"She is perfectly1 furious with you," she reported. "She hasn't heard from Mr. Mills since, and she thinks it is on your account; that you have taken steps for breaking it off."
"Well, if she admits there was something to break off ... I tell you, Sarah, you are fretting2 yourself to no purpose, the girl had been there before."
"I'm afraid so." Sarah's taking it so much to heart was a credit to her, but I was more curious than commiserating3.
"Tell me, what is in the mind of a girl when she does things like that? What does she get out of it?"
"Excitement, of course; the sense of being in the stir, and the feeling of being protected. She says Mr. Mills has been kind to her. It is odd, but she seems to think it is all right so long as it is going on; it is only when it is broken off she can't bear it. That is why she is so angry at you."
"There might be something in that," I conceded. "When it is broken off she is able to realize how cheap and temporary it has been; while it is going on she can justify4 it on the ground that it is going on forever. That would justify it, I suppose." I did not know how I knew this, but lately I had discovered in myself capacities for understanding a great many things of which I had had no experience. What concerned me was not Cecelia's relation to the incident.
"Whatever am I going to do about going there again, to Pauline's, I mean?"
"You can't tell!"
"And I can't go there and not tell. I've got to choose between deceiving Pauline and condoning6 Henry, and I've no disposition7 to do either." Sarah thought it over.
"There is only one thing you can do. You'll simply have to go to New York."
"For a great many reasons besides. You needn't tell me that. But how? How?"
"You know what I offered——"
"What I refused. It is out of the question. Don't speak of it."
"I suppose after this you couldn't ask the Millses?"
"Sarah ... I did ask."
"Well?" All her interest hung upon the interrogation.
"They told me it was good for my spiritual development to suffer these things." We faced one another in deep, unsmiling irony8. "Sarah, what do you suppose it costs a man for supper and a private room at Reeves's?"
"Don't!" she begged. "It's only a step from that to Cecelia."
"Yes; I remember she said that men never afforded protection to women except for value received."
"You must go to New York," Sarah reiterated9. "You must!"
The truth was I had never told Sarah exactly how poor I was.
In the end I let her go away without telling; at the worst I thought I might borrow from Jerry, who had given up the notion of going to St. Louis, largely no doubt because I had failed to back him up in it completely, and then just at the end changed his mind and went anyway. I knew nothing about it until Jerry wrote me from Springfield, for I had grown shy of going there where all Mrs. McDermott's conversation was set like a trap to catch me in something that would convict Jerry of misdemeanour. Jerry asked me to visit her in his absence, but I put it off as long as possible. I had to settle first about going to Pauline's. I arranged to spend the afternoon there, meaning to come away before dinner and so by leaving Henry to discover my attitude in the circumstance of my having been there without destroying his home, open the way to my meeting him again without embarrassment10. To do that I should have left the house before the persuasive11 smell of the dinner began to creep up the stairs into the warm, softly lighted rooms, but from the beginning of my visit, Pauline, in order that I might not feel her failure to put her affection more cogently12, had wound me about as with a cocoon13 of feminine devices, from which I hadn't been able to extricate14 myself earlier. I am not blaming her, I am not sure, indeed, seeing how completely she justified15 herself to Henry Mills by what she had to offer, that I had any right to expect her to understand how completely her playful and charming affectionateness failed of any possible use to me. But I felt myself so far helpless in the presence of it, that I stayed on until the smell of the roast unloosened all the joints16 of my resolution. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until I found myself at a point where what Henry might think of me became inconsiderable before the possibility of my being put out of the house before dinner was served.
At the same time I could have wept at the indignity17 of wanting food so much. I remember to this day the wasteful18 heaping of the children's plates, and my struggle with the oblique19 desire to smuggle20 portions of my helping21 home to Griff, who looked even more of a stranger than I to soup and fish and roast, to say nothing of dessert.
It wasn't until we had got as far as the salad that I had leisure to observe Henry grow rather red about the gills as he fed, and speculate as to how far it was due to his consciousness that I could bring down the pillars of his home with a word, and didn't intend to.
There was nothing said during dinner about my prospects22 or the stage in general, but when Henry took me out to the car about nine o'clock, he cleared his throat several times as though to drag the subject up from the pit of his stomach, where it must have lain very uneasily.
"You know," he began, "I've been thinking about that scheme of yours of going to New York. I am inclined to think there is something in it."
"I haven't thought about it for a long time," I told him, which was only true in so far as I thought of it as a possibility.
"It would freshen you up a whole lot," Henry insisted. "Everybody needs freshening. I have been taking a little stir about myself." So that was the way he wished me to think of his relation to Cecelia!
"I've given it up," I insisted.
We were standing5 under the swinging arc light in a bare patch the wind had cleared of the fine, white February grit24. Little trails of it blew up under foot and were lost among the wind-shaken shadows. I could see Henry's purpose bearing down on me like the far spark of the approaching trolley25.
"I wouldn't do that," he advised. "It looks like pretty good business to me. You'd have to stay there some time to learn the ropes and if a few hundred dollars——"
"I've given it up," I said again. The car came alongside and Henry helped me on to it.
"If you were at any time to reconsider it, I hope you will let me know——" The roar of the trolley cut him off.
I knew I was a fool not to have accepted the sop26 to my discretion27; I don't know for what the Powers had delivered Henry Mills into my hands, if it wasn't to get out of his folly28 what his sober sense refused me. Without doubt there are some forms of integrity that, persisted in, cease to be a virtue29 and become merely a habit; I could no more have taken Henry Mills's money than I could have gone to New York without it. I went home shivering to my fireless little room. I put on my nightgown over my underwear and my dressing31 gown over that, and cried myself to sleep.
It was a day or two later that I recalled that Jerry had asked me to go out and see his wife, and I thought if I must ask Jerry for help, it would be no more than prudent32 for me to do so, but I wasn't in the least prepared as I went up the path, from which the snow of the week before had never been cleared, to find the house shut and barred, and no smoke issuing from it. I made my way around to the kitchen door to try to discover some sign which would give me a clue to the length of time it had been deserted33, if not the reason for it.
While I was puzzling about among the empty milk bottles and garbage cans, a neighbour woman put her head out of a nearby window and announced the obvious fact that Mrs. McDermott wasn't in.
"But in her condition——" I protested as though my informant had been in some way responsible for it.
"Well, if her own mother's isn't the best place for a woman in her condition!... Three days ago," she answered to my second question. Mrs. McDermott's mother lived in Peoria, and I knew that when Jerry left there had been no such understanding, but as lingering there ankle deep in the dry snow didn't seem to clear the affair, I undertook to rid myself of a sense of blame by writing all that I knew of it to Jerry within the hour. It was the third day after that he came storming in on me like a man demented. He had been to Peoria immediately on receipt of my letter and his wife had refused to see him. It hardly seemed a time for indirection.
"Jerry, what have you done?" I demanded.
"Nothing—not a thing." I waited. "There was a fool skit34 in one of the St. Louis papers," he admitted. "The fool reporter didn't know I was married."
"It was about you and Miss Filette?" He nodded.
"She had bought all the St. Louis papers," he said, meaning his wife.
"Well, that was natural; she wanted to read the notices; she was always proud of you."
"She believed them too," he groaned35. "And she's talked her mother over. They wouldn't even let me see the children." He put his head down on my table and sobbed36 aloud. I thought it might be good for him, but by and by my sensibilities got the better of me.
"Would it do any good if I were to write?"
"You? Oh, they think you're in it ... a kind of general conspiracy37. You know you said that—that one of the things nobody had a right to deny an artist was the source of his inspiration."
"Jerry! I said what you asked me." I was properly indignant too, when I had been so right on the whole matter. Besides, as Jerry had written little that winter except some inconsiderable additions to his play, I was rather of the opinion that he measured the validity of his passion by its importunity38, rather than its effect on the sum of his production. "Besides, I told you you would never get your wife to understand."
"If she would only be sensible," he groaned.
"She isn't," I reminded him; "you didn't marry her to be sensible, but for her imagined capacity to go on repeating the tricks by which Miss Filette keeps you complacent39 with yourself. The trouble is, marriage and having children take that out of a woman."
"An artist ought never to marry. I will always say that."
I began to wonder if that were true, if Cecelia Brune were not after all the wiser. We beat back and forth40 on the subject for the time that I kept Jerry with me. The evening of the second day came a telegram. Jealousy41 tearing at the heart of poor little Mrs. McDermott had torn away the young life that nestled there.
Jerry wrote me later that the baby had breathed and died and that his wife was likely to be ill a long time. In view of the extra expense incurred42, I didn't feel that I ought to ask him for the loan I was now so desperately43 in need of.
It was about this time that Griffin and I began to avoid one another about meal time. I have read how wild animals in sickness turn their backs on one another; one must in unrelievable misery44 ... we dodged45 in and out of our hall rooms like rabbits in a warren. And then suddenly we would meet and walk along the streets together, mostly at night when the alternate flare46 of the lamps and the darkness and the hurrying half-seen forms, numb47 the sense like the flicker48 of light on a hypnotist's screen, and we moved in a strange, incommunicable world out of which no help reached us. We saw women go by with the price of our redemption flashing at their breasts or in their hair. We saw men hurried, overburdened with work, and there was no work for us. In our own land we were exiled from the community of labour and we sighed for it more than the meanest Siberian prisoner for home. And then suddenly communication seemed to be reëstablished. Effie for no reason sent me half of the rent money. "I don't need it here, and I think maybe I shall get more out of it by investing it in you," she wrote. She had always such a way of making the thing she did seem the choice of her soul. I bought meat and vegetables and invited Griff to dinner. He took me that night to that sort of dreary49 entertainment known as musical comedy. He could often get tickets and it was a way of spending the evening that saved fuel. As we tramped back through the chill, trying for an effect of jocularity in his voice, so that he might seem to have made a joke in case I shouldn't like, Griff said to me.
"I suppose you wouldn't go with a musical comedy?"
"My dear Griff," I answered him in the same tone, "I'd go with a flying trapeze if only it paid enough."
"I'm acquainted with Lowe, the tenor50. I've been thinking I'd ask him——" We were as shy of speaking of an engagement as though it were wild game to be scared away by the mere30 mention of it.
There was no reason why Griffin shouldn't have succeeded in musical comedy, he had a fairish voice and had turned his gift as many times as the minister's wife in Higgleston used to turn her black silk. It was not more than two days or three after that, as I was coming back to my cold room in the twilight—I had spent the day in the public library on account of the heat—and as I was fumbling51 at the lock as I had been that first evening he had spoken to me, I heard Leon Griffin come up the stair three steps at a time, and I knew before I heard it in his voice, that the times had turned for him. I struck out fiercely against a sudden blankness that seemed to swim up to the eyes and throat of me.
He was trembling too as he came into the room.
"Olive," he cried, "Olive, I've turned the trick. I'm going with the 'Flim-Flams.'" That was the wretched piece we had seen together. He had never called me by my name before, and I had no mind to correct him. In the dusk he ran on about his engagement; they would go on the road presently and settle for the summer in some city. I heard him speak far from me. I was down, down in the pit of the cold room with the shabby furniture and the bleak53 light that disdained54 it from the one high window.
"Don't take off your things," I heard him say. "I came to get you. We'll have a blow-out somewhere. Olive, Olive!" His quick sympathy came out, and the excusing charm. "Oh, my dear, you're crying!"
"Griff, you're leaving me." It was as if I had accused him. I sank down in a chair; I was dabbling55 at my eyes and trying to get my veil off with cold fingers.
"Not if you feel that way about it." He came and put his arms about me and constrained57 me until I leaned against his body. I knew what he was, what a man of that stamp must be feeling and thinking, and, knowing, I permitted it. I was crying still, I think ... his hands came fumbling under my veil ... presently he kissed me.
"Olivia?"
"Well, Griff!"
"You know—it is for you to say if I shall leave you."
"You mean that you will give up ... but how can you, Griff; it is the only thing that's been offered." We were sitting still on the low cot in my room and there was no light but the dull glow of the stove and the last trace of the day that came in at the window. We had not been out to dinner yet, and Griffin's arm was around me. I could feel it slack a little now as if he definitely forebore to constrain56 me.
"I mean, Lowe could get you a place in the chorus."
"But, Griff, I can't sing."
"You can sing enough for that, and Lowe would get you the place if—if you belonged to me." I knew exactly what this implied, but no start responded to it. The nerve of propriety58 was ached out.
"Of course I know I'm not in your class," Griff was going on. "I wouldn't do such a thing as ask you to marry me. But I'm awfully59 fond of you ... and you're up against it."
"Yes, Griff, I'm up against it."
"Your fine friends ... what would they do for you?"
"Nothing whatever."
"Well, then ... you needn't go under your own name, and this is a chance; you could live and maybe get somewhere. Lowe told me he meant to strike for Broadway. You aren't insulted, are you?"
"No, I'm not insulted." Curiously60 that was true. I was drunk and shaking inside of me; I seemed to be poised61 upon the dizzying edge, but I was neither angry nor insulted.
"And I'd never come back on you if you got your chance for yourself ... honest to God, Olive. I've had my lesson at that. You believe me, don't you?"
I believed him. I hadn't any sense whatever of the moral values of the situation. It was too desperate for that.
"I guess I ought to tell you ... I'm a bad sort ... bad with women. After I knew that my—that Miss Dean didn't want me, I didn't care what became of me. There was a woman in the company ... she liked me, and I thought it would give Laura a chance. That was what the divorce was about. I thought I could make it up to the other woman by marrying her. But that didn't work either." He was silent a while, forgetting perhaps that he had begun to explain himself to me. "There's a way you've got to like a person to live with them ... and, anyway, I'm not asking you to marry me." He got as much satisfaction out of that as if it were a superior abnegation.
"You've got to decide, right away," Griffin urged me.
"I must have a day to think," I insisted, not because I hoped that anything would interfere62 between me and disaster, but I wanted to be able to throw it up to the Powers that I had given them an opportunity.
I knew what he was. I had always known. When he put his cheek against mine to kiss me I had felt the marks there of waste and looseness, just as I felt now that native trick he had for extenuation63, for putting himself on the pathetic, the excusing side of things. But I did not shrink from him. I suppose it was because just then he was a symbol of the protection which I had so signally gone without. The need of trusting is stronger in women than experience. Nothing saved me but the persistent64 monitor of my art. Here, when all else was numbed65 by loneliness and hunger and unsuccess, it waked and warned me. I had not drawn66 back from Griffin nor the relation he proposed to me; but I couldn't stand for Flim-Flam. I think just at first, though, I made myself believe I was considering it.
I went out to see Pauline the next afternoon. Not that I expected anything from her. It was merely that she represented all that stood opposed to what I was being coerced67 into, and I meant to give it a chance.
"I am thinking of going with 'Flim-Flam'," I told her.
"Oh, but my dear—surely not with that!"
"I'll get eighteen dollars a week and my expenses."
"Well, of course, if you want to sell yourself just for a salary!" Pauline's attitude could not have been improved on if she had known all that the engagement implied, but it wasn't in her to be ungracious for long. "I suppose you'll get experience?"
"I'll get my board and clothes out of it," I told her bluntly. "And whether I like it or not, it is the only thing offered."
"And you are just taking it on trust? I suppose that is the right way; you can never tell how things will be brought about." I don't know how much of this was honest, and how much derived68 from the capacity for self-deception which grows on women whose sole business in life is getting on with a man. At any rate, having shaken my situation around to the shape of a moral attitude, as a robin69 does a worm, nothing would have prevented her from swallowing it whole.
Faint as I was I refused her invitation to dinner. With what I had in mind to do I didn't care to meet Henry Mills again. I was fiercer in my detestation of him and Cecelia than I had been before I had thought of being in the same case myself. I resented them as a ribald commentary on my necessity.
As I rode home on the car, all my outer self was in a tumult70, dazed and buzzing like a hive. I was dimly aware of moving, sitting upright, of paying my fare, and of great staring red posters that flashed upon me from the billboards72. I remember that it occurred to me several times that if I could only understand what I read on them, it might be greatly to my profit. Somewhere deep under my confusion I was aware of being plucked by the fringes of my consciousness. Something was trying to get through to me.
I refused to see Griffin at all that evening, and got into bed early, staring into the dark and seeing nothing but fragments of red letters that seemed about to shape themselves into the saving word, and then dissolved and left me blank. I tried to pray and realized that I had no connecting wires over which help might come.
Belief in the God I had been brought up to, had been beaten out of me at Higgleston, very largely by the conviction of those who professed73 to know Him best, that He couldn't in any case be the God of my Gift. And I hadn't been thinking since then of the Something Without Us to which I acted, as Deity74. Now it occurred to me, lying there in the dark, that if the God of the Church had cast me off, there must still be something which artists everywhere prayed to, a Distributer of Gifts who might be concerned about the conduct of His worshippers.
I reached out for Him—and I did not know His name. I must pray though, I must pray to something which stood for Help. Slowly, as I cast back in my mind to find the name for it, I remembered Eversley. Eversley was everything which any player might wish to be, and Eversley had been kind. I would pray to Eversley. All at once there flashed across the blank of my mind, his name in letters of red. That was it! That was the name on the billboards! Eversley was in town. I recalled that Griff had spoken of it. I hadn't been able to spare a penny for a paper for a long time, or I should have known it. I would see Eversley. I got up and groped around in the cupboard for a piece of dry bread and ate it. Then I went back to bed and dropped asleep suddenly with the release of tension. To-morrow I would see Eversley.
Griffin failed to understand my change of mood in the morning.
"You aren't afraid that I shall try to hold you?"
"No I'm not afraid."
"Or that anybody will find it out?"
"I shouldn't care if they did," I told him. "I'm going to see Eversley. I suppose it's fair to tell you, you'll be the last resort, Griff."
"I'll be the foundation of your fortune, if Eversley will let me, but he won't." I think there was regret in his voice, but it was never in anything he said to me.
"I know you're not mean, Griff; that's why I told you."
"Oh, I'll tell you, too. I was mean once; I didn't mean to be, but it turned out that way." He was on the point of admitting something to me that I felt if I was to depend upon him I shouldn't hear.
I got out as early as possible and walked until I found a billboard71. Eversley was at the Playhouse; he had been playing here for three days. I walked past it several times considering the possibility of getting his address from the stage doorman, though I knew I couldn't.
It was clear and bright, few people moved in the street. I walked between the alleyways and a row of ash-cans waiting for the belated carts of the cleaners. "Eversley, Eversley!" I called over and over as if it had been a charm. Suddenly in the still cold brightness, a torn fragment of newspaper flapped in the ash-can, it lifted and made a clumsy flight like a half-fledged bird and dropped beside me. Its one torn wing flapped gently as I passed it, and showed me part of a pictured face. I said to myself that I was in a pretty state when even a torn face in a paper looked like Eversley. I had gone on three steps, and suddenly I stopped. It was Eversley, of course; his picture would be in the papers. I went back and lifted the printed scrap75. It was part of an interview with the great tragedian, three days old, and it told me the address of his hotel.
It was nearly eleven when I arrived there. The foyer was crowded with people among whom I fancied I recognized several of my profession. They had the same desperate air that I knew must stand out on me. I thought the clerk recognized it.
"Mr. Eversley is not in this morning," I was told. They pretended, too, not to know when he would be in. I understood that this meant that he was in, but probably asleep or breakfasting. I found a chair close to one of the elevators and waited. The room was warm and I was faint. I do not know how long I sat there; I must have been almost unconscious. Suddenly I snapped alert. There was Eversley and two or three others stepping into the elevator on the opposite side of the room. I was too late of course to catch them.
"Mr. Eversley's apartments," I said to the elevator boy.
"First turn to the left," he told me when he had let me out on the fourth floor. I was afraid to ask the number of the room lest he should suspect me of intruding76. There were five or six doors down the left corridor. I knocked at one at a hazard, and was rejected by a large woman in deshabille. I was discouraged; somehow the prospect23 of knocking at every one of those doors and inquiring for Mr. Eversley daunted77 me. I was dividing between my dread78 of that and a still greater dread, if I should be found loitering too long in the corridor, of being taken for a suspicious person. In a few moments, however, a woman came out of one of the doors farthest down and moved toward me. I thought it was she I had seen getting into the elevator with Mr. Eversley; she had the gracious air of women who know themselves relied upon. She stopped, hypnotized by my evident wish to speak to her.
"Mrs. Eversley?" She acknowledged it. "I am trying to find your husband; I have his permission," I interpolated as I saw her pleasant, open countenance79 close upon me. I learned afterward80 how much of her life went to saving him the strain of publicity81, and I did not blame her.
"My husband never sees visitors in the morning."
"If you would show him this card," I begged. "Perhaps he would make an appointment." She recognized the writing on the card, and I saw her relenting. Mr. Eversley, it proved, would see me.
He pretended kindly82 to have recognized me at once, but he didn't ask after the Hardings. He saw that it was the last lap with me.
"My dear Miss Lattimore, sit here. Now, tell me."
"So," I concluded at the end of half an hour, "I thought you could tell me if it is all gone. If I am never to have it back again, I can go with a musical comedy." I hadn't told him, of course, what the conditions were of my having even that, "but if you think it could be brought back again ..." I could hardly formulate83 a hope beyond that.
"Never in the old way," he answered promptly84. "You wouldn't wish that. What you did at twenty you must not wish to do at thirty, for then there is no growth. What do you really feel about it?"
"I feel," I said, "as if I could do something—something pressing to be done, but somehow different, so different that I do not know how to describe it to anybody nor to get them to believe in it."
"And so you have begun to doubt it yourself?"
"I shall believe you," I said.
He sat still after that for a while, staring into the open fire and rubbing his fine expressive85 hands together in a meditative86 way. It was good to me to see him, just touched mellowly87 with age, the delicate carving88 in his face of nobility and gentleness. There were men like that then, men who made by their mere being, something more than a shibboleth89 of the traditional dependability. He seemed to be far away from me, groping around the root of truth in respect to that gift with which he was so richly endowed. He rose presently and took a play-book which lay face downward on the table.
"Could you do a bit of this with me?" he suggested. "It will help me get my lines." The play was "Magda," new then on the American stage. Eversley was getting up the part of Colonel Schwartz. He explained the story to me a little and I began reading and prompting him. Presently I felt the familiar click of myself sliding into the part. All my winter in Chicago rose up in the part of Magda to protest against the judgment90 of Taylorville.
I knew better too than to attempt any sort of staginess with Eversley; I said the words, trying to understand them, and let the part have its way with me. It was not until we had laid down the book that I remembered I was still waiting judgment, and did not feel to want it.
"I won't take up any more of your time," I suggested. "You have been very good to me." I got up to go. After all what was there that Eversley could do for me.
"Well," he said, "and is it to be musical comedy?"
"No," I told him, "no, it may be starvation or the lake, but I'll not let myself down like that.... Was that why you asked me to do the part?" I said after a while, in which he had sat gazing into the fire without taking any note of my standing.
"Sit down," he said. "Have you ever heard of Polatkin?"
I shook my head and sat provisionally on the edge of my chair.
"Polatkin is a speculator; he speculates in ability. I think on the whole the best thing I can do for you is to introduce you to Polatkin."
Mr. Eversley thought of Morris Polatkin because he had met him the day before in Chicago. Before I left the hotel it was arranged that I was to see him the next day, and if he liked me—by the tone in which Mark Eversley spoke52 of him I knew that was foregone—he would take me on to New York with him and put my gift on a paying basis.
So suddenly had the release from strain come that I found myself toppling over my own resistance. I went out in the street and walked about until reminded by the gnawing91 in my stomach, that I had had nothing but the brewing92 of my twice-boiled coffee grounds for breakfast, I turned into the first attractive café and paid out almost my last cent for a comforting luncheon93. It would have gone farther if I had bought food and cooked it at home, but I was past that. I had pinched and endured to the last pitch; I could no more. And besides the assurance of Mark Eversley, which as yet I could scarcely believe in, there had come a strange new courage upon me. For as I had suffered and struggled with Magda, suddenly from some high unknowable source, power descended94. I had felt it fluttering low like a dove, hovering95 over me; it had perched on my spirit. I could feel it there now brooding about me with singing noises. It had come back! I rushed to meet it as to a lover.
As I walked back to my lodging96, a flood of hopes, half shapes of conquests and surmises97, bore me like a widening flood apart from all that the last few months stood for. Suddenly at the door I realized how far it had carried me from Griffin; the figure of him was faint in my mind as one seen from the farther shore. I considered a little and then I wrote him a note and slipped it under the door. I went out again, and walked aimlessly all the rest of the afternoon, and when it was dark I stole softly up to my room again, but he heard me. He came knocking almost immediately, full of the appearance of rejoicing, but even the dusk didn't conceal98 from me that embarrassment was on him. He looked checked and confounded as when he had told me about his relation to Miss Dean, like a man caught in an unwarrantable assumption. Whatever Dean had done to him, it had broken the back of his egotism completely. He knew well enough he had no business with a woman like me, a friend of Mark Eversley's, and he was ashamed to have been caught thinking he had. He sidled and fluttered for an interval99, making up his mind to a resumption of affectionateness, and finally making it up that he couldn't, and remembering an engagement somewhere for the evening.
It was about eleven of the next day that I had a note from Eversley to come to his rooms to meet Mr. Polatkin. I went in a kind of haze100 of excitement, numb as to my feet and finger-tips, moving about by reflexes merely and with a vague doubt as each new point of the way presented itself, the car I took, the hotel stair, the length of the corridor, if I should be equal to any one of them, so far was my consciousness removed from the means of communication.
Eversley shook hands with me out of a cloud, moving in an orbit miles outside of my own, and when he left me, saying that Polatkin would come up the next moment, it was as if he had withdrawn101 into the vastness of outer space. In the interval before I heard Mr. Polatkin's knock I rehearsed a great many ways of meeting him, none of which were from the right cue.
I do not know why I hadn't been prepared by the name for his being a Jew, nor for the sudden shifting of the ground of our meeting which that fact made for me. So far as I had thought of him at all, it was in a kind of nebulosity of the high disinterestedness102 that was responsible for Mark Eversley's interest in me. It had been, his generous succour, all of a piece of that traditional protectiveness, the expectation of which is so drilled into women that it rose promptly in advance of any occasion for it. The mere supposition that he was to provide for me, had tinged103 my mind, unaware104, with the natural response of a docility105 made ridiculous by the figure of Polatkin edging himself in through a door that an arrangement of furniture made impossible completely to open. His height did not bring him above the level of my eyes, and as much of him as was visible above his theatrical-looking, furred coat, was chiefly nose and pallid106 forehead disdained by tight, black, curly hair, and extraordinarily107 black eyes which seemed to have retreated under the brows for the purpose of taking council with the intelligence that informed them.
I had put on my best to meet him, and though my husband had been dead more than two years, my best was still tinged with widowhood, for the chief reason that once having got into black I had not been able to afford to put it off for anything more suitable. I had put a good deal of white about the neck trying for an effect which I knew, as Polatkin's eyes travelled over me, had been feminine rather than professional. Now as I realized how I had unconsciously responded to the suggestion of preciousness in the fact of his coming to take care of me, I felt myself grow from head to foot one deep suffusing108 red. It comes out for me in retrospect109 how near I was to the situation which had intrigued110 Cecelia Brune and her kind, put at disadvantage, not by a monetary111 obligation so much as by the inevitable112 feminine reaction toward the source of care and protection. At the time, however, I was concerned to keep the stodgy113 little Jew, who stood hat in hand taking stock of me, from discovering that I had come to this meeting with a degree of personal expectation which I should have resented in him. I hoped indeed that my blush might pass with him for a denial of the very thing it confessed, or at least for mere shyness and gaucherie. I was helped from my confusion by the realization114 that Mr. Polatkin was not so much looking at me or speaking to me, as projecting me into the future and gauging115 me against a background of his own creation.
I was standing still, after we had got through some perfunctory civilities, for I thought he would want me to act for him—but I found afterward that he had trusted Mr. Eversley for my capacity—and I had a feeling of being able to meet the situation better on my feet. I caught him looking at me with an irritating impersonality116.
"Jalowaski shall make your corsets," he affirmed; "he makes 'em for Eames and Gadski—a little more off there, a little longer here ... so...." He did not touch me, he was not even within touching117 distance, but he followed the outline of my figure with his thumb, flourishing out the alterations118 which made it more to his mind. "Jalowaski would fix you so you wouldn't believe it was you," he concluded.
He appeared so well satisfied with his inspection119 that he expanded graciously. "And there is one thing you have which there is lots of actresses would give half they got for it. You have got imagination in the way you dress your hair. It is a wonder how some of them can act and yet ain't got no imagination at all about the way they look, only so it is stylish120. For an actress it is all right for her to look stylish on the street, but there are times when she has to look otherways on the stage; y'understand me."
I slid somehow into a chair; I don't know exactly what I expected, but it certainly hadn't been this appraisement121, which I had the sense to see was favourable122 and yet resented.
"The first thing we will see to yet, is some clothes; for you will excuse me, Miss Lattimore, but what you are wearing don't show you off at all. You don't need to wear black. Of course I know you are a widow, Mr. Eversley was telling me, but there are some actresses what make out like they was, because they think it becomes them, y' understand, but there is no need for you to wear it, for Mr. Eversley is telling me that your husband is dead more than two years already." He had loosened his coat to display an appropriate amount of gold fob dependent over a small balloon in the process of being inflated123; now from somewhere in his inner recess124 he produced a folded paper.
"It is better we have a contract from the start. Though of course it is all right if Mr. Eversley recommends you, but it is better we don't have misunderstandings." He spread the paper out and weighted it with one of his pudgy hands.
"So you are going to take me ... you haven't seen me act yet."
"Eversley has."
"Well ... if you want to take his judgment ... but he hasn't told me anything about you yet. What do you want of me; what are you going to do for me?"
If Eversley had told him how desperate my situation was, it wasn't a good move to try to hold out against him now, it might have given him the idea that I was ungrateful, but I couldn't stand for being handed about this way like a female chattel125. That Eversley had told him, I saw by the expression of astonishment126 on his face which slowly changed to one of amusement.
"I'm going to save you from starving to death," he began, and then as the sense of my courage in the face of such an alternative grew upon him, "I'm going to make you one of the leading tragic127 actresses of America."
"And what am I to do?"
"Whatever I tell you. Eversley thinks you could study a while with Mrs. Delamater. She is wonderful, wonderful!" He described with his arms a circle scarcely larger than the arc of his cherubic contour, to show how wonderful she was.
"I should like some dancing lessons, too," I submitted.
"Do you dance? Ah, no, it is too much to expect; but if I could find me a dancer, Miss Lattimore, a born dancer!" He brought his arms into play again to describe a felicity which transcended128 expression. "But they are not so easy to find," he sighed audibly. "We must do what we can already."
Eversley told me afterward that Polatkin had the soul of an actor, but the only part which he had ever been able to play without being ridiculous, was Fagin, and now he was too fat even for that, so that he took it out vicariously in the success of those whose opportunity he made. It was the dream of his life to find a real genius, a dancer or a prima donna; I believe I was the nearest he ever came to it; and I owe it to him to say that I couldn't have arrived at more than the faintest approach to it without him.
It was that contract I signed with him there in Eversley's room which brought him in the end about three hundred per cent. on the money he advanced me, but I never begrudged129 it. He gave me a check then and there, and an address of a hotel in New York where I was to meet him within five days. He looked me well over as he shook hands with me.
"You would be better if you would weigh about ten pounds more," he assured me, and I was mixed between resentment130 at his personality and thankfulness to have even that sort of interest taken in me. I had lunch with Mr. and Mrs. Eversley afterward; there was not time for half the things I wished to hear from him, but this sticks in my memory. I had put it to him that the meagreness of my personal experiences had, so far, tended to the skimping131 of my art.
"There's no question as to that," he told me, "but it is nothing compared to the effect that your art will have on your experience. It's a mistake to let it set up in you an appetite for particular kinds of it. There's the experience of having done without experience, you can put that into your acting132 as well as the other, and you'll find it is often the most valuable." I was later to find the worth of that, but like most advice, it only proved itself in the event of my not taking it.
There was not much to be done about my leaving Chicago; I had rooted there shallowly. I went out that afternoon to tell Pauline good-bye, for I wished to avoid Henry. It seemed a great step, my going away. There was a kind of finality about it. The casual character of my relation to the stage had disappeared; I was about to be married to it. Pauline cried a little; in spite of there being so much in my life that I couldn't tell her, I remembered how long we had been friends and that we were very fond of one another. She couldn't, of course, quite abandon her favourite moral attitude.
"You have a great work, Olivia, a great responsibility. You must remember that you are the trustee of a rare gift."
"I'll take as good care of it," I assured her, "as those who sent it take of me." At the time I believe I felt that the Powers had taken notice of me at last.
I got away as soon as possible; it seemed kinder to Griffin. We had been divided as by a sword; he knew now there was nothing between us and he was abashed133 at the memory of having touched me. All that time we had lurked134 behind the pressure of packing and settling my affairs; we never came out squarely and faced one another. I think some latent manhood that had risen to my need of him, slunk back with the certainty that I could do very well without him.
"You'll be sure and hunt me up if you come to New York?" I urged; I wasn't going to be accused of disloyalty because of the rise in my fortunes. He shook his head.
"You'll be up among the nobs then." He looked at me for a moment wistfully, "You'll remember that I said I wouldn't try to hold you?" I let him get what comfort he could out of the generosity135 he imagined in himself at that. Seen against the shining background which Polatkin's money had made for me, he looked almost weazened. "Good-bye," I said, with another handshake, and I set my face steadily136 toward New York.
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1
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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3
commiserating
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的现在分词 ) | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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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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condoning
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的现在分词 ) | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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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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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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cogently
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| adv.痛切地，中肯地 | |
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cocoon
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| n.茧 | |
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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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18
wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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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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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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sop
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| n.湿透的东西，懦夫；v.浸，泡，浸湿 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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29
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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30
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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32
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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34
skit
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| n.滑稽短剧；一群 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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42
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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49
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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50
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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51
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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52
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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53
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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54
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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55
dabbling
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| v.涉猎( dabble的现在分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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56
constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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57
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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58
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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59
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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60
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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61
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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62
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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63
extenuation
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| n.减轻罪孽的借口；酌情减轻；细 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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65
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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coerced
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| v.迫使做( coerce的过去式和过去分词 )；强迫；（以武力、惩罚、威胁等手段）控制；支配 | |
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68
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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69
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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70
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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71
billboard
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| n.布告板，揭示栏，广告牌 | |
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72
billboards
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| n.广告牌( billboard的名词复数 ) | |
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73
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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74
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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75
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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76
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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77
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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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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80
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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81
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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82
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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83
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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84
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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85
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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86
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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mellowly
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| 柔软且甜地，成熟地 | |
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88
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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89
shibboleth
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| n.陈规陋习；口令；暗语 | |
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90
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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91
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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92
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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93
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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94
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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95
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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96
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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97
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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98
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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99
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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100
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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101
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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102
disinterestedness
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103
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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105
docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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106
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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107
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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108
suffusing
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的现在分词 ) | |
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109
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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110
intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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111
monetary
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| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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112
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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113
stodgy
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| adj.易饱的；笨重的；滞涩的；古板的 | |
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114
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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115
gauging
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| n.测量[试]，测定，计量v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的现在分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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116
impersonality
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| n.无人情味 | |
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117
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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118
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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119
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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120
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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121
appraisement
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| n.评价，估价；估值 | |
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122
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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123
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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124
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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125
chattel
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| n.动产；奴隶 | |
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126
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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127
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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128
transcended
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的过去式和过去分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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129
begrudged
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| 嫉妒( begrudge的过去式和过去分词 )； 勉强做； 不乐意地付出； 吝惜 | |
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130
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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131
skimping
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| v.少用( skimp的现在分词 )；少给；克扣；节省 | |
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132
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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133
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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135
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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136
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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