Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

Straightway she sped upon her kindly errand. It proved successful, so successful, indeed, that without the slightest effort — without even a hint on her part — she brought not only William and his constant friend to sit in the circle with Miss Pratt, Miss Parcher and their escorts, but Mr. Bullitt, Mr. Watson, Mr. Banks, and three other young gentlemen as well. Nevertheless, Mrs. Parcher managed to carry out her plan, and after a little display of firmness, saw William satisfactorily established in the chair at Miss Pratt’s left.

  At last, at last, he sat beside the fairy-like creature, and filled his lungs with infinitesimal particles of violet scent. More: he was no sooner seated than the little blonde head bent close to his; the golden net brushed his cheek. She whispered:

  “No’ty ickle boy Batster! Lola’s last night, an’ ickle boy Batster fluttin’! Flut all night wif dray bid dirl!”

  William made no reply.

  There are occasions, infrequent, of course, when even a bachelor is not flattered by being accused of flirting. William’s feelings toward Miss Boke had by this time come to such a pass that he, regarded the charge of flirting with her as little less than an implication of grave mental deficiency. And well he remembered how Miss Pratt, beholding his subjugated gymnastics in the dance, had grown pink with laughter! But still the rose-leaf lips whispered:

  “Lola saw! Lola saw bad boy Batster under dray bid tree fluttin’ wif dray bid dirl. Fluttin’ all night wif dray bid ‘normous dirl!”

  Her cruelty was all unwitting; she intended to rally him sweetly. But seventeen is deathly serious at such junctures, and William was in a sensitive condition. He made no reply in words. Instead, he drew himself up (from the waist, that is, because he was sitting) with a kind of proud dignity. And that was all.

  “Oo tross?” whispered Lola.

  He spake not.

  “’Twasn’t my fault about dancing,” she said. “Bad boy! What made you come so late?”

  He maintained his silence and the accompanying icy dignity, whereupon she made a charming little pout.

  “Oo be so tross,” she said, “Lola talk to nice Man uvver side of her!”

  With that she turned her back upon him and prattled merrily to the gentleman of sixteen upon her right.

  Still and cold sat William. Let her talk to the Man at the other side of her as she would, and never so gaily, William knew that she was conscious every instant of the reproachful presence upon her left. And somehow these moments of quiet and melancholy dignity became the most satisfactory he had known that evening. For as he sat, so silent, so austere, and not yet eating, though a plate of chicken salad had been placed upon his lap, he began to feel that there was somewhere about him a mysterious superiority which set him apart from other people — and above them. This quality, indefinable and lofty, had carried him through troubles, that very night, which would have wrecked the lives of such simple fellows as Joe Bullitt and Johnnie Watson. And although Miss Pratt continued to make merry with the Man upon her right, it seemed to William that this was but outward show. He had a strange, subtle impression that the mysterious superiority which set him apart from others was becoming perceptible to her — that she was feeling it, too.

  Alas! Such are the moments Fate seizes upon to play the clown!

  Over the chatter and laughter of the guests rose a too familiar voice. “Lemme he’p you to nice tongue samwich, lady. No’m? Nice green lettuce samwich, lady?”

  Genesis!

  “Nice tongue samwich, suh? Nice lettuce samwich, lady?” he could be heard vociferating — perhaps a little too much as if he had sandwiches for sale. “Lemme jes’ lay this nice green lettuce samwich on you’ plate fer you.”

  His wide-spread hand bore the tray of sandwiches high overhead, for his style in waiting was florid, though polished. He walked with a faint, shuffling suggestion of a prance, a lissome pomposity adopted in obedience to the art-sense within him which bade him harmonize himself with occasions of state and fashion. His manner was the super-supreme expression of graciousness, but the graciousness was innocent, being but an affectation and nothing inward — for inwardly Genesis was humble. He was only pretending to be the kind of waiter he would like to be.

  And because he was a new waiter he strongly wished to show familiarity with his duties — familiarity, in fact, with everything and everybody. This yearning, born of self-doubt, and intensified by a slight touch of gin, was beyond question the inspiration of his painful behavior when he came near the circle of chairs where sat Mr. and Mrs. Parcher, Miss Parcher, Miss Pratt, Miss Boke, Mr. Watson, Mr. Bullitt, others — and William.

  “Nice tongue samwich, lady!” he announced, semi-cake-walking beneath his high-borne tray.

  “Nice green lettuce sam—” He came suddenly to a dramatic dead-stop as he beheld William sitting before him, wearing that strange new dignity and Mr. Baxter’s evening clothes. “Name o’ goo’ness!” Genesis exclaimed, so loudly that every one looked up. “How in the livin’ worl’ you evuh come to git here? You’ daddy sut’ny mus’ ‘a’ weakened ‘way down ‘fo’ he let you wear his low-cut ves’ an’ pants an’ long-tail coat! I bet any man fifty cents you gone an’ stole ’em out aftuh he done went to bed!”

  And he burst into a wild, free African laugh.

  At seventeen such things are not embarrassing; they are catastrophical. But, mercifully, catastrophes often produce a numbness in the victims. More as in a trance than actually William heard the outbreak of his young companions; and, during the quarter of an hour subsequent to Genesis’s performance, the oft-renewed explosions of their mirth made but a kind of horrid buzzing in his ears. Like sounds borne from far away were the gaspings of Mr. and Mrs. Parcher, striving with all their strength to obtain mastery of themselves once more.

  ... A flourish of music challenged the dancers. Couples appeared upon the platform.

  The dreadful supper was over.

  The ineffable One, supremely pink, rose from her seat at William’s side and moved toward the platform with the glowing Joe Bullitt. Then William, roused to action by this sight, sprang to his feet and took a step toward them. But it was only one weak step.

  A warm and ample hand placed itself firmly inside the crook of his elbow. “Let’s get started for this one before the floor gets all crowded up,” said Miss Boke.

  Miss Boke danced and danced with him; she danced him on — and on — and on ——

  At half past one the orchestra played “Home, Sweet Home.” As the last bars sounded, a group of earnest young men who had surrounded the lovely guest of honor, talking vehemently, broke into loud shouts, embraced one another and capered variously over the lawn. Mr. Parcher beheld from a distance these manifestations, and then, with an astonishment even more profound, took note of the tragic William, who was running toward him, radiant — Miss Boke hovering futilely in the far background.

  “What’s all the hullabaloo?” Mr. Parcher inquired.

  “Miss Pratt!” gasped William. “Miss Pratt!”

  “Well, what about her?”

  And upon receiving William’s reply, Mr. Parcher might well have discerned behind it the invisible hand of an ironic but recompensing Providence making things even — taking from the one to give to the other.

  “She’s going to stay!” shouted the happy William. “She’s promised to stay another week!”

  And then, mingling with the sounds of rejoicing, there ascended to heaven the stricken cry of an elderly man plunging blindly into the house in search of his wife.

  XXVIII. RANNIE KIRSTED

  OBSERVING THE MONOTONOUSLY proper behavior of the sun, man had an absurd idea and invented Time. Becoming still more absurd, man said, “So much shall be a day; such and such shall be a week. All weeks shall be the same length.” Yet every baby knows better! How long for Johnnie Watson, for Joe Bullitt, for Wallace Banks — how long for William Sylvanus Baxter was the last week of Miss Pratt? No one can answer. How long was that week for Mr. Parcher? Again the mind is staggered.

 
Many people, of course, considered it to be a week of average size. Among these was Jane.

  Throughout seven days which brought some tense moments to the Baxter household, Jane remained calm; and she was still calm upon the eighth morning as she stood in the front yard of her own place of residence, gazing steadily across the street. The object of her grave attention was an ample brick house, newly painted white after repairs and enlargements so inspiring to Jane’s faculty for suggesting better ways of doing things, that the workmen had learned to address her, with a slight bitterness, as “Madam President.”

  Throughout the process of repair, and until the very last of the painting, Jane had considered this house to be as much her property as anybody’s; for children regard as ownerless all vacant houses and all houses in course of construction or radical alteration. Nothing short of furniture — intimate furniture in considerable quantity — hints that the public is not expected. However, such a hint, or warning, was conveyed to Jane this morning, for two “express wagons” were standing at the curb with their backs impolitely toward the brick house; and powerful-voiced men went surging to and fro under fat arm-chairs, mahogany tables, disarticulated bedsteads, and baskets of china and glassware; while a harassed lady appeared in the outer doorway, from time to time, with gestures of lamentation and entreaty. Upon the sidewalk, between the wagons and the gate, was a broad wet spot, vaguely circular, with a partial circumference of broken glass and extinct goldfish.

  Jane was forced to conclude that the brick house did belong to somebody, after all. Wherefore, she remained in her own yard, a steadfast spectator, taking nourishment into her system at regular intervals. This was beautifully automatic: in each hand she held a slice of bread, freely plastered over with butter, apple sauce, and powdered sugar; and when she had taken somewhat from the right hand, that hand slowly descended with its burden, while, simultaneously, the left began to rise, reaching the level of her mouth precisely at the moment when a little wave passed down her neck, indicating that the route was clear. Then, having made delivery, the left hand sank, while the right began to rise again. And, so well had custom trained Jane’s members, never once did she glance toward either of these faithful hands or the food that it supported; her gaze was all the while free to remain upon the house across the way and the great doings before it.

  After a while, something made her wide eyes grow wider almost to their utmost. Nay, the event was of that importance her mechanical hands ceased to move and stopped stock-still, the right half-way up, the left half-way down, as if because of sudden motor trouble within Jane. Her mouth was equally affected, remaining open at a visible crisis in the performance of its duty. These were the tokens of her agitation upon beholding the removal of a dolls’ house from one of the wagons. This dolls’ house was at least five feet high, of proportionate breadth and depths the customary absence of a facade disclosing an interior of four luxurious floors, with stairways, fireplaces, and wall-paper. Here was a mansion wherein doll-duchesses, no less, must dwell.

  Straightway, a little girl ran out of the open doorway of the brick house and, with a self-importance concentrated to the point of shrewishness, began to give orders concerning the disposal of her personal property, which included (as she made clear) not only the dolls’ mansion, but also three dolls’ trunks and a packing-case of fair size. She was a thin little girl, perhaps half a year younger than Jane; and she was as soiled, particularly in respect to hands, brow, chin, and the knees of white stockings, as could be expected of any busybodyish person of nine or ten whose mother is house-moving. But she was gifted — if we choose to put the matter in the hopeful, sweeter way — she was gifted with an unusually loud and shrill voice, and she made herself heard over the strong-voiced men to such emphatic effect that one of the latter, with the dolls’ mansion upon his back, paused in the gateway to acquaint her with his opinion that of all the bossy little girls he had ever seen, heard, or heard of, she was the bossiest.

  “THE worst!” he added.

  The little girl across the street was of course instantly aware of Jane, though she pretended not to be; and from the first her self-importance was in large part assumed for the benefit of the observer. After a momentary silence, due to her failure to think of any proper response to the workman who so pointedly criticized her, she resumed the peremptory direction of her affairs. She ran in and out of the house, her brow dark with frowns, her shoulders elevated; and by every means at her disposal she urged her audience to behold the frightful responsibilities of one who must keep a thousand things in her head at once, and yet be ready for decisive action at any instant.

  There may have been one weakness in this strong performance: the artistic sincerity of it was a little discredited by the increasing frequency with which the artist took note of her effect. During each of her most impressive moments, she flashed, from the far corner of her eye, two questions at Jane: “How about THAT one? Are you still watching Me?”

  Then, apparently in the very midst of her cares, she suddenly and without warning ceased to boss, walked out into the street, halted, and stared frankly at Jane.

  Jane had begun her automatic feeding again. She continued it, meanwhile seriously returning the stare of the new neighbor. For several minutes this mutual calm and inoffensive gaze was protracted; then Jane, after swallowing the last morsel of her supplies, turned her head away and looked at a tree. The little girl, into whose eyes some wistfulness had crept, also turned her head and looked at a tree. After a while, she advanced to the curb on Jane’s side of the street, and, swinging her right foot, allowed it to kick the curbstone repeatedly.

  Jane came out to the sidewalk and began to kick one of the fence-pickets.

  “You see that ole fatty?” asked the little girl, pointing to one of the workmen, thus sufficiently identified.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the one broke the goldfish,” said the little girl. There was a pause during which she continued to scuff the curbstone with her shoe, Jane likewise scuffing the fence-picket. “I’m goin’ to have papa get him arrested,” added the stranger.

  “My papa got two men arrested once,” Jane said, calmly. “Two or three.”

  The little girl’s eyes, wandering upward, took note of Jane’s papa’s house, and of a fierce young gentleman framed in an open window up-stairs. He was seated, wore ink upon his forehead, and tapped his teeth with a red penholder.

  “Who is that?” she asked.

  “It’s Willie.”

  “Is it your papa?”

  “NO-O-O-O!” Jane exclaimed. “It’s WILLIE!”

  “Oh,” said the little girl, apparently satisfied.

  Each now scuffed less energetically with her shoe; feet slowed down; so did conversation, and, for a time, Jane and the stranger wrapped themselves in stillness, though there may have been some silent communing between them. Then the new neighbor placed her feet far apart and leaned backward upon nothing, curving her front outward and her remarkably flexible spine inward until a profile view of her was grandly semicircular.

  Jane watched her attentively, but without comment. However, no one could have doubted that the processes of acquaintance were progressing favorably.

  “Let’s go in our yard,” said Jane.

  The little girl straightened herself with a slight gasp, and accepted the invitation. Side by side, the two passed through the open gate, walked gravely forth upon the lawn, and halted, as by common consent. Jane thereupon placed her feet wide apart and leaned backward upon nothing, attempting the feat in contortion just performed by the stranger.

  “Look,” she said. “Look at ME!”

  But she lacked the other’s genius, lost her balance, and fell. Born persistent, she immediately got to her feet and made fresh efforts.

  “No! Look at ME!” the little girl cried, becoming semicircular again. “This is the way. I call it ‘puttin’ your stummick out o’ joint.’ You haven’t got yours out far enough.”

  “Yes, I have,”
said Jane, gasping.

  “Well, to do it right, you must WALK that way. As soon as you get your stummick out o’ joint, you must begin an’ walk. Look! Like this.” And the little girl, having achieved a state of such convexity that her braided hair almost touched the ground behind her, walked successfully in that singular attitude.

  “I’m walkin’,” Jane protested, her face not quite upside down. “Look! I’M walkin’ that way, too. My stummick—”

  There came an outraged shout from above, and a fierce countenance, stained with ink, protruded from the window.

  “Jane!”

  “What?”

  “Stop that! Stop putting your stomach out in front of you like that! It’s disgraceful!”

  Both young ladies, looking rather oppressed, resumed the perpendicular. “Why doesn’t he like it?” the stranger asked in a tone of pure wonder.

  “I don’t know,” said Jane. “He doesn’t like much of anything. He’s seventeen years old.”

  After that, the two stared moodily at the ground for a little while, chastened by the severe presence above; then Jane brightened.

  “I know!” she exclaimed, cozily. “Let’s play callers. Right here by this bush ‘ll be my house. You come to call on me, an’ we’ll talk about our chuldren. You be Mrs. Smith an’ I’m Mrs. Jones.” And in the character of a hospitable matron she advanced graciously toward the new neighbor. “Why, my dear Mrs. SMITH, come right IN! I THOUGHT you’d call this morning. I want to tell you about my lovely little daughter. She’s only ten years old, an’ says the brightest THINGS! You really must—”

  But here Jane interrupted herself abruptly, and, hopping behind the residential bush, peeped over it, not at Mrs. Smith, but at a boy of ten or eleven who was passing along the sidewalk. Her expression was gravely interested, somewhat complacent; and Mrs. Smith was not so lacking in perception that she failed to understand how completely — for the time being, at least — calling was suspended.

  The boy whistled briskly, “My country, ’tis of thee,” and though his knowledge of the air failed him when he finished the second line, he was not disheartened, but began at the beginning again, continuing repeatedly after this fashion to offset monotony by patriotism. He whistled loudly; he walked with ostentatious intent to be at some heavy affair in the distance; his ears were red. He looked neither to the right nor to the left.