When the war was over Aline went for a visit to Paris with Esther Walker and her husband Joe, the painter who did the portrait of her dead brother from a photograph. He also did one of Teddy Copeland for his father and then another of Aline’s dead mother — getting five thousand dollars for each — and Aline had been the one who had told her father about the painter. She had seen a portrait of his at the Art Institute, where she then was a student, and had told her father of him. Then she met Esther Walker and invited her and her husband out to the Aldridge house. Esther and Joe had both been good enough to say some very nice things about her own work, but that, she felt, was just politeness. Although she had a knack for drawing she hadn’t taken her own cleverness very seriously. There was something about painting, real painting, she could not get at, could not understand. After the war started and her brother and Teddy went away she wanted to do something and could not bring herself to the business of working every minute to “help win the war” by knitting socks or running about selling Liberty Bonds. The war in fact bored her. She did not know what it was about. If it had not come on she would have married Ted Copeland and then then at least she would have found out some things.
Young men going away to be killed, thousands of them, hundreds of thousands. How many women felt as she did? It was taking something away from women, the chances for something. Suppose you are a field and it is spring. A farmer is coming toward you with a bag filled with seed. Now he has almost reached the field, but instead of coming to plant the seed he stops by the roadside and burns it. Women can’t have such thoughts, not directly. They can t if they are nice women.
Better to go in for art, take painting lessons — particularly if you are rather clever with a brush. If you can’t do that go in for culture — read the latest books, go to the theater, go to hear music. When music is being played — certain kinds of music — But never mind that. That also is something a nice woman doesn’t talk about or think about.
There are a lot of things to be let alone in life — that’s sure.
Until after she reached Paris, Aline did not know what kind of a painter Joe Walker was or what kind of a woman was Esther, but on the boat she began to suspect, and when she did get a hunch about them she had to smile to think how willing she had been to let Esther work things out for her. The painter’s wife had been so quick and clever about paying Aline back.
You did a good turn for us — fifteen thousand is not to be sneezed at — now we’ll do as much for you.” There never had been, never would be, a thing so crude as a wink or a shrug of the shoulders from Esther. Aline s father had been deeply hurt by the tragedy of the war and his wife had been dead since Aline was a child of ten and while she was in Chicago and Joe was at work on the portraits — you can’t do five-thousand-dollar portraits too fast, you must take at least two or three weeks for each — while she was practically living at the Aldridge house Esther made the older man feel almost as though he again had a wife to look after him.
She spoke with such reverence of the man’s character and of the undoubted ability of the daughter.
Such men as you have made such sacrifices. It is the quiet man of ability going straight alone, helping to keep the social order intact, meeting every contingency without a murmur — it is such men who — it is a thing one can’t speak of openly, but in times like this, when the whole social order has been shaken, when old standards of life are being torn down, when the young have lost faith—”
“We who are of an older order — we must be father and mother to the younger generation now.”
“Beauty will persist — the things worth while in life will persist.”
“Poor Aline — to have lost both a prospective husband and a brother. And she has such talent, too. She is like you, very quiet, not saying much. A year abroad now may save her from some kind of a breakdown.”
How easily Esther had befuddled Aline’s father, the shrewd and capable corporation lawyer. Men were really altogether too easy. There was no doubt Aline should have stayed at home — in Chicago. A man, any man unmarried, with money, should not be left lying about loose with such women as Esther about. Although she had not had much experience Aline was no fool. Esther knew that. When Joe Walker came to the Aldridge house in Chicago to paint the portraits Aline was twenty-six. When she sat at the wheel of her husband’s car, that evening before the factory in Old Harbor, she was twenty-nine.
What a jumble! What a mixed unaccountable thing life could be!
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MARRIAGE! HAD SHE intended marriage, had Fred really intended marriage that night in Paris when both Rose Frank and Fred rather went off their heads, one after the other? How did one ever happen to get married anyway? How did it come about? What did people think they were up to when they did it? What made a man, after he had known dozens of women, suddenly decide to marry a particular one?
Fred had been a young American in an Eastern college, an only son with a rich father, then a soldier, a rich man rather grandly enlisting as a common private — to help win a war — then in an American training camp — later in France. When the first American contingent went through England the English women — war-starved — the English women —
American women too, “Help win the war!”
What a lot Fred must have known he had never told Aline about.
On the evening as she sat in the car before the factory in Old Harbor, Fred surely was taking his time. He had told her there was an advertising man coming down from Chicago and he might decide to do a thing called “putting on a national advertising campaign.”
The factory was making a lot of money and if a man didn’t spend some of it to build up good-will for the future he would have to pay it all out in taxes. Advertising was an asset, a legitimate expenditure. Fred thought he would try advertising. It was likely he was in his office now talking to the advertising man from Chicago.
It was growing dark in the shadow of the factory, but why snap on the lights. It was nice to sit in halfdarkness by the wheel, thinking. A slender woman in a rather elegant dress, a good hat — one she had got from Paris — long slender fingers resting on a driving-wheel, men in overalls passing out at a factory door and across a dusty road, passing very near the car — tall men — short men — a low murmur of men’s voices.
A certain humbleness in working-men passing such a car, such a woman.
Very little humbleness in a short, broad-shouldered old man, stroking a too-black mustache with stubby fingers. He seemed to want to laugh at Aline. “I’m onto you,” he seemed to want to shout — the cocky little old thing. His companion — to whom he seemed devoted — did look like that man in Rose’s apartment in Paris — that night — that so important night.
That night in Paris, when Aline first saw Fred! She had gone with Esther and Joe Walker to Rose Frank’s apartment because both Esther and Joe thought they had better. By that time Esther and Joe amused Aline. She had a notion that, had they stayed in America long enough and had her father seen more of them, he also would have caught on — after a time.
After all, they had rather had him at a disadvantage — talking of art and beauty — that sort of thing to a man who had just lost a son in the war, a son whose portrait Joe was painting — and getting a very good likeness.
Never such a couple for looking out for the main chance — never such a couple for educating a rather quick shrewd woman like Aline. Little enough danger such a couple ever staying in one spot too long. Their arrangement with Aline had been something quite special. No words about it. No words necessary. “We’ll give you a peep under the tent at the show and you take no chances. We’re married. We’re quite respectable — always know the best people, you can see for yourself. That’s the advantage of being our kind of artists. You see all sides of life and take no chance. New York is getting more and more like Paris every year. But Chicago...”
Aline had lived in New York two or three times, for some months each time, with her fathe
r, when he had important business there. They had lived at an expensive hotel, but it was evident the Walkers knew things about modern New York life Aline did not know.
They had succeeded in making Aline’s father feel comfortable about her — and perhaps he felt comfortable with her away — for a time at least. Esther had been able to convey that notion to Aline. It had been a good arrangement for all concerned.
And certainly, she thought, educational to Aline. Such people, really! How odd that her father, a clever man in his own way, hadn’t caught onto them quicker.
They worked like a team, getting men like her father at five thousand each. Solid respectable people, Joe and Esther. Esther worked that string hard, and Joe, who never ran any risks by being seen in any but the best company — when they were in America — who painted very skillfully and who talked just boldly enough but not too boldly — he also helped to make thick and warm the art atmosphere when they were getting a new prospect lined up.
Aline smiled in the darkness. What a sweet little cynic I am. You could live over, in fancy, a whole year of your life while you waited, perhaps three minutes, for your husband to come out at a factory door and then you could run up a hillside and overtake two workmen, the sight of whom had started your brain working, could overtake them before they had walked three blocks up a hillside street.
As for Esther Walker, Aline thought she had got on rather well with her that summer in Paris. When they had got off for Europe together both women had been ready enough to put the cards on the table. Aline had made a great pretense of being deeply interested in art — perhaps it wasn’t all just pretense — and had that talent of hers for making little drawings, and Esther had done a lot of talking about hidden ability that should be brought out, all that sort of thing.
“You are onto me and I am onto you. Let’s ride along together, saying nothing about the matter.” Saying nothing Esther had managed to convey about that message to the young woman and Aline had fallen in with her mood. Well, it wasn’t a mood. Such people didn’t have moods. What they did was to play a game. If you wanted to play with them they could be very friendly and sweet.
Aline had got it all, a confirmation of about what she had thought, one night on the boat, and had to think fast and hold onto herself hard — for perhaps thirty seconds — while she made up her own mind about something. What an ugly lonely feeling! She had to hold her fists doubled and there was a fight to prevent tears coming.
Then she fell for it — decided to play the game out — with Esther. Joe didn’t count. You get educated fast if you only let yourself. She can’t touch me, inside, maybe. I’ll ride along and keep my eyes open.
She had. They were rotten really, the Walkers, but Esther had something in her. She was outwardly the hard one, the schemer, but inside there was something she tried to hold onto and that had never been touched. It was sure her husband, Joe Walker, could never touch it and Esther was perhaps too cautious to take chances with another man. Once later she gave Aline a hint. “The man was young and I had just married Joe. It was during the year before the war started. For about an hour I thought I would and then I didn’t. It would have given Joe an advantage I didn’t dare let him have. I’m not one who would ever go the whole road — ruin myself. The young chap was the reckless sort — a young American boy. I decided I had better not. You understand.”
She had tried something on Aline — that time on the boat. What was it Esther had tried? One night when Joe was talking with several people, telling them about modern painting, telling them about Cezanne and Picasso and the others, talking suavely, kindly, about the rebels in the arts, Esther and Aline went off to sit in chairs on another part of the deck. Two young men came along and tried to join them, but Esther knew how to fence off without giving offense. She evidently thought Aline knew more than she did, but it was not Aline’s part to attempt to disillusion her.
What an instinct, away down inside, to preserve something!
What was it Esther had tried on Aline?
There are a lot of things you can’t get down in words, even in your own thoughts. What Esther had talked about was a love that asked nothing, and how really beautiful that sounded! “It should be between two people of the same sex. Between yourself and a man it won’t work. I’ve tried it,” she said.
She had taken Aline’s hand and for a long time they sat in silence, an odd creepy feeling deep down in Aline. What a test — to play the game out with such a woman — not to let her know what your instincts are doing to you — down inside — not to let the hands tremble — to make no physical sign of any shrinking. The woman’s soft voice, with the caress in it, a kind of sincerity too. “They get each other in a more subtle way. It lasts longer. It takes longer to understand but it lasts longer. There is something white and fine you try for. I’ve waited a long time for just you, maybe. As far as Joe is concerned I have been all right with him. It’s a little hard to talk. There’s so much that can’t be said. In Chicago, when I saw you out there, I thought, ‘At your age most women in your position have married.’ You’ll have to do that sometime too, I suppose, but it makes a difference to me that you haven’t yet — that you hadn’t when I found you. It’s getting so if a man and another man or two women are seen too much together there is talk. America is getting almost as sophisticated, as wise, as Europe. That’s where husbands are a big help. You help them all you can, whatever their game is, but you keep all the best of yourself for the other — for the one who understands what you are really driving at.”
Aline moved restlessly at the wheel of the car thinking of that evening on the boat and all it had meant. Had it been the beginning of sophistication for her? Life isn’t just as it is set down in the copy-books. How much dare you let yourself find out? A game of life — a game of death. Very easy to let yourself become romantic — and scared. American women surely have had things easy. Their men know so little — dare let themselves know so little. You can keep out of deciding anything if you wish, but is it any fun, never to be in the know — on the inside? If you look into life, know much of the taint of life, can you keep outside yourself? “Not much,” Aline’s father would no doubt have said, and it was something of that sort her husband Fred would have said too. You have to live your own life then. When her boat left the shores of America it left behind more than Aline wanted to think about. President Wilson had been finding out something of the sort at about that time. It killed him.
At any rate it was sure that the talk with Esther had made Aline the more ready to marry Fred Grey when she came to him later. Besides, it had made her less exacting, less sure of herself, the others, most of the others she had seen that summer in the company of Joe and Esther. Fred had been, he was, as fine as, say, a well-bred dog. If what he had was American she was glad enough, as a woman, to take American chances — she thought at the time.
Esther’s talk had been so slow and soft. Aline could think of it all, remember it all very clearly in a few seconds, but it must have taken Esther longer to say all the sentences needed to convey her meaning.
And the meaning Aline had to jump at, knowing nothing, get instinctively or not at all. Esther would be one to leave herself always a clear alibi. She was a very clever woman, no doubt of that. Joe had been lucky to get her, being what he was.
It hadn’t worked, not yet.
You come up and you go down. A woman of twenty-six, if she have anything in her at all, is ready. And if she hasn’t anything in her, another one, like Esther, doesn’t want her at all. If you want a fool, a romantic fool, what about a man, a good American business man? He’ll do well enough and you remain safe and sound. Nothing ever really touches you at all. A long life lived and you always high and dry and safe. Do you want that?
It was really as though Aline had been pushed by Esther off the side of the steamboat into the sea. And the sea was very lovely that evening when Esther talked to her. That may have been one reason why Aline kept feeling safe. You get something outside
you that way, like the sea, and it helps just because it is lovely. There is the sea, little waves breaking, the sea running white behind the ship’s wake, washing against the side of the ship like soft silk tearing, and in the sky stars coming out slowly. Why is it that when you twist things out of their natural order, when you become a little sophisticated and want more than you ever did before, the risk is relatively greater? So easy to become rotten. A tree never gets that way because it is a tree.
A voice talking, a hand touching your arm in just a certain way. Words coming far apart. Over on the other side the boat, Joe, Esther’s husband, talking that stuff of art. Several ladies gathered about Joe. Afterwards they would speak of it, quoting his words. “As my friend Joseph Walker, the famous portrait-painter, you know, said to me — Cezanne is so and so. Picasso is so and so.”
Take it that you are an American woman of twenty-six, trained as the daughter of a well-to-do Chicago lawyer would be trained, unsophisticated but shrewd, your body fresh and strong. You have had a dream. Well, young Copeland you had thought you were about to marry, was not quite the dream. He was nice enough. Not quite in the know enough — in some odd way. Most American men never get to be beyond seventeen — perhaps.
Take it you were that way and had been pushed off a boat into the sea. Joe’s wife Esther has done that little thing for you. What would you do? Try to save yourself? Down you go — down and down, cutting through the surface of the sea fast enough. Oh, Lord, there are a lot of spots in life the mind of the average man and woman never touches at all. I wonder why not? Everything — at least most things — are obvious enough. Perhaps even a tree is not a tree for you until you have banged against it. Why is the lid lifted for some, while everything remains sound and watertight for others? Those women on the deck listening to Joe as he talks — gabblers. — Toe with his artist-merchant’s eye peeled. Like as not either he or Esther put down names and addresses in a little book. Good idea their going across every summer. Back in the fall. People like to meet artists and writers on a boat. It’s a touch of what Europe stands for, right near, at first hand. Lots of them work it. And don’t the Americans fall for it! Fish come to the bait! Both Esther and Joe having moments of dreadful weariness just the same.
Complete Works of Sherwood Anderson Page 110
