Bambi announced the next morning that she had to have an entire day in
which to get over "Damaged Goods." Jarvis was nothing loath to put off
the evil hour when he was to start on his manager-hunt. So they agreed
on one more day of freedom.
The clouds threatened, so they looked over the papers for an
announcement of picture exhibitions, concerts, and lectures. The choice
was bewildering. They finally decided on a morning lecture, at Berkeley
Lyceum, entitled "The Religion of the Democrat." They made their way to
the little theatre, in a leisurely manner, to find the street blocked
with motor cars, the sidewalk and foyer crowded with fashionable women,
fully half an hour before the lecture was announced. Distracted ushers
tried to find places for the endless stream of ardent culturites, until
even the stage was invaded and packed in solid rows.
"This is astonishing," said Jarvis. "What on earth do these fine birds
care for democracy?"
"Must be the lecturer," said wise Bambi.
"Humph! A little mental pap before they run on to lunch."
The cackle and babble ceased suddenly as the chairman and lecturer
appeared. After a few announcements, the leading man was introduced.
Bambi was right. It was the man. You felt personality in the slow way he
swept the audience with his eyes, in the charming, friendly smile, in
the humour of his face. The women fairly purred.
Jarvis grunted impatiently, and Bambi felt a sense of guilt for her
ready response to this man, who had not yet spoken. Then he began, in a
good, resonant voice, to hook this lecture to the one of the
week before.
"Oh, it's a course," Bambi whispered.
Jarvis nodded. He wished he was well out of it. He hated the woman-idol
kind of lecturer. Then a stray phrase caught his wandering attention,
and he began to listen. The man had the "gift of tongues." That was
evident. This was his last conscious comment. It seemed but a few
minutes later that he turned to Bambi, as the lecturer sat down. She sat
forward in her chair, with that absorbed responsiveness he had marked in
her before. He touched her before she realized that it was time to go.
"That was big, wasn't it?" she said.
"It was. He is somebody. He gave them real meat instead of pap."
"And they liked it," Bambi said, reaching for her furs, her bag, and her
umbrella, strewn under the seat in her trance.
"That fellow is all right. He makes you feel that there are fine, big
things to be done in the world, and that you must be about it--not
to-morrow, but to-day," Jarvis said, as they pushed their way out.
"I wonder what these women are doing about it?" Bambi speculated.
"Talking."
"Boo!" she scoffed at him.
They strolled, with the strollers, on the avenue. They ate what Jarvis
dubbed "a soupçon" of lunch in a tea-shop, and to elude a dribble of
rain they betook themselves to the Armory, down on Seventeenth Street,
to the much-talked-of International Modern Art Exhibition.
Adam and Eve, the first day in the Garden, could not have been any more
dazed than these two young things who had strayed in out of the rain. No
sated sensibilities here, prodded by the constant shocks of metropolitan
"latest thing," but fresh, enthusiastic interest was their priceless
possession. They wandered aimlessly through several rooms, until they
emerged into the Cubist and Futurist sections and stood rooted to the
floor with surprise and horror.
"What are these?" Bambi demanded.
"Damaged Goods," Jarvis laughed, with a rare attempt at a joke.
"Are they serious?"
"Tragic, I should say."
He looked about with an expression of amusement, but Bambi felt actual,
physical nausea at the sight of the vivid blue and orange and purple.
"It's wicked!" she said, between closed teeth.
"Let's sit down and try to get the idea," said Jarvis.
"There isn't any idea."
"Oh, yes, there must be. The directors would never get together an acre
of these atrocities unless there was some excuse."
"It's low and degenerate. It's a school of hideousness. Come away!"
"You go sit in another room if you like. I am going to give these
fellows a fair chance. Maybe they've got hold of something new."
"There is nothing new about that awful woman with a decayed face. She
has been dead for weeks."
"Just put your emotions away, Bambi, and train your mind on this thing.
Here is a whole school of men, working in a new medium, along new ideas.
They can't all be crazy, you know."
"You like it?"
"Of course I don't like it, but it interests me. I haven't read or heard
anything about it, so it is a shock."
"You shall not make for yourselves false images," she said, shaking her
head.
"Maybe these maniacs are trying to break up the conventions of Painting
and Sculpture. They want more freedom."
"They are anarchists, vandals!"
"Possibly, but if they are necessary to the development of a bigger art
expression----"
"They ought to work in secret, and exhibit in the dark."
"No, no! We have to be prepared for it. Our old standards have got to
go."
"I feel as medieval as the Professor. I never really understood him
before."
"We ought to bring him here."
"I think it would kill him," Bambi answered.
They spent a couple of hours, and then went back to the club. For some
reason the Cubists had stirred Jarvis deeply. He divined something new
and sincere, where Bambi felt only pose and degeneracy.
"When you think of that awful street, and 'Damaged Goods,' and that
exhibit of horrors, all in two days, I don't wonder I feel like an old,
old woman," she said.
"Suppose we stay in to-night? There is some kind of special meeting
announced here, to discuss the drama. We might go in for a
little while."
"All right. But 'early to bed,' for to-morrow we set out on our
careers."
"You haven't told me what yours is, yet," he objected.
"Mine is a secret."
The dining-room of the club was entirely full when they went down, and
the hum of talk and laughter roused Bambi's tired sensibilities.
"It's quite jolly," she said. "Some of the people look interesting,
don't they?"
"I talked to that little man, over there, with the red necktie, while I
was waiting for you, and he has ideas."
"Lovely woman with him."
They chatted personalities for a while.
"Seems ages since we left home, doesn't it?"
"Yes. Big mental experiences obliterate time."
"The Professor has forgotten to write, of course."
"He has probably forgotten us."
"Oh, no!"
"I feel that I am getting rather well acquainted with you," he nodded
and smiled.
"How do you like me, now that you have met me?" she teased.
"You are an interesting specimen over-sensitized."
"Jarvis!" she protested. "I sound like a Cubist picture."
After dinner they drifted with the crowd into the art gallery, where
they talked to several people who introduced themselves. It was very
friendly and social. The lecturer they had heard in the morning was
there. Jarvis went to speak to him, and brought him back to Bambi. She
found him jolly and responsive. She even dared to twit him about his
feminine audience.
People seated themselves in groups, and finally a chairman made some
remarks about the Modern Drama and invited a discussion. A dramatic
critic made cynical comment on the so-called "uplift plays," which
roused Jarvis to indignation. To Bambi's surprise, he was on his feet
instantly, and a torrent of words was spilled upon the dramatic critic.
He held the attention closely, in an impassioned plea for thoughtful
drama, not necessarily didactic, but the serious handling of vital
problems in comedy, if necessary, or even in farce. It need not be such
harrowing work as Brieux makes it, but if the man who had things to say
could and would conquer the technique of dramatic writing, he would
reach the biggest audiences that could be provided, which ought to pay
him for the severity of his apprenticeship.
Bambi thrilled with pride in him, his handsome face, his passionate
idealism, and his eloquence. He sat down, amid much applause, and Bambi
knew he had made his place among these clever people. He took some part
in the discussion that followed, and when they went upstairs she marked
the flush of excitement and the alive look of his face.
"I was proud of you, Jarvis," she said, as they stopped at her door.
"Nonsense. The man I talked against was a duffer, but this has been a
great day," he said. "This place stimulates you every minute."
"Tomorrow we move on Broadway, Captain Jocelyn. Get your forces in order
to advance."
"Very good, General. Good night, sir."
"Good-night."
As she closed her door she skipped across the room. She knew the first
gun had been fired when Jarvis rose to speak. If she was to act as
commander in the making of his career, she was glad she had a
personality to work with. Nobody would forget that Greek head, with its
close-cropped brown curls, those dreaming blue eyes, and that sensitive,
over-controlled mouth. Her own dreams were wrought about them.