Wrong, said Dawe, closing his unshaven jaws doggedly. I say no man or woman ever spouts high-falutin talk when they go up against a real climax. They talk naturally and a little worse.
The editor rose from the bench with his air of indulgence and inside information.
Say, Westbrook, said Dawe, pinning him by the lapel, would you have accepted The Alarum of the Soul if you had believed that the actions and words of the characters were true to life in the parts of the story that we discussed?
It is very likely that I would, if I believed that way, said the editor. But I have explained to you that I do not.
If I could prove to you that I am right?
Im sorry, Shack, but Im afraid I havent time to argue any further just now.
I dont want to argue, said Dawe. I want to demonstrate to you from life itself that my view is the correct one.
How could you do that? asked Westbrook, in a surprised tone.
Listen, said the writer, seriously. I have thought of a way. It is important to me that my theory of true-to-life fiction be recognized as correct by the magazines. Ive fought for it for three years, and Im down to my last dollar, with two months rent due.
I have applied the opposite of your theory, said the editor, in selecting the fiction for the Minerva Magazine. The circulation has gone up from ninety thousand to
Four hundred thousand, said Dawe. Whereas it should have been boosted to a million.
You said something to me just now about demonstrating your pet theory.
I will. If youll give me about half an hour of your time Ill prove to you that I am right. Ill prove it by Louise.
Your wife! exclaimed Westbrook. How?
Well, not exactly by her, but with her, said Dawe. Now, you know how devoted and loving Louise has always been. She thinks Im the only genuine preparation on the market that bears the old doctors signature. Shes been fonder and more faithful than ever, since Ive been cast for the neglected genius part.
Indeed, she is a charming and admirable life companion, agreed the editor. I remember what inseparable friends she and Mrs. Westbrook once were. We are both lucky chaps, Shack, to have such wives. You must bring Mrs. Dawe up some evening soon, and well have one of those informal chafing-dish suppers that we used to enjoy so much.
Later, said Dawe. When I get another shirt. And now Ill tell you my scheme. When I was about to leave home after breakfast if you can call tea and oatmeal breakfast Louise told me she was going to visit her aunt in Eighty-ninth Street. She said she would return at three oclock. She is always on time to a minute. It is now
Dawe glanced toward the editors watch pocket.
Twenty-seven minutes to three, said Westbrook, scanning his time-piece.
We have just enough time, said Dawe. We will go to my flat at once. I will write a note, address it to her and leave it on the table where she will see it as she enters the door. You and I will be in the dining-room concealed by the portieres. In that note Ill say that I have fled from her forever with an affinity who understands the needs of my artistic soul as she never did. When she reads it we will observe her actions and hear her words. Then we will know which theory is the correct one yours or mine.
Oh, never! exclaimed the editor, shaking his head. That would be inexcusably cruel. I could not consent to have Mrs. Dawes feelings played upon in such a manner.
Brace up, said the writer. I guess I think as much of her as you do. Its for her benefit as well as mine. Ive got to get a market for my stories in some way. It wont hurt Louise. Shes healthy and sound. Her heart goes as strong as a ninety-eight-cent watch. Itll last for only a minute, and then Ill step out and explain to her. You really owe it to me to give me the chance, Westbrook.
Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though but half willingly. And in the half of him that consented lurked the vivisectionist that is in all of us. Let him who has not used the scalpel rise and stand in his place. Pity tis that there are not enough rabbits and guinea-pigs to go around.
The two experimenters in Art left the Square and hurried eastward and then to the south until they arrived in the Gramercy neighborhood. Within its high iron railings the little park had put on its smart coat of vernal green, and was admiring itself in its fountain mirror. Outside the railings the hollow square of crumbling houses, shells of a bygone gentry, leaned as if in ghostly gossip over the forgotten doings of the vanished quality. Sic transit gloria urbis.[179]
A block or two north of the Park, Dawe steered the editor again eastward, then, after covering a short distance, into a lofty but narrow flat-house burdened with a floridly over-decorated facade. To the fifth story they toiled, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latch-key into the door of one of the front flats.
When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw, with feelings of pity, how meanly and meagerly the rooms were furnished.
Get a chair, if you can find one, said Dawe, while I hunt up pen and ink. Hello, whats this? Heres a note from Louise. She must have left it there when she went out this morning.