It might be mentioned that she managed, somehow, to spend almost half a day in Petticoat Lane, and its squalid surroundings, while in London. She actually prowled, alone, at night, in the evil-smelling, narrow streets of the poorer quarter of Paris, and how she escaped unharmed is a mystery that never bothered her, because she had never known fear of streets. She had always walked on the streets of Winnebago, Wisconsin, alone. It never occurred to her not to do the same in the streets of Chicago, or New York, or London, or Paris. She found Berlin, with its Adlon, its appalling15 cleanliness, its overfed populace, and its omnipresent Kaiser forever scudding16 up and down Unter den8 Linden in his chocolate-colored car, incredibly dull, and unpicturesque. Something she had temporarily lost there in the busy atmosphere of the Haynes-Cooper plant, seemed to have returned, miraculously17.
New York, on her return, was something of a shock. She remembered how vividly18 fresh it had looked to her on the day of that first visit, months before. Now, to eyes fresh from the crisp immaculateness of Paris and Berlin, Fifth avenue looked almost grimy, and certainly shabby in spots.
Ella Monahan, cheerful, congratulatory, beaming, met her at the pier19, and Fanny was startled at her own sensation of happiness as she saw that pink, good-natured face looking up at her from the crowd below. The month that had gone by since last she saw Ella standing20 just so, seemed to slip away and fade into nothingness.
“I waited over a day,” said Ella, “just to see you. My, you look grand! I know where you got that hat. Galeries Lafayette. How much?”
“I don't expect you to believe it. Thirty-five francs. Seven dollars. I couldn't get it for twenty-five here.”
They were soon clear of the customs. Ella had engaged a room for her at the hotel they always used. As they rode uptown together, happily, Ella opened her bag and laid a little packet of telegrams and letters in Fanny's lap.
“I guess Fenger's pleased, all right, if telegrams mean anything. Not that I know they're from him. But he said—”
But Fanny was looking up from one of them with a startled expression. “He's here. Fenger's here.”
“In New York?” asked Ella, rather dully.
“Yes.” She ripped open another letter. It was from Theodore. He was coming to New York in August. The Russian tour had been a brilliant success. They had arranged a series of concerts for him in the United States. He could give his concerto21 there. It was impossible in Russia, Munich, even Berlin, because it was distinctly Jewish in theme—as Jewish as the Kol Nidre, and as somber22. They would have none of it in Europe. Prejudice was too strong. But in America! He was happier than he had been in years. Olga objected to coming to America, but she would get over that. The little one was well, and she was learning to talk. Actually! They were teaching her to say Tante Fanny.
“Well!” exclaimed Fanny, her eyes shining. She read bits of the letter aloud to Ella. Ella was such a satisfactory sort of person to whom to read a letter aloud. She exclaimed in all the right places. Her face was as radiant as Fanny's. They both had forgotten all about Fenger, their Chief. But they had been in their hotel scarcely a half hour, and Ella had not done exclaiming over the bag that Fanny had brought her from Paris, when his telephone call came.
He wasted very little time on preliminaries.
“I'll call for you at four. We'll drive through the park, and out by the river, and have tea somewhere.”
“That would be wonderful. That is, if Ella's free. I'll ask her.”
“Ella?”
“Yes. She's right here. Hold the wire, will you?” She turned away from the telephone to face Ella. “It's Mr. Fenger. He wants to take us both driving this afternoon. You can go, can't you?”
“I certainly CAN,” replied Miss Monahan, with what might have appeared to be undue23 force.
Fanny turned back to the telephone. “Yes, thanks. We can both go. We'll be ready at four.”
Fanny decided24 that Fenger's muttered reply couldn't have been what she thought it was.
Ella busied herself with the unpacking25 of a bag. She showed a disposition26 to spoil Fanny. “You haven't asked after your friend, Mr. Heyl. My land! If I had a friend like that—” “Oh, yes,” said Fanny, vaguely27. “I suppose you and he are great chums by this time. He's a nice boy.”
“You don't suppose anything of the kind,” Ella retorted, crisply. “That boy, as you call him—and it isn't always the man with the biggest fists that's got the most fight in him—is about as far above me as—as—” she sat down on the floor, ponderously28, beside the open bag, and gesticulated with a hairbrush, at loss for a simile29 “as an eagle is above a waddling30 old duck. No, I don't mean that, either, because I never did think much of the eagle, morally. But you get me. Not that he knows it, or shows it. Heyl, I mean. Lord, no! But he's got something—something kind of spiritual in him that makes you that way, too. He doesn't say much, either. That's the funny part of it. I do all the talking, seems, when I'm with him. But I find myself saying things I didn't know I knew. He makes you think about things you're afraid to face by yourself. Big things. Things inside of you.” She fell silent a moment, sitting cross-legged before the bag. Then she got up, snapped the bag shut, and bore it across the room to a corner. “You know he's gone, I s'pose.”
“Gone?”
“To those mountains, or wherever it is he gets that look in his eyes from. That's my notion of a job. They let him go for the whole summer, roaming around being a naturalist31, just so's he'll come back in the winter.”
“And the column?” Fanny asked. “Do they let that go, too?”
“I guess he's going to do some writing for them up there. After all, he's the column. It doesn't make much difference where he writes from. Did you know it's being syndicated now, all over the country? Well, it is. That's the secret of its success, I suppose. It isn't only a column written about New York for a New York paper. It's about everything, for anybody. It's the humanest stuff. And he isn't afraid of anything. New York's crazy about him. They say he's getting a salary you wouldn't believe. I'm a tongue-tied old fool when I'm with him, but then, he likes to talk about you, mostly, so it doesn't matter.”
Fanny turned swiftly from the dressing-table, where she was taking the pins out of her vigorous, abundant hair.
“What kind of thing does he say about me, Ellen girl. H'm? What kind of thing?”
“Abuse, mostly. I'll be running along to my own room now. I'll be out for lunch, but back at four, for that airing Fenger's so wild to have me take. If I were you I'd lie down for an hour, till you get your land-legs.” She poked32 her head in at the door again. “Not that you look as if you needed it. You've got a different look, somehow. Kind of rested. After all, there's nothing like an ocean voyage.”
She was gone. Fanny stood a moment, in the center of the room. There was nothing relaxed or inert33 about her. Had you seen her standing there, motionless, you would still have got a sense of action from her. She looked so splendidly alive. She walked to the window, now, and stood looking down upon New York in early June. Summer had not yet turned the city into a cauldron of stone and steel. From her height she could glimpse the green of the park, with a glint of silver in its heart, that was the lake. Her mind was milling around, aimlessly, in a manner far removed from its usual orderly functioning. Now she thought of Theodore, her little brother—his promised return. It had been a slow and painful thing, his climb. Perhaps if she had been more ready to help, if she had not always waited until he asked the aid that she might have volunteered—she thrust that thought out of her mind, rudely, and slammed the door on it.... Fenger. He had said, “Damn!” when she had told him about Ella. And his voice had been—well—she pushed that thought outside her mind, too.... Clarence Heyl.... “He makes you think about things you're afraid to face by yourself. Big things. Things inside of you....”
Fanny turned away from the window. She decided she must be tired, after all. Because here she was, with everything to make her happy: Theodore coming home; her foreign trip a success; Ella and Fenger to praise her and make much of her; a drive and tea this afternoon (she wasn't above these creature comforts)—and still she felt unexhilarated, dull. She decided to go down for a bit of lunch, and perhaps a stroll of ten or fifteen minutes, just to see what Fifth avenue was showing. It was half-past one when she reached that ordinarily well-regulated thoroughfare. She found its sidewalks packed solid, up and down, as far as the eye could see, with a quiet, orderly, expectant mass of people. Squads35 of mounted police clattered36 up and down, keeping the middle of the street cleared. Whatever it was that had called forth37 that incredible mass, was scheduled to proceed uptown from far downtown, and that very soon. Heads were turned that way. Fanny, wedged in the crowd, stood a-tiptoe, but she could see nothing. It brought to her mind the Circus Day of her Winnebago childhood, with Elm street packed with townspeople and farmers, all straining their eyes up toward Cherry street, the first turn in the line of march. Then, far away, the blare of a band. “Here they come!” Just then, far down the canyon38 of Fifth avenue, sounded the cry that had always swayed Elm street, Winnebago. “Here they come!”
“What is it?” Fanny asked a woman against whom she found herself close-packed. “What are they waiting for?”
“It's the suffrage39 parade,” replied the woman. “The big suffrage parade. Don't you know?”
“No. I haven't been here.” Fanny was a little disappointed. The crowd had surged forward, so that it was impossible for her to extricate40 herself. She found herself near the curb41. She could see down the broad street now, and below Twenty-third street it was a moving, glittering mass, pennants43, banners, streamers flying. The woman next her volunteered additional information.
“The mayor refused permission to let them march. But they fought it, and they say it's the greatest suffrage parade ever held. I'd march myself, only—”
“Only what?”
“I don't know. I'm scared to, I think. I'm not a New Yorker.”
“Neither am I,” said Fanny. Fanny always became friendly with the woman next her in a crowd. That was her mother in her. One could hear the music of the band, now. Fanny glanced at her watch. It was not quite two. Oh, well, she would wait and see some of it. Her mind was still too freshly packed with European impressions to receive any real idea of the value of this pageant44, she told herself. She knew she did not feel particularly interested. But she waited.
Another surging forward. It was no longer, “Here they come!” but, “Here they are!”
And here they were.
A squad34 of mounted police, on very prancy horses. The men looked very ruddy, and well set-up and imposing45. Fanny had always thrilled to anything in uniform, given sufficient numbers of them. Another police squad. A brass46 band, on foot. And then, in white, on a snow-white charger, holding a white banner aloft, her eyes looking straight ahead, her face very serious and youthful, the famous beauty and suffrage leader, Mildred Inness. One of the few famous beauties who actually was a beauty. And after that women, women, women! Hundreds of them, thousands of them, a river of them flowing up Fifth avenue to the park. More bands. More horses. Women! Women! They bore banners. This section, that section. Artists. School teachers. Lawyers. Doctors. Writers. Women in college caps and gowns. Women in white, from shoes to hats. Young women. Girls. Gray-haired women. A woman in a wheel chair, smiling. A man next to Fanny began to jeer47. He was a red-faced young man, with a coarse, blotchy48 skin, and thick lips. He smoked a cigar, and called to the women in a falsetto voice, “Hello, Sadie!” he called. “Hello, kid!” And the women marched on, serious-faced, calm-eyed. There came floats; elaborate affairs, with girls in Greek robes. Fanny did not care for these. More solid ranks. And then a strange and pitiful and tragic49 and eloquent50 group. Their banner said, “Garment Workers. Infants' Wear Section.” And at their head marched a girl, carrying a banner. I don't know how she attained51 that honor. I think she must have been one of those fiery52, eloquent leaders in her factory clique53. The banner she carried was a large one, and it flapped prodigiously54 in the breeze, and its pole was thick and heavy. She was a very small girl, even in that group of pale-faced, under-sized, under-fed girls. A Russian Jewess, evidently. Her shoes were ludicrous. They curled up at the toes, and the heels were run down. Her dress was a sort of parody55 on the prevailing56 fashion. But on her face, as she trudged57 along, hugging the pole of the great pennant42 that flapped in the breeze, was stamped a look.—well, you see that same look in some pictures of Joan of Arc. It wasn't merely a look. It was a story. It was tragedy. It was the history of a people. You saw in it that which told of centuries of oppression in Russia. You saw eager groups of student Intellectuals, gathered in secret places for low-voiced, fiery talk. There was in it the unspeakable misery58 of Siberia. It spoke59 eloquently60 of pogroms, of massacres61, of Kiev and its sister-horror, Kishineff. You saw mean and narrow streets, and carefully darkened windows, and, on the other side of those windows the warm yellow glow of the seven-branched Shabbos light. Above this there shone the courage of a race serene62 in the knowledge that it cannot die. And illuminating63 all, so that her pinched face, beneath the flapping pennant, was the rapt, uplifted countenance64 of the Crusader, there blazed the great glow of hope. This woman movement, spoken of so glibly65 as Suffrage, was, to the mind of this over-read, under-fed, emotional, dreamy little Russian garment worker the glorious means to a long hoped for end. She had idealized it, with the imagery of her kind. She had endowed it with promise that it would never actually hold for her, perhaps. And so she marched on, down the great, glittering avenue, proudly clutching her unwieldy banner, a stunted66, grotesque67, magnificent figure. More than a figure. A symbol.
Fanny's eyes followed her until she passed out of sight. She put up her hand to her cheek, and her face was wet. She stood there, and the parade went on, endlessly, it seemed, and she saw it through a haze68. Bands. More bands. Pennants. Floats. Women. Women. Women.
“I always cry at parades,” said Fanny, to the woman who stood next her—the woman who wanted to march, but was scared to. “That's all right,” said the woman. “That's all right.” And she laughed, because she was crying, too. And then she did a surprising thing. She elbowed her way to the edge of the crowd, past the red-faced man with the cigar, out to the street, and fell into line, and marched on up the street, shoulders squared, head high.
Fanny glanced down at her watch. It was quarter after four. With a little gasp69 she turned to work her way through the close-packed crowd. It was an actual physical struggle, from which she emerged disheveled, breathless, uncomfortably warm, and minus her handkerchief, but she had gained the comparative quiet of the side street, and she made the short distance that lay between the Avenue and her hotel a matter of little more than a minute. In the hotel corridor stood Ella and Fenger, the former looking worried, the latter savage70.
“Where in the world—” began Ella.
“Caught in the jam. And I didn't want to get out. It was—it was—glorious!” She was shaking hands with Fenger, and realizing for the first time that she must be looking decidedly sketchy71 and that she had lost her handkerchief. She fished for it in her bag, hopelessly, when Fenger released her hand. He had not spoken. Now he said:
“What's the matter with your eyes?”
“I've been crying,” Fanny confessed cheerfully.
“Crying!”
“The parade. There was a little girl in it—” she stopped. Fenger would not be interested in that little girl. Now Clancy would have—but Ella broke in on that thought.
“I guess you don't realize that out in front of this hotel there's a kind of a glorified72 taxi waiting, with the top rolled back, and it's been there half an hour. I never expect to see the time when I could enjoy keeping a taxi waiting. It goes against me.”
“I'm sorry. Really. Let's go. I'm ready.”
“You are not. Your hair's a sight; and those eyes!”
Fenger put a hand on her arm. “Go on up and powder your nose, Miss Brandeis. And don't hurry. I want you to enjoy this drive.”
On her way up in the elevator Fanny thought, “He has lost his waistline. Now, that couldn't have happened in a month. Queer I didn't notice it before. And he looks soft. Not enough exercise.”
When she rejoined them she was freshly bloused and gloved and all traces of the tell-tale red had vanished from her eyelids73. Fifth avenue was impossible. Their car sped up Madison avenue, and made for the Park. The Plaza74 was a jam of tired marchers. They dispersed75 from there, but there seemed no end to the line that still flowed up Fifth avenue. Fenger seemed scarcely to see it. He had plunged76 at once into talk of the European trip. Fanny gave him every detail, omitting nothing. She repeated all that her letters and cables had told. Fenger was more excited than she had ever seen him. He questioned, cross-questioned, criticized, probed, exacted an account of every conversation. Usually it was not method that interested him, but results. Fanny, having accomplished the thing she had set out to do, had lost interest in it now. The actual millions so glibly bandied in the Haynes-Cooper plant had never thrilled her. The methods by which they were made possible had.
Ella had been listening with the shrewd comprehension of one who admires the superior art of a fellow craftsman77.
“I'll say this, Mr. Fenger. If I could make you look like that, by going to Europe and putting it over those foreign boys, I'd feel I'd earned a year's salary right there, and quit. Not to speak of the cross-examination you're putting her through.”
Fenger laughed, a little self-consciously. “It's just that I want to be sure it's real. I needn't tell you how important this trick is that Miss Brandeis has just turned.” He turned to Fanny, with a boyish laugh. “Now don't pose. You know you can't be as bored as you look.”
“Anyway,” put in Ella, briskly, “I move that the witness step down. She may not be bored, but she certainly must be tired, and she's beginning to look it. Just lean back, Fanny, and let the green of this park soak in. At that, it isn't so awfully78 green, when you get right close, except that one stretch of meadow. Kind of ugly, Central Park, isn't it? Bare.”
Fanny sat forward. There was more sparkle in her face than at any time during the drive. They were skimming along those green-shaded drives that are so sophisticatedly sylvan79.
“I used to think it was bare, too, and bony as an old maid, with no soft cuddly80 places like the parks at home; no gracious green stretches, and no rose gardens. But somehow, it grows on you. The reticence81 of it. And that stretch of meadow near the Mall, in the late afternoon, with the mist on it, and the sky faintly pink, and that electric sign—Somebody's Tires or other—winking off and on—”
“You're a queer child,” interrupted Fenger. “As wooden as an Indian while talking about a million-a-year deal, and lyrical over a combination of electric sign, sunset, and moth-eaten park. Oh, well, perhaps that's what makes you as you are.”
Even Ella looked a little startled at that.
They had tea at Claremont, at a table overlooking the river and the Palisades. Fenger was the kind of man to whom waiters always give a table overlooking anything that should be overlooked. After tea they drove out along the river and came back in the cool of the evening. Fanny was very quiet now. Fenger followed her mood. Ella sustained the conversation, somewhat doggedly82. It was almost seven when they reached the plaza exit. And there Fanny, sitting forward suddenly, gave a little cry.
“Why—they're marching yet!” she said, and her voice was high with wonder. “They're marching yet! All the time we've been driving and teaing, they've been marching.”
And so they had. Thousands upon thousands, they had flowed along as relentlessly83, and seemingly as endlessly as a river. They were marching yet. For six hours the thousands had poured up that street, making it a moving mass of white. And the end was not yet. What pen, and tongue, and sense of justice had failed to do, they were doing now by sheer, crude force of numbers. The red-faced hooligan, who had stood next to Fanny in the crowd hours before, had long ago ceased his jibes84 and slunk away, bored, if not impressed. After all, one might jeer at ten, or fifty, or a hundred women, or even five hundred. But not at forty thousand.
Their car turned down Madison Avenue, and Fenger twisted about for a last look at the throng85 in the plaza. He was plainly impressed. The magnitude of the thing appealed to him. To a Haynes-Cooper-trained mind, forty thousand women, marching for whatever the cause, must be impressive. Forty thousand of anything had the respect of Michael Fenger. His eyes narrowed, thoughtfully.
“They seem to have put it over,” he said. “And yet, what's the idea? Oh, I'm for suffrage, of course. Naturally. And all those thousands of women, in white—still, a thing as huge as this parade has to be reduced to a common denominator, to be really successful. If somebody could take the whole thing, boil it down, and make the country see what this huge demonstration86 stands for.”
Fanny leaned forward suddenly. “Tell the man to stop. I want to get out.”
Fenger and Ella stared. “What for?” But Fenger obeyed.
“I want to get something at this stationer's shop.” She had jumped down almost before the motor had stopped at the curb.
“But let me get it.”
“No. You can't. Wait here.” She disappeared within the shop. She was back in five minutes, a flat, loosely wrapped square under her arm. “Cardboard,” she explained briefly87, in answer to their questions.
Fenger, about to leave them at their hotel, presented his plans for the evening. Fanny, looking up at him, her head full of other plans, thought he looked and sounded very much like Big Business. And, for the moment at least, Fanny Brandeis loathed88 Big Business, and all that it stood for.
“It's almost seven,” Fenger was saying. “We'll be rubes in New York, this evening. You girls will just have time to freshen up a bit—I suppose you want to—and then we'll have dinner, and go to the theater, and to supper afterward89. What do you want to see?”
Ella looked at Fanny. And Fanny shook her head, “Thanks. You're awfully kind. But—no.”
“Why not?” demanded Fenger, gruffly.
“Perhaps because I'm tired. And there's something else I must do.”
Ella looked relieved. Fenger's eyes bored down upon Fanny, but she seemed not to feel them. She held out her hand.
“You're going back to-morrow?” Fenger asked. “I'm not leaving until Thursday.”
“To-morrow, with Ella. Good-by. It's been a glorious drive. I feel quite rested.”
“You just said you were tired.”
The elevator door clanged, shutting out the sight of Fenger's resentful frown.
“He's as sensitive as a soubrette,” said Ella. “I'm glad you decided not to go out. I'm dead, myself. A kimono for the rest of the evening.”
Fanny seemed scarcely to hear her. With a nod she left Ella, and entered her own room. There she wasted no time. She threw her hat and coat on the bed. Her suitcase was on the baggage stand. She turned on all the lights, swung the closed suitcase up to the table, shoved the table against the wall, up-ended the suitcase so that its leather side presented a smooth surface, and propped90 a firm sheet of white cardboard against the impromptu91 rack. She brought her chair up close, fumbled92 in her bag for the pens she had just purchased. Her eyes were on the blank white surface of the paper. The table was the kind that has a sub-shelf. It prevented Fanny from crossing her legs under it, and that bothered her. While she fitted her pens, and blocked her paper, she kept on barking her shins in unconscious protest against the uncomfortable conditions under which she must work.
She sat staring at the paper now, after having marked it off into blocks, with a pencil. She got up, and walked across the room, aimlessly, and stood there a moment, and came back. She picked up a thread on the floor. Sat down again. Picked up her pencil, rolled it a moment in her palms, then, catching93 her toes behind either foreleg of her chair, in an attitude that was as workmanlike as it was ungraceful, she began to draw, nervously94, tentatively at first, but gaining in firmness and assurance as she went on.
If you had been standing behind her chair you would have seen, emerging miraculously from the white surface under Fanny's pencil, a thin, undersized little figure in sleazy black and white, whose face, under the cheap hat, was upturned and rapturous. Her skirts were wind-blown, and the wind tugged95, too, at the banner whose pole she hugged so tightly in her arms. Dimly you could see the crowds that lined the street on either side. Vaguely, too, you saw the faces and stunted figures of the little group of girls she led. But she, the central figure, stood out among all the rest. Fanny Brandeis, the artist, and Fanny Brandeis, the salesman, combined shrewdly to omit no telling detail. The wrong kind of feet in the wrong kind of shoes; the absurd hat; the shabby skirt—every bit of grotesquerie was there, serving to emphasize the glory of the face. Fanny Brandeis' face, as the figure grew, line by line, was a glorious thing, too.
She was working rapidly. She laid down her pencil, now, and leaned back, squinting96 her eyes critically. She looked grimly pleased. Her hair was rather rumpled97, and her cheeks very pink. She took up her pen, now, and began to ink her drawing with firm black strokes. As she worked a little crow of delight escaped her—the same absurd crow of triumph that had sounded that day in Winnebago, years and years before, when she, a school girl in a red tam o' shanter, had caught the likeness98 of Schabelitz, the peasant boy, under the exterior99 of Schabelitz, the famous. There sounded a smart little double knock at her door. Fanny did not heed100 it. She did not hear it. Her toes were caught behind the chair-legs again. She was slumped101 down on the middle of her spine102. She had brought the table, with its ridiculously up-ended suitcase, very near, so that she worked with a minimum of effort. The door opened. Fanny did not turn her head. Ella Monahan came in, yawning. She was wearing an expensive looking silk kimono that fell in straight, simple folds, and gave a certain majesty103 to her ample figure.
“Well, what in the world—” she began, and yawned again, luxuriously104. She stopped behind Fanny's chair and glanced over her shoulder. The yawn died. She craned her neck a little, and leaned forward. And the little girl went marching by, in her cheap and crooked105 shoes, and her short and sleazy skirt, with the banner tugging106, tugging in the breeze. Fanny Brandeis had done her with that economy of line, and absence of sentimentality which is the test separating the artist from the draughtsman.
Silence, except for the scratching of Fanny Brandeis's pen.
“Why—the poor little kike!” said Ella Monahan. Then, after another moment of silence, “I didn't know you could draw like that.”
Fanny laid down her pen. “Like what?” She pushed back her chair, and rose, stiffly. The drawing, still wet, was propped up against the suitcase. Fanny walked across the room. Ella dropped into her chair, so that when Fanny came back to the table it was she who looked over Ella's shoulder. Into Ella's shrewd and heavy face there had come a certain look.
“They don't get a square deal, do they? They don't get a square deal.”
The two looked at the girl a moment longer, in silence. Then Fanny went over to the bed, and picked up her hat and coat. She smoothed her hair, deftly107, powdered her nose with care, and adjusted her hat at the smart angle approved by the Galeries Lafayette. She came back to the table, picked up her pen, and beneath the drawing wrote, in large print:
THE MARCHER.
She picked up the drawing, still wet, opened the door, and with a smile at the bewildered Ella, was gone.
It was after eight o'clock when she reached the Star building. She asked for Lasker's office, and sent in her card. Heyl had told her that Lasker was always at his desk at eight. Now, Fanny Brandeis knew that the average young woman, standing outside the office of a man like Lasker, unknown and at the mercy of office boy or secretary, continues to stand outside until she leaves in discouragement. But Fanny knew, too, that she was not an average young woman. She had, on the surface, an air of authority and distinction. She had that quiet assurance of one accustomed to deference108. She had youth, and beauty, and charm. She had a hat and suit bought in Paris, France; and a secretary is only human.
Carl Lasker's private office was the bare, bright, newspaper-strewn room of a man who is not only a newspaper proprietor109, but a newspaper man. There's a difference. Carl Lasker had sold papers on the street when he was ten. He had slept on burlap sacks, paper stuffed, in the basement of a newspaper office. Ink flowed with the blood in his veins110. He could operate a press. He could manipulate a linotype machine (that almost humanly intelligent piece of mechanism111). He could make up a paper single handed, and had done it. He knew the newspaper game, did Carl Lasker, from the composing room to the street, and he was a very great man in his line. And so he was easy to reach, and simple to talk to, as are all great men.
A stocky man, decidedly handsome, surprisingly young, well dressed, smooth shaven, direct.
Fanny entered. Lasker laid down her card. “Brandeis. That's a good name.” He extended his hand. He wore evening clothes, with a white flower in his buttonhole. He must have just come from a dinner, or he was to attend a late affair, somewhere. Perhaps Fanny, taken aback, unconsciously showed her surprise, because Lasker grinned, as he waved her to a chair. His quick mind had interpreted her thought.
“Sit down, Miss Brandeis. You think I'm gotten up like the newspaper man in a Richard Harding Davis short story, don't you? What can I do for you?”
Fanny wasted no words. “I saw the parade this afternoon. I did a picture. I think it's good. If you think so too, I wish you'd use it.”
She laid it, face up, on Lasker's desk. Lasker picked it up in his two hands, held it off, and scrutinized112 it. All the drama in the world is concentrated in the confines of a newspaper office every day in the year, and so you hear very few dramatic exclamations113 in such a place. Men like Lasker do not show emotion when impressed. It is too wearing on the mechanism. Besides, they are trained to self-control. So Lasker said, now:
“Yes, I think it's pretty good, too.” Then, raising his voice to a sudden bellow114, “Boy!” He handed the drawing to a boy, gave a few brief orders, and turned back to Fanny. “To-morrow morning every other paper in New York will have pictures showing Mildred Inness, the beauty, on her snow-white charger, or Sophronisba A. Bannister, A.B., Ph.D., in her cap and gown, or Mrs. William Van der Welt as Liberty. We'll have that little rat with the banner, and it'll get 'em. They'll talk about it.” His eyes narrowed a little. “Do you always get that angle?”
“Yes.”
“There isn't a woman cartoonist in New York who does that human stuff. Did you know that?”
“Yes.”
“Want a job?”
“N-no.”
His knowing eye missed no detail of the suit, the hat, the gloves, the shoes.
“What's your salary now?”
“Ten thousand.”
“Satisfied?”
“No.”
“You've hit the heart of that parade. I don't know whether you could do that every day, or not. But if you struck twelve half the time, it would be enough. When you want a job, come back.”
“Thanks,” said Fanny quietly. And held out her hand.
She returned in the subway. It was a Bronx train, full of sagging115 faces, lusterless eyes, grizzled beards; of heavy, black-eyed girls in soiled white shoes; of stoop-shouldered men, poring over newspapers in Hebrew script; of smells and sounds and glaring light.
And though to-morrow would bring its reaction, and common sense would have her again in its cold grip, she was radiant to-night and glowing with the exaltation that comes with creation. And over and over a voice within her was saying:
These are my people! These are my people!
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1
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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2
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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3
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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4
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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5
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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6
covetous
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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7
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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9
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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10
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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11
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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12
smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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13
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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14
attentiveness
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| [医]注意 | |
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15
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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16
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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17
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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18
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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19
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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20
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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21
concerto
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| n.协奏曲 | |
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22
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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23
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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24
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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25
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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26
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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27
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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28
ponderously
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29
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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30
waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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31
naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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32
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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33
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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34
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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35
squads
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| n.（军队中的）班( squad的名词复数 )；（暗杀）小组；体育运动的运动（代表）队；（对付某类犯罪活动的）警察队伍 | |
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36
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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37
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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38
canyon
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| n.峡谷，溪谷 | |
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39
suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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40
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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41
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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42
pennant
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| n.三角旗；锦标旗 | |
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43
pennants
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| n.校旗( pennant的名词复数 )；锦标旗；长三角旗；信号旗 | |
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44
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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45
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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46
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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47
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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48
blotchy
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| adj.有斑点的，有污渍的；斑污 | |
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49
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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50
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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51
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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52
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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53
clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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54
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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55
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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56
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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57
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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58
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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59
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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60
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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61
massacres
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| 大屠杀( massacre的名词复数 )； 惨败 | |
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62
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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63
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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64
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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65
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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66
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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67
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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68
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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69
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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70
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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71
sketchy
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| adj.写生的，写生风格的，概略的 | |
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72
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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73
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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74
plaza
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| n.广场，市场 | |
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75
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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76
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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77
craftsman
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| n.技工，精于一门工艺的匠人 | |
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78
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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79
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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80
cuddly
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| adj.抱着很舒服的，可爱的 | |
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81
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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82
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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83
relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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84
jibes
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| n.与…一致( jibe的名词复数 )；（与…）相符；相匹配v.与…一致( jibe的第三人称单数 )；（与…）相符；相匹配 | |
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85
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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86
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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87
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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88
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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89
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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90
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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92
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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93
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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94
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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95
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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97
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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99
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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100
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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101
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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102
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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103
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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104
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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105
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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106
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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107
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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108
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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109
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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110
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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111
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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112
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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114
bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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115
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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