Part 3
“You!” you cry bitterly. “A sublimely wise person like you? Alice dearest, why should you have noticed it? Or if you did, why should you admit it?”
She raised her eyebrows, somewhat surprised. “You sound angry,” is all she says. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I’m in a bad temper.”
“You really are,” she says wonderingly. “I’ve never seen you like this. Won’t you tell me what’s the matter?”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Why won’t you get angry? Why won’t you tell me to get out?”
“Arthur, what is the matter?” She speaks gently.
“I wish you’d get angry, just once. I’d like to fight and fight with you. I’d like to make you cry. I could, too, if I only knew how to begin.”
She looks at you in silence. Then go on—“Sit up, Alice! Sit up and slap me. Stop looking so damned comfortable. You don’t really feel comfortable.”
“But I do,” she protests. “I’m sorry, but I do.” It is funny, but she doesn’t laugh.
“No you aren’t. You’re sure enough of yourself; you’re secure, but you don’t like all this any more than I do.”
“All what?”
“All—all that you don’t like. Why can’t you tell me? I keep hoping you will, but you never do. Why can’t you tell me? I tell you everything. You have every bit of me. You make me tell you everything and then you never give anything back.”
“Arthur!” she cries, hurt.
“I can’t help it.” Lean closer to her startled face. “There’s just one thing I really want. Just one. The one thing I’ll never get from you.”
“What is it, dear?”
“I want you to tell me the truth. To look at me and say, ‘Arthur, I don’t really like this at all. I hate this house. I hate being smooth and perfect. I hate my mother for what she did to me, making me like this—’”
“Don’t!” she cries.
“‘And I hate my daughter for what I am making of her. I hate her when she looks like her father—’”
“No! No!”
“‘And I want to die when I realize that I am getting more and more like all of them, all the time.’ Go on, Alice. Say it.”
She shakes her head slowly, and weeps. “I can’t.”
“Say it!” you repeat. “I—Alice, I made you cry, didn’t I? Never mind. Say it.”
“No. The one thing you can never——” she cries convulsively.
“What is it, dearest?”
“You said it yourself,” she sobs. “The one thing you can never have. I won’t. I can’t.”
“Stop crying, dearest. Please. I can’t hear you when you talk like that. Darling, darling, I’m so sorry I made you cry. I’m so glad. Kiss me. You must, darling. It’s the only other thing to do. Alice, you know it is. Kiss me. If you won’t talk.... We must, dear.”
“Yes,” she says.
Take her in your arms.
5. I’M BAD
_TYPE:_
The very young man with all distinguishing characteristics still in extremely early stages.
_SUBJECT:_
Any nice girl under fifteen years.
_APPARATUS:_
1 Porch swing.
_REMARKS:_
This lesson is relegated to the use of the kiddies; it is good for very little else. In this day of experience and the single standard it is passé, and I include it more as a curiosity than anything else. The beginner should know the fundamental principles, at any rate. For older participants in the game who wish to try their luck along these lines, I suggest more restraint. A few dark hints will go farther than any amount of explicit description. The imagination of an innocent girl can work wonders with a very slight encouragement.
I’M BAD
“But it _is_ different,” says the little girl, with an eager note in her voice. You give up the argument for a time and sit in silence, hearing only the creaking of the porch swing’s chain above the noises of the summer night.
She takes up the conversation again.
“I mean that supposing I should want to do all those things—some girls do, you know—well, I couldn’t. Of course it isn’t likely I should want to. I don’t see any fun in hanging on to the under part of a train——”
“Riding the blinds,” you say, patiently.
“All right; riding the blinds. But there might be something. Like—like staying up all night, perhaps, when it isn’t New Year’s. Bob used to do that. Mother didn’t think it was particularly terrible if he just said he was studying, but I can’t even do that. It isn’t fair. Here I am a senior in high school and practically grown up and they’ll always treat me like a baby just because I’m a girl.”
“Yeah,” say, as she stops for breath, “it’s a shame.” And this is as far as your sympathy goes. After all there isn’t much else to say. Nevertheless she feels slightly resentful.
“You don’t have to be so satisfied about it,” she says.
“I’m not satisfied. Only I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it. I think myself you girls are pretty darned lucky. A man has to look out for himself, and believe me sometimes it isn’t so much fun as you think.”
“Well, even if——”
“No, you can say things like that for hours, but you can’t really tell until you have to try it. Why, I’d just like to see you in some of those situations.”
She is really impressed.
“What situations?”
“Aw, I couldn’t tell you. A fellow couldn’t really talk about some of it.”
“Oh, go on! I wouldn’t tell anyone!”
“You bet you wouldn’t! What if I told you that I was caught in a Raid?”
“Really? You’re not kidding? What kind of a raid?”
“Why, a—a Raid. There’s just one kind. The cops come in and pretty soon the music stops and——”
“Where?”
“’Xpect me to tell? Oh, well, then—Place called the Yellow Mill.”
“Oo, gee! Were you alone?”
“Was I alone! Don’t be such a dumb-bell. Of course I wasn’t alone. Do you suppose a fellow goes to those cabarets alone? Why, they wouldn’t let him in!”
“Then who was with you?”
“Never you mind. Some other men and some girls.”
“What girls? Anyone in school?”
“Maybe and maybe not.”
“Honest? Then it was. I’ll bet it was Eleanor.”
“Well, it just wasn’t. What do you think Eleanor is? A man wouldn’t take a NICE girl to the Yellow Mill.”
“Why—why Walter, you don’t know any other kind, do you?”
“Say, don’t judge everybody by yourself.”
“Well—what happened?”
“I told you what happened. The cops came in and the music stopped and some of the girls sort of screamed and then the cops started looking for booze.”
“Did you have any?”
“Well of course we _had_ had some, but by the time——”
“Oh, Walter!”
“Gosh, don’t you think a fellow has to have a drink sometimes? By the time they came we had finished it.”
“What was it?”
“You wouldn’t know the difference if I told you. It was wine. Elmer got it from his old man.”
“Elmer Busby?”
“Nevermind. Well——”
“It was!”
“Well, what if it was? Do you want to hear about this?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, keep quiet. Well, there wasn’t any left when the cop came over to us, so he couldn’t prove anything. He just looked at us and said ‘All right. Outside!’”
“Then what?”
“Why—then we went home.”
“Gee, I’d have been scared to death.”
“Sure you would. Any girl would have been.”
She sighs and looks out over the front lawn.
“Maybe I wouldn’t have been scared, though. Maybe——”
“Sure you would have!”
“No, wait a minute. Maybe it would be fun to be scared sometimes.”
“Well, I’d think so, myself, but a girl wouldn’t. A nice girl.”
“Why, Walter! What a thing to say!”
“Well, I mean it. Look at the way all of you act—‘Oh, no, it wouldn’t be right—do you think we ought to?’”
“What are you talking about?”
“You. That’s just what you said the other night after the party when I tried——”
“Well, really, Walter, I don’t see what that has to do with raids.”
“Well, it’s the same thing.”
“Just because I didn’t let you kiss me?”
“Well, why didn’t you?”
“I don’t like kissing.”
“You just don’t care. You never do let me kiss you. You don’t know anything about it. That’s the way girls are. No wonder you never have any fun.”
“Walter, I think you’re really bad.”
“Sure I’m bad! I have a good time. You don’t.”
“No, I don’t. But I didn’t mean that.”
“You’re afraid. That’s all.”
“Walter, I guess——” she stops.
“What?”
“I guess you can kiss me once. Don’t tell anybody.”
Silence.
“There now. What did you think?”
“I didn’t like it. It was horrid. If you tell anybody I’ll never speak to you again.”
“Well, then, try it again. I won’t tell anybody. Come on! What do you think I am? Sure I won’t tell anybody.”
“Oh, Walter, I bet you think I’m terrible.” “Of course I don’t. Don’t be a dumb-bell.” A sudden voice calls from the house.
“Willa! Willa, it’s ten-thirty!”
“Oh, Walter, I have to go.”
“Good night. Whatcha crying about? What is it, Willa?”
“Oh, you just think I’m terrible!”
“Honest I don’t. Can I come over tomorrow night?”
“You know you don’t want to. Oh, Mother’s calling again.”
“Sure I want to.”
“All right.”
“Good night. Listen, Willa. Honest I think it’s all right. I think you’re a good sport. Honest. Good night.”
6. AN UGLY OLD THING LIKE ME
_TYPE:_
The unscrupulous man without too much pride when it comes to women. Seemingly frank and open; the rough diamond with a soft heart; Punch wanting to be Hamlet.
_SUBJECT:_
Tender-hearted and impulsive. A very sweet character.
_APPARATUS:_
1 Automobile 1 Package cigarettes.
_REMARKS:_
Scarcely a girl in the world is trained to be on her guard against pity. As a rule a young woman is sure that she is a difficult proposition because of her knowledge of the world and its wicked ways. She is looking, not for weakness, but for strength to combat; for presumption so that she may step on it. It does not occur to any normal girl that she might be taken unawares as an angel of consolation.
AN UGLY OLD THING LIKE ME
It is evening, and you are driving home from dinner in the country. It is a warm summer night and too early to be going back; you have already made a remark to that effect. Suddenly you turn the car into a private-looking road that leads away from the stream of home-going cars.
“Now what?” she asks.
“I want to show you a place I found once. Are you in any particular hurry?”
“No. What is this place?”
“You’ll find out in a minute.... Here we are.” The car comes to a stop in a natural sort of amphitheater, banked by high walls of rock on one side and well enclosed by shrubbery that is just becoming impassable with the full foliage of midsummer.
“It’s an old quarry,” explain to her. “Nice, isn’t it? I suppose in the daytime it’s full of picnic people, but I like it.”
“So do I,” she answers. There is a silence, and you both light cigarettes.
“Quiet,” you mutter. In the deep stillness the air seems full of life. Some animal crashes through the bushes, but the moonlight is not so bright as it seemed and you cannot see him. You sigh, throw your cigarette out onto the ground, and take the girl into your arms. She does not resist at first, except to say “Quit! You’ll burn yourself.” Then she too casts aside her cigarette and settles down comfortably. But you are too urgent for her.
“Wait a minute,” she gasps, sitting up with some difficulty and putting a careful hand to her hair. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. I’m only human, that’s all.”
“Well, you weren’t acting human.”
“Sorry. Will you forgive me?”
“Sure.”
There is another silence, until she has to object again.
“Really,” she protests, “I don’t know what’s the matter with you tonight. You’ve never acted like this before.”
“I’m terribly sorry, really. I couldn’t stand it if I thought I’d offended you. We’ve been good friends; I don’t see why I have to spoil it like this.”
“Oh, it’s all right. I understand.”
“You’re awfully sweet, do you know it?”
“Am I really?”
“Much sweeter than anybody else.”
“Silly!”
“Ann, I do love you.”
“Well then, give me another cigarette.”
“No, not just now. Please!”
But after a little interlude of quiet, she protests.
“Arthur, listen. You simply must behave. I don’t feel that way; can’t you see? I like you a lot, but I just don’t feel that way. You can’t make me feel that way, either. I’m sorry. I’ll have to get mad in a minute.”
Don’t answer, but stare gloomily at the steering-wheel. She is a little worried.
“Arthur, what’s the matter? I wish you wouldn’t act that way. It makes me feel so mean. I don’t want to be mean. I just thought it would be better to tell the truth.”
Sigh and pat her hand.
“You’re perfectly right, dear. It’s just like you—honest even if you’re cruel.”
“Don’t be so silly. It isn’t cruel. I can’t help it if I can’t feel that way. I never feel that way.”
“Never?”
“Arthur, you know I like you better than anybody.”
“No, you don’t.”
“How can you tell? I don’t usually lie.”
“Nobody likes me.”
“Why, Arthur!” She pulls your head over to hers and kisses you. “There, silly.”
“Never mind, Ann,” say sadly. “Never mind. You don’t have to. You can always be perfectly honest with me. I understand.”
“Oh, you do not either!” She is impatient. “You don’t understand me at all, if you’re going to sulk like that. Here, kiss me.”
Then bury your face in her neck.
“Oh, Ann, you’re so sweet and I’m such a mess. I’m going to take you home. I’ll just make a fool of myself.”
“Why, Arthur?” she says, gently. “Don’t feel so badly. I understand.”
“You always understand, dear.”
“I can’t go home while you feel so badly. I want to be a friend of yours, Arthur.”
“Never mind. It’s all right. I know all about it. I don’t blame you.”
“Blame me? For what?”
“For not liking me Like That.”
“Like what?”
“Never mind. I should have thought of it before. You’re too sweet; you should have told me. Then I wouldn’t have bothered you.”
“But Arthur, you don’t bother me! What do you mean?”
“Please, Ann, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You have to, now. You’ve started. I’ve got to know. What is it?”
“Never mind. I’m going to take you home.”
“You are not! I won’t go home. You sit right there and explain yourself.”
“Oh, darling, please let me take you home! Of course I understand. I should have thought of it right away. An ugly old thing like me....”
“Oh, Arthur!” She cries out in pain. “Arthur, how could you think of such a thing! Look at me!”
But don’t. She turns your face toward hers by gripping your ears. You are crying, and looking at you she begins to cry too, in pity.
“Arthur, how could you? How could you hurt me so?”
Put your arm around her and pat her on the shoulder.
“Never mind, Ann. Never mind, old girl, it’s all right.”
“Kiss me,” she murmurs, from the depths of your coat-collar.
“No.”
“Yes. Please, Arthur.”
“You don’t want to. You don’t feel that way. You’re just sorry for me.”
“No, no, no! Kiss me!”
Kiss her. She clings to your lips in an ecstasy of renunciation.
“Oh, Ann!” cry, with a break in your voice.
“What, darling? Never mind. Kiss me again.”
“Ann, you’d better be careful. Really, you’d better be careful.”
“Never mind, darling.”
“Ann, are you sure you won’t be sorry?”
She doesn’t answer.
“An ugly old thing like me, Ann....” But as might be expected, she clings to your coat lapel even harder.
“Ah, Ann, loveliest ... you’re not just sorry for me?”
Perhaps she shakes her head. You aren’t sure.
“Because, Ann,” you add, in an uncertain voice from which you try to keep the triumph, “I’m only human.”
There is no objection.
7. BE INDEPENDENT!
_TYPE:_
The young man who can be sincere in declaration of his radical sympathies. Any one who does not really believe in his expressed opinions will probably fail.
_SUBJECT:_
Passionately impersonal; burning with zeal to destroy the wrongs of the world. Not much given to paying attention to her own emotions, preferring rather to settle universal problems in the mass.
_APPARATUS:_
1 City 1 Brief case
_REMARKS:_
Most of ardent advocates of social improvement are the products of conventional environment. They are inclined to class together all of the rules of conduct which they have denounced as part of a deliberate scheme to slow up the progress of humanity’s freedom. If you can associate in their minds the conventional concept of morality with the mossgrown ideas of property and government so horrible to the advanced thinker, you are well on the road to success.
BE INDEPENDENT!
Walking home from the meeting of the Social Science Club, you are more quiet than usual. It is strange that you should be quiet at all; you aren’t that type. Both of you love to talk; your intimacy has grown up in spite of, rather than because of this tendency. You became acquainted two or three months before, across the crowded room of the Communist Club when you both leaped to your feet to refute some heretical statement by the speaker of the evening, who had expressed an unsound and intolerant view concerning Union rule. You had cried out together in protest, turned and looked at each other, faltered, and sat down. Then you both had risen again, even more precipitately, looked at each other again in a less amiable manner, and started to speak again. The crowd laughed. At last she had bowed to you jerkily and sat down again, leaving the field to you.
But when she heard what you had to say she did not dislike you so much. You expressed her views exactly. To be sure, you did not say all there was to be said, and when you finished she had to make several additions. But after the meeting you waited for each other and took up the thread of the argument again. You walked five miles that night and didn’t notice. Ever since then you have been seeing a good deal of each other, at little Russian restaurants where each pays his own check, at concerts where you each firmly buy your own tickets, and even at her home, where her family gazes upon you with disfavor and tries to persuade her to wear a hat when she goes out with you.
Tonight there is a tension in the air between you, and you do not know what to do about it. She has been quarreling with her family and you have discussed it backwards and forwards and all around; there was no more to say.
“I don’t understand you at all,” repeat for the twentieth time. “You’re so intelligent about everything but your own affairs. Can’t you see that you must attack your own problem with an impersonal sort of attitude? It’s the only sensible way to do anything.”
“Yes, I know,” she answers, gloomily, “but you don’t understand, exactly. I have to battle against all the fifteen years that I was under their influence, besides fighting _them_. There’s an element within myself that I can’t manage. All sorts of feelings——”
“I know,” sympathetically, “anachronistic ideas of duty, and filial fondness, and so forth. They work on all that. Thank God my mother deserted me when I was a baby. Father’s different.”
“You’re lucky,” she says. “It makes me furious. After all, I’m of age, and a lot more intelligent than they’ll ever be.... Well, we’ve said all that. I’ll just have to let it work itself out.”
“It won’t,” you assure her. “The only way to settle a thing of this sort is to cut it all off. Why don’t you go away?”
“How can I?” she says. “I haven’t the moral courage to hold out against them. I could go down and live with Marya for a week or so, but you know what would happen. First Ellen would walk in and talk to me, pretending to admire me but holding her skirts away from the furniture all the time. She’d tell me that Mother hasn’t been well lately, and then they’d invite me to the house for dinner and they’d act simply angelic and rather pitiful, and then I’d come back. I always do; it’s happened before. I know I’m weak, but it’s stronger than my intelligence.”
“Of course that’s one thing I’ll never be able to understand. How anyone could stand that house for two hours passes my comprehension, and you’ve been living there all your life. How do you do any work?”
“I don’t,” she says, simply. “I haven’t really done anything definite since the last election. You can’t work any conviction into your speeches if there are a lot of materialists around all the time. Oh, I ought to starve! How can I go on pretending like this?”
“Never mind. You’re getting there. There’s nothing wrong with a person that could get away from her environment as completely as you have. But I can see that it’s a struggle.”
“Thank you,” she says, gratefully. You walk on in silence.
“Martha,” you say at last, “I know one way out.”
“What is it?”
“Come with me.”
“With you? But where?”
“Come on home with me. I’ll tell Father that you’re going to stay there, and that’ll be all there is to it. He won’t object; he knows better.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she says, hastily.
“Why not? It would settle things with your family. I know that type. They’d never bother you again; they would cut you off completely.”
She is staggered, and obviously does not know how to answer.
“You’re a real friend,” she says, at last. “It’s good of you to offer. But....”
“Not so generous, after all. Certainly I don’t have to tell you that I love you and all that, do I? We know better than to waste our time with such sentimental stuff. But you know that I’d be only too glad....”
“I don’t know,” she says, thoughtfully. “Honestly, I never thought about it. It’s part of my training, I suppose, but it’s hard to decide to do a thing like that, right away.”
“Think of it in a sensible way,” you urge. “Try to throw away those inhibitions. You know well enough that in the course of time we would be lovers. Isn’t this better than slinking and being furtive about it, and fooling your family? I’d hate it. As a matter of fact, I _have_ been worrying about it. This would be such a fine, brave thing for you to do. Come on, Martha, be independent. Prove to yourself that you’re something more than an average female who wants nothing but security.”
“But it’s so difficult,” she says. “You don’t understand. It would kill Mother.”
“You know it wouldn’t. She might think that she’s going to die, but she won’t. People don’t die over such things. And if she did,” you add, superbly, “she wouldn’t have any right to. No one has any right to die because someone else lives up to her convictions.”
“That doesn’t help it, somehow,” she says.