The Worm's eyes rested on Peter. He came across the room.
“Sit down,” said Peter, smiling, his mouth a curving crack in a ghastly face.
“Oh,” said the Worm, “you've heard?”
“Heard what?”
The Worm studied him a moment; then said, not without a touch of grave sympathy, “Tell me, Pete—do you happen to know where Sue is?”
Peter heard this; tried to steady himself and speak in the properly casual tone. He swallowed. Then the words rushed out—low, trembling, all bitterness: “She's up-stairs—with Zanin!”
The Worm turned away. Peter caught his arm. “For God's sake!” he said. “What is it? What do you want of her? If anybody's got to tell her anything, it'll be me!” And he pushed back his chair.
The Worm laid a strong hand on his shoulder, held him firmly down in the chair.
“Pete,” he said—quiet, deliberate—“if you try to go up those stairs I myself will throw you down.”
Peter struggled a little. “But—but—good God! Who do you think you are! You mean to say—” He stopped short, stared up at the Worm, swallowed again. Then, “I get you!” he said. “I get you! Like the damn fool I am, I never dreamed. So you're after her, too. You, with your books, your fine disinterestedness3, your easy friendly ways—you're out for yourself, behind that bluff4, just like the rest of us!”
The Worm glanced about the room. Neither had raised his voice. No one was giving them any particular attention. He relaxed his grip of Peter's arm; dropped into the chair opposite; leaned over the table on folded arms; fixed5 his rather compelling eyes on Peter's ashen6 face.
“Pete,” he said, very quiet, very steady, “listen to me carefully. And don't spill any paranoia7 tonight. If you do—if you start anything like that crazy fight at the Muscovy—I'll take a hand myself. Now sit quiet and try to hear what I say.”
Peter was still swallowing. The Worm went steadily8 on. “A neighbor of the Wilde's just now called up the apartment. They thought they might get Hy Lowe to find Sue and fetch her home. But Hy-”
“He's—” began Peter.
“Yes, I saw him. He's outside here. He wants to sit on the curbstone and read the evening paper. A couple of chauffeurs9 were reasoning with him when I came in. I'm going to find her myself.”
“But what's happened! You—”
“Her father has taken poison. They think he is dying. His wife went right to pieces. Everything a mess—and two young children. They hadn't even got the doctor in when this man telephoned. He thinks the old boy is gone.”
“But—but—that's absurd! It couldn't act so quickly!”
The Worm stared; his face set perceptibly. “It has acted. He didn't take the bichloride route. He drank carbolic.”
“But that—that's awful!”
“Yes, it's awful. There's a newspaper man there, raising hell. They can't get him out—or couldn't. Now keep this straight—if you go one step up those stairs or if you try to come out and speak to Sue before I get her away, I'll break your head.”
“She'll send for me,” said Peter, sputtering10.
“Perhaps,” observed Henry Bates; and swiftly left the room.
Sue Wilde returned from her brief interview with Peter. Two or three groups of early diners greeted her as she passed.
Jacob Zanin watched her—her brisk little nod and quiet smile for these acquaintances, her curiously11 boylike grace, the fresh tint12 of her olive skin. She was a bit thin, he thought; her hard work as principal actress in the Nature Film, coupled with the confusion he knew she had passed through during that brief wild engagement to Peter Mann, had worn her down.
She had always puzzled him. She puzzled him now, as she resumed her seat, met his gaze, said: “Jacob, give me a cigarette.”
“Sue—you're off them.”
“While the film job was on. Breaking training now, Jacob.”
“Well,” he mused13 aloud, “I made you stop for good reason enough. But now I'm not sure that you're not wise.” And he tossed his box across the table.
While she lighted the cigarette, he studied her.
None knew better than he the interesting variety of girls who came to the Village to seek freedom—some on intense feministic principles (Sue among these), others in search of the nearly mythical14 country called Buhemia, still others in the knowledge that there they might walk unquestioned without the cap of good repute. There were cliques15 and cliques in the Village; but all were in agreement regarding a freedom for woman equal to the experimental freedom of man. Love was admitted as a need. The human race was frankly16 a welter of animals struggling upward in the long process of evolution—struggling wonderfully. Conventional morality was hypocrisy17 and therefore a vice18. Frankness regarding all things, an open mind toward any astonishing new theory in the psychology19 of the human creature, the divine right of the ego20 to realize itself at all costs, a fine scorn for all proverbial wisdom, something near a horror of the home, the church, and the practical business world—a blend of these was the Village, to be summed up, perhaps, in Waters Coryell's languid remark: “I find it impossible to talk with any one who was born before 1880.”
Zanin had known many women. In his own way he had loved not a few. With these he had been hard, but not dishonest. He was a materialist21, an anarchist22, a self-exploiter, ambitious and unrestrained, torn within by the overmastering restlessness that was at once the great gift and the curse of his blood. He wanted always something else, something more. He was strong, fertile of mind, able. He had vision and could suffer. The companionship of a woman—here and there, now and then—meant much to him; but he demanded of her that she give as he would give, without sacrifice of work or self, without obligation. Nothing but what the Village terms “the free relation” was possible for Zanin. Within his peculiar23 emotional range he had never wanted a woman as he had wanted Sue. He had never given himself to another woman, in energy and companionship, as he had given himself to her.
She had eluded24 him. She had also eluded Peter. Zanin was capable of despising young women who talked freedom but were afraid to live it. There were such; right here in the Village there were such. But he did not think Sue's case so simple as that. He spoke25 out now:
“Been thinking you over, Sue.”
She deposited the ash of her cigarette on a plate, glanced gravely up at him, then lowered her eyes again.
“Any result, Jacob?”
“You haven't found yourself.”
“That's right,” said she, “I haven't. Have you found me?”
He slowly shook his head. “I think you're doomed26 to grope for a while longer. I believe you have a good deal to find—more than some. You remember a while back when I urged you to take a trip with me?”
She did not lift her eyes at this; merely gazed thoughtfully down at her cigarette. He went on:
“I thought I could help you. I thought you needed love. It seemed to be the next thing for you.”
“Yes,” said she rather shortly—“you told me that.”
“Well, I was wrong. Or my methods were. Something, I or some force, stirred you and to a bad result. You turned from me toward marriage. That plan was worse.”
She seemed about to protest; looked up now, threw out her hands.
“At least,” he pressed on, “as a plan, it didn't carry.”
Her fine brows drew together perceptibly. “That's over, Jacob.”
“All right.” He settled back in his chair and looked about the lung room. It was filling rapidly. There were long hair and flowing ties, evening suits, smart gowns, bright lights, gay talk in two tongues, and just now, music. “Tell me this much, Sue. What are you up to? There's no more Crossroads, no more Nature Film—lord, but that was a job! No more of that absurd engagement. This is why I dragged you out to-night. I'm wondering about you. What are you doing?”
“Jacob,” she said, “I'm drifting.”
“I heard you were trying to write.”
“Trying—yes! A girl has to appear to be doing something.”
“No plans at all, eh?”
Again he looked about the sprightly28 room; deliberately29 thinking. Once she glanced up at him; then waited.
“Sue,” he said, “I think I see you a little more clearly. If I'm wrong, correct me. You have an unusual amount of strength—or something. I don't know what it is. I'll fall back on the safe old word, personality. You've got plenty of intelligence. And your stage work, your dancing—you're gifted as all get-out. But you're like clockwork, you're no good unless your mainspring is working. You have to be wound up.”
For the first time in this talk Sue's green-brown eyes lighted. She leaned over the table now and spoke with a flash of feeling.
“That's it, I believe,” she said. “I've got to feel deeply—about something. I've got to have a religion.”
“Exactly, Sue. There's a fanatical strain in you. You came into the Village life fresh from college with a whole set of brand-new enthusiasms. Fanatical enthusiasms. The attitude toward life that most of us take for granted—like it, feel it, just because it is us—you came at us like a wild young Columbus. You hadn't always believed it.”
“I always resented parental30 authority,” said she. “Yes, I know. I'm not sure your revolt wasn't more a personal reaction than a social theory. They tried to tie you down. Your father—well, the less said about him the letter. Preaching that old, old, false stuff, commercializing it, stifling31 your growth.”
“Don't let's discuss him, Jacob.”
“Very good. But the home was a conspiracy32 against you. His present wife isn't your mother, you told me once.”
“No, she isn't my mother.”
“Well”—he paused, thinking hard—“look here, Sue, what in thunder are you to do! You're no good without that mainspring, that faith.”
She was silent, studying the table between them—silent, sober, not hostile. Life was not a joyous33 crusade; it was a grim dilemma34. And an insistent35 pressure. She knew this now. The very admiration36 she felt for this strong man disarmed37 her in resisting him. He told the bald truth. She had fought him away once, only to involve herself with the impossible Peter; an experience that now left her the weaker before him. He knew this, of course. And he was a man to use every resource in getting what he wanted. There was little to object to in him, if you accepted him at all. And she had accepted him. As in a former crisis between them, he made her feel a coward.
“It brings me back to the old topic, Sue. I could help you, if you could let me. You have fought love down. You tried to compromise on marriage. Nothing in that. Better live your life, girl! You've got to keep on. You can't conceivably marry Peter; you can't drift along here without a spark alight in you, fighting life; you can't go back home, licked. God knows you can't do that! Give me a chance Sue. Try me. Stop this crazy resistance to your own vital needs. Damn it, be human!”
Sue, lips compressed, eyes misty38, color rising a little, looked up, avoided Zanin's eyes; gazed as he had been doing, about the room. And coming in through the wide door she saw the long figure of Henry Bates, whom friends called the Worm. She watched him, compressing her lips a little more, knitting her brows, while he stood looking from table to table. His calm face, unassertive, reflective, whimsical in the slight squint39 of the eyes, was deeply reassuring40. She was fond of Henry Bates.
“Sit down, Henry,” said she.
He stood a moment, considering the two of them, then took the chair a waiter slid forward.
“I'm here on a curious mission, Sue,” he said. She felt the touch of solemnity in his voice and gave him a quick glance. “I've been sent to find you.”
“What”—said she, all nerves—“what has happened?”
“An accident At your home, Sue. They believe that your father is dying. He has asked for you. It was a neighbor who called—a Mr. Deems—and from what little he could tell me I should say that you are needed there.”
Her hands moved nervously42; she threw them out in the quick way she had and started to speak; then giving it up let them drop and pushed back her chair. For the moment she seemed to see neither man: her gaze went past them; her mouth twitched43.
Zanin sat back, smoked, looked from one to the other. He was suddenly out of it. He had never known a home, in Russia or America. There was something between Henry Rates and Sue Wilde, a common race memory, a strain in their spiritual fiber44 that he did not share; something he could not even guess at. Whatever it was he could see it gripping her, touching45 and rousing hidden depths. So much her face told him. He kept silent.
She turned to him now. “You'll excuse me, Jacob?” she said, very quiet.
“You're going, then?” said he. He was true to his creed46. There was no touch of conventional sentiment in his voice. He had despised everything her father's life meant; he despised it now.
“Yes,” she said, and nodded with sudden nervous energy—a rising color in her cheeks, her head erect47, shoulders stiffened48, a flash in her eyes—such a flash as no one had seen there for a long time—“Yes, I'm going—home.”
Zanin sat alone, looking after them as they walked quietly out of the restaurant. He lighted a fresh cigarette, deliberately blew out the match, stared at it as if it had been a live thing, then flicked49 it over his shoulder with a snap of his thumb.
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1
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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3
disinterestedness
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4
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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5
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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6
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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paranoia
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| n.妄想狂，偏执狂；多疑症 | |
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8
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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9
chauffeurs
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| n.受雇于人的汽车司机( chauffeur的名词复数 ) | |
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10
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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11
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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12
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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13
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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14
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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15
cliques
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| n.小集团，小圈子，派系( clique的名词复数 ) | |
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16
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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18
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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19
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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materialist
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| n. 唯物主义者 | |
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anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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25
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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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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29
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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32
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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35
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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40
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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41
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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43
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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44
fiber
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| n.纤维，纤维质 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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46
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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47
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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48
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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49
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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