The conversation worked itself jerkily toward a rather
abrupt conclusion, when Anthony rose, looked at his
watch, and remarked that he had an engagement with
his broker that afternoon. He had intended to
stay a few days with his grandfather, but he was tired
and irritated from a rough crossing, and quite unwilling
to stand a subtle and sanctimonious browbeating.
He would come out again in a few days, he said.
Nevertheless, it was due to this encounter that work
had come into his life as a permanent idea. During
the year that had passed since then, he had made several
lists of authorities, he had even experimented with
chapter titles and the division of his work into periods,
but not one line of actual writing existed at present,
or seemed likely ever to exist. He did nothing—and
contrary to the most accredited copy-book logic, he
managed to divert himself with more than average content.
It was October in 1913, midway in a week of pleasant
days, with the sunshine loitering in the cross-streets
and the atmosphere so languid as to seem weighted
with ghostly falling leaves. It was pleasant to
sit lazily by the open window finishing a chapter
of “Erewhon.” It was pleasant to
yawn about five, toss the book on a table, and saunter
humming along the hall to his bath.
“To ... you ... beaut-if-ul lady,”
he was singing as he turned on the tap.
“I raise ... my ... eyes;
To ... you ... beaut-if-ul la-a-dy
My ... heart ... cries—”
He raised his voice to compete with the flood of water
pouring into the tub, and as he looked at the picture
of Hazel Dawn upon the wall he put an imaginary violin
to his shoulder and softly caressed it with a phantom
bow. Through his closed lips he made a humming
noise, which he vaguely imagined resembled the sound
of a violin. After a moment his hands ceased
their gyrations and wandered to his shirt, which he
began to unfasten. Stripped, and adopting an
athletic posture like the tiger-skin man in the advertisement,
he regarded himself with some satisfaction in the
mirror, breaking off to dabble a tentative foot in
the tub. Readjusting a faucet and indulging in
a few preliminary grunts, he slid in.
Once accustomed to the temperature of the water he
relaxed into a state of drowsy content. When
he finished his bath he would dress leisurely and
walk down Fifth Avenue to the Ritz, where he had an
appointment for dinner with his two most frequent
companions, Dick Caramel and Maury Noble. Afterward
he and Maury were going to the theatre—Caramel
would probably trot home and work on his book, which
ought to be finished pretty soon.
Anthony was glad he wasn’t going to work
on his book. The notion of sitting down
and conjuring up, not only words in which to clothe
thoughts but thoughts worthy of being clothed—the
whole thing was absurdly beyond his desires.
