Seventeen
Seventeen was first published as a series of sketches in Metropolitan Magazine in 1914, before it was released in single volume by Harpers and Brothers in 1916. Metropolitan Magazine was established in 1895 as a high-end publication for New York City theatre-goers, but by the second decade of the twentieth century it had evolved to include and ultimately focus on politics and literature. The most famous editor and contributor to the magazine was former President Theodore Roosevelt, who over the course of the war wrote a series of articles criticising Woodrow Wilson’s response, or lack thereof, to the calamitous conflict.
Seventeen is a comic novel that centres on the trials and tribulations of William Baxter, a seventeen-year-old boy that becomes enamoured with the neighbour’s house-guest, the flirtatious and fickle Lola Pratt. William spends his summer desperately trying to impress Lola as he falls prey to some of the clichéd and embarrassing tropes of young love, including writing an excruciatingly awful poem in honour of his beloved. The novel was adapted for silent film in 1916 in a production directed by Robert G. Vignola and starring Louise Huff, while also spawning a 1918 play with Ruth Gordon and a 1926 musical entitled Hello Lola.
The first edition of the novel
The first edition’s title page
CONTENTS
I. WILLIAM
II. THE UNKNOWN
III. THE PAINFUL AGE
IV. GENESIS AND CLEMATIS
V. SORROWS WITHIN A BOILER
VI. TRUCULENCE
VII. MR. BAXTER’S EVENING CLOTHES
VIII. JANE
IX. LITTLE SISTERS HAVE BIG EARS
X. MR. PARCHER AND LOVE
XI. BEGINNING A TRUE FRIENDSHIP
XII. PROGRESS OF THE SYMPTOMS
XIII. AT HOME TO HIS FRIENDS
XIV. TIME DOES FLY
XV. ROMANCE OF STATISTICS
XVI. THE SHOWER
XVII. JANE’S THEORY
XVIII. THE BIG, FAT LUMMOX
XIX. “I DUNNO WHY IT IS”
XX. SYDNEY CARTON
XXI. MY LITTLE SWEETHEARTS
XXII. FORESHADOWINGS
XXIII. FATHERS FORGET
XXIV. CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN
XXV. YOUTH AND MR. PARCHER
XXVI. MISS BOKE
XXVII. MAROONED
XXVIII. RANNIE KIRSTED
XXIX. “DON’T FORGET!”
XXX. THE BRIDE-TO-BE
Gregory Kelly and Ruth Gordon in the 1918 Broadway production of ‘Seventeen’
TO
S.K.T.
I. WILLIAM
WILLIAM SYLVANUS BAXTER paused for a moment of thought in front of the drug-store at the corner of Washington Street and Central Avenue. He had an internal question to settle before he entered the store: he wished to allow the young man at the soda-fountain no excuse for saying, “Well, make up your mind what it’s goin’ to be, can’t you?” Rudeness of this kind, especially in the presence of girls and women, was hard to bear, and though William Sylvanus Baxter had borne it upon occasion, he had reached an age when he found it intolerable. Therefore, to avoid offering opportunity for anything of the kind, he decided upon chocolate and strawberry, mixed, before approaching the fountain. Once there, however, and a large glass of these flavors and diluted ice-cream proving merely provocative, he said, languidly — an affectation, for he could have disposed of half a dozen with gusto: “Well, now I’m here, I might as well go one more. Fill ’er up again. Same.”
Emerging to the street, penniless, he bent a fascinated and dramatic gaze upon his reflection in the drug-store window, and then, as he turned his back upon the alluring image, his expression altered to one of lofty and uncondescending amusement. That was his glance at the passing public. From the heights, he seemed to bestow upon the world a mysterious derision — for William Sylvanus Baxter was seventeen long years of age, and had learned to present the appearance of one who possesses inside information about life and knows all strangers and most acquaintances to be of inferior caste, costume, and intelligence.
He lingered upon the corner awhile, not pressed for time. Indeed, he found many hours of these summer months heavy upon his hands, for he had no important occupation, unless some intermittent dalliance with a work on geometry (anticipatory of the distant autumn) might be thought important, which is doubtful, since he usually went to sleep on the shady side porch at his home, with the book in his hand. So, having nothing to call him elsewhere, he lounged before the drug-store in the early afternoon sunshine, watching the passing to and fro of the lower orders and bourgeoisie of the middle-sized midland city which claimed him (so to speak) for a native son.
Apparently quite unembarrassed by his presence, they went about their business, and the only people who looked at him with any attention were pedestrians of color. It is true that when the gaze of these fell upon him it was instantly arrested, for no colored person could have passed him without a little pang of pleasure and of longing. Indeed, the tropical violence of William Sylvanus Baxter’s tie and the strange brilliancy of his hat might have made it positively unsafe for him to walk at night through the negro quarter of the town. And though no man could have sworn to the color of that hat, whether it was blue or green, yet its color was a saner thing than its shape, which was blurred, tortured, and raffish; it might have been the miniature model of a volcano that had blown off its cone and misbehaved disastrously on its lower slopes as well. He had the air of wearing it as a matter of course and with careless ease, but that was only an air — it was the apple of his eye.
For the rest, his costume was neutral, subordinate, and even a little neglected in the matter of a detail or two: one pointed flap of his soft collar was held down by a button, but the other showed a frayed thread where the button once had been; his low patent-leather shoes were of a luster not solicitously cherished, and there could be no doubt that he needed to get his hair cut, while something might have been done, too, about the individualized hirsute prophecies which had made independent appearances, here and there, upon his chin. He examined these from time to time by the sense of touch, passing his hand across his face and allowing his finger-tips a slight tapping motion wherever they detected a prophecy.
Thus he fell into a pleasant musing and seemed to forget the crowded street.
II. THE UNKNOWN
HE WAS ROUSED by the bluff greeting of an acquaintance not dissimilar to himself in age, manner, and apparel.
“H’lo, Silly Bill!” said this person, halting beside William Sylvanus Baxter. “What’s the news?”
William showed no enthusiasm; on the contrary, a frown of annoyance appeared upon his brow. The nickname “Silly Bill” — long ago compounded by merry child-comrades from “William” and “Sylvanus” — was not to his taste, especially in public, where he preferred to be addressed simply and manfully as “Baxter.” Any direct expression of resentment, however, was difficult, since it was plain that Johnnie Watson intended no offense whatever and but spoke out of custom.
“Don’t know any,” William replied, coldly.
“Dull times, ain’t it?” said Mr. Watson, a little depressed by his friend’s manner. “I heard May Parcher was comin’ back to town yesterday, though.”
“Well, let her!” returned William, still severe.
“They said she was goin’ to bring a girl to visit her,” Johnnie began in a confidential tone. “They said she was a reg’lar ringdinger and—”
“Well, what if she is?” the discouraging Mr. Baxter interrupted. “Makes little difference to ME, I guess!”
“Oh no, it don’t. YOU don’t take any interest in girls! OH no!”
“No, I do not!” was the emphatic and heartless retort. “I never saw one in my life I’d care whether she lived or died!”
“Honest?” asked Johnnie, struck by the conviction with which this speech was uttered. “Honest, is that so?”
“Yes, ‘honest’!” William replied, sharply. “They could ALL die, I wouldn’t notice!�
�
Johnnie Watson was profoundly impressed. “Why, I didn’t know you felt that way about ’em, Silly Bill. I always thought you were kind of—”
“Well, I do feel that way about ’em!” said William Sylvanus Baxter, and, outraged by the repetition of the offensive nickname, he began to move away. “You can tell ’em so for me, if you want to!” he added over his shoulder. And he walked haughtily up the street, leaving Mr. Watson to ponder upon this case of misogyny, never until that moment suspected.
It was beyond the power of his mind to grasp the fact that William Sylvanus Baxter’s cruel words about “girls” had been uttered because William was annoyed at being called “Silly Bill” in a public place, and had not known how to object otherwise than by showing contempt for any topic of conversation proposed by the offender. This latter, being of a disposition to accept statements as facts, was warmly interested, instead of being hurt, and decided that here was something worth talking about, especially with representatives of the class so sweepingly excluded from the sympathies of Silly Bill.
William, meanwhile, made his way toward the “residence section” of the town, and presently — with the passage of time found himself eased of his annoyance. He walked in his own manner, using his shoulders to emphasize an effect of carelessness which he wished to produce upon observers. For his consciousness of observers was abnormal, since he had it whether any one was looking at him or not, and it reached a crucial stage whenever he perceived persons of his own age, but of opposite sex, approaching.
A person of this description was encountered upon the sidewalk within a hundred yards of his own home, and William Sylvanus Baxter saw her while yet she was afar off. The quiet and shady thoroughfare was empty of all human life, at the time, save for those two; and she was upon the same side of the street that he was; thus it became inevitable that they should meet, face to face, for the first time in their lives. He had perceived, even in the distance, that she was unknown to him, a stranger, because he knew all the girls in this part of the town who dressed as famously in the mode as that! And then, as the distance between them lessened, he saw that she was ravishingly pretty; far, far prettier, indeed, than any girl he knew. At least it seemed so, for it is, unfortunately, much easier for strangers to be beautiful. Aside from this advantage of mystery, the approaching vision was piquant and graceful enough to have reminded a much older boy of a spotless white kitten, for, in spite of a charmingly managed demureness, there was precisely that kind of playfulness somewhere expressed about her. Just now it was most definite in the look she bent upon the light and fluffy burden which she carried nestled in the inner curve of her right arm: a tiny dog with hair like cotton and a pink ribbon round his neck — an animal sated with indulgence and idiotically unaware of his privilege. He was half asleep!
William did not see the dog, or it is the plain, anatomical truth that when he saw how pretty the girl was, his heart — his physical heart — began to do things the like of which, experienced by an elderly person, would have brought the doctor in haste. In addition, his complexion altered — he broke out in fiery patches. He suffered from breathlessness and from pressure on the diaphragm.
Afterward, he could not have named the color of the little parasol she carried in her left hand, and yet, as it drew nearer and nearer, a rosy haze suffused the neighborhood, and the whole world began to turn an exquisite pink. Beneath this gentle glow, with eyes downcast in thought, she apparently took no note of William, even when she and William had come within a few yards of each other. Yet he knew that she would look up and that their eyes must meet — a thing for which he endeavored to prepare himself by a strange weaving motion of his neck against the friction of his collar — for thus, instinctively, he strove to obtain greater ease and some decent appearance of manly indifference. He felt that his efforts were a failure; that his agitation was ruinous and must be perceptible at a distance of miles, not feet. And then, in the instant of panic that befell, when her dark-lashed eyelids slowly lifted, he had a flash of inspiration.
He opened his mouth somewhat, and as her eyes met his, full and startlingly, he placed three fingers across the orifice, and also offered a slight vocal proof that she had surprised him in the midst of a yawn.
“Oh, hum!” he said.
For the fraction of a second, the deep blue spark in her eyes glowed brighter — gentle arrows of turquoise shot him through and through — and then her glance withdrew from the ineffable collision. Her small, white-shod feet continued to bear her onward, away from him, while his own dimmed shoes peregrinated in the opposite direction — William necessarily, yet with excruciating reluctance, accompanying them. But just at the moment when he and the lovely creature were side by side, and her head turned from him, she spoke that is, she murmured, but he caught the words.
“You Flopit, wake up!” she said, in the tone of a mother talking baby-talk. “SO indifferink!”
William’s feet and his breath halted spasmodically. For an instant he thought she had spoken to him, and then for the first time he perceived the fluffy head of the dog bobbing languidly over her arm, with the motion of her walking, and he comprehended that Flopit, and not William Sylvanus Baxter, was the gentleman addressed. But — but had she MEANT him?
His breath returning, though not yet operating in its usual manner, he stood gazing after her, while the glamorous parasol passed down the shady street, catching splashes of sunshine through the branches of the maple-trees; and the cottony head of the tiny dog continued to be visible, bobbing rhythmically over a filmy sleeve. Had she meant that William was indifferent? Was it William that she really addressed?
He took two steps to follow her, but a suffocating shyness stopped him abruptly and, in a horror lest she should glance round and detect him in the act, he turned and strode fiercely to the gate of his own home before he dared to look again. And when he did look, affecting great casualness in the action, she was gone, evidently having turned the corner. Yet the street did not seem quite empty; there was still something warm and fragrant about it, and a rosy glamor lingered in the air. William rested an elbow upon the gate-post, and with his chin reposing in his hand gazed long in the direction in which the unknown had vanished. And his soul was tremulous, for she had done her work but too well.
“‘Indifferink’!” he murmured, thrilling at his own exceedingly indifferent imitation of her voice. “Indifferink!” that was just what he would have her think — that he was a cold, indifferent man. It was what he wished all girls to think. And “sarcastic”! He had been envious one day when May Parcher said that Joe Bullitt was “awfully sarcastic.” William had spent the ensuing hour in an object-lesson intended to make Miss Parcher see that William Sylvanus Baxter was twice as sarcastic as Joe Bullitt ever thought of being, but this great effort had been unsuccessful, because William, failed to understand that Miss Parcher had only been sending a sort of message to Mr. Bullitt. It was a device not unique among her sex; her hope was that William would repeat her remark in such a manner that Joe Bullitt would hear it and call to inquire what she meant.
“‘SO indifferink’!” murmured William, leaning dreamily upon the gate-post. “Indifferink!” He tried to get the exact cooing quality of the unknown’s voice. “Indifferink!” And, repeating the honeyed word, so entrancingly distorted, he fell into a kind of stupor; vague, beautiful pictures rising before him, the one least blurred being of himself, on horseback, sweeping between Flopit and a racing automobile. And then, having restored the little animal to its mistress, William sat carelessly in the saddle (he had the Guardsman’s seat) while the perfectly trained steed wheeled about, forelegs in the air, preparing to go. “But shall I not see you again, to thank you more properly?” she cried, pleading. “Some other day — perhaps,” he answered.
And left her in a cloud of dust.
III. THE PAINFUL AGE
“OH WILL — EE!”
Thus a shrill voice, to his ears hideously different from that other, interrupted
and dispersed his visions. Little Jane, his ten-year-old sister, stood upon the front porch, the door open behind her, and in her hand she held a large slab of bread-and-butter covered with apple sauce and powdered sugar. Evidence that she had sampled this compound was upon her cheeks, and to her brother she was a repulsive sight.
“Will-ee!” she shrilled. “Look! GOOD!” And to emphasize the adjective she indelicately patted the region of her body in which she believed her stomach to be located. “There’s a slice for you on the dining-room table,” she informed him, joyously.
Outraged, he entered the house without a word to her, and, proceeding to the dining-room, laid hands upon the slice she had mentioned, but declined to eat it in Jane’s company. He was in an exalted mood, and though in no condition of mind or body would he refuse food of almost any kind, Jane was an intrusion he could not suffer at this time.
He carried the refection to his own room and, locking the door, sat down to eat, while, even as he ate, the spell that was upon him deepened in intensity.
“Oh, eyes!” he whispered, softly, in that cool privacy and shelter from the world. “Oh, eyes of blue!”
The mirror of a dressing-table sent him the reflection of his own eyes, which also were blue; and he gazed upon them and upon the rest of his image the while he ate his bread-and-butter and apple sauce and sugar. Thus, watching himself eat, he continued to stare dreamily at the mirror until the bread-and-butter and apple sauce and sugar had disappeared, whereupon he rose and approached the dressing-table to study himself at greater advantage.
He assumed as repulsive an expression as he could command, at the same time making the kingly gesture of one who repels unwelcome attentions; and it is beyond doubt that he was thus acting a little scene of indifference. Other symbolic dramas followed, though an invisible observer might have been puzzled for a key to some of them. One, however, would have proved easily intelligible: his expression having altered to a look of pity and contrition, he turned from the mirror, and, walking slowly to a chair across the room, used his right hand in a peculiar manner, seeming to stroke the air at a point about ten inches above the back of the chair. “There, there, little girl,” he said in a low, gentle voice. “I didn’t know you cared!”
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 208
