1
THEY came back refreshed to civilization—to the studio, to a whirl of
exciting parties, to books and ideas, to the problems of ambition, to
the Chronicle office and a theatrical season just opening with hectic
announcements of “Alias Jimmy Valentine,” “The Case of Becky,” “The Pink
Lady” and “The Chocolate Soldier.”...
Hawkins was still in New York, assisting in the selection of a cast for
his play—which to Felix’s complete astonishment (for Hawkins had not
confided anything to him as to its theme or character) was announced as
“Tootsie-Wootsie.” A farce!—with, as it further appeared, honeymoon
couples and wrong bedrooms.... What? Hawkins, the serious Hawkins, who
had so often called upon American drama to do its duty and deal with
“the problems of the time”—he the author of a play called
“Tootsie-Wootsie”?
The news of Hawkins’s play brought up in Felix’s mind a practical
question which so far he had refused to consider. It had been exciting
enough to be the acting dramatic critic of the Chronicle; he had not
wanted to look ahead any further. But when one day at lunch he ran into
Jennison (“the dean of the critical fraternity”), Jennison asked him,
“Are you going to do the plays for the Chronicle?” “Yes, while Hawkins
is away,” Felix told him. “Does Hawkins know it?” “Yes—he asked me to.”
“Well,” said Jennison, smiling, “then he’s a damn fool!” That was old
Jennison’s way of paying him an extravagant compliment. It was in its
way an accolade. It was an initiation, by the grand past master, into
the “critical fraternity.” And now Felix felt obliged to consider the
question of Hawkins and Hawkins’s play in its bearing upon his own
career.
If Hawkins’s play failed—and most plays did fail—Hawkins would return
and resume his post on the Chronicle. In that event, Felix would be
relegated to doing the odd jobs that Hawkins did not want to do. He
might even be put back to regular reporting. After all, the present
arrangement merely provided for a dramatic critic in Hawkins’s absence;
it was not likely they would want two men continuously on the job. They
had given Felix another raise that fall; and when Hawkins came back, he
would have to earn his salary doing regular reporter’s work again,
doubtless—if he _could_ earn it that way. It was rather a dismal
prospect.... Felix hoped fervently that the serious-minded Hawkins would
somehow, improbably, turn out a success as a farceur.
But if it was a success, and Hawkins resigned his position, how could
Felix know he would get it? After all, he was only twenty-three years
old. And though by a fluke he was actually _being_ for a while the
dramatic critic of a great Chicago newspaper, the idea that he should
retain this position and be confirmed in its title was incredible. He
wished that he were not so fatally young....
Well—he could only wait and see what happened.
It was at this period that he began wearing a moustache—a short,
well-defined moustache, aloof from the upper lip, trim and straight.
Nothing boyish, certainly about that moustache!
2
Felix and Rose-Ann had come back to Chicago eager to see Clive Bangs
again. They had been away just long enough to discover, in apparently
all human beings except themselves, a fundamental lack of interest in
all the ideas which most occupied their minds. Talk, with people in
general, was limited to an exchange of views, if not on the weather, at
least on things equally obvious. They felt the need for talk, and so did
Clive; and all at once, after what now seemed to them these months of
merely casual friendship, they became inseparable. The three of them
lunched together daily at a corner table in a little Hungarian
restaurant where they found what they considered the best food in
Chicago—a fond trio, laughing, talking excitedly, arguing with the
mingled gravity and extravagance of youth, sometimes rehearsing
passionately in private the opinions which they would state tomorrow
somewhat more soberly in print, and again discussing each other’s
characters with ironic humour—perpetually criticizing and taking delight
in each other’s criticism of life.
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