again. I - <i>am</i> hopeless. You're right.” Then he laughed—irresponsibly, - happily, like a boy. - </p> - <p> - She stared at him. “What is it, Henry?” - </p> - <p> - “Everything, child! You see before you the man who has just conquered the - world. All of it. And no worlds left. Mr. Alexander H. Bates.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” said she, thinking swiftly back—“your novel!” - </p> - <p> - “Right. My novel.” - </p> - <p> - “But it isn't finished, Henry.” - </p> - <p> - “Not quite half done.” - </p> - <p> - “Then, how can—” - </p> - <p> - He raised a long hand and rose. He gazed down benignly at her. “The - greatest publisher in these U. S. has had the good fortune to read the - first fourteen chapters. A whisper blew to me yesterday of the way things - were going—before I wrote you. But the word this morning was not a - whisper. Susan. It was an ear-splitting yell. Mister Greatest Publisher - personally sent for me. Told me he had been looking for me—exactly - me!—these twenty-eight years. And here I am. Money now if I need it. - And do I need it? God, do I need it! And fame later—when I get the - book done. Now, child, tell me how glad you are. At once.” - </p> - <p> - He walked the porch; came back and stood before her; grinned and grinned. - </p> - <p> - She could not find words. Soberly her eyes followed him. Her set mouth - softened. Her tightened muscles relaxed until she was leaning back limp in - the chair. - </p> - <p> - “Isn't it the devil, Sue!” said he. “The one thing my heart was set on was - to wear that good suit. Sue, I was going to put it all over this suburb of - yours—just smear 'em! And look—I have to go and forget. - Nothing comes out to see you but the same disgraceful old gipsy. How could - I?” - </p> - <p> - Sue leaned forward. “Henry, I'm glad. I love this old suit. But there's a - button coming loose—there, on your coat.” - </p> - <p> - “I know, Sue. I sewed at it, but it doesn't hold. I'm meaning to stop at a - tailor's, next time I'm over toward Sixth Avenue.” - </p> - <p> - She was studying his face now. “You're happy, Henry,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Well—in a sense! In a sense!” - </p> - <p> - “It is a good thing you came. I was forgetting about happiness.” - </p> - <p> - “I know. One does.” He consulted his watch. “It's five-twenty-two now, - Sue. And we're catching the five-thirty-eight back to town.” - </p> - <p> - She did not speak. But her eyes met his, squarely; held to them. It was a - forthright eye-to-eye gaze, of the sort that rarely occurs, even between - friends, and that is not soon forgotten. Sue had been white, sitting - there, when he came and after. Now her color returned. - </p> - <p> - He bent over and took her elbow. The touch of his hand was a luxury. Her - lids drooped; her color rose and rose. She let him almost lift her from - the chair. Then she went in for her hat and coat; still silent. They - caught the five-thirty-eight. - </p> - <p> - “What are we going in for?” she asked, listless again, when they had found - a seat in the train. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, come! You know! To see the almost famous Sue Wilde of Greenwich - Village—” - </p> - <p> - “Not of the Village now, Henry!” - </p> - <p> - “—in the film sensation of the decade. <i>Nature</i>, suggested and - directed by Jacob Zanin, written by Eric Mann, presented by the Nature - Film Producing Company, Adolph Silverstone, President. You see, I've been - getting you up, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - She was staring cut the window gloomily. - </p> - <p> - “I swore I wouldn't go, Henry.” - </p> - <p> - “But that would be a shame.” - </p> - <p> - “I know—of course. But—Henry, you don't understand. Nobody - understands! I'm not sure I can stand it to sit there and see myself doing - those things—and have to talk with people I know, and—” - </p> - <p> - “I think I could smuggle you in,” said he, thoughtful. “This isn't a - little movie house, you know. It's a regular theater. There ought to be a - separate gallery entrance. That would make it easy.” - </p> - <p> - She changed the subject. “Where shall we eat, Henry?” - </p> - <p> - “The Parisian?” - </p> - <p> - She shook her head. “Let's go to Jim's.” - </p> - <p> - To Jim's they went; and it seemed to him whimsically watchful eyes that - she had an occasional moment of being her old girlish self as they - strolled through the wandering streets of Greenwich Village and stepped - down into the basement oyster and chop house that had made its name a full - generation before Socialism was more than a foreign-sounding word and two - generations before cubism, futurism, vorticism, imagism, Nietzsche, the I. - W. W., Feminism and the Russians had swept in among the old houses and - tenements to engage in the verbal battle royal that has since converted - the quaint old quarter from a haunt of rather gently artistic bohemianism - into a shambles of dead and dismembered and bleeding theories. Jim's alone - had not changed. Even the old waiter who so far as any one knew had always - been there, shuffled through the sprinkling of sawdust on the floor; and - the familiar fat grandson of the original Jim was still to be seen - standing by the open grill that was set in the wall at the rear end of the - oyster bar. - </p> - <p> - The Worm suggested thick mutton chops and the hugely delectable baked - potatoes without which Jim's would not have been Jim's. Sue smiled rather - wanly and assented. Her air of depression disturbed him; his own buoyancy - sagged; he found it necessary now and then to manufacture talk. This was - so foreign to the quality of their friendship that he finally laid down - his knife and fork, rested his elbows on the table and considered her. - </p> - <p> - “Sue,” he remarked, “it's getting to you, isn't it—the old Village.” - </p> - <p> - She tried to smile, and looked off toward the glowing grill. - </p> - <p> - “Why don't you come around and have a look at the rooms? I haven't changed - them. Only your pictures are gone. Even your books are on the mantel where - you used to keep them. It might hook things up for us, so we could get to - feeling and talking like ourselves. What do you say—could you stand - it?” - </p> - <p> - She tried to look at him, tried to be her old frank self; but without - marked success. The tears were close. She had to compress her lips and - study the table-cloth for a long moment before she could speak. - </p> - <p> - “I couldn't, Henry.” Then with an impulse that was more like the Sue that - he knew, she reached out and rested her hand on his arm. “Try not to mind - me, Henry. I can't help it—whatever it is. I don't seem to have much - fight left in me. It's plain enough that I shouldn't have tried to come - in. It was just a crazy reaction, anyway. You caught me when I had been - hurt. I was all mixed....” - </p> - <p> - She was excluding him from her little world now; and this was least like - her of all the things she had been saying and doing. But if the Worm was - hurt he did not show it. He merely said: - </p> - <p> - “Sue, of course, you've been going through a nervous crisis, and it has - taken a lot out of you.” - </p> - <p> - “A lot, Henry,” she murmured. - </p> - <p> - “One thing strikes me—superficial, of course—I doubt if you've - had enough exercise this summer.” - </p> - <p> - “I know,” said she. “To-day I tried a few steps—that—old - Russian dance, you know—” - </p> - <p> - “I'd love to see you do it, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - She shook her head. “I've lost it—everything.” - </p> - <p> - “You were stiff, of course.” - </p> - <p> - “It was painful. I just couldn't dance. I don't like to think of it, - Henry.” - </p> - <p> - He smiled. “One thing—I've decided to make you walk to the theater. - It's two miles. That'll stir your pulse a bit. And we'll start now.” - </p> - <p> - She looked soberly at him. “You've lost nothing, Henry. The work you've - done hasn't taken it out of you.” - </p> - <p> - “Not a hit. On the contrary, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - “I know. I feel it.” - </p> - <p> - “No more of the old aimlessness, Susan. No more books—except a look - at yours now and then, because they were yours. God, girl, I'm creating! - I'm living! I'm saying something. And I really seem to have it to say. - That's what stirs you, puts a tingle into your blood.” - </p> - <p> - She studied him a moment longer, then lowered her eyes. “Let's be - starting,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Up Fifth Avenue, Sue?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, Henry!” - </p> - <p> - They walked eastward on Waverly Place, across Sixth Avenue. She paused - here and looked up almost fondly at the ugly, shadowy elevated structure - in the twilight. A train roared by. - </p> - <p> - “I haven't seen the city for two months,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “That's a long time—-for a live person,” said he. - </p> - <p> - The dusty foliage of Washington Square appeared ahead. Above it like a - ghost of the historic beauty of the old Square, loomed the marble arch. - The lights of early evening twinkled from street poles and shone warmly - from windows. - </p> - <p> - They turned up the Avenue whose history is the history of a century of New - York life. Through the wide canyon darted the taxis and limousines that - marked the beginnings of the city's night activity. The walks were - thronged with late workers hurrying to their homes in the tenements to the - south and west. - </p> - <p> - The Parisian restaurant was bright with silver, linen and electric lights - behind the long French windows. He caught Sue giving the old place a - sober, almost wistful glance. - </p> - <p> - At Fourteenth Street they encountered the ebb of the turbid human tide - that at nightfall flows east and west across the great Avenue and picked - their way through. - </p> - <p> - Above Fourteenth Street they entered the deep dim canyon of loft - buildings. The sweatshops were here from which every noon and every night - poured forth the thousands upon thousands of toilers—underfed, - undersized, prominent of nose, cheek-bones and lips, gesticulating, - spreading and shambling of gait, filling the great Avenue with a low roar - of voluble talk in a strange guttural tongue—crowding so densely - that a chance pedestrian could no more than drift with the slow current. - </p> - <p> - The nightly torrent was well over when Sue and the Worm walked through the - blighted district, but each was familiar with the problem; each had played - some small part in the strikes that stirred the region at intervals. Sue - indeed pointed out the spot, just below Twenty-third Street where she had - been arrested for picketing. And the Worm noted that she had steadied - perceptibly as the old associations bit by bit reasserted their claims on - her life. She was chatting with him now, nearly in the old, easy, - forthright way. By the time the huge white facade of the Public Library - came into view, with its steps, terraces, railings and misty trees, and - the crosstown cars were clanging by just ahead at Forty-second Street, and - they were meeting an occasional bachelor diner-out hurrying past in - dinner-coat and straw hat, the Worm found himself chuckling again. They - turned west on Forty-second Street, crossing Sixth Avenue, Broadway and - Seventh Avenue, passing the glittering hotel on a famous corner and - heading for the riotously whirling, darting, blazing devices in colored - light by means of which each theater of the congested group sought to - thrust itself most violently upon the bewildered optic nerves of the - passer-by. - </p> - <p> - Opposite one of these the Worm took Sue's arm, very gently, and halted her - on the curb. The evening throng brushed past, heedless of the simply - dressed girl who yet was oddly, boyishly slim and graceful of body, and - who was striking of countenance despite the weariness evident about the - rather strongly modeled mouth and the large, thoughtful green eyes; - heedless, as well, of the lank, shabbily dressed young man who held her - arm and bent earnestly over her. They were atoms in the careering - metropolis, uncounted polyps in the blind, swarming, infinitely laborious - structure that is New York. And they thought themselves, each, the center - of the universe. - </p> - <p> - “Sue, dear,” said he, “here we are. You're about to see yourself. It will - be an experience. And it won't be what you're thinking and—yes, - dreading. I've seen it—” - </p> - <p> - She glanced up in surprise. - </p> - <p> - “Last night—an exhibition to the newspaper men.” The emotion in his - voice was evident. She glanced up again, something puzzled. “It was last - night—afterward—that I decided on bringing you in. I wouldn't - for anything in the world have missed having you here to-night. Though, at - that, if Mr. Greatest Publisher hadn't warmed my soul with that wonderful - blast of hot air I probably shouldn't have had the nerve. Of course I knew - it would be an ordeal. It's been on my conscience every minute. But I had - to bring you, and I believe you'll understand why, two hours from now. I'm - hoping you will, Sue.” - </p> - <p> - He hesitated. She waited. Suddenly then, he hurried her across the busy - street and into the dim shelter of the gallery entrance. - </p> - <p> - “Zanin was out in front,” said he, “With some of the newspaper boys, but I - got you by.” - </p> - <p> - Many individuals and groups were detaching themselves from the endless - human stream and turning in between the six-foot lithographs at the main - entrance to the theater. More and more steadily as Sue and the Worm stood - in the shadow of the lesser doorway they had chosen, the crowds poured in. - Others were turning in here toward the gallery and tramping up the long - twisting stairway. - </p> - <p> - “Big house!” chuckled the Worm. “Oh, they'll put it across, Sue. You wait! - Zanin's publicity has been wonderful. It would have disturbed you, girl—but - it's rather a shame you haven't followed it.” - </p> - <p> - Sue seemed not to hear him. She was leaning out from the doorway, trying - to make out the subjects of the two big lithographs. She finally slipped - across to the curb and studied them a moment. Both were of herself, - half-clad in the simple garment of an island savage; over each picture was - the one word, “NATURE,” under each the two words, “SUE WILDE.” - </p> - <p> - She hurried back and started up the stairs. The Worm saw that she was - flushing again and that her mouth wore the set look. - </p> - <p> - On a landing, holding her back from a group ahead, he said: “Do you know, - Sue, part of the disturbance you feel is just a shrinking from - conspicuousness, from the effective thing. Self-consciousness! Isn't it, - now?” - </p> - <p> - But she turned away and kept on. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXV—THE NATURE FILM - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>T that time no - moving picture had been given the setting that Jacob Zanin devised for the - Nature film. Zanin had altered the interior of the building to make it as - little as possible like the conventional theater. Only the walls, - galleries and boxes and stage remained as they had been. The new - decorations were in the pale greens and pinks of spring and were simple. - Between foyer and auditorium were palms, with orchids and other tropical - flowers. The orchestra was not in sight. The ushers were calm girls from - the Village—students of painting, designing, writing, sculpture—dressed - modestly enough in a completer drapery of the sort worn by Sue in the - pictures, such a material as Philippine women weave from grasses and - pineapple strands, softly buff and cream and brown in color, embroidered - with exquisite skill in exotic designs. The stage before the screen (Zanin - used no drop curtain) represented a native village on some imaginary South - Sea Island. The natives themselves were there, quietly moving about the - routine of their lives or sitting by a low fire before the group of huts - at one side of the stage. - </p> - <p> - Very likely you saw it. If so, you will understand the difficulty I am - confronted with in describing the place. It made a small sensation, the - theater itself, apart from the Nature film. But a penned description could - not convey the freshness, the quiet charm, the dignity of that interior. - </p> - <p> - The dignity was what first touched Sue. The Worm watched her sidelong as - her eyes roved from the flat surfaces of pure bold color on the walls to - the quietly idyllic scene on the stage that managed to look as if it were - not a stage. She exhibited little emotion at first. Her brow was slightly - furrowed, the eyes thoughtful, the mouth set—that was all. She had - gone through the difficult months of enacting the film at first with - enthusiasm, later doggedly. She had early lost her vision of the thing as - a whole; her recollections now were of doing over and over this bit and - that, of a certain youthful actor who had taken it for granted that a girl - who would dress as she had to dress the character could be casually made - love to, of interminable train rides to the outdoor “locations,” of - clashes of will between Zanin and the Interstellar people—of work, - quarrels, dust, money and the lack of it and a cumulative disillusionment. - It came to her now that she had lost that early vision. More, she had - forgotten the sincerity and the purpose of Jacob Zanin, that beneath his - cold Jewish detachment he believed this thing—that the individual - must be freed from conformity and (as he saw it) its attendant hypocrisy - by breaking the yoke of the home. It must be the individual—first, - last, always—-the glad, free individual—the will to live, to - feel, to express. - </p> - <p> - It was the Village jargon, done into something near a masterpiece. Sue - began to see as the film unrolled before her eyes, reel by reel, that - Zanin had never for a moment lost his dream. Even now, merely sitting in - that steep crowded gallery waiting for the first reel of the ten, Sue knew - that he had never lost it. Nor had Peter. The thought was exciting. It - brought the color back to her cheeks. Her lips parted slightly. She was - feeling again the enthusiasm Peter's scenario had roused in her at the - start, but with a new intensity. The Worm, at her side, watching every - slight subtle change of that young face, forgot his own stirring news of - the morning, forgot that he was Alexander H. Bates, and the expression of - a man who had bcen long hungry crept into his eyes. - </p> - <p> - The Nature film, you recall, pictured an imaginary people, simple, even - primitive, untouched by what men call civilisation. To their secluded - island comes the ship of an explorer, suggesting by its outlines and - rigging and the costumes of officers and crew, the brave days of Captain - Cook, or perhaps a period half a century earlier. The indefiniteness of it - was baffling and fascinating. At no point did it date! And the island was - not one of those that dot the South Seas, at least the inhabitants were - not savages. They were intelligent, industrious, gentle. But the women - hunted and fished with the men. Love—or passion, at least—was - recognized for the impermanent gust it so often is—and, as such, was - respected. No woman dreamed of tying herself for life to a lover she no - longer loved. Neither want nor respectability could lower her pride to - that point. Fatherhood, apparently, was not fixed, a hint being conveyed - that the men as a group were bound to contribute to the welfare of young - mothers. Thus the men were perhaps less glad and free than the women; - indeed there was more than a suggestion of matriarchy.... To this - community, thrown by an accident on its shores, the hundred odd men from - the ship brought a habit of discipline, a holy book (that was and was not - the Bible), a rigid marriage law, a complete hard theory of morality with - attached penalties, plenty of firearms, hogshead upon hogshead of strong - liquor, and underlying everything else an aggressive acquisitiveness that - showed itself in the beginning as the trading instinct and later, of - course, became politics and control. - </p> - <p> - In some measure it was the old obvious outcry against the conquest of weak - and simple peoples. Or the situation at the start indicated something of - the sort. But the story that grew out of the situation was less obvious. - Indeed, developed by Peter, with his theatrical skill, out of Zanin's raw - anarchism, it was a drama of quality and power. Zanin had been able to - make nothing more out of it than a clash of social theories. Peter had - made it a clash of persons; and through the deliberate development of this - clash ran, steadily increasing in poignancy and tragic force straight to - the climax of assassination, the story of a girl. Peter himself did not - know how good it was. Not until he read about it in the papers (after - which he became rather irritatingly complacent regarding it). For you will - remember, Peter was crazily pursuing that girl when he wrote it. And the - girl was boldly, wonderfully Sue—a level-eyed, outspoken young - woman, confronting life; ashamed of nothing, not her body, not her soul; - dreaming beautifully of freedom, of expressing herself, of living her - life, vibrant with health, courage, joy. - </p> - <p> - The girl, you know, fell in love with a young sailor and gave herself - proudly and freely. The sailor could not comprehend her, became furtive - and jealous. They quarreled. To quiet her he was driven to brutality. For - he was a respectable man and held his reputation high. The affair became - known. The men of the ship, muttering strange words about a custom called - marriage, held her as bad, fell on the age-old decision that she must - continue to be, bad, at their call, though furtively. For they were all - respectable men. - </p> - <p> - Then we saw the girl as an outcast, fed, for a time, secretly by the cowed - bewildered tribe. We saw her as a dishonored mother, fighting the sea, the - forest, the very air for sustenance. We caught glimpses of the new - community, growing into a settlement of some stability, the native men - forced into the less wholesome labor, then wives and daughters taken and - poisoned with this strange philosophy of life. Then we saw our girl, her - child toddling at her heels, creeping back into the society where trade - and politics, hard liquor (distilled now from the native grain), that holy - book of mysterious spell, the firearms and an impenetrable respectability - reigned in apparent security over smoldering fires. And finally we saw the - girl, not at all a penitent, but a proud inspired creature of instinct, - fan those fires until they purged the taint of sophistication from each - slumbering native soul and drove a half-mad people at the desperate job of - extermination and of reasserting itself as a people on the old lawlessly - happy footing. They burned the hogsheads of liquor, the firearms, the heap - of holy books, on one great bonfire. - </p> - <p> - I am not doing it justice. But this much will serve to recall the story. - </p> - <p> - As for Zanin's propaganda, I doubt if it cut in very deeply. Critics and - public alike appeared to take it simply as a novelty, a fresh sensation as - they had taken Reinhardt and the Russian Ballet. The primitiveness of it - reached them no more clearly than the primitiveness of Wagner's operas - reached them. The clergy stormed a bit, of course; but not because they - comprehended the deeply implied anarchistic motive. They were concerned - over Zanin's rather unbending attitude toward a certain book. And Zanin; - delighted, fed columns of controversy to the afternoon papers, wrote open - letters to eminent divines, and in other ways turned the protest into a - huge success of publicity. Then a professional objector, apparently - ignorant of the existence of an enticing and corrupting “Revue” across the - street, haled Zanin, Silverstone and two of the Interstellar people into - court on the ground that the costuming was improper. This matter Zanin, - after the newspapers had done it full justice, compromised by cutting out - twenty-two feet of pictures and one printed explanation which seemed to - the professional objector to justify child-birth out of wedlock. - </p> - <p> - No, beyond these brief attacks of virtue, I have never been able to see - that the great city did not pulse along about as before. Broadway and - Forty-second Street held their usual evening throngs. The saloons and - hotel bars took in fortunes from the flushed, sometimes furtive men that - poured out between the acts of that “Revue.” Gamblers gambled, robbers - robbed; the glittering hotels thrived; men bought and sold and centered on - the ugly business of politics and bargained with the nameless girls that - lurked in shadowy doorways—but furtively, of course, with an eye to - respectability. And in parsonages on side streets clergymen studied the - precise attitude of Paul toward the doctrine of Free Will or wrote (for - Sunday evening) of the beautiful day that was close at hand when all men - should sing in harmony and not discord, with harp accompaniment.... No, I - think, despite Zanin's purpose, despite Sue's blazing faith, what really - triumphed was Peter Mann's instinct for a good story. It was the story - that held them, and the real beauty of the pictures, and the acting and - personal charm and sincerity of Sue Wilde. - </p> - <p> - All this, or something, held Sue herself. For it did catch her. She had - thought she knew everything about the Nature film; whereas she knew - everything about it but the Nature film. At first, naturally, her - self-consciousness clung a little; then it fell away. She sat with an - elbow on the arm of the seat, chin on hand, never once taking her eyes - from the screen, hardly aware of the dense audience about her, no more - than barely hearing the skilfully selected Russian music of the hidden, - very competent orchestra. - </p> - <p> - There were two intermissions. During the first she tried to chat and - failed. In the second, when the Worm suggested a turn in the open air she - merely shook her head, without looking up. And that hungry look deepened - in the Worm's eyes. - </p> - <p> - Toward the end, when the buffeted but unbowed young woman was fighting - with the strength of inspired despair for the one decent hope left to her, - the hope of personal freedom, Peter's story reached its highest point. As - did Sue's acting. The girl herself, sitting up there in the gallery, head - bowed, shading with a slim hand her wet eyes, leaned more and more closely - against the dear whimsical friend at her side. When his groping hand found - hers she clung to it as honestly as the girl on the screen would have - done. - </p> - <p> - It was over. For a moment the house was in darkness and silence. This was - another of Zanin's effects. Then the lights came on dimly; the concealed - orchestra struck softly into another of those Russian things; the - primitive people on the stage, you suddenly saw, were quietly going on - about the simple business of their village. A girl like Sue walked on, - skilfully picked out by the lighting. The audience caught the suggestion - and turned where they stood in seat-rows, aisles and entrances to applaud - wildly. Still another Zaninesque touch! - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXVI—APRIL! APRIL! - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>LOWLY the crowd in - the gallery moved out and down the twisting flights of stairs. Sue slipped - her arm through the Worm's and silently clung to him. They were very close - in spirit. Down at the street entrance, she said, “I don't want to see - anybody, Henry.” So he hurried her across the street through a lane in the - after-theater traffic and around the corner into Seventh Avenue, heading - south. - </p> - <p> - “We'll have a bite somewhere, Sue,” said he then, Her head inclined in - assent. - </p> - <p> - “Somewhere up around here and not on Broadway. Where we won't see a Soul.” - Her arm was still in his. She felt him draw a sudden deep breath. “Oh, Sue—if - only I could take you down to the old rooms—make a cup of coffee—sit - and look at you curled up in your own big chair—” He broke OFF. Sue, - still half in a dream, considered this. - </p> - <p> - “Why, I don't know, Henry—If you—” - </p> - <p> - His arm now pressed hers so tightly against his side that it hurt her a - little. - </p> - <p> - “No!” he said in a low rough voice. “No!” - </p> - <p> - She was silent. - </p> - <p> - “Can't you see what's the matter, girl? I couldn't do it. I'd never let - you go—never! I'm insane with love for you. I'm full of you—throbbing, - singing, thrilling with you!” - </p> - <p> - Again he stopped short They walked on slowly, arm in arm. She glanced up - at his face. It was twisted, as with pain. - </p> - <p> - She tried to think. Every way lay confusion. Suddenly she freed her arm. - </p> - <p> - “Henry—” she began; then walked on a dozen steps before she could - continue. “You have a timetable, Henry?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh—Sue!” - </p> - <p> - “Please, Henry! I can't miss that late train. I have no key, as it is, It - will be difficult enough.” They walked another block, moving steadily - toward the Pennsylvania-Station-Herald-Square region whence all roads lead - out into Long Island and New Jersey. She did not know what he would say or - do. It was a relief when finally he found the time-table in his pocket and - handed it to her. - </p> - <p> - She stood under a street light to puzzle out the cabalistic tangle of fine - print. - </p> - <p> - “What time is it now, Henry?” - </p> - <p> - He held out his watch for her to see. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I can make it. I hate the tube, but there isn't time now for the - ferry. Come as far as Herald Square with me, Henry.” - </p> - <p> - There at the stairway under the elevated road she gripped his hand for an - instant, then ran lightly down into the underground station. And not until - the smoky local train, over in Jersey, was half-way out to the village - that she now called home did it come to her that he had spoken not one - word after the little episode of the time-table. She could see his face, - too, with that look of pain on it. - </p> - <p> - She rang and rang at the door. Finally she knocked. Aunt Matilda came - then, silent, grim, and let her in. - </p> - <p> - Her room was as she had left it when she rushed out in the afternoon. The - dancing clothes lay on the bed. Rather feverishly she threw them on a - chair. The Russian costume fell to the floor. She let it lie there. - </p> - <p> - She slept little; but, wide-eyed, all tight nerves, lay late. She heard - them go off to Sunday-school, at quarter past nine. The children would be - back at eleven; but Mrs. Wilde and Aunt Matilda, if they followed their - custom, would stay on to church. That is, unless Mrs. Wilde should have - one of her nervous headaches. Sue hoped they would stay. It seemed to her - that by noon she should be able to get herself in hand. - </p> - <p> - She lay a while longer. Then went down-stairs in her kimono and warmed up - the coffee Aunt Matilda had left on the stove. She tried to eat a little - bread, but had to give it up. She began to wonder, a thought frightened - now, if she could get herself in hand by noon. Aunt Matilda's appearance, - when she came in, had been forbidding. This morning no one had come near - her, not even the children. - </p> - <p> - Slowly she mounted the stairs. Aimlessly she began dressing. - </p> - <p> - The Russian costume on the floor held her eye. She picked it up, lingered - it. Then she put it on. One of the red boots was on the chair, the other - under the bed. She found this and drew them both on. Next she got the gay - cap from the closet. - </p> - <p> - She stood before the mirror. It seemed to her that her color was slowly - returning. She slapped her cheeks to hasten it. Her thoughts were in a - strange confusion. Just as she had been doing all night, she tried again - to visualize her memories of those hard busy days of working out the - Nature film, tried to build out of what she could faintly, brokenly piece - together the picture as she had now seen it, a complete created thing. But - it was a jumble; it always went back to a bit of this experience and a bit - of that. She tried to believe that the stirring, confident, splendid young - creature on the screen was herself.... She pressed her palms against her - temples. She could have cried out. - </p> - <p> - It was a relief to fall into one, then another of the old exercises - preliminary to the dance. She went at these hard, until she could feel the - warm blood tingling in her finger tips. Then she tried out that difficult - Russian step. It did not come easily. There was effort in it. And her - balance was not good. Then, too, the room was too small. - </p> - <p> - After a moment's hesitation she ran down-stairs, shut herself into the - parlor, moved the furniture back against the walls, went methodically to - work. - </p> - <p> - Outside, a little later, the human materials for a romantic comedy were - swiftly converging on her She did not know it. She did not once glance out - the window. She heard nothing but the patter of her own light steps, the - rustle of her silken costume, the clinking of the metals in the heels of - the red boots that was meant to suggest the jingle of spurs. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0429.jpg" alt="0429 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0429.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - Mrs. Wilde did have one of her headaches. She came home from Sunday-school - with the children, leaving Aunt Matilda to uphold the good name of the - household by remaining alone for church. - </p> - <p> - When the tall woman and the two little girls—the girls demure, the - woman gloomy in her depth of sorrow—turned in at the front walk, a - tall young man, in a baggy old gray suit, with a trick of throwing his - right leg out and around as he walked and toeing in with the right foot, - was rounding the corner, rushing along with great strides. His brow was - knit, his manner distrait but determined. - </p> - <p> - The parlor door opened. Mrs. Wilde stood there, speechless. The girls - crowded forward, incredulous, eager, their eyes alight. Becky jumped up - and down and clapped her small hands. Mrs. Wilde suppressed her with a - slap. The child began to whimper. - </p> - <p> - Sue stood in the middle of the room, flushed, excited, a glowing picture - from a Bakst album. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Wilde, bewildered, struggling for speech, gazed at the outraged - furniture. - </p> - <p> - Sue, catching a new sound, stared past her at a lanky figure of a man who - stood at the screen door. Then with a sudden little cry, she rushed out to - him. He opened the door and stepped within. Her arms flew around his neck. - His arms held her close. He lifted her chin with a reverent hand, and - kissed her lips. He did not know there was another person in the world. - </p> - <p> - Mrs. Wilde swept the children into a corner where they might not see. - </p> - <p> - “Sue,” she cried. “Are you crazy? Have you no sense—no shame?” - </p> - <p> - Sue threw hack her head, choked down a sound that might have been a laugh - or a sob. Her eyes were radiant. “Thank God,” she cried—“None!” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXVII—REENTER MARIA TONIFETTI - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T was the opening - of Peter Ericson (“Eric”,) Mann's new play, <i>The Truffler</i>, at the - Astoria Theater on Broadway where the signs never fail and where to have - your name blazoned in electric lights above a theater entrance is to be - advertised to a restless but numerically impressive world. Peter's name - was up there now. It was, you might have supposed, his big night. But - Peter was not among the eight or nine hundred correctly dressed men and - women that pressed in expectantly through the wide doorway. Instead, clad - in his every-day garments, an expression of ill-controlled irritation on - his lung face, moody dark eyes peering resentfully out through his large - horn-rimmed glasses, he sat alone in the gallery, second row from the - front, on the aisle. - </p> - <p> - Four rows behind him and a little off to the left, sat a good-looking - young woman, an Italian girl apparently, who stared down at him in some - agitation. She, too, was alone. He had not seen her when he came in; he - did not know that she was there. - </p> - <p> - The two seats in the front row across the aisle were vacant until just - before the musicians climbed from the mysterious region beneath the stage - into the orchestra pit down front and the asbestos curtain slid upward and - out of sight. Then a rather casually dressed young couple came down the - aisle and took them. - </p> - <p> - Peter, when he saw who they were, stiffened, bit his lip, turned away and - partly hid his face with his program. The girl was Sue Wilde, the one - person on earth who had the power of at once rousing and irritating him - merely by appearing within his range of vision. Particularly when she - appeared smiling, alert and alive with health and spirit, in the company - of another man. When a girl has played with your deepest feelings, has - actually engaged herself to marry you, only to slip out of your life - without so much as consulting you, when she has forced you to take stern - measures to bring her to her senses—only to turn up, after all, - radiant, just where you have stolen to be alone with your otherwise - turbulent emotions—well, it may easily be disturbing. - </p> - <p> - The other man, on this occasion, was the Worm. - </p> - <p> - Peter knew that the Worm, like Hy, had disapproved of the steps he had - taken to waken the truffling Sue to a sense of duty, the steps he had been - forced to take. It is not pleasant to be disapproved of by old companions; - particularly when you were so clearly, scrupulously right in all you have - done. Still more unpleasant is it when one of the disapprovers appears - with the girl whose selfish irresponsibility caused all the trouble. Sue's - evident happiness was the climax. It seemed to Peter that she might at - least have the decency to look—well, chastened. - </p> - <p> - I spoke a moment back of other disturbances within Peter's highly - temperamental breast. They had to do with the play. The featured actress, - Grace Derring, also was potentially a disturber. If you have followed - Peter's emotionally tortuous career, you will recall Grace. With his - kisses warm on her lips, protesting her love for him, she had rewritten - his play behind his back, tearing it to pieces, introducing new and quite - false episodes, altering the very natures of his painstakingly wrought out - characters, obliterating whatever of himself had, at the start, been in - the piece. He had been forced to wash his hands of the whole thing. He had - kept away from Neuerman and Grace Derring all these painful months. He had - answered neither Neuerman's business letters nor Grace's one or two - guarded little notes. It had perturbed turn to see his name used lavishly - (Neuerman was a persistent and powerful advertiser) on the bill-boards and - in the papers. It had perturbed him to-night to see it on the street in - blazing light. And now it was on the program in his hand!... To be sure he - had not taken steps to prevent this use of his name. He had explained to - himself that Neuerman had the right under the contract and could hardly be - restrained. But he was perturbed. - </p> - <p> - So here was the great night! Down there on the stage, in a few minutes - now, Grace Derring, whose life had twisted so painfully close to his, - would begin enacting the play she and Neuerman had rebuilt from his own - inspired outburst. Up here in the gallery, across the aisle, one row down, - sat at this moment, the girl who had unwittingly inspired him to write it; - She was smiling happily now, that girl. She did not know that the original - play—<i>The Trufiler</i> as he had conceived and written it—was - aimed straight at herself. It was nothing if not a picture of the - irresponsible, selfish bachelor girl who by her insistence on “living her - own life” wrecks the home of her parents. Peter's mouth set rather grimly - as he thought of this now. As he saw it, Sue had done just that. Suddenly—he - was looking from behind his hand at her shapely head; her hair had grown - to an almost manageable length—a warm thought fluttered to life in - his heart. Perhaps it wasn't, even yet, too late! Perhaps enough of his - original message had survived the machinations of Neuerman and Grace - Derring to strike through and touch this girl's heart—sober her—make - her think! It might even work out that... he had to set his teeth hard on - the thoughts that came rushing now. It was as if a door had opened, - letting loose the old forces, the old dreams (that is, the particular lot - that had concerned his relations with Sue) that he had thought dead, long - since, of inanition.... Confused with all these dreams and hopes, these - resentments and indignations, was a thought that had been thrusting itself - upon him of late as he followed Neuerman's publicity. It was that the play - might succeed. However bad Grace had made it, it might succeed. This would - mean money, a little fame, a thrilling sense of position and power. - </p> - <p> - Sue glanced around. Her elbow gently pressed that of the Worm. “It's - Peter,” she said low. “He doesn't see us.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm glanced around now. They were both looking at Peter, rather - eagerly, smiling. The eminent playwright gazed steadily off across the - house. - </p> - <p> - “He looks all in,” observed the Worm. - </p> - <p> - “Poor Peter”—this from Sue—“these first nights are a frightful - strain.” - </p> - <p> - “Pete!” the Worm called softly. - </p> - <p> - He had to see them now. He came across the aisle, shook hands, peered - gloomily, self-consciously down at them. - </p> - <p> - “Hiding?” asked Sue, all smiles. - </p> - <p> - Peter's gloom deepened. “Oh, no,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - “Evidently you're not figuring on taking the author's call,” said the - Worm, surveying Peter's business suit. - </p> - <p> - The playwright raised his hand, moved it lightly as if tossing away an - inconsiderable thing. - </p> - <p> - “Why should I? I'm not interested. It's not my play.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm was smiling. What was the matter with them—grinning like - monkeys! Couldn't they at least show a decent respect for his feelings? - </p> - <p> - “There is a rather wide-spread notion to the contrary,” said the Worm. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes”—again that gesture from Peter—-“my name is on it. - But it is not my play.” - </p> - <p> - “Whose is it then?” - </p> - <p> - Peter shrugged. “How should I know? Haven't been near them for five - months. They were all rewriting it then. They never grasped it. Neuerman, - to this day, I'm sure, has no idea what it is about. Can't say I'm eager - to view the remains.” - </p> - <p> - The orchestra struck up. Peter dropped back into his seat. He raised his - program again, and again watched Sue from behind it. He had managed to - keep up a calm front, but at considerable cost to his already racked - nervous system. Sue's smile, her fresh olive skin, her extraordinary green - eyes, the subtly pleasing poise of her head on her perfect neck, touched - again a certain group of associated emotions that had slumbered of late. - Surely she had not forgotten—-the few disturbed, thrilling days of - their engagement—their first kiss, that had so surprised them both, - up in his rooms.... - </p> - <p> - She couldn't have forgotten! Perhaps his mutilated message <i>might</i> - touch and stir her. Perhaps again.... - </p> - <p> - Suddenly Peter's program fluttered to the aisle. He drew an envelope from - one pocket, a pencil from another; stared a moment, openly, at her hair - and the curve of her cheek; and wrote, furiously, a sonnet. - </p> - <p> - He crossed out, interlined, rephrased. It was a passionate enough little - uprush of emotion, expressing very well what he felt on seeing again, - after long absence, a woman he had loved—hearing her voice, looking - at her hair and the shadows of it on her temple and cheek—remembering, - suddenly, with a stab of pain, the old yearnings, torments and - exaltations. Peter couldn't possibly have been so excited as he was - to-night without writing some-thing. His emotions had to come out. - </p> - <p> - The lights went down. The music was hushed. There was a moment of dim - silence; then the curtain slowly rose. The sophisticated, sensation-hungry - nine hundred settled back in their seats and dared the play to interest - them. - </p> - <p> - I have always thought that there was a touch of pure genius in the job - Grace Derring did with <i>The Truffler</i>. Particularly in her rewriting - of the principal part. On the side of acting, it was unquestionably the - best thing she had done—perhaps the best she will ever do. The - situation was odd, at the start. Peter—writing, preaching, shouting - at Sue—-had let his personal irritation creep everywhere into the - structure of the play. He was telling her what he thought she was—a - truffler, a selfish girl, avoiding all of life's sober duties, interested - only in the pursuit of dainties, experimenting with pleasurable emotions. - He had written with heat and force; the structure of the piece was - effective enough. The difficulty (which Grace had been quick to divine) - was that he had made an unsympathetic character of his girl. The practical - difficulty, I mean. I am not sure that the girl as Peter originally drew - her was not a really brilliant bit of characterization. But on the - American stage, as in the American novel, you must choose, always, between - artistic honesty and “sympathy.” The part of commercial wisdom is to - choose the latter. You may draw a harsh but noble character, a weak but - likable character, you may picture cruelty and vice as a preliminary to - Wesleyan conviction of sin and reformation; but never the unregenerate - article. You may never be “unpleasant.” All this, of course, Peter knew. - The adroit manipulating of sympathy was the thing, really, he did best. - But when he wrote <i>The Truffler</i> he was too excited over Sue and too - irritated to write anything but his real thoughts. Therefore the play had - more power, more of freshness and the surface sense of life, than anything - else he had written up to that time. And therefore it was commercially - impossible. - </p> - <p> - Now Grace Herring was a bachelor girl herself. - </p> - <p> - She knew the life. She had foregone the traditional duties—marriage, - home-building, motherhood—in order to express her own life and - gifts. She had loved—unwisely, too well—Peter. Like Peter, she - approached the play in a state of nerves. As a practical player she knew - that the girl would never win her audience unless grounds could be found - for the audience to like her despite her Nietzschean philosophy. What she - perhaps saw less clearly was that in her conception of the part she had to - frame an answer to Peter's charges. Probably, almost certainly, she - supposed the play something of a personal attack on her own life. - Therefore she added her view of the girl to Peter's, and played her as a - counter attack. If it had been real in the writing to Peter, it was quite - as real in the playing to Grace. The result of this conflict of two - aroused emotional natures was a brilliant theatrical success. Though I am - not sure that the play, in its final form, meant anything. I am not sure. - It was rather a baffling thing. But it stirred you, and in the third act, - made you cry. Everybody cried in the third act. - </p> - <p> - The curtain came slowly down on the first act. The lights came slowly up. - A house that had been profoundly still, absorbed in the clean-cut - presentment of apparently real people, stirred, rustled, got up, moved - into the aisles, burst into talk that rapidly swelled into a low roar. The - applause came a little late, almost as if it were an after-thought, and - then ran wild. There were seven curtain calls. - </p> - <p> - Down-stairs, two critics—blasé young men, wandered out into the - lobby. - </p> - <p> - “Derring's good,” observed one. “This piece may land her solid on - Broadway.” - </p> - <p> - “First act's all right,” replied the other casually, lighting a cigarette. - “I didn't suppose Pete Mann could do it.” - </p> - <p> - Up in the gallery, Sue, looking around, pressed suddenly close to the - Worm, and whispered, “Henry—quick! Look at Peter!” - </p> - <p> - The playwright stood before his aisle seat, staring with wild eyes up at - the half-draped plaster ladies on the proscenium arch. A line of persons - in his row were pressing toward the aisle. A young woman, next to him, - touched his arm and said, “Excuse me, please!” Sue and the Worm heard her - but not Peter. He continued to stare—a tall conspicuous man, in - black-rimmed glasses, a black ribbon hanging from them down his long face. - His hand raised to his chest, clutched what appeared to be an envelope, - folded the long way. Plainly he was beside himself. - </p> - <p> - The crowd in the aisle saw him now and stared. There was whispering. Some - one laughed. - </p> - <p> - Again the young woman touched his arm. - </p> - <p> - He turned, saw that he was blocking the row, noted the eyes on him. became - suddenly red, and stuffing the folded envelope into his pocket and seizing - his hat, rapidly elbowed his way up the aisle. - </p> - <p> - Immediately following this incident attention was shifted to another. A - good-looking young woman, apparently an Italian, who had been sitting four - rows behind Peter and oft to the left, was struggling, in some evident - excitement, to get out and up the aisle. Her impetuosity made her as - conspicuous as Peter had been. - </p> - <p> - Sue, still watching the crowd that had closed in behind the flying Peter, - noted the fresh commotion. - </p> - <p> - “Quite an evening!” she said cheerfully. “Seems to be a lady playwright in - our midst, as well.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm regarded the new center of interest and grew thoughtful. He knew - the girl. It was Maria Tonifetti, manicurist at the sanitary barber shop - of Marius. He happened, too, to be aware that Peter knew Maria. He had - seen Pete in there getting his nails done. Once, this past summer, he had - observed them together on a Fifth Avenue bus. And on a Sunday evening he - had met them face to face at Coney Island, and Peter had gone red and - hurried by. Now he watched Maria slipping swiftly up the aisle, where - Peter had disappeared only a moment before. He did not tell Sue that he - knew who she was. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXVIII—PETER STEALS A PLAY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>ETER rushed like a - wild man down the stairs to the street. He looked up street and down for a - cruising taxi; saw one at the opposite curb; dodged across, behind - automobiles and in front of a street-car. A traffic policeman shouted from - the corner. Peter was unaware, he dove into the taxi, shouting as he did - so, the address of the rooms in Washington Square. The taxi whirled away - to the south. Peter, a blaze of nerves, watched the dial, taking silver - coins from his pocket as the charge mounted. At his door, he plunged out - to the walk, threw the money on the driver's seat, dashed into the old - bachelor apartment building. The rooms had been lonely of late without Hy - and the Worm. Now, his mind on the one great purpose, he forgot that these - friends had ever lived. He ran from the elevator to the apartment door, - key in hand, hurried within and tore into the closet. He emerged with his - evening clothes—the coat on the hanger, the trousers in the press—and - his patent leather shoes. From a bureau drawer he produced white silk - waistcoat (wrapped in tissue-paper) and dress shirt. A moment more and he - was removing, hurriedly yet not without an eye for buttons and the crease - in the trousers, his business suit. He did not forget to transfer the - folded envelope to the inner pocket of his dress coat. But first he read - the sonnet that was penciled on it; and reread it. It seemed to him - astonishingly good. “That's the way,” he reflected, during the process, - standing before the mirror, of knotting his white tie,—“when your - emotions are stirred to white heat, and an idea comes, write it down. No - matter where you are, write it down. Then you've got it.” - </p> - <p> - He looked thoughtfully at the long serious face that confronted him in the - mirror, made longer by the ribbon that hung from his glasses. His hair was - dark and thick, and it waved back from a high forehead. He straightened - his shoulders, drew in his chin. That really distinguished young man, - there in the mirror, was none other than Eric Mann, the playwright; author - of the new Broadway success, <i>The Truffler</i>, a man of many gifts; a - man, in short, of genius. Forgetting for the moment, his hurry, he drew - the folded envelope from his pocket and read the sonnet aloud, with - feeling and with gestures. In the intervals of glancing at the measured - lines, he studied the poet before him. The spectacle thrilled him. Just as - he meant that the poem should thrill the errant Sue when he should read it - to her. He determined now that she should not see it until he could get - her alone and read it aloud. Once before during this strange year of ups - and downs, he had read a thing of his to Sue and had thrilled her as he - was now thrilling himself. Right here in these rooms. He had swept her off - her feet, had kissed her..Well... He smiled exultingly at the germs in the - mirror. Then he had been a discouraged young playwright, beaten down by - failure. How he was—or shortly would be—the sensation of - Broadway, author of the enormously successful Nature film, and following - up that triumph by picking to pieces the soul of the selfish “modern” - bachelor girl—picking it to pieces so deftly, with such unerring - theatrical instinct, that even the bachelor girl herself would have to - join the throngs that would be crowding into the theater to see how - supremely well he did it. More, was he not minting a new word, a needed - word, to describe the creature. “The Truffler”—truffling—to - truffle! - </p> - <p> - A grand word; it perfectly hit off the sort of thing. Within ten years it - would be in the dictionaries; and he, Peter Ericson Mann, would have put - it there. He must jog Neuerman up about this. To-morrow. Neuerman must see - to it that the word did get into the language. No time to lose. A - publicity job!... Come to think of it he didn't even know who was doing - the publicity for Neuerman now. He must look into that. To-morrow. Shrewd, - hard-hitting publicity work is everything. That's what lands you. Puts - your name in among the household treasures. People take you for granted; - assume your greatness without exactly knowing why you are great. Then - you're entrenched. Then you're famous. No matter if you do bad work. They - don't know the difference. You're famous, that's all there is to it. They - have to take you, talk about you, buy your books, go to your plays. Mere - merit hasn't a chance against you. You smash 'em every time... fame—money—power! - </p> - <p> - He saw the simply-clad Sue Wilde; short hair all massed shadows and - shining high lights; olive skin with rose in it; the figure of a boy; all - lightness, ease, grace; those stirring green eyes.... - </p> - <p> - He would read to her again. His sonnet! From the heart—glowing with - the fire that even in his triumph he could not forget. - </p> - <p> - She would listen! - </p> - <p> - The third was the “big act”; (there were four in all). All was ready for - the artificial triumph that was to follow it—trained ushers, ticket - sellers, door man, behind the last row of orchestra seats, clapping like - mad. Experienced friends of the management in groups where they could do - the most good. Trick curtains, each suggesting, by grouping or movement on - the stage, the next. Neuerman wanted eight curtains after the big act. He - got them—and five more. For the claques were overwhelmed. A - sophisticated audience that had forgotten for once how to be cold-blooded, - tears drying unheeded on grizzled cheeks, was on its feet, clapping, - stamping, shouting. After the third curtain came the first shouts for - “Author.” The shouts grew into an insistent roar. Again and again the - curtain rose on the shifting, carefully devised group effects; the - audience had been stirred, and it wanted the man whose genius had stirred - it. - </p> - <p> - Behind, in the prompt corner, there was some confusion. You couldn't tell - that excited mob that Peter Mann hadn't written fifty lines of that - cumulatively moving story. It was his play, by contract. The credit was - his; and the money. But no one had seen him for months. - </p> - <p> - After the tenth call Neuerman ordered the footlights down and the - house-lights up. He wore part of a wrinkled business suit; his collar was - a rag; his waistcoat partly unbuttoned. He didn't know where he had thrown - his coat. The sweat rolled in rivulets down his fat face. - </p> - <p> - Out front the roar grew louder. Neuerman ordered the house-lights down - again and the footlights up. - </p> - <p> - “Here, Grace,” he said, to Miss Herring who stood, in the shirt-waist and - short skirt of the part, looking very girlish and utterly dazed—“for - God's sake take the author's call.” - </p> - <p> - She shook her head. “You take it,” she replied. “I couldn't say a word—not - if it was for my life!” - </p> - <p> - “Me take it!” He was mimicking her, from sheer nervousness. “<i>Me</i> - take it? In these clothes?” - </p> - <p> - She laughed a little at this, absently. Flowers had come to her—great - heaps of them. She snatched up an armful of long-stemmed roses; buried her - face in them. - </p> - <p> - Neuerman waved the curtain up again; took her arm, made her go on. She - bowed again, out there, hugging her roses, an excited light in her eyes; - and once more backed off. - </p> - <p> - “For God's sake, <i>say</i> something!” cried the manager. - </p> - <p> - She ignored this; bent over and looked through the heaps of flowers for a - certain card. It was not there. She pouted—not like her rather - experienced self but like the girl she was playing—and hugged the - roses again. - </p> - <p> - For the twelfth time the curtain rose. Again she could only bow. - </p> - <p> - Neuerman mopped his forehead; then wrung out his handkerchief. - </p> - <p> - “Somebody say something,” he cried. “Ardrey could do it.” (Ardrey was the - leading man.) “Where's Ardrey? Here you—call Mr. Ardrey! Quick!” - </p> - <p> - “I'll take the call,” said a quiet voice at his elbow. - </p> - <p> - Neuerman gave the newcomer a look of intense relief. - </p> - <p> - Miss Derring caught her breath, reached for a scene-support to steady - herself; murmured: - </p> - <p> - “Why—Peter!” - </p> - <p> - The curtain slid swiftly up. And Peter Ericson Mann, looking really - distinguished in his evening clothes, with the big glasses and the heavy - black ribbon, very grave, walked deliberately out front, faced the - footlights and the indistinct sea of faces, and unsmiling, waited for the - uproar that greeted him to die down. He waited—it was almost painful—until - the house was still.. - </p> - <p> - Up in the gallery, Sue Wilde, leaning forward, her chin propped on her two - small fists, said: - </p> - <p> - “That beats anything I ever....” She ended with a slow smile. - </p> - <p> - The Worm was studying the erect dignified figure down there on the stage. - “You've got to hand it to Pete,” said he musingly. “He sensed it in the - first act. He saw it was going to be a knock-out.” - </p> - <p> - “And,” said Sue, “he decided, after all, that it was his play. Henry, I'm - not sure that he isn't the most irritating man on the earth.” - </p> - <p> - “He's that, all right, Sue, child; but I'm not sure that he isn't a - genius.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose they are like that,” said Sue, thoughtful. - </p> - <p> - “Egotists, of course, looking at everything with a squint—all off - balance! Take Pete's own heroes, Cellini, Wagner—” - </p> - <p> - “Hush!” she said, slipping her hand into his, twisting her slim fingers - among his—“Listen!” - </p> - <p> - Peter began speaking. His voice was well placed. - </p> - <p> - You could hear every syllable. And he looked straight up at Sue. She noted - this, and pressed closer to the man at her side. - </p> - <p> - “This is an unfashionable play (thus Peter). If you like it, I am of - course deeply pleased. I did not write it to please you. It is a - preachment. For some years I have quietly observed the modern young woman, - the more or less self-supporting bachelor girl, the girl who places her - independence, her capricious freedom, her 'rights' above all those - functions and duties to others on which woman's traditional quality, her - finest quality, must rest. She is not interested in marriage, this - bachelor girl, because she will surrender no item in her program of self - indulgence. She is not interested in motherhood, because that implies - self-abnegation. She talks economic independence while profiting by her - sex-attraction. She uses men by disturbing them, confusing them; and thus - shrewdly makes her own way. She plays with life, producing nothing. She - builds no home, she rears no young. She talks glibly the selfish - philosophy of Nietzsche, of Artzibasheff. She bases her self-justifying - faith on the hideous animalism of Freud. She asserts her right, as she - says, to give love, not to sell it in what she terms the property - marriage. She speaks casually of 'the free relation' in love. She will not - use the phrase 'free love'; but that, of course, is what she means. - </p> - <p> - “No nation can become better that the quality of its womanhood, of its - motherhood. No nation without an ideal, a standard of nobility, can - endure. We have come upon the days, these devastating days of war, when - each nation is put to the test. Each nation must now exhibit its quality - or die. This quality, in the last analysis, is capacity for sacrifice. It - is endurance, and self-abnegation in the interest of all. It is surrender—the - surrender to principle, order, duty, without which there can be no - victory. The woman, like the man, who will not live for her country may - yet be forced to die for her country. - </p> - <p> - “The educated young woman of to-day, the bachelor girl, the 'modern' girl, - will speak loudly of her right to vote, her right to express herself,—that - is her great phrase, 'self-expression'!—her intellectual superiority - to marriage and motherhood. She will insist on what she calls freedom. For - that she will even become militant. These phrases, and the not very - pleasant life they cover, mean sterility, they mean anarchism, they mean - disorganization, and perhaps death. They are the doctrine of the truffler, - the woman who turns from duty to a passionate pursuit of enjoyment. They - are eating, those phrases, like foul bacteria, at the once sound heart of - our national life. - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0008.jpg" alt="0008 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0008.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - “So you see, in presenting this little picture of a girl who thought - freedom—for herself—was everything, and of the havoc she - wrought in one perhaps representative home, I have not been trying to - entertain you. I have been preaching at you. If, inadvertently, I have - entertained you as well, so much the better. For then my little sermon - will have a wider audience.” - </p> - <p> - And, deliberately, he walked off stage. - </p> - <p> - On the stairs, moving slowly down from the gallery, Sue and the Worm - looked at each other. - </p> - <p> - “I'm rather bewildered,” said she. - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Nobody knew the play was about all that. But they believe him. Hear - them yelling in there. He has put it over. Pete is a serious artist now. - He admits it.” - </p> - <p> - “There was rather a personal animus in the speech. Didn't you think so?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes. He was talking straight at you. Back last spring I gathered that - he was writing the play at you—his original version of it.” - </p> - <p> - From one landing to another Sue was silent. Then she said: - </p> - <p> - “I never knew such a contradictory man. Why, he wrote the Nature film. And - that is all for freedom.” - </p> - <p> - The Worm smiled. “Pete never had an idea in his life. He soaks up - atmospheres and then, because he <i>is</i> a playwright and a dam' good - one, he turns them into plays. He sees nothing but effects. Pete can't <i>think!</i> - And then, of course, he sees the main chance. He never misses that. Why, - that speech was pure genius. Gives 'em a chance to believe that the stuff - they love because it's amusing and makes 'em blubber is really serious and - important. Once you can make 'em believe that, you're made. Pete is made, - right now. He's a whale of a success. He's going to be rich.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Henry, they'll see through him.” - </p> - <p> - “Not for a minute!” - </p> - <p> - “But—but”—she was laughing a little—“it's outrageous. - Here are two successes—right here on Broadway—both by Peter—each - a preachment and each flatly contradicting the other. Do you mean to say - that somebody won't point it out?” - </p> - <p> - “What if somebody does? Who'd care? The public can't think either, you - see. They're like Pete, all they can see is effects. And, of course, the - main chance. They love his effectiveness. And they admire him for - succeeding. I'm not sure, myself, that he isn't on the way to becoming - what they call a great man.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XXXIX—A MOMENT OF MELODRAMA - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span> HEY wandered into - the crowded lobby. - </p> - <p> - Friends were there from Greenwich Village. There was a high buzz of - excitement. Jaded critics were smiling with pleasure; it was a relief, now - and then, to be spared boredom. Peter had spared them. - </p> - <p> - Peter himself appeared, wearing his high hat—flushed, his eyes - blazing, but unsmiling. He held a folded envelope against his shirt-front. - </p> - <p> - Acquaintances caught at him as he passed. One critic publicly - congratulated him. It was an ovation; or it would have been had he - responded. But he saw, out near the entrance, through the crowd, the face - of Sue Wilde. He pressed through to her side. - </p> - <p> - “Sue,” he murmured in her ear. “I want to see you? How about to-morrow? - Lunch with me perhaps? I've written something....” - </p> - <p> - His excited eyes wandered down to the paper in his hand. - </p> - <p> - Sue, smiling a little, suddenly rather excited herself, pulled at the - Worm's elbow. That young man turned. - </p> - <p> - “It seems to be across, Pete,” he said casually. - </p> - <p> - Peter glared at him. - </p> - <p> - But the words he might have uttered, by way of putting this too casual old - friend in his place, remained unsaid. For Sue, demure of everything - excepting eyes, remarked: - </p> - <p> - “My husband, Peter. We were married to-day.” - </p> - <p> - The playwright dropped, in one instant, from the pinnacle of fame, money - power, on which, for nearly two hours, he had been exultingly poised. His - chin sagged. His eyes were dazed. A white pinched expression came over his - long face. - </p> - <p> - “Married—to-day!” He repeated the words in a flat voice. - </p> - <p> - She nodded. “You must congratulate us, Peter. We're dreadfully happy.” - </p> - <p> - Peter seemed unable, however, to say anything more. He continued to stare. - The beginnings of a low laugh of sheer delight bubbled upward within Sue's - radiant being. Peter heard it, or felt it. Suddenly he bolted—out - through the crowd to the sidewalk. He brushed aside the enthusiastic hands - that would detain him. He disappeared. - </p> - <p> - There are conflicting reports as to what occurred after this. <i>The - Evening Earth</i> described the incident as taking place on the sidewalk - directly in front of the theater. <i>The Press-Record</i> had it on the - farther corner, across the side street. <i>The Morning Bulletin</i> and <i>The - Continental</i> agreed that the woman pursued him through the stage door. - </p> - <p> - Outside there, the traffic was heavy. Street-cars and motors filled the - street from curb to curb. Women and their escorts were passing out of and - into the famous restaurant that is next door but one to the Astoria. The - sidewalk was crowded as always in the theater district on a fine September - evening. - </p> - <p> - MacMerry, dramatic critic of <i>The Standard</i>, was the one closest to - it. He had stepped outside to smoke his cigarette, found himself at the - playwright's elbow, and spoke pleasantly to him of the play. He noted at - the time, as he explained later at his club, that Mann was oblivious. He - was very pale, stared straight ahead, and appeared to be drifting with the - crowd. - </p> - <p> - The stage entrance to the Astoria is not around the corner, but is a - narrow passage leading back from the street on the farther side of the - restaurant. It was at this point, said MacMerry, that Mann came to a stop. - He seemed dazed. Which was not unnatural, considering the occasion. - </p> - <p> - As he stood there, a young woman rushed forward. She was of an Italian - cast of countenance, not bad-looking, but evidently in a state of extreme - excitement. Apparently she had been standing close to the building, - watching the crowd. She had a knife in her hand. - </p> - <p> - This knife she wielded on the playwright. Three or four separate times she - stabbed at his chest, evidently striking for the heart. Trying to seize - her hand, Mann received a slight cut on the fingers. MacMerry himself - finally caught her forearm, threw her back against the building, and took - the knife away from her. By this time, of course, a dense crowd had - pressed about them. And Mann, without a word, had slipped into the passage - leading to the stage. Certainly, when the policeman got through to the - critic's side, Mann was not there. - </p> - <p> - They talked it over in the lobby. There the Worm, catching an inkling of - the catastrophe, took a hand. Learning from MacMerry that the girl was - evidently an Italian, he put forth the theory that she had probably - mistaken Pete for a man of her own blood. Peter was dark of hair and skin. - Considering this, MacMerry recalled that Peter had given no sign of - knowing the woman. And he could not recall that she had spoken his name. - He and the Worm then talked this over with the newspaper men that came - rushing to the scene. The theory-found its acceptors. The Worm pointed out - that Peter was a man of quiet manners and of considerable dignity. He was - never a roysterer. His ideas were serious. It was not likely that the - woman had any claim upon him. - </p> - <p> - Perhaps the strongest influence working in Peter's interest was the fact - that he was actually, at the moment, bursting into a big success. Every - one, newspaper workers among the others, was glad to help him along. It - was the thing to do. So by midnight all had agreed that it was a case of - mistaken identity. Peter's luck held. - </p> - <p> - Meantime a little drama more real than any Peter had yet been credited - with writing was taking place behind the scenes. - </p> - <p> - Act four was short; and from curtain to curtain Miss Derring held the - stage. Therefore she had no knowledge of what was taking place in her - dressing-room. Whether Peter came back with any coherent intention of - finding Grace. I can not say. It is not likely. The most intensely - exciting evening of his life had reached its climax in a short scene in - which a young woman had stabbed him. Immediately preceding this event, he - had encountered the astounding fact that the girl it seemed to him he had - always loved more than any one else in the world was married—married - to his old chum. - </p> - <p> - As he ran through the dark passage from the street to the stage door, his - hand still clutched the paper on which he had written the sonnet that was - to touch her heart. You are to remember that this bit of verse had - considerable emotional quality and more than a touch of grace. He had - written it on an old envelope, seated in a crowded theater; but then, - Schubert wrote wonderful songs on restaurant menus. It is so that things - are done in the world of temperament.... I don't believe he knew what he - was doing, then or later; perhaps, until the next morning. If Peter ever - knew what he was doing! - </p> - <p> - The curtain was already up when he slipped sidewise past the doorman, - through the vestibule, on to the stage. It was dim and still back there. - Far away, beyond the great shadowy cluster of canvas and wood structures - that made up the fourth act set, he could hear Grace's voice. Down front, - by the prompt corner stood a silent little group—four or five - actors, the electrician, the mighty Max Neuerman in his shirt-sleeves. - </p> - <p> - Scene flats, six deep, were propped against the wall. He had to pick his - way between piled-up properties and furniture. Two stage hands moved aside - and let him by. He was conscious of feeling weak. His head was a maelstrom - of whirling emotions. He was frightened. He couldn't get his breath. It - wouldn't do to stay around here—perhaps make a scene and spoil his - own play. He had no means of knowing for certain that Maria had not - escaped MacMerry and pursued him up the passage. What if she should - overpower the doorman—a superannuated actor—and get at him - again! Even if she shouldn't, he might faint, or die. It was curiously - hard to breathe. - </p> - <p> - He felt his way past more scenery, more properties. There was a doorway in - the concrete stage wall, leading to dressing-rooms on a corridor, and more - dressing-rooms up a twisting iron stairway. - </p> - <p> - Grace would have the star's room, of course. She wasn't a star yet, but - Neuerman was featuring her name in all the advertising. That would - naturally entitle her to the star's room. That would be the end room with - the outside light. The door was ajar. It was a large room. Yes, he could - see her first act frock, over a chair. And Minna, the maid who had been - with her when—when he and she had been on rather good terms, very - good terms—was sitting quietly by the dresser, sewing. Minna was a - discreet little person. She had carried notes and things. Still, it was - awkward. He would prefer not having Minna see him just now.... He <i>was</i> - weak. - </p> - <p> - He found it necessary to catch at the iron stair rail and steady - himself... Grace, you had to admit, was a good deal of a girl. It was - rather remarkable, considering her hard life, the work, the travel, the—well, - the one or two experiences—how fresh she looked, how young, how full - of magnetic charm. Why, Grace was twenty-eight if she was a day! But she - was putting the play over in great style. You had to admire her for that. - It was too bad, thinking it all ever, that their relations hadn't gone - quietly along on a friendly basis, that emotions should have torn her so, - intensifying her demands on him, making it really necessary for him to - break off with her. - </p> - <p> - He plunged into the dressing-room. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XL—HIS UNCONQUERABLE SOUL - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE maid, Minna, - sprang up, dropping her sewing and giving a throaty little shriek. Peter, - steadying himself with an effort, softly closed the doer, leaned back - against it, and frowned. - </p> - <p> - “Good God!” he said, “don't scream like that! They'll hear you clear to - Fiftieth Street.” - </p> - <p> - The girl had staggered back against the wall, was supporting herself there - with outspread hands. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Mann—you frightened me! And—and—” Her eyes wandered - from his white face to his shirt-front. That had been white. It was now - spotted red with blood. - </p> - <p> - He stared down at it, fascinated. - </p> - <p> - “Please, Mr. Mann, will you lie down?” - </p> - <p> - She hurried to clear a heap of garments off the sofa: then she took his - arm and steadied him as he walked across the room. - </p> - <p> - “You won't let me call a doctor, Mr. Mann?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no! Don't call anybody! Keep your head shut.” - </p> - <p> - “But—but—” - </p> - <p> - “Here, help me with these studs.” - </p> - <p> - “You'd better take your coat off first, sir.” - </p> - <p> - She helped him get it off; unbuttoned his waistcoat; untied his white bow. - He had to unbutton the collar himself, holding all the while to his folded - envelope. - </p> - <p> - “It's astonishing how weak I am—” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Mr. Mann, you're bleeding to death!” The girl began weeping. - </p> - <p> - “I'm not bleeding to death! That's nonsense! Don't you talk like that to - me—keep your head shut! It's nothing at all. I'll be all right. Just - a few minutes.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Mr. Mann—” - </p> - <p> - Peter glanced nervously toward the door. “Shut up!” he whispered huskily. - </p> - <p> - She got the studs out of his shirt, and opened it. Beneath, his singlet - was dripping red. She drew in a spasmodic long breath, with a whistling - sound. - </p> - <p> - “Now, for God's sake, don't you go and faint!” said he. “I tell you it's - nothing—nothing at all.” - </p> - <p> - She was crying now. - </p> - <p> - “Quit your blubbering! Quit it!... Here!”—he reached painfully into - his pocket, produced a bank note—“run over to the drug store—there's - one just across, on the corner—and get some things—bandages, - cotton, something to wash it off with. And hurry! I've got to be out of - here in ten minutes.” - </p> - <p> - “You won't let me call a doctor, Mr. Mann?” - </p> - <p> - “Call nothing! You do as I tell you. Understand!” - </p> - <p> - She took the money and slipped out, carefully closing the door after her. - </p> - <p> - Peter, flat on the sofa, peered about him. He wished the room were less - brightly lighted. And it was disagreeably full of flowers. The air was - heavy with the scent of them—like a funeral. Doubtless it would have - been the decent thing for him to have sent Grace a few roses. If only for - old times' sake. The window shade was swaying in the soft September breeze—what - if Marla should be out there in the alley, peeping in? The sweat burst out - on his forehead. <i>Had</i> they held her? God—if they hadn't. - </p> - <p> - His gaze drooped to the painful spectacle of his own person. He was a - sight. There was blood all over his hands now, and on his clothes. The - paper he gripped was stained with it. It had got on the sofa. It was on - the floor. The door-knob, the door itself, the wall beside it, were marked - with it. - </p> - <p> - What if Grace should come in! What could he say? Could he say anything? - His mind darted about this way and that, like a rat in a trap. This was - awful! Where was that girl? Why, in Heaven's name, didn't she come hack? - It seemed to him that hours were passing. He observed that the blood came - faster when he moved, and he lay very still.... Hours—hours—hours! - </p> - <p> - There were sounds outside. Some one ran up the iron stairs. Then some one - else. People were speaking. The act—the play—was over. - </p> - <p> - He raised himself on his elbow. There was another step in the corridor, a - step he knew. He let himself slowly down. - </p> - <p> - The door swung open. Grace, tired, a far-away look in her eyes, was coming - slowly in. Then she fairly sprang in—and closed the door sharply. - She was across the room before he could collect his thoughts and on her - knees, her arms about him. - </p> - <p> - “Peter!” - </p> - <p> - “Look out, Grace. You'll get all covered with this stuff.” - </p> - <p> - Her eyes, wide, horror-struck, were fastened on his. “Peter—how - awful! What is it? What has happened?” - </p> - <p> - Her solicitude was unexpectedly soothing. His self-respect came creeping - back, a thought shamefaced. He even smiled faintly. - </p> - <p> - “I don't know, Grace, dear. Something happened—out in the street. A - fight, I think. I was walking by. Then I was stabbed.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh—oh!” she moaned, “some dreadful mistake!” - </p> - <p> - “Isn't it silly!” - </p> - <p> - “I'll have Neuerman get Doctor Brimmer.” - </p> - <p> - “No—please—” - </p> - <p> - But she rushed out. In a moment she was back, with an armful of parcels. - “Poor Minna—” - </p> - <p> - “I sent her to the drug store.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. She fainted. She was bringing these things. They've carried her into - Miss Dunson's room.” - </p> - <p> - She opened the parcels. - </p> - <p> - He watched her. He had forgotten that she was so pretty, that she had so - much personality even off-stage. The turbulence in his heart seemed all at - once to be dying down. A little glow was setting up there now. The little - glow was growing. There was, after all, a great deal between him and - Grace. He had treated her shabbily, o: course. He hadn't known how to - avoid that, She was a dear to be so sweet about it.... The way she had - rushed to him, the feel of her firm smooth hand on his cheek, the fact - that she had, right now, in the very moment of her triumph, forgotten - herself utterly—that was rather wonderful. A fine girl, Grace! - </p> - <p> - She came to him again; opened his singlet and examined the wounds. - </p> - <p> - “I don't think they're very deep,” said she. “What a strange experience.” - </p> - <p> - “They're nothing,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps I'd better not do anything until the doctor comes.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course not,” said he. - </p> - <p> - She was bending close over him. A loose strand of her fine hair brushed - his cheek. A new fever was at work within him. He kissed her hair. She - heard the sound but said nothing; she was washing away the blood with the - antiseptic solution Minna had got. He caught one glimpse of her eyes; they - were wet with tears. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly he knew that the sonnet, on the envelope, blood-soaked, was - burning in his hand. He raised it. - </p> - <p> - “Careful, dear!” she murmured. “Don't move.” - </p> - <p> - “We've quarreled, Grace—” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I know.” - </p> - <p> - “I haven't been—decent, even—” - </p> - <p> - She was silent. - </p> - <p> - “But when I saw you to-night—” He unfolded the envelope. “I wrote - this to-night. Up in the gallery...” - </p> - <p> - Slowly, in a low voice that trembled with passion, he read it to her. And - he saw the tears crowd out and slowly fall. He had his effect. - </p> - <p> - “Grace, dear—” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, Peter.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm tired of being alone—tired.” - </p> - <p> - “I know...” - </p> - <p> - “Why shouldn't we try the real thing—go all the way—” - </p> - <p> - “You mean—marriage. Peter?” - </p> - <p> - “I mean marriage, Grace.” - </p> - <p> - Very tired, very thoughtful, still in the costume and make-up of the part, - kneeling there beside him, she considered this. Finally she lifted her - eyes to his. “I'm willing, Peter,” she said. “I won't try to deceive - myself. It is what I have wanted.” - </p> - <p> - The doctor came then; bandaged him, and advised quiet for a few days, - preferably in a hospital. When he had gone, she cried with a half smile: - “You're not going to his old hospital, Peter. You're coming home with me.” - </p> - <p> - He lay there in a beatific dream while she changed to her street clothes. - </p> - <p> - They were ready to go. She had ordered an ambulance, and they were - waiting. There was a knock. - </p> - <p> - “Come in,” she called. - </p> - <p> - The door opened. First to appear was a breezy young man who could not - possibly have been other than a press-agent—a very happy - press-agent. Next came a policeman; a mounted policeman, evidently, from - his natty white cap and his puttees. Following were half a dozen newspaper - men. - </p> - <p> - “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Mann,” said the press-agent, “but they're - holding the woman, and the officer wants to know if you're going to prefer - charges.” - </p> - <p> - “I'm not going to prefer charges against anybody,” said Peter with quiet - dignity. And then added: “What woman?” - </p> - <p> - The policeman looked straight at him. “The young woman that stabbed you,” - he said. - </p> - <p> - Peter made a weak gesture. His dignity was impenetrable. - </p> - <p> - “I really don't know yet what it was,” he said. “It happened so quickly.” - </p> - <p> - The press-agent gave the officer a triumphant look, as if to say: “There, - you see!” - </p> - <p> - “Do you think you could identify her?” This from the officer. - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Peter. “I'm afraid I couldn't. My thoughts were anywhere but - there.” - </p> - <p> - They went away then. The reporters hung eagerly on the sill, but the - press-agent hustled them out. - </p> - <p> - Grace, subdued, thinking hard, took her hat from the wall rack. A woman - had stabbed him. Grace knew, none better, that her Peter was an extremely - subtle and plausible young man. - </p> - <p> - But she had wanted him. She had got him. And she let it go at that. In the - ambulance, all the way to her rooms, her arm was under his head, her smile - was instant when his roving gaze sought her face. It seemed to her that he - was grateful, that he wanted her there. This was something. And the poor - boy was suffering! - </p> - <p> - Once he spoke. He was very weak. And there was noise in the street. She - had to bend close to hear him. - </p> - <p> - “What is it, dear?” - </p> - <p> - “That press-agent—I should have talked with him—something very - important....” - </p> - <p> - Sue and her new husband rode down to Washington Square on the bus, and - wandered over into Greenwich Village. It was midnight. There were few - signs of life along the twisted streets and about the little triangular - parks. But Jim's was open. - </p> - <p> - They had Welsh rabbits and coffee. The Worm lighted his caked old brier - pipe. - </p> - <p> - “Been thinking over Pete's speech, Susan,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “Of course. So have I.” - </p> - <p> - “As I recall it, the gist of it”—the Worm's lean face bore the - quizzically thoughtful expression that she loved to see there; she watched - it now—“Pete uses the word 'truffler' to mean a young woman who - turns from duty to the pursuit of enjoyment. Those were pretty nearly his - words, weren't they?” - </p> - <p> - “Almost exactly.” - </p> - <p> - “The Truffler, according to Pete, builds no home, rears no young, produces - nothing. She goes in for self-expression instead of self-abnegation. She - is out for herself, hunting the truffles, the delicate bits, playing with - love and with life. That's about it?” - </p> - <p> - “Just about, Henry.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, in applying it only to women, Pete was arbitrary. For he was not - defining a feminine quality—he was defining a human quality, surely - more commonly found among members of his own sex. - </p> - <p> - “No”—he clamped his lips around his pipe stem, puffed and grinned—“no, - Pete has done a funny thing, a very funny thing. The exasperating part of - it is that he will never know. Do you get me?” - </p> - <p> - “Not exactly.” - </p> - <p> - “Why—Pete's the original George W. Dogberry. He has described - himself. That little analysis is a picture of his own life these past - years. Could anything illustrate it more perfectly than the way he stole - that play to-night? Self-interest? Self-expression? That's Pete. Hunting - the delicate bits?” He checked himself; he had not told Sue about Maria - Tonifetti. He didn't propose to tell her. “When has <i>he</i> built a - home? When has <i>he</i> reared any young? When has <i>he</i> failed to - assert his Nictzschean ego? When has <i>he</i> failed to yield to the - Freudian wish? Who, I wonder, has free-loved more widely. Why, not Hy Lowe - himself. And poor Hy is a chastened soul now. Betty's got him smothered, - going to marry him after the divorce—if he has a job then. Waters - Coryell told me.... No”—he removed his pipe and blew a meditative - ring of smoke—“no, dear little girl, whatever the pestiferous Pete - may think, or think he thinks, you are not the Truffler. Not you! No, the - Truffler is Peter Ericson Mann.” - </p> - <p> - They wandered heme at one o'clock—home to the dingy little apartment - on Tenth Street that had been her rooms and later his rooms. It was their - rooms now. And the old quarters were not dingy, or bare or wanting in - outlook, to the two young persons who let themselves in and stood - silently, breathlessly there, she pressing close to his side; they were a - gulden palace, brushed by wings of light. - </p> - <p> - “Henry,” she whispered, her arms about his neck, her wet face on his - breast, her heart beating tumultuously against his—“Henry, I want us - to build a home, to—to produce...” - </p> - <p> - With awe and a prayer in his heart, he kissed her. - </p> - <h3> - THE END - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Trufflers, by Samuel Merwin - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRUFFLERS *** - -***** This file should be named 51985-h.htm or 51985-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/9/8/51985/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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