The shop of Marius was in the basement of that most interesting of New York restaurants, the Parisian. The place is wholly French, from the large trees out front and in their shade the sleepy victorias always waiting at the curb4 to the Looeys and Sharlses and Gastongs that serve you within. It is there a distinction to be known of the ma?tre d'h?tel, an achievement to nod to the proprietor6.
Greenwich Village, when in funds, dines, lunches, breakfasts at the Parisian. Upper West Side, when seeking the quaintly7 foreign dissociated from squalor, dines there. Upper West Side always goes up the wide front steps and through the busy little office into the airy eating rooms with full length hinged windows. There is music here; a switchboard youth who giftedly blends slang with argot8; even, it has been reported, an interior fountain. Greenwich Village now and again ascends9 those wide front steps; but more often frequents the basement where is neither fountain nor music, merely chairs, tables and ineffable10 food; these latter in three or four small rooms which you may enter from the Avenue, directly under the steps, or from the side street through the bar. The corner room, nearest the bar, is a haunt of such newspaper men as live in the neighborhood. Also in the basement is a rather obscure and crooked11 passage extending from the bar past the small rooms and the barber shop of Marius to the equally obscure and crooked stairway that leads by way of telephone booths and a passage to the little office hallway and the upper restaurant. The whole, apparently13, was arranged with the mechanics of French farce14 uppermost in the mind of the architect.
Peter's large horn-rimmed eye-glasses hung by their heavy black ribbon from the frame of the mirror; his long person lay, relaxed, in the chair. His right foot rested on a bent15-wire stand; and kneeling respectfully before it, polishing the shoe, was the boy called Theophile. His left hand lay on the soft palm of Miss Maria Tonifetti who was working soothingly16, head bowed, on the thumb nail. Miss Tonifetti was pretty. She happens to be the reason why Peter had kept away from the shop of Marius all spring. These Italian girls, from below Washington Square, were known to be of an impetuous temper. Hy Lowe had on several occasions advised Peter to let them alone. Hy believed that they, carried knives. Now, however, finding Maria so subdued17, if gloomily emotional, of eye, experiencing again the old soft thrill as her deft18 smooth fingers touched and pressed his own, he was seriously considering asking her out to dinner. He had first thought of this while Marius (himself) was plying19 the razor. (What a hand had Marius!) The notion grew during the drowsily20 comfortable shampoo that came next. With the face massage21, and the steaming towels that followed it—one of these now covered his face, with a minute breathing hole above the nose—came a gentle glow of tenderness toward all the world and particularly toward Miss Tonifetti. After all, he had never intended neglecting her. Life is so complex!
I had hoped to slip through this narrative22 with no more than an occasional and casual allusion23 to Maria. But this, it appears, is not possible. She matters. And even at the risk of a descent into unromantic actuality, into what you might call “realism,” she enters at this point.
Peter himself, like most of us, disliked actuality. His plays were all of duty and self-sacrifice and brooding tenderness and that curious structure that is known throughout the theatrical24 district as Honor. Honor with a very large H—accompanied, usually, with a declamatory gesture and a protruding25 chest. Sue, at her first meeting with Peter, when she talked out so impulsively26, really said the last word about his plays. Peter's thoughts of himself (and these never flagged) often took the form of recollecting27 occasions when he had been kind to newsboys or when he had lent a helping28 hand to needy29 young women without exacting30 a quid pro5 quo. The occasions when he had not been kind took the memory-shape of proper indignation aroused by bitter injustice31 to himself. He had suffered greatly from injustice as from misunderstanding. Few, indeed, understood him; which fact added incalculably to the difficulties of life.
Now just a word of recent history and we shall get on with our story. When Sue broke her engagement to Peter he took his broken heart away to Atlantic City, where he had before now found diversion and the impulse to work. He had suffered deeply, these nearly two weeks. His food had not set well. The thought of solitary33 outdoor exercise, even ocean swimming, had been repellent. And until the last two or three nights, his sleeplessness34 had been so marked as really to worry him. Night after night he had caught himself sitting straight up in bed saying, aloud, harsh things to the penitent35 weeping Sue of his dreams. Usually after these experiences his thoughts and nerves had proved to be in such a tangle36 that his only recourse had been to switch on the lights and, with a trembling hand and an ache at the back of his head, plunge37 into his work. The work, therefore (it was a new play), had gone rather well—so well that when the expensiveness of the life began to appear really alarming he was ready to come back to the old haunts and make the effort to hold up his head. He had got into New York at four-ten and come down to the shop of Marius by taxi. His suit-case and grip were over in the corner by the coat rack.
It was now nearly five-thirty. The face massage was over with; his thick dark hair had been brushed into place by the one barber in New York who did not ask “Wet or dry?” And he was comfortably seated, across the shop, at Miss Tonifetti's little wire-legged table, for the finishing strokes of the buffer38 and the final soap-and-water rinsing39 in the glass bowl. He looked at the bent head and slightly drooping40 shoulders of the girl. The head was nicely poised41. The hair was abundant and exceptionally fine. It massed well. As at certain other moments in the dim past his nature reacted pleasantly to some esthetically pleasing quality in hair, head, shoulders and curve of dark cheek. Just then she glanced up, flushed perceptibly, then dropped her eyes and went on with her work—which consisted at the moment in giving a final polish by-brushing the nails lightly with the palm of her hand.
The glow in Peter's heart leaped up into something near real warmth. He leaned forward, glanced swiftly about, then said, low: “It has been hard, Maria—not seeing you.”
The dark head bent lower.
“It did seem best. You know.”
The head nodded a very little—doubtfully. “There's no sense in being too hard on ourselves, Maria. Suppose—oh, come on and have dinner with me.”
Peter thought swiftly. This was not a matter for his acquaintances of the Square and Greenwich Village. Then, too, a gentleman always “protected the girl.” Suddenly he remembered:
“Meet me at the old place—corner of Tenth. We can take the bus up-town. You can't get off early?” She shook her head.
“All right. Say twenty after to half-past seven. I'll leave my bags here for the present.”
This, after all, was living! It was best. You had to keep on. And it would be nice to give Maria a good time. She had been exacting in the past, given to unexpected outbursts, a girl of secretive ways, but of violent impulses, that she seemed always struggling to suppress. He had noted43 before now a passionate44 sort of gloom in the girl. To-day, though, she was charming, gentle enough for anybody. Yes, for old times' sake—in memory of certain intense little episodes they two had shared, he would give her a nice evening.... With such thoughts he complacently45 lighted a cigarette, smiled covertly46 at the girl, who was following him furtively47, with her big dark eyes and went back through the crooked corridor to the bar.
Here we find Hy Lowe engaged in buying a drink for Sumner Smith, one of the best-known reporters on that most audaciously unscrupulously brilliant of newspapers, The Evening Earth. Sumner Smith was fat, sleepy-eyed, close-mouthed. He was a man for whom Peter felt profound if cautious respect.
But his thoughts were not now concerned with the locally famous reporter, were not concerned, for the moment, even with himself. He was impressed by the spectacle of Hy Lowe standing32 treat, casually48 tossing out a five-dollar bank note; so much so that he promptly49 and with a grin accepted Hy's nod as an invitation and settled, after a moment's thoughtful consideration, on an old-fashioned whisky cocktail50.
It was not that Hy was stingy; simply that the task of dressing51 well, taking in all the new shows and entertaining an apparently inexhaustible army of extraordinarily52 pretty girls with taxis and even occasional wine was at times too much for the forty-five a week that Hy earned.
Now, as it happened, while Peter thought about Hy, Hy was thinking about Peter. Not six times in the more than three years of his life with Peter and the Worm had Hy seen so jovial53 an expression on the long face of the well-known playwright54.
The man was self-conscious to the point of morbidity55. This at all times, dating far, far back of his painful relationship with Sue Wilde, back of his tempestuous56 affair with Grace Derring, back of the curious little mix-up with that Tonifetti girl. Lately he had been growing worse. Why, it was not yet a fortnight since he had fought Zanin, over at the Muscovy. Then Sue had broken their engagement, and Peter had left town a crushed and desperate man. Hy had gone to the trouble of worrying about him; an exertion57 which he was now inclined to resent a bit. He had even mentioned his fears to the Worm; which sage12 young man had smiled and observed dryly and enigmatically, “Peter will never really love anybody else.”... And now, of all times, Peter was grinning!
The journalist left them to read Le Sourire and nibble58 toast in the corner room. Peter cheerfully regarded Hy's new homespun suit, his real Panama hat with a colored stripe in the white fluffy59 band, his flaming new tie and the silk shirt of exclusive pattern beneath it. Hy caught this scrutiny60, and returned the grin.
“I'm in soft, Pete,” he murmured. “Got a raise.”
“Not out of old Wilde?”
Hy nodded. “Considerable story, my son. First the old boy fired me. That was at nine-thirty A. m. I went out and made a day of it. Then, of all things, the Worm comes into the office—”
“The Worm! Henry Bates?”
“Yep. He was on The Courier, you know.”
“Was?”
“Was—and isn't. They sent him up with a stiff story about the missionary61 funds we've collected through the paper. And what does the old boy do but lock him out and holler through the transom that he'll eat poison, just like that, unless the Worm goes back and kills the story.”
“And what does the Worm?”
“As per instructions.”
“Kills the story?”
“And his job with it. He's writing a novel now—like everybody else. Have another,” Hy added cheerfully, “on the old Walrus62' partner in crime.” Peter had another.
“The rest of it is”—this from Hy—“I come in at four-thirty that afternoon to pack up my things, and the Reverend Doctor Wilde hands me a raise. I get sixty now. I am on that famous road to wealth.”
“But what on earth—”
“Ah!” breathed Peter. “Ah!”
“Can't say I wonder at Sue's leaving home, hitting out for the self-expression thing.” Hy grew more expansive as the liquor spread its glowing warmth within his person. Otherwise he would hardly have spoken of Sue, even on the strength of that genial64 grin of Peter's.
Peter leaned an elbow on the mahogany bar and slowly sipped65. “I wonder if Sue suspects this.” It was not easy for him to speak her name. But he did speak it, with an apparent casualness worthy66 of Waters Coryell.
“Probably not. I've worked at his elbow for years and never dreamed.” He sighed. “It's hard to see where a girl of any spirit gets off these days. From my experience with 'em, I'm convinced that home is the safest place for 'em, and yet it's only the dead ones that'll give up and stay there.”
Peter did not reply. His brows were knit, but not, apparently, in concentration, for his eyes wandered. He said something about getting his bags over to the rooms; started irresolutely67 down the passage toward the barber shop; stopped; pressed his fingers to his mouth; came back, passing Hy as if he didn't see him and went on out to the side street. Here he stopped again.
The side street was narrow. A cross-town car shut off most of his view of the Avenue, a few yards away. Then it passed, and he saw a young couple strolling across toward the restaurant. The man—large, heavy of hand and foot, a peasant-like, face curiously68 lighted by burning eyes, better dressed than usual—was Jacob Zanin. The girl—slim, astonishingly fresh and pretty, not wearing the old tarn69 o' shanter and haphazard70 costume he associated with her, but a simple light suit—was Sue Wilde; the girl who by her hardness and selfishness had hurt Peter irreparably. There they were, chatting casually, quite at ease—Zanin, who didn't believe in marriage, who had pursued Sue with amazing patience for nearly two years, who had wrecked71 Peter's pocket; Sue, who had broken his heart.
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1
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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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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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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argot
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| n.隐语，黑话 | |
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ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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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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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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massage
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| n.按摩，揉；vt.按摩，揉，美化，奉承，篡改数据 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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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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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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buffer
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| n.起缓冲作用的人(或物)，缓冲器；vt.缓冲 | |
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rinsing
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| n.清水，残渣v.漂洗( rinse的现在分词 )；冲洗；用清水漂洗掉（肥皂泡等）；（用清水）冲掉 | |
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40
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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48
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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52
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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54
playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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morbidity
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| n.病态；不健全；发病；发病率 | |
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tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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walrus
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| n.海象 | |
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63
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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68
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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69
tarn
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| n.山中的小湖或小潭 | |
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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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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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