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CHAPTER X – PETER THE MAGNIFICENT

IF she strikes you as a girl you’d like to kiss, I should say, as a general principle – well, kiss her.”

Thus Hy Lowe, musingly, seated on the decrepit flat-top desk between the two windows of the studio, swinging his legs.

Peter Ericson Mann met this observation with contempt. “Right off, I suppose! First time you meet her – just like that!”

The expert waved his cigarette. “Sure. Kiss her.”

“She murmurs her thanks, doubtless.”

“Not at all. She hates you. Won’t ever speak to you again.”

“Oh, really!” Peter was caustic.

“She didn’t think you were that sort; and won’t for a minute permit you to think she’s that sort.”

“And then?”

Another wave of the cigarette. “Slow down. Be kind to her. If she’s a cross old thing, forgive her. Let her see that you’re a regular fellow, even if you did start from third base instead of first. Above all, keep cool. Avoid tragedy, scenes. Keep smiling. When she does swing round – well, you’ve kissed her. There you are!”

Peter surveyed his apartment mate with gloomy eyes. “Sue and Betty are two very different girls,” said he.

“My son,” replied Hy, “I am not discussing persons. I am enunciating a principle. What may have passed between friend Betty and me has nothing to do with it.” He glanced at his watch. “Though I’ll admit she is expecting me around this evening. She doesn’t hate me, Pete… Funny thing about Betty – she was telling me – there’s a man up in her town pestering her to death. Letters and telegrams. Wants to marry her. He makes gas engines. Queer about these small-town fellows – they can’t understand a free-spirited woman. Imagine Betty cooped up like that!”

“I’m not likely to be kissing Sue,” growled Peter.

“My son, you’ve as good as done it already. From your own admission. Asked her to marry you. Right off, too – just like that! Can’t you see it’s the same thing in principle – shock and reaction! She’d have preferred the kiss of course – ”

“You don’t know that?”

“The trouble with you, Pete, is that you don’t understand women. According to your own story again, you startled her so that she left you on a country road and walked ten miles alone rather than answer you. I tell you, get a woman real angry at you just once, and she can’t be indifferent to you as long as she lives. Hate you – yes. Love you – yes. Indifferent – no… You’ve started something. Give her time.”

“Time!” snorted Peter. “Time!” He paced the long room; kicked the closet door shut; gave the piano keys a savage bang.

Hy watched Peter with growing concern. His eyes roved about the smoke-dimmed, high-ceiled studio. They had lived well here – himself, Peter and the Worm. Thanks to some unknown law of personality, they had got on, this odd trio, through the years. Girls and women had drifted into and out of their individual lives (for your New York bachelor does not inhabit a vacuum) – but never before had the specter of marriage stalked with disruptive import through these dingy rooms.

“Look here, Pete,” he said, “why be so dam’ serious about it!”

Peter paused in his pacing and stared at Hy… “Serious!” He repeated the word under his breath. His long face worked convulsively behind the large horn-rimmed glasses (not spectacles) and their black ribbon. Then abruptly he rushed into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

Hy sighed, glanced out at the weather (it was April), picked up hat, stick and gloves and sauntered forth to dine comfortably at his club as a ritualistic preliminary to a pleasant evening. That, he thought now, was the great thing about bachelor life in town. You had all the advantages of feminine companionship – in assorted varieties – and then when you preferred or if the ladies bored you you just went to the club.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed, all nerves, and thought about Sue Wilde. Also about six little bank books.

They had been his secret inner life, the bank books locked away in the middle drawer of the desk on the side next the wall. Nearly seven thousand dollars were now entered in those books – Peter’s all. He was staking it on a single throw. He had rushed in where a shrewder theatrical angel might well have feared to tread. It was the wild outbreak of a cautious impractical man.

He thought it all over, sitting there on the edge of the bed. It was terrifying, but stirring. In his plays some one was always saving a girl through an act of personal sacrifice. Now he was acting it out in life. Indicating the truth to life of his plays… He was risking all. But so had Napoleon, returning from Elba, risked all (he did not pursue the analogy). So had Henry V at Agincourt. After all, considered in this light, it was rather fine. Certain persons would admire him if they knew. It was the way big men did things. He was glad that Sue didn’t know; it was finer to take the plunge without so much as asking a return. It was magnificent.

The word, popping into his thoughts, gave Peter a thrill. Yes, it was magnificent. He was doing a magnificent thing. All that remained was to carry it off magnificently.

He dragged his trunk from the closet. The lower tray and the bottom were packed with photographs and with letters tied in flat bundles – letters in various feminine hands. He stirred the bundles about. Some were old – years old; others less so.

Peter regarded them with the detachment of exaltation. They could not possibly mean anything to him; his life had begun the day he first saw Sue Wilde.

He carried them into the studio, great armsful, and piled them about the hearth. In the bottom drawer of the bureau were other packets of intimate documents. He brought those as well. Then he set to work to burn, packet by packet, that curiously remote past life of his. And he smiled a little at this memory and that.

Closely packed papers do not burn easily. He was seated there on the floor before the fireplace, stirring up sheets at which the flames had nibbled, when Jacob Zanin came in.

Zanin stared and laughed.

“Bad as that?” said he.

Peter met this sally with dignified silence. He urged his caller to sit down.

Zanin dropped his hat on the desk and disposed his big frame in the Morris chair. His coat was wrinkled, his trousers baggy. Under his coat was an old gray sweater. The head above the sweater collar was big and well-poised. The face was hard and strong; the eyes were alight with restlessness.

“I’m dog tired,” said Zanin. “Been rehearsing six hours straight.” And he added: “I suppose you haven’t had a chance to go over my scenario.”

“I’ve done more than that,” replied Peter calmly; “I’ve written a new one.” And as Zanin’s brows came down questioningly he added: “I think you’ll find I’ve pointed up your ideas. The thing was very strong. Once I got to thinking about it I couldn’t let go. What it needed was clarifying and rearranging and building for climaxes. That’s what makes it so hard for our people to understand you Russians – you are formless, chaotic.”

“Like life,” said Zanin.

“Perhaps. But not like our stage traditions. You wanted me to help you reach a popular audience. That’s what I’m trying to do for you.”

“Fine!” said Zanin doubtfully. “Let me take it along. I’ll read it to-night – go over it with Sue, perhaps.”

Peter shook his head.

“But I’ll have to see it, Mann.”

“I’ll read it to you – to you and Sue,” said Peter.

Zanin looked at him, faintly surprised and thinking.

Peter went back to the hearth, dropped on his knees and threw another bundle of letters into the fire.

“The fact is,” said Zanin, hesitating, “I had some work planned for Sue this evening.”

“No hurry,” remarked Peter.

“Ah, but there is.” Zanin hitched forward in his chair. The eager hardness came again into his eyes. His strong, slightly husky voice rose a little.

“Why? How so?” Peter settled back on his heels and poked the fire.

“Look here, Mann – everything’s just right for us now. I’ve interested the Interstellar people – that’s partly what I came to say – they’ll supply studio stuff for the interior scenes and a camera man. Also they’ll stand a third of the expense. They’re ready to sign whenever you are. And what’s more important – well, here’s the question of Sue.”

“What’s the question?”

“It’s delicate – but I’ll be frank.”

“Better be. You and I are going into this as business men, Zanin.”

“Exactly. As business men. Well – Sue’s a girl, after all. In this thing we are staking a lot on her interest and enthusiasm – pretty nearly everything.”

“Of course.

“Well, she’s ready – eager. I know her pretty thoroughly, Mann. I’ve studied her. We have no real hold on her. She isn’t a professional actress, to be hired at so much a week. Her only reason for going into it at all, is that she believes, with you and me, that the thing ought to be done. Now that’s all right. It’s fine! But it’s going to take delicate handling. A girl acts as she feels, you know. Right now Sue feels like doing my Nature film with all her might.” He spread out his hands. In his eyes was an eager appeal. “God, Maun, that’s all we’ve got! Don’t you see? Just Sue’s feelings!”

“I see,” Peter replied. He threw the last heap of photographs on the fire. “But what was the frank thing?”

Zanin hesitated; drummed nervously on the chair-arm. “I’m coming to that. It’s a bit awkward, Mann. It’s – well, I am more or less in Sue’s confidence, you know. I’m with her so much, I can sense her moods… The fact is, Mann, if you’ll let me say so, you don’t seem to understand women.”

“So I’ve been told,” remarked Peter dryly. “Go on with it.”

“Well, Sue’s got it into her head that you don’t get the idea of intelligent radicalism. That you’re…

“That I’m a reactionary.”

“Yes – that you’re a reactionary. She’s worried about the scenario – afraid you’ll miss the very point of it.” Again he spread out his large strong hands. “So don’t you see why I’m eager to get hold of it and read it to her” – he hesitated again, and knit his brows – “so I can reassure her… You see, Mann, Sue just doesn’t like you. That’s the plain fact. You’ve hit her all wrong.” He raised a hand to ward off Peter’s interruption. “Oh, we’ll straighten that out all right! But it’ll take delicate handling – just now, while we’re working out the scenario and planning the trip south – and so, meantime…”

“You would like me to keep out of Sue’s way as much as possible.”

“And leave everything to me, Mann. As it stands now, here she is, keen, all ready, once she’s solid in her mind about the right spirit of the scenario, to start south with me…”

Peter waved the poker in a series of small circles and figure eights; then held it motionless and sighted along it with squinted-up eyes.

“Why go south?” he asked.

Zanin gave a start and stared at him; then controlled himself, for the expenses of that little trip, two-thirds of them, at least, must be paid out of the funds entered in Peter’s six little bank books.

“Why go south?” Zanin repeated, gropingly; then came back at Peter with a rush of words. “Good lord, Mann, don’t you see that we’re putting over a big piece of symbolism – the most delicate and difficult job on earth. This isn’t Shore Acres! It isn’t the Doll’s House! It’s a realized dream, and it’s got to be put across with such quality and power that it will fire a new dream in the public mind. I propose to spring right out at ‘em, startle ‘em – yes, shock ‘em; and all the time keep it where they can’t lay their vulgar hands on it. We can’t show our Nature effects – primitive, half-nude people – against a background of a New Jersey farm land with a chestnut tree and a couple of oaks in the middle distance!”

“Pretty fine trees, those!” observed Peter.

“Not for a minute!” Zanin sprang to his feet; his voice rang. “Got to be remote, exotic – dream quality, fantasy all through. Florida or California – palm trees and such. Damn it, the thing’s a poem! It’s got to be done as a poem.”

He strode down the room and back.

Peter got up, very calm, rather white about the mouth and watched him… Dream quality? His thoughts were woven through and through with it at this moment. A voice at his inner ear, a voice curiously like Hy’s, was murmuring over and over: “Sure! Kiss her.”

“Don’t you see?” cried Zanin, confronting him, and spreading out those big hands. Peter wished wildly that he would keep them in his pockets, put them behind his back – anything to get them out of sight!.. “Lets be sensible, Maun. As you said, we’re business men, you and I. You let me take the scenario. I’m to see Sue this evening – I’ll read it to her. I’m sure it’s good. It’ll reassure her. And it will help me to hold her enthusiasm and pave the way for a better understanding between her and you.”

Quite unforeseen by either, the little matter of reading the scenario had struck up an issue between them. All was not harmony within the directorate of The Nature Film Producing Co., Inc., Jacob Zanin, Pres’t.

“No,” said Peter. “I won’t let you have it now.”

“But – good lord! – ”

“I will think it over.”

Magnificent was the word. Zanin gulped down a temperamental explosion and left.

Peter, as he came slowly back from the elevator to the apartment, discovered that he still held the poker tightly in his right hand, like a sword. He thought again of Napoleon and Henry V.

He stood motionless, by the window, staring out; moved by the histrionic emotionalism that was almost his soul to stiffen his shoulders like a king’s. Out there – beyond old Washington Square where the first buds of spring tipped the trees – beyond the glimpse, down a red-brick vista of the Sixth Avenue Elevated – still beyond and on, were, he knew, the dusty wandering streets, the crumbling houses with pasts, the flimsy apartment buildings decorated in front with rococo fire escapes, the bleak little three-cornered parks, the devastating subway excavations of Greenwich Village. Somewhere in that welter of poverty and art, at this very moment (unless she had walked up-town) was Sue Wilde. He tried to imagine just where. Perhaps in the dim little rear apartment she shared with Betty Deane, waiting for Zarin.

His gaze wandered down to the Square. There was Zanin, crossing it, under the bare trees.

His grip on the poker relaxed. He moved toward the telephone; glanced out again at the swift-striding Zanin; then with dignity, replaced the poker by the fireplace, consulted the telephone book and called up Sue’s apartment.

Sue herself answered.

“This is Eric Mann,” he told her. “I want very much to talk with you” – his voice was none too steady – “about the scenario.”

“Well” – over the wire he could feel her hesitation – “if it is important…”

“I think it is.”

“Any time, almost, then…

“Are you busy now?”

“Why – no.”

“Perhaps you’d dine with me.”

“Why – all right. At Jim’s, say.”

The color came rushing to Peter’s face.

“Right away?” he suggested, controlling his voice. “All right. I’ll meet you there.”

Peter hung up the receiver and smiled. So Zanin was to see Sue this evening, was he? “He’ll need a telescope,” mused Peter with savage joy as he hurried out.

CHAPTER XI – PROPINQUITY-PLUS

HE caught up with her at the corner nearest Jim’s – the same Sue he had first met, here in the Village, on a curbstone, eating an apple – wearing her old tarn o’shanter; good shoulders, no hips, well-shaped hands and feet; odd, honest deep-green eyes.

She was a wreck from endless rehearsing she told him smilingly and ordered a big English chop and a bigger baked potato. These were good at Jim’s. She ate them like a hungry boy.

He offered her with inner hesitation, a cigarette. She shook her head. “Zanin won’t let me,” she explained. “He says it’s going to be a big hard job, coming right on top of all the work at the Crossroads, and I must keep fit.”

“Zanin! Zanin!..” But Peter maintained his studied calm. “I’ve got the scenario in my pocket,” he announced, “I want to read it to you. And if you don’t mind I’ll tell you just why I want to.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” said she, with just one half-covert glance. “Tell me.”

“Please hear me out,” said he.

Her lids did droop a little now. This was the Eric Mann whose plays she had seen in past years and who had pounced on her so suddenly with a crazy avowal of love… A man she hardly knew!

He spoke quietly now and patiently; even with dignity.

“We – you and Zanin and I – are starting a serious job.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, I began all wrong by taking a personal attitude toward you, and we quarreled rather absurdly…”

“We won’t speak of that,” said she.

“Only to this extent: Any little personal misunderstandings – well, we’ve got to be businesslike and frank… I’ll tell you. This afternoon – just now, in fact – when I suggested to Zanin that I read it to the two of you, he objected. In fact he told me in so many words that you disliked me and didn’t trust my understanding and that it would be necessary for him to act as a buffer between you and me.”

“Oh,” said she quickly, “that’s absurd, of course!”

“Of course. He rather insisted on taking the scenario and reading it to you himself. Now that won’t do.”

“I don’t care who reads it to me,” said Sue coolly.

“Certainly not. Now, if you’ll agree with me that there’s nothing personal between us, that we’re just whole-hearted workmen on a job, I…”

She raised her eyebrows a little, waking.

“…I came here with the idea of asking you to hunt Zanin up with me – making it a matter of company business, right now.”

“Oh,” said she, her independent spirt stirred, “I don’t see that that’s necessary. Why don’t you go ahead – just read it to me?” She looked about the smoky busy room. “But it’s noisy here. And people you know come in and want to talk. I’d ask you around to the rooms, only…”

“Only, Hy Lowe will be there.” Peter, feeling new ground under his feet, smiled.

Sue smiled a little herself.

“How about your place?” she asked them.

The question took Peter’s breath. She said it in unmistakable good faith, like a man. But never, never, in Peter’s whole adult life, had a woman said such a thing to him. That women came occasionally; into the old bachelor apartment building, he knew. But the implications! What would Hamer-ton, across the hall, think of him were he to meet them together in the elevator? What would John the night man think? Above all (this thought came second) what would they think of Sue?

“Oh,” observed Sue, with real good humor, “I remember! That’s the building where women callers can’t stay after eleven at night.”

Peter nearly succeeded in fighting back the flush that came.

“Which,” Sue continued, “has always seemed to me the final comment on conventional morality. It’s the best bit of perfectly unconscious humor in New York.”

Peter was thinking – in flashes and leaps, like Napoleon – startled by his own daring, yet athrill with new determination. The Worm was out of town; Hy very much engaged… Besides, Sue was honest and right. This was the sincere note in the New Russianism. Being yourself, straight-out. He must rise to it, now or never, if he was not to lose Sue for good.

So he smiled. “It’s only eight,” he said. “I can read you the whole thing and we can discuss it within a couple of hours. And we won’t be interrupted there.”

Walking straight into that building with Sue at his side, nodding with his usual casual friendliness to John the night man, chatting while the elevator crawled endlessly upward to the seventh floor, overcoming the impulse to run past the doors of the other apartments, carrying it all off with easy sophistication; this was unquestionably the bravest single act in the whole life of Peter Ericson Mann.

Peter could be a pleasant host. He lighted the old gas-burning student lamp on the desk; started a fire; threw all the cushions in one large pile on the couch.

Sue threw aside her coat and tarn o’shanter, smoothed her hair a little, then curled up on the couch with her feet under her where she could watch the fire; and where (as it happened) the firelight played softly on her alert face. She filled the dingy old room with a new and very human warmth.

Peter settled back in the Morris chair and after one long look at her plunged with a sudden fever of energy into the reading of the scenario.

It was the thing Peter did best. He read rapidly; moved forward in his chair and gestured now and then for emphasis with his long hands; threw more than a little sense of movement and power into it.

Sue listened rather idly at first; then, as Peter’s trained, nicely modulated voice swept on, lifted her head, leaned forward, watched his face. Peter felt her gaze but dared not return it. Once he stopped, flushed and hoarse, and telephoned down for ice-water. Those eyes, all alight, followed him as he rushed past her to the door and returned with the clinking water pitcher. He snatched up the manuscript and finished it – nearly half an hour of it – standing. Then he threw it on the desk with a noise that made Sue jump, and himself strode to the fireplace and stood there, mopping his face, still avoiding her eyes. She was still leaning eagerly forward.

“Well,” said he now, with a rather weak effort at casualness, “what do you think of it? Of course it’s a rough draft – ”

“Of course it is no such thing,” said she.

She got up; moved to the table: took up the manuscript and turned the first pages. Then she came to the other side of the hearth with it, “What I want to know is – How did you do it?”

“Oh, it’s Zanin’s ideas, of course; but they needed rearranging and pointing up.”

“This isn’t a rearrangement,” said she; and now he awoke to consciousness of the suppressed stirring quality in her voice, a quality he had not heard in it before. “It isn’t a rearrangement. It’s a created thing.”

“Oh,” he cried, “you really think that!”

“It carries the big idea. It’s the very spirit of freedom. It’s a – a sort of battle-cry – ” She gave a little laugh – “Of course it isn’t that, exactly; it’s really a big vital drama. I’m talking rather wildly. But – ” She confronted him; he looked past her hair at the wall. She stamped her foot. “Don’t make me go on saying these inane things, please! You know as well as I do what you’ve done.”

“What have I done?”

“You’ve stated our faith with a force and a fineness that Zanin, even, could never get. You’ve said it all for us… Oh, I owe you an apology! Zanin told you part of the truth. I didn’t dream – from your plays and things you have said – that you could do this.”

Peter looked at her now with breathless solemnity. “I’ve changed,” he said.

“Something has happened.”

“I’m not ashamed of changing.”

She smiled.

“Or of growing, even.”

“Of course not,” said she. “But listen! You don’t know what you’ve done. Do you suppose I’ve been looking forward to this job – making myself sensationally conspicuous, working with commercial-minded people? Oh, how I’ve dreaded that side of it! And worrying all the time because the scenario wasn’t good. It just wasn’t. It wasn’t real people, feeling and living; it was ideas – nothing but ideas – stalking around. That’s Zanin, of course. He’s a big man, he has got the ideas, but he hasn’t got people, quite; he just doesn’t understand women… Don’t you see,” she threw out her hands – “the only reason, the only excuse, really, for going through with this ordeal is to help make people everywhere understand Truth. And I’ve known – it’s been discouraging – that we couldn’t possibly do that unless it was clearly expressed for us… Now do you see what you’ve done? It’s that! And it’s pretty exciting.”

“Zanin may not take it this way.”

“Oh, he will! He’ll have to. It means so much to him. That man has lost everything at the Crossroads, you know. And now he is staking all he has left – his intelligence, his strength, his courage, on this. It means literally everything to him.”

Peter stared at her. “And what do you suppose it means to me!”

“Why – I don’t know, of course…”

Peter strode to the desk, unlocked the middle drawer next the wall, drew out the six little bank books, and almost threw them into her lap.

“Look at those,” he said – “all of them!”

“Why – ” she hesitated.

“Go through them, please! Add them up.”

Half smiling, she did so. Then said: “It seems to come to almost seven thousand dollars.”

“That’s the money that’s going to work out your dream.”

She glanced up at him, then down at the books.

“It’s all I’ve got in the world – all – all! That, and the three per cent, it brings in. My play – they’re going to produce it in the fall. You won’t like it. It’s the old ideas, the old Broadway stuff.”

“But you’ve changed.”

“Yes. Since I wrote it. It doesn’t matter. It may bring money, it may not. Likely not. Ninety per cent, of ‘em fail, you know. This is all I’ve got – every cent All my energy and what courage I’ve got goes after it – into The Nature Film Producing Company. Please understand that! I’m leading up to something.”

She looked a thought disturbed. He rushed on.

“Zanin’s got it into his head that he’s going to take you south to do all the outdoor scenes.”

“I haven’t agreed to that. He feels that it’s necessary.”

“Yes, he does. He’s sincere enough. Remember, I’m talking impersonally. As I told you, we’ve got to be businesslike – and frank. We’ve got to!”

“Of course,” said she.

“I’m beginning to see that Zanin is just as much of a hero with other people’s money as he is with his own.”

“That goes with the temperament, I suppose.”

“Undoubtedly. But now, see! That trip south – taking actors and camera man and outfit – staying around at hotels – railway fares – it will cost a fortune.”

“Oh,” said she, very grave, “I hadn’t realized that.”

“If we can just keep our heads – more carefully – spend the money where it will really show on the film – don’t you see, we can swing it, and when we’ve done it, it won’t belong to the Interstellar people – or to Silverstone; it’ll be ours. And that means it’ll be what we – you – want it to be and not something vulgar and – and nasty. The other way, it we give Zanin his head and begin spending money magnificently, we’ll run out, and then the price of a little more money, if we can get it at all, will be, the control.”

Re reached down for the books, threw them back into the drawer, slammed it and locked it.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s all I’ve got. I pledge it all, here and now, to the dream you’ve dreamed. All I ask is, keep in mind what may happen when it’s gone.”

She rose now; stood thinking; then drew on her lam o’shanter and reached for her coat.

“Let me think this over,” she said soberly.

“We must be businesslike,” said he. “Impersonal.”

“Yes,” said she, and stepped over to the fire, low-burning now with a mass of red coals.

Peter’s eyes, deep, gloomy behind the big glasses, followed her. He came slowly and stood by her.

“I must go,” she said gently. “It’ll he eleven first thing we known It would be a bit too amusing to be put out.”

They lingered.

Then Peter found himself lifting his arms. He tried to keep them down, but up, up they came – very slowly, he thought.

He caught her shoulders, swung her around, drew her close. It seemed to him afterward, during one of the thousand efforts he made to construct a mental picture of the scene, that she must have been resisting him and that he must have been using his strength; but if this was so it made no difference. Her head was in the hollow’ of his arm. He bent down, drew her head up, kissed, as it happened, her nose; forced her face about and at the second effort kissed her lips. If she was struggling – and Peter will never be quite clear on that point – she was unable to resist him. He kissed her again. And then again. A triumphant fury was upon him.

But suddenly it passed. He almost pushed her away from him; left her standing, limp and breathless, by the mantel, while he threw himself on the couch and plunged his face into his hands.

“You’ll hate me,” he groaned. “You won’t ever speak to me again. You’ll think I’m that sort of man, and you’ll be right in thinking so. What’s worse, you’ll believe I thought you were the sort to let me do it. And all the time I love you more than – Oh God, what made me do it! What could I have been thinking of! I was mad!”

Then the room was still.