He snatched the paper from her, crumpled it and flung it away into the weeds. She said nothing and they walked on.
A single light bulb hung over the empty station platform. They waited. He stood looking up the tracks, where the train was to appear. When the tracks rang, shuddering, when the white ball of a headlight spurted out of the distance and stood still in the sky, not approaching, only widening, growing in furious speed, he did not move or turn to her. The rushing beam flung his shadow across the platform, made it sweep over the planks and vanish. For an instant she saw the tall, straight line of his body against the glare. The engine passed them and the car rattled, slowing down. He looked at the windows rolling past. She could not see his face, only the outline of his cheekbone.
When the train stopped, he turned to her. They did not shake hands, they did not speak. They stood straight, facing each other for a moment, as if at attention; it was almost like a military salute. Then she picked up her suitcase and went aboard the train. The train started moving a minute later.
6.
"CHUCK: And why not a muskrat? Why should man imagine himself superior to a muskrat? Life beats in all the small creatures of field and wood. Life singing of eternal sorrow. An old sorrow. The Song of Songs. We don't understand — but who cares about understanding? Only public accountants and chiropodists. Also mailmen. We only love. The Sweet Mystery of Love. That's all there is to it. Give me love and shove all your philosophers up your stovepipe. When Mary took the homeless muskrat, her heart broke open and life and love rushed in. Muskrats make good imitation mink coats, but that's not the point. Life is the point.
"Jake: (rushing in) Say, folks, who's got a stamp with a picture of George Washington on it?
"Curtain."
Ike slammed his manuscript shut and took a long swig of air. His voice was hoarse after two hours of reading aloud and he had read the climax of his play on a single long breath. He looked at his audience, his mouth smiling in self-mockery, his eyebrows raised insolently, but his eyes pleading.
Ellsworth Toohey, sitting on the floor, scratched his spine against a chair leg and yawned. Gus Webb, stretched out on his stomach in the middle of the room, rolled over on his back. Lancelot Clokey, the foreign correspondent, reached for his highball glass and finished it off. Jules Fougler, the new drama critic of the Banner, sat without moving; he had not moved for two hours. Lois Cook, hostess, raised her arms, twisting them, stretching, and said:
"Jesus, Ike, it's awful."
Lancelot Clokey drawled, "Lois, my girl, where do you keep your gin? Don't be such a damn miser. You're the worst hostess I know."
Gus Webb said, "I don't understand literature. It's nonproductive and a waste of time. Authors will be liquidated."
Ike laughed shrilly. "A stinker, huh?" He waved his script. "A real super-stinker. What do you think I wrote it for? Just show me anyone who can write a bigger flop. Worst play you'll ever hear in your life."
It was not a formal meeting of the Council of American Writers, but an unofficial gathering. Ike had asked a few of his friends to listen to his latest work. At twenty-six he had written eleven plays, but had never had one produced.
"You'd better give up the theater, Ike," said Lancelot Clokey. "Writing is a serious business and not for any stray bastard that wants to try it." Lancelot Clokey's first book — an account of his personal adventures in foreign countries — was in its tenth week on the best-seller list.
"Why isn't it, Lance?" Toohey drawled sweetly.
"All right," snapped Clokey, "all right. Give me a drink."
"It's awful," said Lois Cook, her head lolling wearily from side to side. "It's perfectly awful. It's so awful it's wonderful."
"Balls," said Gus Webb. "Why do I ever come here?"
Ike flung his script at the fireplace. It struck against the wire screen and landed, face down, open, the thin pages crushed.
"If Ibsen can write plays, why can't I?" he asked. "He's good and I'm lousy, but that's not a sufficient reason."
"Not in the cosmic sense," said Lancelot Clokey. "Still, you're lousy."
"You don't have to say it. I said so first."
"This is a great play," said a voice.
The voice was slow, nasal and bored. It had spoken for the first time that evening, and they all turned to Jules Fougler. A cartoonist had once drawn a famous picture of him; it consisted of two sagging circles, a large one and a small one: the large one was his stomach, the small one — his lower lip. He wore a suit, beautifully tailored, of a color to which he referred as "merde d'oie." He kept his gloves on at all times and he carried a cane. He was an eminent drama critic.
Jules Fougler stretched out his cane, caught the playscript with the hook of the handle and dragged it across the floor to his feet. He did not pick it up, but he repeated, looking down at it:
"This is a great play."
"Why?" asked Lancelot Clokey.
"Because I say so," said Jules Fougler.
"Is that a gag, Jules?" asked Lois Cook.
"I never gag," said Jules Fougler. "It is vulgar."
"Send me a coupla seats to the opening," sneered Lancelot Clokey.
"Eight-eighty for two seats to the opening," said Jules Fougler. "It will be the biggest hit of the season."
Jules Fougler turned and saw Toohey looking at him. Toohey smiled but the smile was not light or careless; it was an approving commentary upon something he considered as very serious indeed. Fougler's glance was contemptuous when turned to the others, but it relaxed for a moment of understanding when it rested on Toohey.
"Why don't you join the Council of American Writers, Jules?" asked Toohey.
"I am an individualist," said Fougler. "I don't believe in organizations. Besides, is it necessary?"
"No, not necessary at all," said Toohey cheerfully. "Not for you, Jules. There's nothing I can teach you."
"What I like about you, Ellsworth, is that it's never necessary to explain myself to you."
"Hell, why explain anything here? We're six of a kind."
"Five," said Fougler. "I don't like Gus Webb."
"Why don't you?" asked Gus. He was not offended.
"Because he doesn't wash his ears," answered Fougler, as if the question had been asked by a third party.
"Oh, that," said Gus.
Ike had risen and stood staring at Fougler, not quite certain whether he should breathe.
"You like my play, Mr. Fougler?" he asked at last, his voice small.
"I haven't said I liked it," Fougler answered coldly. "I think it smells. That is why it's great."
"Oh," said Ike. He laughed. He seemed relieved. His glance went around the faces in the room, a glance of sly triumph.
"Yes," said Fougler, "my approach to its criticism is the same as your approach to its writing. Our motives are identical."
"You're a grand guy, Jules."
"Mr. Fougler, please."
"You're a grand guy and the swellest bastard on earth, Mr. Fougler."
Fougler turned the pages of the script at his feet with the tip of his cane.
"Your typing is atrocious, Ike," he said.
"Hell, I'm not a stenographer. I'm a creative artist."
"You will be able to afford a secretary after this show opens. I shall be obliged to praise it — if for no other reason than to prevent any further abuse of a typewriter, such as this. The typewriter is a splendid instrument, not to be outraged."
"All right, Jules," said Lancelot Clokey, "it's all very witty and smart and you're sophisticated and brilliant as all get-out — but what do you actually want to praise that crap for?"
"Because it is — as you put it — crap."
"You're not logical, Lance," said Ike. "Not in the cosmic sense, you aren't. To write a good play and to have it praised is nothing. Anybody can do that. Anybody with talent — and talent is only a glandular accident. But to write a piece of crap and have it praised — well, you match that."