. We have to compete. You
can't see a soul without imagination--or some sort of madness--and the
good people who want imagination in their novels don't buy 'em. They
rent or borrow. It's the crowds that go to the movies that have
bright-coloured strings of American novels as the product runs--on their
shelves--little shiny varnished shelves--red carpets--painted birds on
the lamp-shades and callers in the evenings."

There was a good silence.

"Do you know," he added presently, "I've about come to the conclusion
that a novel must play altogether on sensuous tissue to catch the crowd.
Look at the big movie pictures--the actors make love like painted
animals.... I'm not humorous or ironical. It's a big problem to me----"

"Why, you can't touch the hem of the garment of a real love story until
you are off the sensuous," I offered. "The quest only begins there. I'm
not averse to that. It belongs in part. We are sensuous beings--in part.
But I am averse to letting it contain all. Why, the real glow comes to a
romance when a woman's soul wakes up. There's a hotter fire than that
which burns blood-red----"

"I know," he said quickly. "I know. That blood-red stuff is the cheapest
thing in the world.... I'm sure of this story until her soul wakes up.
She stirs in her sleep, and I see a giantess ahead--the kind of a woman
who could whistle to me or to you--and we'd follow her out--dazed by the
draw of her. They are in the world. I reckon souls do wake up--but I can
feel the public dropping off every page after two hundred--like chilled
bees--dropping off page by page--and the old familiar battle ahead for
me. I can feel that tight look of poverty about the eyes again----"

* * * * *

"Are you going to put her soul back to sleep?" I asked, as we turned
again into the crowd.

I wasn't the least lordly in this question. I knew his struggle, and
something of the market, too. I was thinking of tradesmen--how easy it
is to be a tradesman; in fact, how difficult it is to be otherwise--when
the very passion of the racial soul moves in the midst of trade.

"She's beautiful--even asleep," he said. "I'm afraid I'll have to give
her something. I'm building a house. She's in the comprehension of the
little varnished shelves--asleep."

"Doesn't a tight look come about the eyes--from much use of that sort of
anaesthetic?" I asked.

"Let's get a drink," he answered.

19

THE NEW SOCIAL ORDER