Part 6

“Wait a minute. You don’t know; you can’t tell now how you might feel one of these days. It’s dangerous, this stuff. You may not know it, but we’re a pretty rotten lot. Most men are out for what they can get.”

“I think that’s horrid; to be worrying like that all the time. I don’t want to have to be on my guard all the time.”

“Of course you don’t. Of course you don’t.”

“And as for my being silly, I think you ought to realize that I have a little common sense. Or even if you don’t think so, don’t you think that I have some ideals?”

“That’s the way I like to hear you talk. Maybe you think I’m being sort of nosey, but I can’t help worrying about you. You’re awfully sweet.”

She has a fleeting moment of misgiving. This isn’t the way a boss ought to be talking. But you are very kind to be so worried.... “Yes,” she says, flippantly, “If I were Miss Moser you wouldn’t take so much trouble, I guess.”

“Well, nobody’s likely to bother her, at her age. I do want to keep an eye on you. You don’t look so efficient as you are; a man’s likely to forget what a swell little secretary you are when he looks at you. Here, isn’t this more comfortable?” Put your arm under her head. The room is very still and cozy. “Listen.”

“What?” she says, comfortably.

“I want to ask you something.”

“What?”

“I want to ask you to promise me something.”

“Well?”

“Promise me that—that you won’t let anyone....” Silence. “Hm-m-m?”

“If you think that I need to promise——”

Kiss her (to silence her). Then—“You know I don’t mistrust you,” you say, gruffly, “but I get worried. Won’t you promise?”

“Sure,” she answers. The silence of the room flows over you again, and it too holds a promise.

14. AH, WHAT IS LIFE?

_TYPE:_

Middle-aged, plump, precious. The kind of man who goes to teas and avoids unpleasant situations, but does nothing else. Small white hands and shiny lips.

_SUBJECT:_

Ardent adolescent, seventeen or so. Quick to find Beauty in a poem or an automobile, an eclair or a man.

_APPARATUS:_

1 Long low living room 4 Bookcases 20 Ashtrays, all different 1 Tea set

_REMARKS:_

Before attempting this experiment, read Freud on the connection between artistic appreciation and the reproductive instinct. This is an indirect method and calls for careful handling.

AH, WHAT IS LIFE?

“But don’t you think,” says Cynthia, “that as a rule we lose sight of that quality? It’s no use trying to _cultivate_ a soul.”

“No,” you answer lazily, wisely, “I should be distinctly annoyed with anyone who plucked my sleeve when I was busy, no matter how many hyacinths he might wish to call to my attention. No, the true sense of beauty thrives only where it is not watched. Unfortunately it becomes self-conscious far too easily. And then, of course, one becomes articulate ... after he has lost his reason for speech.... Ah,” with a wistful little smile, “I’m mawkish today. You mustn’t start me off, my dear. Look at the tender color on the sky and stop thinking. I’ll read to you. Something decadent. Here.

White clouds are in the sky. Blue shadows of the hills Between us two must lie. The road is rough and far. Deep fords between us are. I pray you not to die.”

She says nothing; she does not even sigh. She looks at you and waits.

“Ah, youth, youth! The beautiful simplicity, the terrible complexity of inexperience. Straight, clean.... I have lost the gift. I cannot read that poetry. Give me the sophisticated; the keen irony of Eliot; the ponderous exaltation of the negroes....”

“Of course,” she says, in a rather chastened tone. “But I still like music in my poetry. Don’t you still like the Hymn to Proserpine—or don’t you remember? ‘From too much love of living——’”

Take it up and finish it smoothly, with an indulgent smile but giving it full value and a dying fall.

“I’ll wager,” you say, smiling, “that you know every word of Rupert Brooke.”

She blushes. “That isn’t fair! You know all about me!”

“It isn’t hard,” you say. “I was so much like you at your age, you see. There, I’ll stop teasing. Let’s talk about something else. Look at my greatest treasure, down there in the corner of the bookshelf. No, not that. That’s a Blake. It’s a nice little thing, but you’ll get yourself dusty. There it is. First edition. Did you ever see one before?”

She is not sure which of the two volumes you are speaking of; the Beardsley Salome or the new Contes Drolatique. She is exquisitely careful and reverent with both of them; opening one on her lap and looking at it for a minute. She doesn’t stay interested very long, however. She wants to listen.

“Just toys, of course,” you say. “I’m ridiculously dependent on material things like that. The more delicate the edifice the more firm the foundation, I’ve decided. No——” as she starts to speak, with an ardent gasp—“I know you don’t agree with me. The tree of Job and a savorless crust in the desert for you; with a voluptuous purple sunset in piquant contrast....”

“That’s cruel of you!” she cries.

“Yes, it is. You mustn’t be so sensitive. I like to tease you; then I’m always sorry. I don’t know why I do it. Yes I do. It’s really that I envy—bitterly—your ideal asceticism. So you mustn’t pay any attention to me. I’m pink and old and plump and I don’t know what I’m talking about. Go on home and call up your—Boy Friend, isn’t that what you call him? Go on out and dance, little pagan. Dance and stop worrying. I’ll worry for you. I’ll burn incense and think of you, and pray for myself.”

She ignores this nobly. “Incense? Where do you burn it? In front of that gold thing there?”

“Thing? My dear!” Speak gravely. “Tread softly: he hates you enough already. He is old and you are young: he is only half divine, and you....”

“I do believe,” she giggles, “that you’re really afraid of him!”

“Of course I am. But I shall overthrow him soon, out of my own strength. I’m going to be a Papist.”

“Honestly?”

“Yes, it has the true aestheticism of aristocracy.”

She sighs. “You say things so wonderfully. You’re absolutely continental.”

“Dear child! You shall have some tea for that. My very special flower tea. Sit there so I can see you while I fix it. No, don’t read that book. It isn’t for little girls.”

She promptly begins to read it. Bring out the table and connect the little electric range for hot water. The long shadowy room grows darker and outside the automobiles begin to turn on their lights.

“There now,” you say. “Take this, if you like the cup.”

“Oh, isn’t it lovely! I think it’s so nice that your cups are all different. Mother simply insists on having everything in sets, even our books.”

Groan in agony, and you smile at each other, feeling cozy and superior. She eats one piece of cinnamon toast and glances wistfully at another, but decides against it.

“We’ll leave the things for Maria in the morning,” you explain. “Then it’s perfect. Now where is that poem you were going to show me?”

“Oh, I can’t,” she cries. “It’s dreadful!”

“Don’t be silly, please,” you beg.

“All right. I think you’d better read it yourself. Don’t you hate to have people read your things?” Miserably, she pretends to look at a book while you read.

“But this is lovely!” you cry. “Here, I’ll read it aloud.

At night I close my window And through the glass I see Dancing in the moonlight A silver tree.

I dream about it all night long, But in the early dawn With dream and sleep and part of youth The tree is gone.

Lovely! It has a freshness, a sincerity....”

“Oh, honestly? You’re just saying it!”

You answer severely, “I’m not speaking now as a friend, my dear. I’m speaking as a critic.”

“Then could you tell me how to improve it?” she begs. “It needs—something.” You both think deeply.

“M-m-m,” say in a judicial tone. “Let’s see. One thing I’d do, perhaps—but no. Perhaps I’d transpose the words in the penultimate line and then it would read ‘sleep and dream’ instead of ‘dream and sleep.’ Otherwise the thing is perfect.”

She nods vigorously. “Yes, you’re very right. I see it now. Thank you so much. It’s wonderful of you to bother.”

“Bother? It’s no bother. You don’t realize—you can’t realize what your youth does for me. Almost, my dear, almost I forget my figure and my horrible hair and—well, never mind. It doesn’t matter. What does anything matter in the clearness of your voice and the gladness of your face?”

She sits very still as you pass your hand gently over her hair. Her shining eyes are fixed on something invisible that hovers in the room just over your head. Mystery, or the answer to all mystery? A new confidence, a new belief, are coming into her life. It is like being kissed in a dream; wondering a little, but detached; peaceful in an even exaltation.

* * * * *

The room grows darker and the swish of the motors make a faint pulsing music from the boulevard. There comes an evening coolness. She is thinking; her cheeks are flushed. The bright colors of the books on the shelf are smothered in darkness, but you can see that her cheeks are flushed. She has forgotten where she is, who she is, everything. Very softly, taking elaborate care to avoid the tea-table, go over to the door and lock it.

15. A MAN MY AGE

_TYPE:_

Married, more than forty-five, discontented and not very attractive at first glance.

_SUBJECT:_

Warm-hearted but somewhat slow and heavy in her thought-processes. Has many women friends. Various men sometimes wonder why they didn’t marry her when it was possible. A good sport, but very respectable.

_APPARATUS:_

1 Chesterfield divan, very comfortable but dusty 1 Fireplace 1 Stack of Wood 1 Fire, roaring

_REMARKS:_

The married man has an advantage. He has had training; he is actually as one might say trained, or tamed. He is forbidden by law and thus he acquires glamour and romance.

A MAN MY AGE

“I love this,” she says.

“So do I,” you answer. “I’m sorry the place is so messy. I didn’t notice until you walked in. That nigger never cleans up unless Emma keeps after her. I don’t know what’ll happen now.”

“Well, when Emma gets back it’ll be all right,” she says.

Glance at her in some surprise. “But I thought you knew about that,” you protest. “Emma isn’t coming back, you know.”

“No? Oh....” She is fearfully embarrassed. She feels a little angry. “Of course I didn’t know. You didn’t tell me. How should I know?”

“But of course I thought—— Why do you suppose she didn’t tell you? I thought you were the first one she told. I’m so sorry. I’d better——”

“You’d better tell me about it,” says Barbara. “She didn’t really have a chance, the last time I saw her. My sister had lunch with us and went down to the station too.”

“Sure, that explains it. Why, it was this way. We went up to the cottage in June, and she went to Bedford after that. We came to an agreement after we left the city; I don’t know just when. It took a long time. We changed our minds a lot.”

“I should think so,” she murmurs.

“Well,” you go on, “it’s been three months anyway, off and on. I guess we’ve just been really separated for a couple of weeks. It seems longer because of that adjustment period. She can do what she likes about the divorce; I’ve left it up to her. I told her to do what she thought best. Emma knows how to go about business and all that. Of course I’ll agree to anything.”

“You mean you’ve definitely decided——” Her voice is incredulous.

“Nothing’s definite. But if you mean is it all over, yes. We agree on that, absolutely. Are you really so surprised?”

She thinks about it for a minute. “No,” she decides, “not really. I noticed something. That night you had the party before we all went to the beach, I knew there was something wrong. But I had no idea.... Do you mind talking about it? Some people might.”

Shake your head and laugh. “Certainly not. It hasn’t been particularly painful, you see. You’re one of the family anyway. Why should I mind?”

“I’m glad you feel that way about it,” she says. “Of course I’m frightfully interested.”

“Then it wouldn’t bore you?”

“No,” she says. She maintains a reserved attitude; politely interested. Sit back against the cushions and draw a deep breath.

“I want to be fair to Emma. I guess the fault was on both sides. I can’t help remembering that after all, it was my idea that we get married. I remember it perfectly well: I had to argue with her. You mustn’t think that I’m trying to whine about it.” Smile at her rather sadly and whimsically.

“Ben, you know I don’t,” she cries.

“I don’t know. Naturally I feel a little defensive. After all, I suppose you’re on her side. I met you through her.”

“Don’t be silly. I just want to hear the truth. You’re both my friends.”

“That’s what I wanted you to say, Barbara.” The fire crackles comfortably. “Well, anyway, there it is. I don’t know just how it happened. My fault, I suppose, but I refuse to feel guilty. I’m awful. I keep wondering why in hell I wanted to get married. I remember in a very vague and impersonal sort of way that she was pretty.”

“Oh yes,” she says eagerly. “_Wasn’t_ she pretty?”

“I don’t know when all the trouble did start. I can’t even figure it out. I don’t know that I want to.” Kick the flaming log.

“I think I can understand,” she says slowly. “Of course I’m trying to be impartial, and Emma’s one of my best friends, but I think that I do understand.”

“Yes, you would understand,” you answer. “There’s one thing, though, that I’d like to tell you. I mean this: I do feel badly about it. I may not act that way, but I do. It’s been awfully hard on her. Don’t think I haven’t worried.”

“You know, Ben, there’s something I want to say.” She sits up and folds her hands.

“Go ahead.”

“Well, I haven’t any right to say it, but I’m going to. I think that your trouble is, you worry too much.”

“Me? Worry? Barbara, you’re a nut!”

“I mean it. You think too much for her and everybody else. You pretend to be absolutely careless about everyone else, but you aren’t. You can’t get along like that; it isn’t nature. It doesn’t work out.”

“Maybe.” Frown at the fire. “Maybe. But what about her? She can’t face things alone, you know. I’m sorry if I’m talking too much, but this is serious. Now we’re started on a long subject. She simply can’t do it. She isn’t fitted for it. You must know that. You’re an old friend of hers.”

“Ben, how long have you been worrying like this about other people?”

“You’re asking me how old I am!” you cry in dismay. “It isn’t polite of you. I’m much too old for you to be wasting your time on my domestic troubles. You’ll have to be satisfied with that. I won’t tell you.”

“I know how old you are. Emma told me when you were married. What’s the matter with you? You’re not old.”

Get up and fix the fire to hide your pleasure.

“You’re a sweet girl, Barbara. You’ve always been the only one of Emma’s friends I had any use for. You’re the only mutual friend we’ve ever had, I may say.”

“Thanks, Ben. Anyway I’m flattered that you’ve told me so much.”

“I wonder why I did. There’s something about you that makes people talk. What is it?”

“Is there?”

“I think it must be that you’re so honest, yourself. How do you happen to be so honest?”

“Why not? Most people are.”

“No they aren’t. Most women aren’t. Emma wasn’t. You knew that, didn’t you?”

She considers it. “Oh, Emma didn’t lie.”

“Not directly. But Emma was essentially feminine; essentially evasive. You aren’t.”

“No,” she admits, serenely.

The silence is becoming dangerous.

“Heavens!” she cries, suddenly. “I had no idea it was so late. I’ll have to go.”

“Wait until this log burns down,” you suggest. “You surely aren’t in such a hurry as all that. I’m afraid to be left alone. You’ve no idea how lonely an old man can get in a few minutes.”

She laughs. “Well, I’ll wait for a little. I hate to leave the fire. I’m getting old, too.”

“Besides, you’re a very busy person and I haven’t really seen you all year. I think I’ve just realized how nice an evening like this could be. I think I’ve been waiting for this for days, without knowing it. I feel much better, really.”

“I’m so glad,” she says, seriously. “I’ve been a little bit blue, myself.”

“You?” Incredulous. “I didn’t know that you ever felt blue. What on earth were you blue about?”

“Oh, I’m such a useless person. I don’t really do a damned thing. I’ve been thinking all day about things. And then when I see people like you and Emma having your troubles too—you were two people that I always thought of as being fulfilled, sort of. Now it seems to take away my last hope. Emma’s my best friend, in a way, and now I find that you’ve both been very unhappy. It just fits in with everything else.”

“You make me feel very guilty. I didn’t want to depress you. I’ve been selfish.”

“Oh, I was depressed already! No, you made me feel a little better, somehow.”

“My dear,” you say softly, “I do think you’re taking it harder than I did. You’ve been telling me that I am too sympathetic, too.”

“Well, it isn’t just sympathy, perhaps,” she says. “I was applying everything to myself.”

“You think too much,” you advise. “Stop thinking too hard about life. It never does any good. I know. I’ve done it too.”

She is silent, and you begin again. “Barbara,” taking her hand, “I want to give you some advice. I’m a lot older than you are and I think we’re something alike. Don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” she says. “I have thought so.”

“There are things a lot more important than little married relationships such as Emma’s and mine. It’s those things that really fill our lives, Barbara. For instance this talk I’ve had with you tonight means much more to me than any little love-affair. Don’t you see what I mean?”,

“Yes, I think so. We are friends, aren’t we? Real friends.”

“That’s it. Here we are talking about this and that, and it’s the most pleasant thing I’ve ever done. It’s been a quiet civilized sort of time. Not everyone is capable of such a relationship. Don’t you think we’re a little ahead of the rest of them?”

She watches you and nods. “Yes, you’re right.”

Pat her hand. “You’re an adorable child. The fire needs fixing. Just a minute.”

“Oh, Ben!” she cries. “I have to go. Really. Don’t fix it for me.”

“Too late,” sitting down again. “It’s caught already. You’ll have to wait a while longer.”

She hesitates, looking at her wrist watch. “I oughtn’t.”

“Just a minute, dearest.”

“Well, all right.” She smiles at you. Catch your breath and then seize her in your arms.

“Oh Barbara! I do love you so, much!”

16. GONNA BE NICE?

_TYPE:_

City product, bad complexion but quick brain. Too impetuous for steady success.

_SUBJECT:_

Very young, very canny. Always hunts in pairs with others of her kind. Fond of chewing-gum and marcel waves.

_APPARATUS:_

1 automobile, touring type 1 companion

_REMARKS:_

A very limited method. There are many girls who would refuse to be subjects on such short notice under any circumstances whatever. But for those who are at all willing to aid in the experiment, this lesson should do as well as any.

GONNA BE NICE?

The crowds walk much more slowly on the streets in the evening. They aren’t going anywhere; they haven’t anything to do. For the same reason, perhaps, the autos seem to loiter as they pass the people on the pavements. They aren’t going anywhere much. They’re open to suggestion. Two by two the people walk; sometimes there are more; hardly ever are there less.

Large groups of young boys all too young to smoke; all smoking. Little groups of girls looking in the shop windows. Two girls especially, looking in the windows for lack of something better to do. Not exactly discontented, not consciously bored. Just looking. Just walking.

Among the cars is one that goes a little more slowly even than the rest. It is a middle-aged Dodge touring car with two boys in the front seat, very much on the lookout. They pass the two little girls and call out experimentally cheerful and more or less expectant of rebuff. One of the girls looks oblivious and yet slightly more scornful, but the other smiles a little. On the chance of success, the driver of the car goes around the block and passes them again. As he disappears around the corner for the second time, the scornful girl suddenly relaxes.

“If they come back again, let’s,” she says.

“Sure,” says the other, indulgently. “They look all right.”

A third time you call to them, and this time the girls stop walking and stand waiting as the car comes to a halt. The boy who is not driving jumps out and opens the back door. Ruthie, the scornful girl, steps in while Rosie gets into the front seat, and the car speeds away. It has not taken a moment.

“Well, where to?” you call from the back seat.

“I don’t care,” answers Bill. “What do you say?” he adds, turning to Rosie. “Got any favorite drives?”

“No,” says Rosie, “I don’t know much about the roads. What do you say, Ruthie?”

“Ruthie. It’s a nice name,” you say, and put your arm around the owner of it. She does not cuddle down, but sits up more swiftly than before.

“Why,” she says, with a surprising decision, “the Jamestown road is pretty good as far as the fence with the vine on it. When you get that far you better turn back.”

Bill turns the car toward the Jamestown road and settles down to driving, while Rosie curls up in the other corner of the seat and watches him. They both wait for the other one to start talking. At last——

“Gee,” she says admiringly, “you sure go fast. You ought to be careful in the city. I got a cousin who was pinched yesterday.”

“Yeah? Never mind; I know the cop on this road. It ain’t so much the speed, it’s what they call reckless driving they pinch you for. If a fellow knows his business you can be pretty sure they leave him alone. They don’t care for no speed limits.”

“I guess you’re right,” says Rosie.

* * * * *