Читать книгу Arrowsmith - Sinclair Lewis - Страница 27

III

It cannot be said, in this biography of a young man who was in no degree a hero, who regarded himself as a seeker after truth yet who stumbled and slid back all his life and bogged himself in every obvious morass, that Martin’s intentions toward Madeline Fox were what is called “honorable.” He was not a Don Juan, but he was a poor medical student who would have to wait for years before he could make a living. Certainly he did not think of proposing marriage. He wanted—like most poor and ardent young men in such a case, he wanted all he could get.

As he raced toward her flat, he was expectant of adventure. He pictured her melting; he felt her hand glide down his cheek. He warned himself, “Don’t be a fool now! Probably nothing doing at all. Don’t go get all worked up and then be disappointed. She’ll probably cuss you out for something you did wrong at the party. She’ll probably be sleepy and wish you hadn’t come. Nothing!” But he did not for a second believe it.

He rang, he saw her opening the door, he followed her down the meager hall, longing to take her hand. He came into the over-bright living-room—and he found her mother, solid as a pyramid, permanent-looking as sunless winter.

But of course Mother would obligingly go, and leave him to conquest.

Mother did not.

In Mohalis, the suitable time for young men callers to depart is ten o’clock, but from eight till a quarter after eleven Martin did battle with Mrs. Fox; talked to her in two languages, an audible gossip and a mute but furious protest, while Madeline—she was present; she sat about and looked pretty. In an equally silent tongue Mrs. Fox answered him, till the room was thick with their antagonism, while they seemed to be discussing the weather, the University, and the trolley service into Zenith.

“Yes, of course, some day I guess they’ll have a car every twenty minutes,” he said weightily.

(“Darn her, why doesn’t she go to bed? Cheers! She’s doing up her knitting. Nope. Damn it! She’s taking another ball of wool.”)

“Oh, yes, I’m sure they’ll have to have better service,” said Mrs. Fox.

(“Young man, I don’t know much about you, but I don’t believe you’re the right kind of person for Madeline to go with. Anyway, it’s time you went home.”)

“Oh, yes, sure, you bet. Lot better service.”

(“I know I’m staying too long, and I know you know it, but I don’t care!”)

It seemed impossible that Mrs. Fox should endure his stolid persistence. He used thought-forms, will-power, and hypnotism, and when he rose, defeated, she was still there, extremely placid. They said good-by not too warmly. Madeline took him to the door; for an exhilarating half-minute he had her alone.

“I wanted so much—I wanted to talk to you!”

“I know. I’m sorry. Some time!” she muttered.

He kissed her. It was a tempestuous kiss, and very sweet.