No--not work--never again.So long as she was roving about, there was hope and chance somehow to break through into the triumphant class that ruled the world, that did the things worth while--wore the good clothes, lived in the good houses, ate the good food, basked in the sunshine of art.
Either she would soar above respectability, or she would remain beneath it.Respectability might be an excellent thing; surely there must be some merit in a thing about which there was so much talk, after which there was so much hankering, and to which there was such desperate clinging.But as a sole possession, as a sole ambition, it seemed thin and poor and even pitiful.She had emancipated herself from its tyranny;she would not resume the yoke.Among so many lacks of the good things of life its good would not be missed.Perhaps, when she had got a few other of the good things she might try to add it to them--or might find herself able to get comfortably along without it, as had George Eliot and Aspasia, George Sand and Duse and Bernhardt and so many of the world's company of self-elected women members of the triumphant class.
A new deal! And a new deal meant at least even chance for good luck.
As she drifted down the west side of Second Avenue, her thoughts so absorbed her that she was oblivious of the slushy sidewalk, even of the crossings where one had to pick one's way as through a shallow creek with stepping stones here and there.
There were many women alone, as in every other avenue and every frequented cross street throughout the city--women made eager to desperation by the long stretch of impossible weather.
Every passing man was hailed, sometimes boldly, sometimes softly.Again and again that grotesque phrase "Let's go have a good time" fell upon the ears.After several blocks, when her absent-mindedness had got her legs wet to the knees in the shallow shiny slush, she was roused by the sound of music--an orchestra playing and playing well a lively Hungarian dance.
She was standing before the winter garden from which the sounds came.As she opened the door she was greeted by a rush of warm air pleasantly scented with fresh tobacco smoke, the odors of spiced drinks and of food, pastry predominating.Some of the tables were covered ready for those who would wish to eat; but many of them were for the drinkers.The large, low-ceilinged room was comfortably filled.There were but a few women and they seemed to be wives or sweethearts.Susan was about to retreat when a waiter--one of those Austrians whose heads end abruptly an inch or so above the eyebrows and whose chins soon shade off into neck--advanced smilingly with a polite, "We serve ladies without escorts."She chose a table that had several other vacant tables round it.On the recommendation of the waiter she ordered a "burning devil"; he assured her she would find it delicious and the very thing for a cold slushy night.At the far end of the room on a low platform sat the orchestra.A man in an evening suit many sizes too large for him sang in a strong, not disagreeable tenor a German song that drew loud applause at the end of each stanza.The "burning devil" came--an almost black mixture in a large heavy glass.The waiter touched a match to it, and it was at once wreathed in pale flickering flames that hovered like butterflies, now rising as if to float away, now lightly descending to flit over the surface of the liquid or to dance along the edge of the glass.
"What shall I do with it?" said Susan.
"Wait till it goes out," said the waiter."Then drink, as you would anything else." And he was off to attend to the wants of a group of card players a few feet away.
Susan touched her finger to the glass, when the flame suddenly vanished.She found it was not too hot to drink, touched her lips to it.The taste, sweetish, suggestive of coffee and of brandy and of burnt sugar, was agreeable.She slowly sipped it, delighting in the sensation of warmth, of comfort, of well being that speedily diffused through her.The waiter came to receive her thanks for his advice.She said to him:
"Do you have women sing, too?"
"Oh, yes--when we can find a good-looker with a voice.Our customers know music.""I wonder if I could get a trial?"
The waiter was interested at once."Perhaps.You sing?""I have sung on the stage."
"I'll ask the boss."
He went to the counter near the door where stood a short thick-set Jew of the East European snub-nosed type in earnest conversation with a seated blonde woman.She showed that skill at clinging to youth which among the lower middle and lower classes pretty clearly indicates at least some experience at the fast life.For only in the upper and upper middle class does a respectable woman venture thus to advertise so suspicious a guest within as a desire to be agreeable in the sight of men.Susan watched the waiter as he spoke to the proprietor, saw the proprietor's impatient shake of the head, sent out a wave of gratitude from her heart when her waiter friend persisted, compelled the proprietor to look toward her.
She affected an air of unconsciousness; in fact, she was posing as if before a camera.Her heart leaped when out of the corner of her eye she saw the proprietor coming with the waiter.The two paused at her table, and the proprietor said in a sharp, impatient voice:
"Well, lady--what is it?"
"I want a trial as a singer."
The proprietor was scanning her features and her figure which was well displayed by the tight-fitting jacket.The result seemed satisfactory, for in a voice oily with the softening influence of feminine charm upon male, he said:
"You've had experience?"
"Yes--a lot of it.But I haven't sung in about two years.""Sing German?"
"Only ballads in English.But I can learn anything.""English'll do--_if_ you can _sing_.What costume do you wear?"And the proprietor seated himself and motioned the waiter away.
