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.
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.
Boys had to strike out, of course. But the girl should either marry or stay at home. He was certain about this.
On those who did neither—on the bachelor girls, with their “freedom,” their “truth,” their cigarettes, their repudiation2 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.
He would write straight at her, every minute, and a world should hear him!
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.
There it was:
DO NOT FEED OR ANNOY
BOLBOCERAS AMERICANUS MULS
HABITAT HERE!
He studied it while his match burned out. He knit his brows, puzzled, groping after blind thoughts, little moles3 of thoughts deep in dark burrows4.
He let himself in. The others were asleep.
The Worm, in his odd humors, never lacked point or meaning. The placard meant something, of course... something that Peter could use....
The Worm had been reading—that rather fat book lying even now on the arm of the Morris 'chair It was Fabre, on Insect Life.
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!
He read:
“... a pretty little black beetle6, with a pale, velvety7 abdomen8... Its official title is Bulbuceras Gallicus Muls.”
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 sniffing9 out its vegetable prey10 in the sandy soil and digging for each separate morsel11, then moving on in its quest. It made no permanent home for itself.
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 hesitation12 about taking his own where he found it.
He read on, a description of the burrows as explored by the hand of the scientist:
“Often the insect will be found at the bottom of its burrow5; sometimes a male, sometimes a female, but always alone. The two sexes work apart without collaboration13. This is no family mansion14 for the rearing of offspring; it is a temporary dwelling15, made by each insect for its own benefit.”
Peter laid the book down almost reverently16 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 tacked17 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 Bolboceras, a confirmed seeker of pleasures and delicacies18 in the sober game of life, utterly19 self-indulgent, going it alone—a truffle hunter.
He would call his play, The Bolboceras.
But no. “Buyers from Shreveport would fumble20 it,” he thought, shrewdly practical. “You've got to use words of one syllable21 on Broadway.”
Pretty good, that!
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 clenched23 tightly..He was about to create a new thing.
“The Truffler!”
The words burst from his lips; so loud that he tiptoed to the door and listened.
“The Truffler,” he repeated. “The Trifler—no The Truffler.”
He was riding high, far above all worldly irritations25, tolerant even toward the little person, Sue Wilde, who had momentarily annoyed him.
“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.”
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.
Four days later, his eyes sunken perceptibly, face drawn26, color off, Peter sat for two hours within a cramped27 disorderly office, reading aloud to a Broadway theatrical28 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.
At five-thirty on this same afternoon, Peter, triumphant29, acting30 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.
A feminine voice sounded in his ear. He thought it was Sue Wilde.
It was Sue Wilde.
He asked if she could not dine with him.
There was a long silence at the other end of the wire.
“Are you there?” he called anxiously. “Hello! Hello!”
“Yes, I'm here,” came the voice. “You rather surprised me, Mr. Mann. I have an engagement for this evening.”
“Oh, then I can't see you!”
“I have an engagement.”
He tried desperately31 to think up conversation; but failed.
“Well,” he said—“good-by.”
“Good-by.”
That was all. Peter ate alone, still overstrung but gloomy now, in the glittering hotel.
The dinner, however, was both well-cooked and hot. It tended to soothe32 and soften33 him. Finally, expansive again, he leaned hack34, fingered his coffee cup, smoked a twenty-cent cigar and observed the life about him.
There, were many large dressy women, escorted by sharp-looking men of two races. There were also small dressy women, some mere35 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 linen36. Chafing37 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, pouncing38 on every loose article of apparel.... It was a gay scene; and Peter found himself in it, of it, for it. With rising exultation39 in his heart he reflected that he was back on Broadway, where (after all) he belonged.
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.
Neuerrman sighted Peter, greeted him boisterously40, himself drew up an unoccupied chair. Peter was made acquainted with Miss O'Rourke. “This is the man, Eileen,” said Neuerman, breathing confidences, “Wrote The Trufiler. 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.”
Miss Eileen O'Rourke smiled indulgently and a thought absently. While Peter lighted, thanks to Neuermnn, a thirty-cent cigar and impulsively41 told Miss O'Rourke (who continued to smile indulgently and absently) just how he had come to hit on that remarkable42 tag.
It was nearly nine o'clock when he left and walked, very erect43, from the restaurant, conscious of a hundred eyes on his back. He gave the hat boy a quarter.
Out on Forty-second Street he paused to clear his exuberant44 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. Irresolute45, he strolled over toward Fifth Avenue, crossed it, turned south. A north-bound automobile46 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 illuminated47 sign that meant Riverside Drive. It was warm for February.
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 racing49, and he felt the colour rushing into his face. It was Sue Wilde, no other!
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!
It was the Worm.
Peter turned sharply away, crossed the street and caught a south-bound bus. Wavering between irritation24, elation50 and chagrin51, he walked in and out among the twisted old streets of Greenwich Village. Four distinct times—and for no clear reason—he passed the dingy52 apartment building where Sue and Betty lived.
Later he found himself standing53 motionless on a curb54 by a battered55 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.
Suddenly he turned and looked to the right. Then he looked to the left. Fumbling56 for a pencil, he moved swiftly and resolutely57 across the street. Very small, down in the right-hand corner of the tobacco advertisement, he wrote his name—his pen name—“Eric Mann.”
Then, more nearly at peace with himself, he went to the moving pictures.
Entering the rooms later, he found the Worm settled, in pajamas58 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 royalties59.
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.
The Worm put down his book and studied Peter rather thoughtfully.
“Pete,” he finally said, “I've got a message for you, and I've been sitting here debating whether to deliver it or not.”
“Let's have it!” replied the Eric Mann shortly.
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.
Peter, with a tremor60, unfolded the envelope and peered inside. There were two enclosures—one plainly his scribbled61 note to Sue; the other (he had to draw it partly out and examine it)—yes—no—yes, his anonymous62 letter, much crumpled63.
Deliberately64, 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 queried65:
“Well? That all?”
The Worm shook his head. “Not quite all, Pete.”
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!...”
The words stopped.
“Her message is,” continued the Worm, “the suggestion that next time you write one of them with your left hand.”
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.
The Worm looked after him with quizzical eyes, smiled a little and resumed his book.
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1
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2
repudiation
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| n.拒绝；否认；断绝关系；抛弃 | |
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3
moles
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| 防波堤( mole的名词复数 )； 鼹鼠； 痣； 间谍 | |
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burrows
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| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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6
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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7
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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abdomen
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| n.腹，下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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9
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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10
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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12
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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13
collaboration
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| n.合作，协作；勾结 | |
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14
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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15
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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17
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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18
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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19
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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20
fumble
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| vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等，摸索 | |
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21
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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22
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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23
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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25
irritations
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| n.激怒( irritation的名词复数 )；恼怒；生气；令人恼火的事 | |
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26
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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27
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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28
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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29
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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30
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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31
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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32
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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33
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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34
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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35
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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36
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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37
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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38
pouncing
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的现在分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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39
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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40
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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41
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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42
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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43
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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44
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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45
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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46
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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47
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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48
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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49
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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50
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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51
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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52
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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53
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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54
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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55
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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56
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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57
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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58
pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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59
royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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60
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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61
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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62
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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63
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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64
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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65
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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