Part 2
_You:_ I don’t want to dance with you just now. I think you’re trying to run away from me as you have always run away from questions. Do you know, you’re a most deceptive person. When I met you, I said to myself, “She is sensitive,” but I never thought of you as being beautiful. I’m being frank, do you mind? But I see now that you are. I see that you are rarely beautiful, but that you do not wish to be. Isn’t that true?
_She:_ Why no, of course not. I don’t understand it all.
_You:_ It’s just this, and I don’t care whether or not I offend you. In fact, I hope I do. Someone ought to offend you now and then. You’re committing a crime, not only against us but against yourself. If I had my way—and I’m not being selfish, either—
_She (blazing):_ As though any of you weren’t selfish!
_You:_ What?
_She:_ I’m so tired of it all. Don’t you think I hear something like this every day of my life? All of you working for yourselves, arguing for yourselves, talking eternally about the same thing. I can’t stand any more of it. I’m sick of it.
_You (gravely):_ I beg your pardon, but you’re not being quite polite, are you? You’re a bit unjust.
_She:_ Perhaps I’m rather excited. Sorry.
_You:_ Perhaps not. This is the result of a long silence, isn’t it? You have never spoken like this before?
_She:_ Yes, that’s it.
_You (leaning forward):_ My dear, if I’ve said anything....
_She (faintly):_ No, it’s nothing. Tell me, how can you—all of you—be so cold blooded and unfastidious at the same time?
_You:_ Oh, but you are wrong. I’m sure that as a rule we are more fastidious than you could possibly know. I’m sorry that I’ve disturbed you—Check, please! I’m going to take you home.
_She:_ No, I was foolish. You’re right. I’m sure you’re right. But I couldn’t help it. Have I hurt you?
_You:_ Let’s forget it all. Let’s go somewhere and talk about other things. (_You rise and start to the door._) I didn’t want to spoil the evening, much as you seemed to think so. Should we go to my place and look at the print I just bought? It’s so early to take you home.
_She:_ Yes, that would be nice.
_You:_ There, you see; I’ve done you an injustice. You’re quite human underneath it all. Probably someone has hurt you, and you won’t tell me about it. I think, my dear, that you have a very great capacity for living. Let’s take one with the top down. TAXI!!
2. JUST ANOTHER LITTLE ONE
_TYPE:_
Virile, young, simple. A man who does not waste time on philosophical reflections; who knows what he wants and stops at nothing but sacrifice to get it.
_SUBJECT:_
Very young, semi-sophisticated. That is, she has been warned but not insulated.
_APPARATUS:_
1 Victrola 1 Radio 1 Bottle Scotch 1 Automobile 1 House—Anybody’s 1 Party
_REMARKS:_
The inclusion in the collection of this lesson is accompanied by some misgivings on my part. It is a method of which we do not approve. The true seduction does not depend upon mechanical devices such as alcohol. I counsel my students to save this method until all else fails, for it leads to a slackness and a lazy attitude toward the work. Moreover, it is against the law in this country to buy liquor or to carry it around.
JUST ANOTHER LITTLE ONE
1. The introduction. Give everyone full notice, but when her name is mentioned, employ the personal touch in your bow—the lingering glance shading off in friendly admiration.
2. Wait half an hour, perhaps employing the time with a drink. Dance with everyone else and be looking at her twice when she glances your way.
3. Suddenly walking over to her, you should look accusingly at the half-full glass in her hand.
“You don’t mean to tell me that’s your first?”
“Yes.”
“Say, who are you anyway? Have I ever seen you around?”
“No, Joe and Edna brought me. I don’t know anyone here very well.”
“Who’s Joe?”
“The little fellow over there.”
“Your heavy?”
“Silly! No, of course not. He and Edna just got married. That’s why they’re having this party, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I was invited, that’s all I know. Well, see you later.”
Get up and go away at this point; too much at first is too much.
4. Soon after this it is likely that the lady will finish her glass mechanically; and the next one will go down with more alacrity. Keep an eye on her, and when she has finished the second one come back and ask her to dance. If you are a good dancer the whole thing is easier, but so few of you are.
Put her down when it is over, smile at her politely and go away again. This mystifies her.
5. Two drinks later. Don’t drink too much; this requires as much concentration as any other business. It’s time now to focus the attack.
After two or three dances the room seems uncomfortably warm, and now that she is accustomed to being monopolized she won’t be averse to stepping outdoors with you to get cool. Any car will do if it is unoccupied.
There will be a slightly awkward pause; breathless and afraid on her part. Then she realizes that your intentions are all right and she is ashamed of her own suspicions.
“My, but it must have been warm in there,” she says. “I didn’t realize it. What a lovely night!”
“Yeah, the gang’s crazy to stay indoors in this weather.... Say, what do you do all the time? I haven’t seen you around.”
“Well, I haven’t been in town very long. I’m visiting Edna.”
“Having a good time?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone’s been so nice to me.”
“Naturally they would be, to you. I guess you have a pretty good time wherever you go.”
“Aw, that’s an old one!”
“You don’t swallow everything you hear, do you? Well, that’s right.” ... a burst of music comes through the window ... “Say, I’ve got a drink or two here. Want one?”
“Oh no—I’ve had enough. But you go right ahead.”
“Nope, I don’t drink without company.”
“Well—just a little one.”
6. After the bottle has been tucked away again, settle down with a deep sigh and put your arm around her. While she’s wondering if she ought to let it stay there, turn around and pull her head over to yours, very lazily and comfortably.
“No! Please.”
“All right.”
Release her, avoiding all trace of petulance. She can think that over for a while.
7. After a long time, reach for the bottle again.
“Just another little one?”
Of course she doesn’t want to be a complete prig—
“All right. But aren’t you drinking a lot?”
“No. I never take too much.”
There really isn’t much to say. You don’t want conversation; she knows you don’t. She does—or does she? She doesn’t know what she wants, just now. You’ve flustered her and upset her and started her thinking and you aren’t doing anything to help her out. She wonders why you don’t say something. She can’t think of anything to say. She’s thinking too hard of something which you have evidently forgotten. It is almost a relief when you put your arm around her again. Something definite, anyway. Even when you kiss her she doesn’t protest. She thinks that it wasn’t bad anyway; in fact it was a nice kiss—not too long nor too enthusiastic.
And as a matter of fact, this particular subject should not be a connoisseur of kisses. She would like to discuss it. Whenever she has been kissed before, the occasion seemed more momentous, with prelude of conversation and aftermath of protestation. Your absolute indifference intrigues her. You’ve evidently forgotten all about it already.
8. And then you yawn. Yawn and burrow your head in her breast in an affectionate, friendly manner; dropping off to sleep immediately. She sits very still and straight, hoping that you’ll wake up, hoping you won’t, hoping no one is watching you from the porch, wondering why she isn’t objecting, wondering why she should, wondering about life in general.... It’s all because she drank so much of that whiskey. She really doesn’t feel so well. Sort of mixed up. Why don’t you wake up? She wants to go in and dance; it must be late. How did this get started anyway?
9. She stirs a little at last, for her arm is going to sleep, and this wakes you. Open your eyes and pull her face down to yours—it’s the most natural thing to do under the circumstances. “Sweet thing.”
She is reassured. You are thinking of her, then. You’ve become once more a person, a man, instead of an abstract problem. And she knows how to deal with people, even with men. It’s this other thing that worries her; this horrible impersonal wondering; this feeling of enmity that lurks in the air when people forget you and go to sleep. Although she couldn’t put it into words....
10. “Another drink, sweet thing?”
“I guess so.”
“Sure, just another little one now.”
She isn’t thinking at all now. If she were she’d probably suggest going in, for it is late and she wants to dance. But it doesn’t seem late; it doesn’t seem as though time is going on at all. She isn’t thinking. She doesn’t start to think even when you kiss her more enthusiastically and not so lazily. This must be the way a plant feels on a hot summer day when it hasn’t anything to do but grow. Not happy; not sad.
It is only when she realized at last that you are growing importunate that she stirs herself and protests. She isn’t sure what to say; the protest is more a matter of habit than anything else.... Everything is a habit.... And once more, for the last time, you say “Yes. One more. Just another little one.”
3. FEEL MY MUSCLE
_TYPE:_
The man of action, of firm convictions and a limited sympathy for anyone who does not agree with him. Timid or sickly persons are advised to avoid this method.
_SUBJECT:_
An old-fashioned girl, apt to get a thrill when forcibly reminded of her comparative weakness.
_APPARATUS:_
1 Bathing Beach 1 Life-saving Uniform 2 Hot Dogs
_REMARKS:_
We all have some primitive instincts, even now. A crude exhibition of brute strength is fascinating to most of us, deny it as we will. The psychological basis for the reaction of the subject is probably a feeling that she will not have to bear the responsibility for whatever may happen.
FEEL MY MUSCLE
The holiday crowd is thinning out. Dusk shrouds the less decorative elements of the beach—the ragged holes left by children and the empty, soiled paper lunch boxes. Those revelers who are left see only the long curving line of the shore and a mysterious intermittent foaming as the lazy waves crash slowly against the sand.
Eloise lounges on the beach, watching the slow ebb of the Sunday gaiety. She thinks vaguely of going in for one more dip before she gets dressed; thinks of the shock of cold water on her already-dry bathing suit; thinks of the damp, dank-smelling dressing-room, and decides to postpone the whole thing for a few minutes. There is no hurry and she isn’t cold. She runs her hand through her fuzzy hair and yawns. She is a slim girl with a slightly bored expression, and she is younger than she looks.
It has been a pleasant Sunday, withal rather dull. She hasn’t come to the beach alone; she and the other file-clerk in the office have ventured out together. But Bessie has met up with a boy-friend and disappeared. Eloise does not hold a grudge against her for her desertion; it is understood that such accidents are likely to happen on Sunday afternoon. But she surveys the long lonely ride home with distaste. She chews her wad of Juicy Fruit dreamily and gives to the ukelele clutched to her diaphragm a pensive plunk.
It is at this moment that you sight her. You are strolling along the beach on your way in, after an arduous day of life-saving. Not that anyone has needed his life saved, but three blondes and two brunettes have required swimming lessons and all of them have been plump. By this time you prefer them slender; all the ladies tattooed on your arms are very slender indeed; and two of them wear red bathing-suits of the same shade as Eloise’s. You stop short when you see her and wonder if you haven’t seen her before somewhere. You decide that you haven’t; and regret the fact. You wonder if she has noticed you. If she has, she doesn’t show it. Not a missed beat has interrupted the mastication of her chewing-gum.
True to your vocation, adopt a nautical method of approach. In other words, tack. First walk along a line inclined at forty-five degrees to the most direct approach to Eloise. Somewhere at her right pause suddenly and examine a sand-crab. Then look up quickly, obviously under the impression that someone is calling you. After carefully looking at everything else on the beach, drop your eyes to Eloise, who blinks and turns away.
Sigh loudly and drop heavily and prone on the sand near her feet. Startled, she looks at you again. Grin and flip a pebble at her.
“Say!” says Eloise, indignantly.
“What do you say, girlie?” you counter. Then raise yourself in sections and redrape your lean length on the log next to her. “Ain’t you lonesome?” you add.
It is a rhetorical question purely, but she does not want to play. She chooses to take you literally.
“Not much,” she retorts. “I’m waiting for a guy.”
Answer promptly, “Not any more, you ain’t.”
She compresses her lips and ignores you, fingering the strings of the ukelele in an abstracted way. It has no effect. Pat her arm and say:
“Give us a tune, kid?”
“Fresh!” she says scornfully. “Who you crowding?”
“Aw, don’t be mean,” you plead. “Give us a tune.”
Eloise shakes her head quickly and decisively. “I didn’t ask you over!” she reminds you. It is a warning that she is on her guard; that she is a difficult proposition; that she is a Nice Girl.
“Well, gee, can’t a guy try to be human?” Your voice should be petulant and youthful. “I was just trying to be human. I was lonesome.” It is a plaintive speech, and you look plaintive. But nevertheless you are a masculine being, strong and undefeated. Probably it is the bathing suit, or perhaps the air with which you light your cigarette. Eloise gazes at your profile in uncertainty. End the pause by casting away the match and turning to her.
“So when I seen you I couldn’t help talking. If you don’t like it I’ll go away. I got my pride, too.”
This is a little better. “Oh, well, if you didn’t mean to be fresh. You know a girl has got to be careful.”
“Sure,” you say, nodding. “I bet _you_ do, all right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Aw, you know what I mean!” say to her ardently. “Anybody ever tell you your eyes are pretty?”
“Fresh!” She starts picking at the ukelele again, slightly confused.
“Come on now, babe,” you plead again. “Give us a tune.”
“I don’t know anything new,” she apologizes in advance. “Do you know that one ‘I Can’t Give You Anything But Love’?”
“Go ahead,” you murmur.
She plays the song, and then another, and another. The sun approaches the horizon and the ocean turns dark and green.
“Gee,” says Eloise in low tones, “I got to go.”
“Wait a minute, babe.” Stand up and rumple her hair affectionately before leaving. Eloise shrouds herself in her bathrobe and waits. Presently you come back through the night, carrying two hot-dogs dripping mustard.
“Surround that,” you order, proffering one. “It’s a swell night. Anybody worrying about you? You cold?”
She shakes her head hesitantly. “N-no. But I’ll have to go soon; it’s awfully late.”
You munch hungrily while the breeze dies down over the water. Then shift, disposing yourself more comfortably, and grunt contentedly. Eloise gives the head in her lap a little push, but it rolls back. She decides to ignore it.
“Gosh,” you say at last, “a night like this is enough to make anybody feel soft. Even a guy like me.”
“Yeah, I bet you’re a hard guy!” she cries.
Lift your head and prop it on your hand. “Say, listen, babe! Anybody who says I ain’t, don’t know me! Does anybody ever bother you? Some of these drugstore sheiks ever get fresh?”
She hangs her head. “Well....”
“Well,” cut her short, “if they do, send ’em around!” Make your voice ominous. “Don’t let anybody tell you different. Look here.” Raise your arm and clench your fist. “Feel that. There.”
Eloise puts out a tentative and timid finger. “Ooo!” she cries. “Yes, I guess you _could_ hit. I guess I wouldn’t ever try to get _you_ sore!”
“Baby,” murmur tenderly, “you couldn’t get me sore if you tried. I knew the minute I seen you you was a sweet kid. If anybody ever bothers you again, tell me. A nice kid like you hadn’t ought to go around without somebody taking care of you. I remember once....” Here you stop. Somewhere down the beach another ukelele plays softly. You sigh and grope through the dark. She tries futilely to dislodge you.
“I really got to be going,” she protests, somewhat frightened. She is always somewhat frightened when the fellows get too fresh.
“Now listen, babe. You ain’t afraid of me, You needn’t be. Don’t go away yet; you’re all right. Just a little longer.” And yet, as before, for all your pleading tones there should be a hint of strength in your speech. Eloise yields, but whether to your imploring or your strength she does not know.
“Well,” she says, “if you’re nice.”
Silence lives on the beach, except for the tiny wailing of the ukelele. Silently the water undulates and the moon creeps over the edge of it.
“Quit it!” says Eloise, giggling nervously. Do not answer. “Aw, quit!” Still you do not answer. “Please! You’re too strong. Oh, quit!”
The other ukelele still plays, spreading over the night a sweet layer of romance; singing of exotic love on a whiter, warmer beach in a more delicate world; singing of love, as though love were a thing to be sung.
4. YOU’RE NOT THE DOMESTIC TYPE
_TYPE:_
The sensitive young man with a predilection for virtuous married women. Charmingly impetuous.
_SUBJECT:_
A virtuous married woman.
_APPARATUS:_
1 Living room 1 Chaise-longue
_REMARKS:_
Love, maternal instinct and pity are all emotions that should be employed in this lesson, but the most important factor of all is spirituality. Never for one moment allow her to doubt your spiritual sincerity.
YOU’RE NOT THE DOMESTIC TYPE
The doorbell rings just as she is settling down to a nap, and there is no one else in the house to answer it. She opens the door a little reluctantly.
“Oh, it’s you, Arthur,” she says in relief. “Come in. I thought it might be someone special.”
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” say, smiling as you enter the living room. Smile nicely; youthfully. “I won’t go away, at any rate. Not unless you’re very hard and cruel. I worked too hard to get here.”
“It’s all right,” she says, sitting down and patting her hair in back. “I was going to lie down and try to sleep, out of sheer boredom. There’s nothing I really have to do. But you should be at work. Why aren’t you?”
“I didn’t feel like working.” Frown and look at her defiantly. “Good Lord, why should a man work all the time? I hate the bloody office anyway, and you know it.”
She shakes her head at you, but smiles. “I ought to scold you. But I know too well how you feel.”
“Why don’t you lie down even if I am here? Go on over to the chaise-longue; I’ll tuck your feet up.”
“Gracious!” she cries. “You’ll have me spoiled if you’re too attentive. Bob hasn’t your touching respect for my age.”
Thump the chair as you bend over to arrange the quilt. “Alice, that isn’t funny. It never was funny. At any rate, you mustn’t tell Bob how nice I am to you, or his dislike of me will overflow all bounds. That would be a nuisance. I’d have to visit you in the afternoons all the time, and they wouldn’t like that at the damned office.”
“No, and you wouldn’t ever get to see my new dinner dress.”
Sit down on the edge of the chair. “And I’d have to stay away on week-ends; I’d have to start playing golf, and I hate it. It’s much nicer to come here and talk.”
She laughs. “Yes, I know you think so. You’d rather talk than do anything else, wouldn’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you?” you counter. “But this sub rosa arrangement might have its advantages. If I had to be furtive you might be forced to take me seriously.”
“You’re a silly little boy,” she says, looking worried.
“Of course I am. I only wish you said it oftener. If you would only promise me to say every morning and every evening ‘What a silly boy Arthur is,’ I’d feel better about going home so often.”
“It wouldn’t be a difficult promise to make,” she says thoughtfully. “Perhaps I do it anyway. You’re awfully silly sometimes.”
“Good! At any rate, that would mean that you would say my name twice a day.”
“Heavens!”
“It did sound sentimental, didn’t it? Well, forget it. You know, I am serious about Bob: I wish he’d dislike me a little more actively.”
She sits up and speaks with decision. “Arthur! You know well enough that Bob doesn’t dislike you at all.”
“Is that it?” you ask, sorrowfully. “Then it’s his maddening indifference that I can’t forgive him. I won’t forgive him, anyway, so you might as well give up.”
“If it would make you feel any better, he said just the other evening, ‘Why doesn’t that kid get to work? He’s been hanging around here a lot longer than he would if I were his father.’”
“Yes,” you answer, “that helps. That helps. I feel almost kindly toward him now. I’m glad you told me.”
“You know well enough you like Bob!”
Shake your head. “It’s just another of my worries. I do like Bob. I love Bob. He’s such a child.”
She giggles. “Well, I wish he could hear you.”
“Yes, isn’t it funny? We go around feeling paternal about each other and you lie there and laugh at both of us. Let’s not talk about him any more. I’m not a sub rosa visitor yet; I haven’t any right to talk. Where’s Betty?”
“I sent her out to the Park for the afternoon.” She looks out of the window. “We’ve had such wretched weather until today. She’ll be heartbroken when she finds out you were here. Now that the family’s all discussed and taken care of, tell me how you are. Have you been doing anything wicked lately? Tell me some gossip about the younger generation.”
“What do I know about the younger generation? I haven’t been playing around. It’s queer restless weather. I’ve been trying to write. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed this air. There’s something in it. Even you must have noticed. It isn’t exactly wild. Spiritually provocative, I think—whatever that means.”
“Why shouldn’t I have noticed it?” she asks.