She was moving slowly along with the stream of pedestrians4, her old coat open, her big tarn5 o'shanter hanging down behind her head and framing her face in color. The face itself, usually vital, was pale.
She turned and walked with him. She was loafing, she said listlessly, watching the crowds and trying to think. And she added: “It helps.”
“Helps?”
“Just feeling them crowding around—I don't know; it seems to keep you from forgetting that everybody else has problems.”
Then she closed her lips on this bit of self-revelation. They walked a little way in silence.
“Listen!” said she. “What are you doing?”
“Half an hour's work at home clearing up my notes, then nothing. Thinking of dinner?”
She nodded.
“I'll meet you. Wherever you say.”
“At the Muscovy, then. By seven.”
She stopped as if to turn away, hesitated, lingered, gazing out with sober eyes at the confusion of limousines6, touring cars and taxis that rolled endlessly by, with here and there a high green bus lumbering7 above all the traffic. “Maybe we can have another of our talks, Henry,” she said. “I hope so. I need it—or something.”
“Sue,” said he, “you're working too hard.”
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, straightforward9; fired with a finely honest revolt against the sham10 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.
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.
Peter, now—he had seemed lately to be in the running.
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.
He rounded the block a third time—a fourth—a fifth.
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.”
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.
The Worm stepped into the bedroom, making as much noise as possible. But Peter talked on.
“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!”
The Worm picked up a chair and banged it against the door-post. But even this failed to stop Peter.
“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 wreck11. I'm all out of tune12. But everything seems to have landed on me at once...”
“... 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.”
The Worm wondered, rather casually14, 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 marred15 person on the upper West Side of whom Peter had been unable to resist bragging16 a little; and Maria Tonifetti, manicurist at the sanitary17 barber shop of Marius; and—oh, yes, and Grace Herring. Only last year. The actress. She played Lena in Peter's The Buzzard, and later made a small sensation in The Gold Heart. That affair had looked, for several months, like the real thing. The Worm recalled one tragic18 night, all of which, until breakfast rime19, he had passed in that very studio talking Peter out of suicide.
He wondered who this new girl could be. Was it Sue, by any chance? Were they that far along?
The Worm got up with some impatience21 and went in there—just as Peter angrily slammed the receiver on its hook.
“I hear you're going away,” the Worm observed
Peter swung around and peered through his big glasses. He made a visible effort to compose himself.
“Oh,” he said, “hello! What's that? Yes, I'm leaving to-morrow afternoon. Neuerman is going to put The Truffler on the road for a few; weeks this spring to try out the cast.”
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.”
Peter looked blankly at him; then his face twisted convulsively and he buried his face in his hands.
“Oh, Henry!” he groaned22. “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...”
He sat up, stiffened23 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.
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 hanger24 and crease25 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.
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.
A clock, somewhere outside, struck seven.
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.
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.
The Muscovy is a basement restaurant near Washington Square. You get into it from the street by stumbling down a dark twisting flight of uneven26 steps and opening a door under a high stoop. Art dines here and Anarchism; Ideas sit cheek by jowl with the Senses.
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 noted27 this fact as he made his way toward her.
The poet and the painter wandered languidly away. The chatter28 of the crowded smoky room rose to its diurnal29 climax30; 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.
Two belated couples strolled in, settled themselves sprawlingly31 at the long center table and discussed with the offhand32, blandly33 sophisticated air that is the Village manner the currently accepted psychology34 of sex.
The Worm was smoking now—his old brier pipe—and felt a bit more like his quietly whimsical self. Sue, however, was moody35 over her coffee.
A pasty-faced, very calm young man, with longish hair, came in and joined in the discussion at the center table.
Sue followed this person with troubled eyes, “Listen, Henry!” she said then, “I'm wondering—”
He waited.
“—for the first time in two years—if I belong in Greenwich Village.”
“I've asked myself the same question, Sue.”
This remark perturbed36 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—”
The Worm nodded.
“—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.”
He nodded again. “But we were talking about you, Sue. You're not all words.”
“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 taint37. Yet it has been every thing to me. I've believed it, heart and soul. It has been my religion.”
“I'm not much on generalizing, Sue,” observed the Worm, “but sometimes I have thought that there's a lot of bunk38 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—are 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.”
But Sue apparently39 was not listening. Her cheeks—they were flushed—rested on her small fists.
“Henry,” she said, “it's a pretty serious thing to lose your religion.”
“Losing yours, Sue?”
“I'm afraid it's gone.”
She nodded. “Oh, I did.”
“And then you encountered reality?”
Her eyes, startled, vivid, now somber41, flashed up at him. “Henry, how did you know? What do you know?”
“Not a thing, Sue. But I know you a little. And I've thought about you.”
“Then,” she said, her eyes down again, suppression in her voice—“then they aren't talking about me?”
“Not that I've heard. Sue. Though it would hardly come to me.”
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.”
“Of course. They all do.”
“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?”
“Hy Lowe?”
The Worm smiled faintly. The incorrigible42 Hy had within the week set up a fresh attachment43. This time it was a new girl in the Village—one Hilda Hansen, from Wisconsin, who designed wall-paper part of the time.
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.
“When I found out what Betty had done I said some savage44 things, Henry. Called her a coward. Oh, I was very superior—very sure of myself. And here's the grotesque45 irony46 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.”
“Marrying?” The Worm's voice was suddenly low and a thought husky.
She nodded.
“A man you don't love?”
“I've had moments of thinking I loved him, hours of wondering how I could, possibly.”
He was some time in getting out his next remark. It was, “You'd better wait.”
She threw out her hands in an expressive47 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.”
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.
When he had gone the Worm said, to make talk, “How are the pictures coming on?”
Then he saw that he had touched the same tired nerve center. Her flush began to return.
“Not very well,” she said; and thought for a moment, with knit brows and pursed lips.
She threw out her hands again. “They're quarreling, Henry.”
“Zanin and Peter?”
She nodded. “It started over Zanin's publicity48. He is a genius, you know. Any sort of effort that will help get the picture across looks legitimate49 to him.”
“Of course,” mused50 the Worm, trying to resume the modestly judicial51 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.”
“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—”
“Personal?”
“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, jealousies52, the sense of possession.”
She paused, brooding, oblivious53 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 justify54 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.”
This was a new picture of Peter. The Worm gave thought to it.
“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.”
“Peter threw in every cent!...” The Worm was startled upright, pipe in hand.
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 rumpled57 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, rippling58 down over her shoulders. He thought, too, of the fine texture59 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.
She leaned back more relaxed and spoke60 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 conspicuous61, acting62 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 oozed63 out of it.”
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.”
The Worm slept badly that night.
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 haphazard64 on top.
Half a hundred volumes in calf65 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 imposing67 Dante; a Boccaccio, very rare, in a dated Florentine binding66; a gleaning68 of French history, philosophy and belles-lettres from Phillippe de Comines and Villon through Rabelais, Le Sage69. Racine, Corneille and the others, to Bergson, Brieux, Rolland and Anatole France—with, of course, Flaubert, de Maupassant and a tattered70 series of Les Trois Mousquetaires in seven volumes; some modern German playwrights71, Hauptmann and Schnitzler among them; Ibsen in two languages; Strindberg in English; Gogol, Tchekov, Gorky, Dosto?evski, of the Russians (in that tongue); the modern psychologists—Forel, Havelock Ellis, Freud—and the complete works of William James in assorted72 shapes and bindings, gathered painstakingly73 through the years. Walt Whitman was there, Percy's Reliques, much of Galsworthy, Wells and Conrad, The Story of Gosta Berling, 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.
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.
It bobbed up to the surface and floated there.
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 brass74 book-holder on the desk, a bronze elephant, a heavy glass paper-weight, a pint75 bottle of ink, an old monkey-wrench, the two bricks from the fireplace that had served as andirons.
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.
From the last of these trips, feeling curiously76 light of heart, he returned to find a taxi waiting at the curb77 and in the studio Peter, hat, coat and one glove on, his suit-case on a chair, furiously writing a note.
Peter finished, leaned back, mopped his forehead. “The books,” he murmured, waving a vague hand toward the shelves. “Where are they?”
“I'm through with books. Going in for reality.”
“Pete, you're wonderful.”
“Chucking your whole past life?”
“It's chucked.” Then the Worm hesitated. For a moment his breath nearly failed him. He stood balancing on the brink79 of the unknown; and he knew he had to make the plunge80. “Pete—I've got a few hundred stuck away—and, anyhow, I'm going out for a real job.”
“A job! You! What kind?”
“Oh—newspaper man, maybe. I want the address—who is your tailor?”
Peter jotted81 it down. “By the way,” he said, “here's our itinerary82. Stick it in your pocket.” Then he gazed at the Worm in a sort of solemn humor. “So the leopard83 is changing his spots,” he mused.
“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.”
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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tarn
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| n.山中的小湖或小潭 | |
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limousines
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| n.豪华轿车( limousine的名词复数 )；（往返机场接送旅客的）中型客车，小型公共汽车 | |
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lumbering
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abruptly
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straightforward
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sham
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wreck
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tune
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wry
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casually
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marred
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bragging
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sanitary
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tragic
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rime
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rim
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impatience
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groaned
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stiffened
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hanger
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crease
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uneven
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noted
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chatter
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diurnal
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climax
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sprawlingly
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offhand
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blandly
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psychology
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moody
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perturbed
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taint
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bunk
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apparently
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eddy
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somber
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incorrigible
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attachment
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savage
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grotesque
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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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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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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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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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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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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oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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gleaning
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| n.拾落穗，拾遗，落穗v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的现在分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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playwrights
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| n.剧作家( playwright的名词复数 ) | |
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assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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painstakingly
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| adv. 费力地 苦心地 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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