Part 5

“It looks like a Dodge City haircut. They must learn how to cut hair by correspondence in that town.” Chuckle at the joke. She is annoyed.

“It looked all right to me,” she says promptly.

“Sure,” answer her, “it looks all right. I’m not saying it didn’t look all right. It’s when it gets long the unevenness shows up, but you don’t need to worry. It looks all right now.”

Work industriously for a minute, then step back again to survey the effect. “Do you want it any shorter on the side there?”

“Whatever you think looks best. I guess you know more about how it ought to look.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” you protest.

“Sure you do,” she says.

“You going to stay in town long?” Select a pair of clippers.

“Yes, I’m here for good, I guess. I’ve got a job here.”

“That’s swell,” heartily. “We need new people here. Don’t we, Jim?”

The second barber jumps and looks up. “Eh?” he says.

“I was just telling the little lady we need new people here.”

“Oh, uh, yes. Sure.”

“Yes,” you resume, “it’s a good town, but sometimes you get to wishing there were more people. You know, young people.”

“Yes, I must say it doesn’t look very lively to me,” she says. “Of course I’m used to Dodge City; that’s pretty lively.”

“Well now, I don’t know. You have to make your own excitement, of course. But it ain’t so bad. If you get in with the right kind, of course. A place like this, it’s pretty important what kind you get in with.”

One by one, the other customers leave and their barbers drift outside to loaf in the sun. Tiny grains of powder dance in the beams that slant to the floor of the shop.

“Do you mind the clippers?”

“No, go ahead.”

Work a minute in silence.

“Say,” you begin, “would you mind my asking you a personal question?”

“It depends on what it is.” She lowers her eyes to her lap.

“Are you married?”

She smiles. “You’ve got a nerve. No, I ain’t.”

“That’s good.”

“Why? It’s none of your business, is it?”

“You don’t act very friendly, do you?”

“Well, I don’t believe in acting as friendly as some people do.”

Laugh heartily and start to comb her hair tightly over her forehead.

“You know, you got pretty hair,” you say. She glances at it rather complacently in the mirror, and tips her head. Resume impulsively, “You know, this business is awfully hard on a man of my calibre.”

She is unsympathetic. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering if you were busy tonight.”

She giggles. “Who wants to know?”

“Ah, cut that out!” you cry, flicking the big duster on her neck. “I want to know. Who did you think?”

“I don’t know about tonight,” she muses.

“I’ve got a flivver. There ought to be a dance somewhere. I bet you’re a mighty good little dancer.”

“I’d like to,” she admits, “but I don’t think I’d better.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I’m just starting out in this place. You know how it is.”

“What’s the harm? A ride and a little drink won’t hurt you. If you like I’ll ask a couple of friends. Listen....”

One of the other barbers comes in again, and you stop abruptly. The haircut is obviously finished. Untuck the towel with lingering fingers and step to the door with her as she fumbles in her purse.

“Fifty cents, ma’am,” you say loudly, and add in a low voice, “Listen. Eight o’clock, see? What address?”

“Four eighty-three Garden. But I don’t know....”

“Oh, who’ll ever know about it? Eight o’clock, O.K. Fifty cents, seventy-five, one dollar. Thank you ma’am.”

“Say Jim, did you see that!”

12. GAME LITTLE KID

_TYPE:_

The out-of-door man who smokes a pipe and can hit twice in the same place when chopping wood. One who believes in Pure Womanhood; who would die for his country and kill any man with designs on his wife.

_SUBJECT:_

Rather young, wistful and easy to flatter. Does not know what she believes, but reflects the philosophy of any companion.

_APPARATUS:_

1 Picnic Spot 1 Fire 1 Pipe

_REMARKS:_

They make very attractive flannel shirts nowadays.

GAME LITTLE KID

She watches you lazily while you souse the dishes in the lake and wipe them clumsily. She feels rather guilty about it, but at the beginning of the hike you have insisted on taking care of everything. It is your party. And it is a nice party, too. The moon is there, and the air is warm, and somewhere there is a flower that smells very sweet. She closes her eyes and leans against the rock and feels happy.

Knock the ashes out of your pipe and sit down by her, taking her hand in yours. “Swell night,” you say.

“Oh, yes! I’m having a good time.”

“So am I. I’ve had a better time today than I can remember since I don’t know when.”

“Really?” she protests smiling. “How about that race at Mackinac?”

“That was pretty good too. Only you weren’t along. It could have been perfect.”

She laughs easily. “I’d have been in the way. You’ve never tried telling me anything else before. What’s the matter with you tonight? Getting soft?”

“Not much use of that, is there?” You both chuckle. “You’re too cagey. I couldn’t say anything nice to you even if I meant it. You’d bite my head off.”

“Sure!”

Push her in mock exasperation, then take her hand again. She is a little uneasy about it, and leans over to tie her boot-lace more securely.

“Well, it’s all right with me,” say suddenly. “You know, you’re a pretty game kid.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“You sure are. Lots of people must have told you so before. I like you. Do you know it?”

“Glad you do,” she says. “I like you.”

“There, that’s just what I mean.” Fill your pipe again. “Saying it out, frankly, like that.”

“Why shouldn’t I, if it’s true?”

“Well, I don’t really know why you shouldn’t. But most girls wouldn’t. You know how women are.”

“Sure,” she says, largely.

“Gee,” you cry. “The way you say that! Funny kid.”

“Now, what sounded funny about that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It sounded so boyish. You’re just like a boy, now that I think of it.” Turn and smile at her.

“Thanks! I always wanted to be a boy.”

“I’ll bet you did. Gosh, though, I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“Girls have a much better time. I wouldn’t mind if someone had to buy my tickets and take me out to dinner once in a while.”

She thinks about it for a minute, poking the fire with the toe of her heavy boot. “I’m not sure,” she says slowly. “We pay for it, in a way. Suppose you had to see as much of some of the idiots that we do? You can just ask anyone you want; we have to wait till we’re asked.”

“Yes, that’s so. Some of them are pretty bad, I guess.” You laugh. “Anyway, I always thought some of your friends were, but I never dared to say so. What’s the matter with ’em, exactly?”

“They’re so stupid!” she cries. “They think all a girl is good for is to paw. They haven’t any idea of real fun at all.”

“I know.” Pat her arm comfortingly. “Just grab you as soon they look at you, don’t they? Most men are like that, I guess. I don’t understand it myself. I’m no saint, but I couldn’t have anything to do with a girl unless I liked her. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” she says, flushing a little in excitement. “I feel that way exactly. I’m so glad you do too. I was beginning to think that men were just different. Most of them——”

“Sure. Honestly, do they bother you so much?” You frown.

“Yes, even me. Can you imagine? Me!”

“That just shows you. If you’ll pardon my being frank....”

“Of course.”

“I can’t imagine anything like that, with you.”

“Certainly. I know. That’s why we get along so well, isn’t it?”

“We are—friends, aren’t we?”

“Sure!”

Squeeze her hand and puff at your pipe, thinking deeply. Then sigh, and say, “Funny thing, sex.”

“Isn’t it!”

“You know, it’s wonderful to be able to talk like this to a girl. I couldn’t if you were really a—a woman in my mind. But I don’t feel that way about you at all. You’re my friend. You don’t appeal to me that way.”

She wonders vaguely if she likes that. But she answers quickly. “Thank you. I know you mean it. You know, a friendship like that is valuable to me, too. I need it. I used to think that no matter how much I tried, it was just impossible to have a man for a real friend.”

“Really? Then we’re square, because you mean a lot to me.”

Put your arm around her and look into the fire.

“That’s another thing,” she says, thoughtfully. “That’s another reason I wish I could be a man. You have an awfully easy time with that sort of thing, don’t you?”

“What? Gosh, no. I don’t see how anybody could think so.”

“Really? I always thought you did. I don’t know very much about it, but——”

“I’m glad you don’t!” you growl with such fervor that she is surprised.

“What’s the matter? You shouldn’t care anything about what I do—like that. Not if we’re friends the way you say.”

“Well, I’ll tell you.” Pull her closer to your shoulder. “I can’t break away from a funny idea I have about you. I want you to stay just as straight as you are. It’s a queer thing, sex. I don’t want you spoiled. That fine straightness of yours is so rare. I guess I’m selfish to want anyone to live up to my ideals, but I do want you to keep it.” Give her a little hug.

She answers gravely. “Yes, I know. I want to stay the way I am, too. I don’t know how I really feel about it, I guess, but I do—I mean, I like myself now, do you see? It’s awfully hard to express.”

“I know. Gee, you’re a peach, kid. I do like you.”

“Thanks....” Kiss her softly on the cheek. “Look!” she cries, sitting up a little straighter. “There’s a shooting star.”

“It’s awfully nice. Come back here. Afraid of me?”

“Of course not!” But she sits up.

“You don’t trust me?”

“Don’t! Of course I do.”

“Then why act like that? You’ll hurt my feelings.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to!” She settles back against your shoulder. Kiss her on the mouth; she struggles away.

“What’s the matter, dear?” you murmur. “I thought you trusted me. What’s the matter?”

“Why, I didn’t mean—I do trust you. Only....” She stops and looks away from you.

“Then what is it? I don’t understand. Do you mean you—you can’t trust yourself? I thought you were so sensible about these things.”

“Of course I can. I’m not a man!”

“No, dear. But you’re a woman, aren’t you? Are you afraid, really?”

“I’m not afraid. I just didn’t want to.”

“Oh, I’m sorry....”

“I didn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

“Just don’t care?”

“Not exactly that....”

Laugh. “You’re a darling. I’m going to kiss you again. That’ll be all right?”

“Sure, I guess so.”

“You really liked it.”

“A little.”

“Don’t keep moving away like that! I’ll think you hate me. You just said we were friends.”

“Yes, but....”

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, but....”

“There now, I won’t bother you any more if you’ll only show that you trust me. Darling!”

The fire smolders, unnoticed.

13. PROMISE ME YOU WON’T

_TYPE:_

Large, clumsy, good-hearted. A shrewd business man, whatever that means. Usually married.

_SUBJECT:_

Intelligent, pretty little specimen of Independent Womanhood, just beginning to question the desirability of a lifetime among the file cases.

_APPARATUS:_

1 Small Apartment 2 Chairs 1 Batik Drapery 2 Bed-Sofas 1 Japanese Print 1 Indifferently Good Caricature in Crayon.

_REMARKS:_

Somehow the sight of a man being paternal arouses in woman a protective instinct on her own part; an indulgent affection compounded of amusement and gratitude.

PROMISE ME YOU WON’T

You are uncomfortable. You are both sitting on one of the sofas, but with a great difference of mien. She is curled up among the cushions—she is a supple little thing, and seems to be comfortable, but you are leaning forward with your hands clasped between your knees, which are rather ludicrously raised from the floor because the couch sags. Anyway, it is never becoming to you to argue; your face grows red and you look more clumsy than ever. She is enjoying the new sensation of seeing you ill at ease, and because of her. In the office it is so often the other way around.

“But I don’t think it is good for you,” you are saying.

“I don’t see why.”

“It isn’t good for anyone to be too much alone.” Speak doggedly in the tone of one who has made the same remark at intervals all his life.

“Oh no,” she protests. “I think it depends a lot on the person. I think everybody ought to have privacy. I don’t see how the people here do without it, I really don’t. I have to keep my shades down all the time, living in the basement like this. Even at that the girls are always coming in—a couple of people have keys.”

“What?” you cry. She laughs.

“Just the girls, silly.” You are somewhat confused and she feels abashed at having called you silly. It sounds too intimate, somehow. Move your feet uneasily and knit your brows in an effort to say tactfully just what you think.

“I don’t like it. You need your rest. It’s all right for a while but pretty soon it’ll react on you. I don’t understand you girls. You don’t use one of these studios for anything, you’re at the office all day anyway. You don’t even save so much money.” She laughs and then looks at you inquisitively.

“Really, you’re taking it awfully hard. What’s the matter? What’s worrying you?”

“I don’t know.... I just don’t like it all.”

“I know,” she says, teasingly. “You didn’t like the dinner. I know you didn’t. Confess you didn’t!”

“I’m not worrying about the dinner,” you say hastily. “I don’t care much about what I eat; it was only that the place didn’t look clean. You never eat their stew or anything like that, do you?”

She answers sarcastically, “It’s terribly nice of you to worry so much about me....” and you flush.

“Now, don’t talk like that. Please don’t.”

“No, honestly, I mean it. I wrote Mother that she certainly wouldn’t worry so much about me if she could hear how you’re always lecturing me. I’m so afraid you’ll walk into the office some day when it’s raining and bellow, ‘Miss Merrill, where are your rubbers?’”

This is better. Relax and laugh loudly. “Better look out, or I will!”

In the relaxed atmosphere of the joke you suddenly find enough courage to lean over the necessary few inches and put a hand on her shoulder, rubbing your cheek against hers for a second.

She is discomposed, although it is not very surprising after all.

“Here!” she protests, breathlessly. “Stop that! Why did you do that?”

“Sorry. But I wanted to.”

“Well....” She is at a loss. She giggles and says, “And besides, you need a shave.”

“Yeah. Sorry.... Another thing, I think probably you don’t have very good people hanging around here.”

“How can you tell? You haven’t met anyone but Mary. You said she has nice ankles.”

“Did I?” you ask, surprised. “Maybe I did. But I don’t like women to cut their hair so short. That’s one of the things I like about you, by the way. You may be in business and all that, but you haven’t lost your femininity.” Close your hand over hers where it lies on the cushion.

“That’s not a compliment these days.”

Shake your head violently. “Don’t kid yourself. We really like the same type all the time, we men. You know, you worry me a lot in the office.”

“Really? How?”

“Well, because——” Stop and knit your brows. You are trying very hard to express yourself sincerely. “In the office you treat everybody so darned nice.... I mean you’re a great little mixer and it’s fine for business, but doesn’t anyone ever misunderstand? You know what I mean, don’t you?”

She looks at you with a startled expression which changes to a hurt one. She falters. “You mean I don’t act—do I act too fast? I’m awfully sorry. I thought that——”

Pat her hand furiously. “No, no! You act fine! I didn’t mean to criticize you at all, but you know how men are. Listen here.” You raise her chin and look at her eyes searchingly. “If anybody tries to put anything over on you I want you to come and tell me about it. I want to be a friend of yours.”

“Thank you,” she says softly, “I consider you a friend now.”

“That’s mighty nice of you. It makes me feel fine. You’re such a decent kid, and I don’t think you know a thing about life.”

“Oh,” she cries pettishly, “there you go again! I guess I can take care of myself!”

“Yes, but this is what worries me. I don’t like the idea of these long-haired kids filling your mind up with free love theories and all that. You’re an intelligent kid too, and youngsters like you are sort of experimental.”

“But——”

“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.”