Red Fleece | Page 3

was only Lonegan who knew why. He read the cablegram carefully again, and felt his face as if speculating whether he could wait until morning for a shave. There was routine to do, and the developments of the day to file. Peter was on a mail story.... It occurred to him presently that his second would be interested in this eventuality from the Office. He called several places by 'phone without locating the younger man.
"He's with the woman," Lonegan concluded.
Peter had left her address somewhere, but it was not at hand; neither was her house available to telephone. Lonegan took down the Warsaw directory, and came finally to the street-number after this line:
"Bertha Solwicz, sempstress."
Chapter 3
She, too, was almost a stranger in Warsaw, and lonely. Each had their work, and many hours each day were required for it; still, after the first fortnight, they managed to meet often. Peter's time was hers, for he had the habit of leaving his feature-letter for the quiet hours of the night.
"I hate the name of Solwicz," she told him the first time he came to her house, "especially from you. And you must call me Berthe, not Bertha." In spite of her obvious lack of means, she had a few friends of rare quality, and yet he did not meet them. On her table that first day, he picked up a little book of poems, the leader of which was entitled We Are Free. Peter had read it a few weeks before and given it a quality of appreciation that was seldom called in these days. Just now he noted that the volume was affectionately inscribed to her from the author, Moritz Abel. She spoke of him and of the group of young master workmen to which he belonged. Then she read the poem, as they stood together. It was a moment of honor to the poet. Peter had turned pale, and the little room was hushed about them, as if Warsaw were suddenly stilled.
"You see what they are doing," she said. "There is a new race of artists in Russia. They have passed the emotions---"
"This poem was due in the world," Peter said. "But it is still an age ahead of the crowd."
"That's what makes it so hard for them--for him. He does not like that. He would like to talk to all men straight. Moritz Abel--the name will not be forgotten. He is like the others of the new race. They are terrible in their calm. They have passed the emotions. They are free. Other artists in Europe or America repress the emotions. That is but the beginning of the mastery. When they are as great as this group of young men, they will show the spirit of the thing, not the emotion of it. Emotions are red. This is pure white, don't you see?"
For three days Warsaw had been upheaved in excitement. On the afternoon that the messenger from Lonegan brought the news of the cablegram, Berthe and Peter were planning an excursion into the country for the next day. She watched him closely as he read, and was sensitive enough to realize the importance of the message, before he spoke.... He found her gray eyes upon him. She chose her own way to break the tension:
"The country is heaven, no doubt about that. One must die to get there. Also one must live just so. Even when I was little, something always happened--just as we were planning to set out for the country."
He showed her the message, but had hardly heard her words. His discovery of this slender solitary red-lipped girl and what it meant, was rarely clear at this moment. She had awakened him plane by plane, awakened his passion and his mercy and his intuition.
"Tell me again what you said about the country. I was away for a minute."
"It is hard to think of a little excursion to the fields--with such a holiday ahead, as you are called upon."
"I wasn't thinking of that either, Berthe, but of you."
"Of course, you will go?"
"Doubtless."
"I was only talking foolishly, about our little excursion. One's own wants are so pitifully unimportant now."
"I had hardly expected personally to encounter a war," he remarked and added smilingly, "The fact is, I hadn't thought of meeting a woman like you."
"I don't believe you're as cold-blooded as you try to seem, Peter."
"I have fought all my life to be cold-blooded."
She never forgot that. "I wonder why men do it?"
"It's the cultivation, perhaps, of that which Americans love best of all--"
"What?"
"Nerve."
"We of Poland dare to be emotional," she said.
"You are an older people. You know how."
"One needs only to be one's self."
Peter smiled. "Sometimes I dare actually to be honest with you. Even Lonegan and I take no such liberties together."
"It isn't a matter of courage,"