Blemer gave his jovial laugh. "Never tried to," he said, reaching with a plump hairy hand for a passing cocktail. And after a moment he added good-naturedly: "See here, young man, don't you go and read the Prophets and get self-conscious about your work, or you'll take to writing fifty pages about a crack in the ceiling—and then the Cocoanut Tree'll grovel before you, but your sales'll go down with a rush." No, evidently Blemer did not know how or why he wrote his novels, and could not even conceive the existence of the problems which were Vance's passion and despair… . The footfall of Destiny would never keep him from his sleep … and yet he had written a good book.

But if Vance was disappointed by his talks with the literary lights, he was stimulated by the atmosphere at the Tarrants', by the flattering notice of these enviable people who spoke freely and familiarly of so many things he was aching to know about, who took for granted that you had seen the last play at the Yiddish Theatre, had heard the new Stravinsky symphony, had visited the Tcheko-Slovakian painters' show, and were eager to discuss the Tomorrowists' coming exhibition, at which they all knew that Vance's bust by Rebecca Stram was to be shown.

The air was electrical, if not with ideas at least with phrases and allusions which led up to them. To Vance the background of education and travel implied by this quick flashing back and forth of names, anecdotes, references to unseen places, unheard-of people, works of art, books, plays, was intoxicating in its manifold suggestions. Even more so, perhaps, was the sense of the unhampered lives of the people who seemed so easily able to satisfy all their curiosities—people who took as a matter of course even the noble range of books in the Tarrant library, the deep easy chairs, the skilfully disposed lamps and flowers, and the music which, toward the end of the evening, a dreaming hand drew from the Steinway in its shadowy corner. As in every one of his brief contacts with this world, Vance felt a million currents of beauty and vitality pouring through him. If the life of a great city had such plastic and pictorial qualities, why not seize on them? Why not make the most of his popularity with these people who had so many ways of feeding his imagination? Before the party broke up he had accepted a dozen invitations to dine, to sup, to hear new music or look at old pictures. What a world it was going to be to dig into and then write about!

Chapter 4