Part 4

“Martha, admit to yourself that it’s the only thing to do. You can’t go on like this. If you do, they’ll sell you to some capitalist for a marriage license and a promise that he’ll leave you money when he dies. You’ll be part of the same vicious circle. You can’t play at both of the games, Martha. If you don’t take your freedom when you have the chance I’ll have to decide that you’re insincere.”

She looks very undecided and unhappy. “I don’t know what’s the matter,” she confesses, “but I can’t.”

Stop and take her arm. She turns around and faces you in the dark street. It is very late and quiet.

“Listen, Martha,” you say gravely, “it’s up to you. I don’t want to persuade you to do anything that you don’t really feel you want to do. But I think that I understand you. You have a beautiful nature, Martha. You have a splendid mind that your family weren’t able to spoil. As soon as you are strong enough to cast off all the deadly conventions that they’ve tied you with, you’ll be able to do real things for the world. And yet that isn’t what I want to say to you now. I respect and admire you, Martha, and I want you. You want me. What else is there to this business? Come with me, Martha, and we’ll work together. Throw away that background of yours. Step out into the light.”

“Oh, Michael!” she cries. Your face relaxes, and you smile.

Say, “There now, let’s do it all, right now. Go home and get your things. I’ll go with you, if you like. Then they can do what they want to; I know you won’t back out.”

Arm in arm, you walk down the street.

8. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR HUSBAND’S DOING?

_TYPE:_

The man who likes to use an appeal to reason to gain his ends. He is untrained, but possesses a certain native subtlety.

_SUBJECT:_

Small and thirty, overworked, with a face that has been prettier, but which could be much less pretty.

_APPARATUS:_

Excursion boat.

_REMARKS:_

This is a system which is based on the simplest and most atavistic of human emotions—jealousy. Reflection upon this fact may deter from its use a number of my students who would regard such an easy and impersonal victory as an affront to their pride and self-confidence as first-rate seducers. It is true that the success of the method is much more the result of the subject’s internal conflict than of any remarkable attributes on the part of the student. But it is up to the seducer to be there at the psychological moment to suggest action. It takes a large amount of tact and self-control to bring the situation to the point of this suggestion without arousing the suspicions of the subject. It is not too easy. Do not treat it with contempt.

WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR HUSBAND’S DOING?

It is night on the boat; the last evening of the See-America-First-Cruise; Excursion tickets good until August thirty-first; Send the wife and kiddies if you can’t go yourself. It is night and all the children have gone to bed, allowing a blessed quiet to creep from the darkness and shroud the boat in wistful romance. Two figures stand in the bow.

_She:_ Well, home tomorrow.

_You:_ Yes. (_Sigh_) Back to work.

_She:_ I do hope it’ll be cooler. But there, it never does get any cooler until the middle of September or after, so what’s the use of hoping? I didn’t have any right running away from the house this time of the year.

_You:_ Sure you did. When you first came on the boat I said to myself, “There’s a little woman that sure needs a rest.”

_She:_ You did! I didn’t know I looked that bad. The doctor told me to take a rest, but land, he’s always telling me that.

_You:_ No, I don’t mean you looked exactly bad; only sort of thin and pale.

_She: (Pleased):_ Thin! Heavens, I didn’t know that I ever looked thin. But it isn’t any wonder I’m pale. Goodness knows I never get out of the house.

_You:_ You know, that’s one thing I just can’t understand about men. The way they let their wives stay at home. Believe me, if I ever get married my wife is going to have the best of everything. And plenty of time to enjoy it, too.

_She:_ Well, I certainly think your wife’ll be lucky. But you’ll probably have to wait a long time to be earning enough. I guess HE doesn’t have it any too easy himself, working all day in an office. Sometimes he comes home mighty tired.

_You:_ Maybe, but don’t you believe he has it any near as bad as you do. I’ll never forget my poor old mother slaving day in and day out. You know what they say—“Man’s work is from sun to sun; it’s woman’s whole existence” or something like that. I tell you, I grew up to respect women, I did.

(There is a pause while you think about it.)

_She (sighing):_ Well, I certainly like to hear a man talk like that sometimes. I just wish Joe could hear you.

_You:_ Oh, he’d say I didn’t know anything about it, seeing as I’m not married.

_She:_ I don’t know. Joe’s awful reasonable. It was because of him I took this trip. He saw the ad in the paper and he says “Mary, that’d be mighty good for you,” he says. And I says, “Yes, but how would you get along?” He says, “Oh, I’ll manage.” And now I know that when I look at that kitchen I’ll just sit down and cry. I do like a nice clean kitchen. He didn’t even want me to take the children.

_You:_ Oh well, it’s no more than he ought to do. You’re a mighty nice little woman; I bet he ought to know it.

_She:_ Aw!

_You:_ I bet he don’t know how lucky he is. Married fellows never do. How long have you been married anyway?

_She:_ That’s a personal question.

_You:_ Is it? I’m sorry.

_She:_ Don’t be silly. I’ve been married six years.

_You:_ Gee, he must’ve married you out of high school.

_She:_ Kidder! (She is pleased.) Well, I guess I did get married kind of young.

_You:_ I’ll say you did.

_She:_ I think it’s better that way, don’t you? Keeps kids out of mischief.

_You:_ I don’t know. I almost got married, but—I always thought maybe I’d better see the world first.

_She:_ Maybe the Right One didn’t come along for you.

_You:_ I guess that was it. Just my luck to find her when—oh, well.

_She:_ What were you going to say?

_You:_ Wouldn’t it be too bad if she did come along and I was too late?

_She:_ That’s always the way, I guess.

_You:_ Yes, that’s always the way.

(Another silence.)

_She:_ You’re awful romantic, aren’t you? I’d know right away you wasn’t a married man.

_You:_ That’s funny. It’s just what I would have said about you.

_She:_ You could tell right away I was married?

_You:_ No, just the other way around. I said, “Well, here she is!”

_She:_ Here who is?

_You:_ And then I saw your wedding-ring.

_She:_ You know I have a girl friend who always takes off her ring when she goes to a matinee. Joe says to me, “Mary if ever a wife of mine did that I’d give her a good hiding.”

_You:_ Yeah? Honest, you’d be surprised at the number of married women there are that lead a fellow on.

_She:_ Really?

_You:_ You bet. You wouldn’t know any like that, of course; but the way they act there ought to be a law against it.

_She:_ I always say if a woman isn’t happy with her husband she ought to come right out and say so and get divorced or else not show anybody the way she feels.

_You:_ That’s the right way to look at it. Of course I guess men don’t make it too easy for you either. Now me, whenever I’m tempted I just think of my old mother.

_She:_ It depends on the mother too.

_You:_ Sure.

(A comfortable and agreeing silence, while the boat glides on through the darkness.)

_You:_ It sure is nice to meet a woman who can talk about these things without any—any foolishness. Oh well. Tomorrow it’ll all be over.

_She:_ Tomorrow.

(Sigh again and pat her hand on the rail, leaving your hand over hers when the patting is finished.)

_You:_ Don’t you think people ought to be broadminded about some things?

_She:_ I guess so. What things?

_You:_ Oh, different things.

_She:_ Sure.

(Emboldened, you put your arm around her. She starts away.)

_She:_ No, don’t.

_You:_ Why?

_She:_ It’s wrong. You ought to be ashamed.

_You:_ What’s wrong about it? We want to, don’t we?

_She:_ Say, Joe would kill you if he could hear you.

_You:_ He can’t hear me. Aw, be sensible.

_She:_ I’m being sensible. You’re a nice fellow; now quit. I’m going in.

_You:_ No, wait a minute. Just a minute. You’ve got me all wrong. We’ve been good friends, haven’t we?

_She:_ Yes, we have. I didn’t know you were going to be like this.

_You:_ Didn’t you?

_She (blazing):_ No, I didn’t! And what’s more——

_You:_ Now, don’t get mad. Don’t get mad.

_She:_ What’s more, Joe would kill you! I told you he’d kill you.

_You:_ There can’t be any harm in me putting my arm around you.

_She:_ Sh-h-h!

(The captain passes them in the darkness, muttering “Nice evening, folks.” She is frightened, and as you put your arm around her again she does not object.)

_You:_ What harm could there be in it?

_She:_ I wish you’d——

_You:_ Come on, put your face up.

(Kiss her.)

_She (bursting into tears):_ I tell you Joe would kill you.

_You:_ Say, kid, what makes you so sure?

_She:_ What do you mean?

_You:_ What do you think he’s doing while you’re away?

_She:_ Joe? Why—why——

_You:_ Oh, be sensible. What did he send you away for? What do you think men are anyway?

_She (frightened):_ You’re wrong; you don’t know Joe.

_You:_ Now listen. You know how easy it is to act this way.

_She:_ No—I won’t listen to you.

_You:_ I don’t guess he’s any different from the rest of us. You been married six years? Say! Don’t be dumb. Listen; didn’t that schoolmarm in your cabin get off today?

_She:_ No, no.

_You:_ Yes she did. I’m coming around to say good night.

_She:_ But I don’t want you to.

_You:_ I don’t think you know what you do want.

_She:_ No, I’m going in.

_You:_ We’ve got a lot to talk about.

_She (uncertainly):_ I oughtn’t.

_You:_ What’s wrong with it? Don’t be dumb.

_She:_ Goodnight. I guess we better say goodbye too.

_You:_ Not yet. Oh, have a little sense, will you? He don’t know any more about you than you know about him.

_She:_ Stop talking like that.

_You:_ Well, how about it?

_She:_ Well——

_You:_ Aw, go on.

_She:_ Well——

_You:_ This door locks, don’t it?

9. MUSIC GETS ME

_TYPE:_

The young man with some understanding of music and its effect on the untrained ear.

_SUBJECT:_

A home girl with no particular leaning toward anything but marriage.

_APPARATUS:_

1 Victrola Records as follows: Venetian Moon Tea for Two Merry Widow Waltz Livery Stable Blues Peggy O’Neill Floradora Medley Valse Bluette At Dawning Leibestraum L’Apres-Midi D’un Faun Fire Song Song of India

_REMARKS:_

The selection of music to be used for seduction is not an arbitrary matter. A different combination is necessary for every variation in temperament. Some day it is to be hoped that the difficulty will be overcome; perhaps someone will be able to compile a catalogue of effective combinations. Until then the student can do no better than his unassisted best.

MUSIC GETS ME

“Wouldn’t you think,” she says, “we’d have something from last year, anyway? There isn’t anything as dead as an old dance record. We used to have parties and break the old ones, I remember. And I made up my mind not to buy any more except Red Seals, because the other ones were out of date in a week. I believe that for a while I spent my whole allowance on records, every month.”

“Yes, it’s funny how fast they change,” you say, balancing a

## particularly warped disk on your forefinger. “Remember when jazz first

came in—all horns and those sweet-potato things? They were awfully loud. Dad said the world was going crazy. And then the toddle.”

“Oh yes!” she cries, standing on one foot and bobbing up and down. “It was hard to break the habit when it went out. What are you going to play?”

You wind up the handle, and it squeaks in protest. “Never mind. See if you recognize it.”

“Oh, Venetian Moon! That reminds me of something. Do songs mean things to you? Do certain tunes bring back certain thoughts and feelings to you?”

“Sure, whenever I hear Poor Butterfly I think of Lorna Doone. I can’t trace the connection exactly, but I always do.”

“It must have been played somewhere when you read it,” she says. The record is finished, and the needle scrapes with a harsh sound. “It’s all rusty,” she adds. “I’m going to have it fixed up. I’m tired of the radio anyway. I’d rather choose what I want to hear.”

“Here’s Tea for Two. That was a pretty good one.”

“Yes,” she sighs. “I was kissed for the first time when that was being played. What a fearfully old record!”

Wind up the machine again and put it on, then hold out your arms. “Let’s dance.”

She glides to you. After the first few bars kiss her lightly. She stops, pushing you away. “What’s the idea?” she demands.

“I was just trying to revive old memories,” you explain. “Come on and finish; I’ll be good. Say, you’re a peach of a dancer.”

“Thanks,” she says, going back to the Victrola. “Whose old memories were you reviving then?”

“Oh, don’t be funny,” you grumble. “Here’s a real old-timer.” Hold it up for her to read; it is the Merry Widow Waltz.

“Mother used to dance to that,” she says. “Let’s try to dance in the way they did in the play last year.” But you can not imitate the graceful swooping circles of the Viennese. “It’s not so good,” she decides. “What else is here?”

“Here’s something called the Livery Stable Blues. Do you know it? I don’t.” You put it on, and a dreadful yowling fills the air. She covers her ears.

“Stop it!” she cries. “Take it off! Imagine dancing to that.”

“Oh gosh! Here’s Peggy O’Neill! That has plenty of memories for me, all right. She turned me down the same evening.”

“I’m so sorry, but you were too young to be getting married anyway. Look at this? I wonder why no one ever broke it. I think they played it at my first Prom. It’s queer, but the only people I remember at parties are perfectly irrelevant ones; people I just have one dance with, or something. This is having a very bad effect on me. I feel so old and regretful.” She sighs and looks in the mirror hanging on the wall.

“Well then,” say, winding up the machine again, “Listen to this and have a real good cry. You weren’t born yet when they were playing it.” Start to sing with the music. “Oh, tell me, pretty maiden, are there any more at home like you? There are a few—kind sir——”

“I never even heard it,” she says. “It’s quite catchy, too. They had a lot of good songs, in their way. What are you doing? You’ll get all dusty.”

You are struggling with a large pile of Red Seals. “Sometimes they have a waltz or something that you can use in these highbrow things,” shuffling them. “Here’s something; Valse Bluette. It might be good; let’s try to dance to it.”

But the rhythm is too varied for you. You struggle for a while, and then she breaks away, laughing and breathless.

“No good,” she says. “But here’s one of my favorites. Do you mind? Wait a minute.”

John McCormick’s voice rings out richly, marred only by a periodic scratch.

“When-n-n the dawwwn Flames innnn the skyeeeeee I—uh—love—uh youuuuuu: Whennnn the birrrrdlings wake and cryeeeee I—uh—love—uh yououuuuooooo.”

“Isn’t that lovely?” she says, raptly. “I always loved that song. Music always GETS me somehow. Let’s play it again.”

“Wait a minute,” you say. “I have something else.” The sweet strains of Liebestraum make the air sticky, and her ready laughter is stilled in reverence.

Say, “I don’t know if you’ll like this one or not. It’s a long one.”

She sits down on the divan. “Sure. Go ahead. What is it? I don’t remember any of them.”

“L’Apres-Midi D’Un Faun.”

“What?”

“L’Apres-Midi D’Un Faun. It’s French. Listen!”

She shakes her head briskly as you turn the record over, and starts to talk. Motion to her to be quiet, and play the second part. She speaks drowsily.

“It’s very queer. It’s made me sleepy. Are you playing it again? For heaven’s sake, why?”

“Well,” you explain, “it always sounds better the second time.”

Listen to it again, with your hands clasped together. Lean over to her. “It’s a funny thing about that music. It gets me.” Kiss her.

“I know,” she says. “If I listened to it very long I wouldn’t be responsible.”

“Responsible for what?”

“Oh, just responsible.” Kiss her again. She stands up. “Let’s play something loud and get waked up.”

“This ought to be loud. The Fire Song.”

“No,” she decides, after a few bars, “it isn’t loud enough. I can’t wake up. Play the Hymn to the Sun.”

“It scratches,” you object. “Here’s one something like it.”

Play the Song of India. She sighs and relaxes.

“I love that,” she says, dreamily. “What’s that you’re going to play?”

Without answering her, put on L’Apres-Midi D’Un Faun.

10. EVERYBODY DOES

_TYPE:_

Unscrupulous and determined, but subtle.

_SUBJECT:_

One who is not sure of herself; who hides an inner shrinking by a brave show of sophistication. In her heart is a horrible doubt bred by the reticence of her elders. She is beginning to feel that there are ancient, eternal fibs rife in the cosmos. She is convinced that everyone is in a conspiracy to keep her in ignorance.

_APPARATUS:_

1 Living room with sofa.

_REMARKS:_

The young man in our illustration has compunctions about taking advantage of sentiments so like his own, but sheer inertia carries him along. So it will probably be in your case.

EVERYBODY DOES

“I think you’re perfectly TERRIBLE,” says the girl, smiling as if she doesn’t expect to be believed. “Whoever told you all about everything? I wouldn’t want to live if I felt that way. Why, what would we be here for?”

“I don’t see why we have to be here for anything, particularly,” you answer. “What are mosquitoes for?”

She hesitates for only a second.

“So we won’t get too lazy. They probably wonder why we’re here, slapping them just when they want to eat.”

Look through the window to the lawn outside, covered with snow.

“That’s an unusual remark for a girl of your sort to make,” you muse. “Well, you probably talk that way because this is winter. Now, if I had asked you in July, when there would be plenty of mosquitoes——”

“What ARE you talking about?” she asks. “What do you mean, a girl of my type?”

Laugh and glance at her obliquely. She is very pretty, you think, with that maddeningly serene face of hers. Just now, though she is interested, her expression isn’t really with you. You want to do something about it.

“I mean a girl of your type,” repeat firmly. “A girl who believes everything she’s taught.”

She frowns a little.

“Wouldn’t it be silly to go to school for as long as I have if I didn’t use what they told me?”

“That isn’t what school is for,” you answer hastily. Lord, what a dumbbell! Why am I here, anyway? But she _is_ pretty.

“You’re pretty, anyway,” you say aloud.

“But that’s awfully mean! Pretty anyway! What do you mean? Don’t you think a girl can be pretty and have brains too?”

“Well—brains of a sort.” Now what am I in for? “Sure I guess you have brains. I bet you’re practical in business things.”

“Heavens, no!” she protests. “I can’t do a thing. But I was good at school. I was terribly good in Latin.”

Turn a little on the sofa and smile at her, leaning back. “Ever have any philosophy courses?”

“Of course,” she says promptly. “Three hours a week.”

“And Chapel every morning?”

“Every morning.”

“What did you do in Philosophy? I know about the Chapel.”

“Oh, we studied what all those old birds thought about the world and the mind and reality and those things. And at examinations they asked us to summarize the different points of view.”

“And you had Chapel every day?” you persist. This is something.

“I told you. It was compulsory.”

“They told you what to think, in Chapel?”

“Oh, no!” she cries. “No. Sometimes the Doctor would talk about smoking for girls, and sometimes about movies. And there is a beautiful sermon that he always gives at Easter, about bread and hyacinths. That’s about Art, you know.”

Nod thoughtfully. “Yes. He likes Art, doesn’t he?”

“You’re teasing me,” she says, sadly. “Whenever I talk about religion you get that way. I don’t see why we’re always fighting.”

“We’re not always fighting, are we? All right, let’s stop talking about school. But I did want to ask you something. Why do you think it’s so shocking when I say that God isn’t watching everything you do?” And you think with some anger at yourself that here you are again.

“I didn’t think it was shocking,” she says eagerly. “I’m never shocked. I was just surprised when you told Lilian you didn’t think He was personal enough to have opinions on Prohibition.”

“What makes you think He is?” you ask. Put your arm around her shoulders; she snuggles down comfortably.

“Well,” she begins reasonably, “how would we all be here? Don’t you think we must have come from—I mean, don’t you see that we _must_ be something like Him? Not so perfect or so big and powerful, but—why everybody knows that!”

“So that makes it all right,” you tease her. “If everybody thinks so.”

“Well, I guess they’ve always thought so, for years. And it seems to work. Here we are, aren’t we? Don’t you think we’re improving? It must be right.”

“How did we get started on all this, anyway?” You are bored. “It was talking about Prohibition. It always happens.”

“Yes, that’s how it happened. You fired up when Lilian said it was a success. I’m glad Mother wasn’t there to hear you. She’s a little afraid of you anyway.”

“Is she? Why? I’m safe enough. We just talk—and talk—and talk!” Confound old women!

“I know,” she says happily. “I love to talk seriously. We used to have lots of arguments in my room at school, after hours.... No, I think you’re right; I don’t think Prohibition’s a success at all. I think anybody with sense would know it. Look at the way perfectly nice boys get drunk at every party. I almost died the first time my escort did. Dad said he’d shoot the young puppy. Mother says that _never_ used to happen. I think Prohibition is terrible.”