Vance sat flushed and brooding, his brows drawn together in the effort to calculate his yearly income on the basis suggested. Figures always puzzled him, and a fortnight earlier he would have acquiesced at once, to get rid of troublesome preliminaries. But with Laura Lou in the background it was different. … He tried writing out the figures mentally on the tablecloth, but when it came to adding them up they became blurred and vanished. …
“Well, I guess that wouldn’t total up to much over two thousand dollars a year, would it?” he ventured, trying to give his voice a businesslike sound.
Erich Rauch arched his eyebrows in a way that signified: “Well—for a beginner? For a gamble?” Then, as Vance was silent, he threw off: “There’s nothing to prevent your writing a novel, you know.”
“What would you give me for a novel?” Vance asked.
Eric Rauch’s eyebrows flattened themselves out meditatively. “What sort of a novel would you give us?” Then, with a laugh: “See here, I don’t see that we need look as far ahead just yet. … A novel takes time; but meanwhile there’s the Pulsifer Prize, don’t forget. We’re going to put up a big fight to get that for you.”
Vance looked at him, perplexed. The Pulsifer Prize—two thousand dollars for the best short story of the year! He could pay off Bunty Hayes at a stroke, and live on Easy Street with the balance … buy Laura Lou some pretty clothes, and have time to think over subjects, and look round. … His heart beat excitedly. … But what could The Hour do about it? he asked.
“Why, boom you for all we’re worth. You can get even a short story into the limelight nowadays with money. And we mean to spend money on ‘Unclaimed.’ ”
“But I don’t understand. Who gives this Pulsifer Prize anyhow?”
“Oh, a rich society woman: widow of old Pulsifer, the railroad man. It’s the event of her life—”
“Why, does she award the prize herself?”
“Bless you, no: it’s done the usual way. Bunch of highbrows as judges.” Rauch paused, and added with his exquisite smile: “Even judges are human. …” He let the rest of the smile drift away through his cigarette spirals.
Vance understood and winced. The use of the business vocabulary was what he recoiled from. That there should be “deals,” transactions, compromises in business was a matter of course to him. That was business, as he understood it; his father’s life was a labyrinth of such underground arrangements. But Vance had never taken any interest in business, or heard applied to it the standards of loyalty which are supposed to regulate men’s private lives, and which he had always thought of as prevailing in the republic of letters. To him an artist’s work was essentially a part of the private life, something closer than the marrow to the bone. Anything that touched the sanctity, the incorruptibility, of the creative art was too contemptible to be seriously considered. As well go back to doing write-ups for the Free Speaker. … Vance looked at the clever youth behind the smoke wreaths, and thought: “Queer that a fellow who writes poetry can care for that sort of success …” for the poets seemed to him hardly lower than the angels.
He said curtly that he didn’t care a darn for prizes, and Eric rejoined: “Not for two-thousand-dollar ones?”
Vance, a little dizzy, nevertheless echoed: “Not a darn—”
“Well, The Hour does, then. It’s something you owe us if we take you on—see? A beginner … Everything’s a question of give and take … fair play. Not that I mean … of course little O’Fallery may pull off the prize anyhow, with ‘Limp Collars.’ Shouldn’t wonder if he did. His publisher’s hustling round for him—I know that. And we don’t guarantee anything … See?”
The last phrase brought a vague reassurance to Vance. Of course they couldn’t guarantee anything … of course little O’Fallery might get the prize. Vance had read “Limp Collars,” and thought it well-named … pretty poor stuff. … Seemed a pity. … Anyhow, he saw with relief that he must have misunderstood Rauch. Of course The Hour wasn’t going to try to corrupt the judges—what an absurdity! They were simply going to direct public opinion: that was what “limelight” meant. Any fellow’s publisher had a right to commend his goods. …
Laura Lou had been captivated by a girl who sat near them at the theatre in a peach-coloured silk … or lace, or something … not a patch on Laura Lou, the girl wasn’t, but even Vance could see there was a look about the dress. … His Laura Lou! There wouldn’t be one of ’em could touch her if only he could give her togs like that. …
“When she moves, you see
Like water from a crystal overflowed,
Fresh beauty tremble out of her, and lave
Her fair sides to the ground …”
He shut his eyes on the vision and thought: “And yet even the ones that look like that want finery!”
“Of course I’d like that prize first-rate,” he mumbled.
“Well, I guess it’s yours—on the merit of the story alone. Only, our
