He carried them into the studio, great armsful, and piled them about the hearth. In the bottom drawer of the bureau were other packets of intimate documents. He brought those as well. Then he set to work to burn, packet by packet, that curiously remote past life of his. And he smiled a little at this memory and that.
Closely packed papers do not burn easily. He was seated there on the floor before the fireplace, stirring up sheets at which the flames had nibbled, when Jacob Zanin came in.
Zanin stared and laughed.
“Bad as that?” said he.
Peter met this sally with dignified silence. He urged his caller to sit down.
Zanin dropped his hat on the desk and disposed his big frame in the Morris chair. His coat was wrinkled, his trousers baggy. Under his coat was an old gray sweater. The head above the sweater collar was big and well-poised. The face was hard and strong; the eyes were alight with restlessness.
“I'm dog tired,” said Zanin. “Been rehearsing six hours straight.” And he added: “I suppose you haven't had a chance to go over my scenario.”
“I've done more than that,” replied Peter calmly; “I've written a new one.” And as Zanin's brows came down questioningly he added: “I think you'll find I've pointed up your ideas. The thing was very strong. Once I got to thinking about it I couldn't let go. What it needed was clarifying and rearranging and building for climaxes. That's what makes it so hard for our people to understand you Russians—you are formless, chaotic.”
“Like life,” said Zanin.
“Perhaps. But not like our stage traditions. You wanted me to help you reach a popular audience. That's what I'm trying to do for you.”