women for trying to be beautiful, do they not belie their own gods in
their own barbaric praise of ugliness?
“O Justice, what crimes are committed in thy name!” And, O Beauty, what
crimes in thine! Yet beauty shall not die nor the love of ornament, and
those who hate them cannot prove their right to cast a stone. Frightful
extravagances and cruelties are the result of the hunger for beauty and
the feeding of that appetite, but this is true of every other religion
and law and ideal.
If everybody who dressed plainly and lived without luxury, gave all
he saved or she did not spend to the poor, their miserliness might be
justified, but everybody knows that this is not so.
Beauty is generous. She who is pleased with herself is already
hospitable, and until the millennium is here those who have not the
energy or the wile to get fine clothes and wear them well may content
themselves as best they can by watching the well-bedecked go by.
And who is he so mean of soul that he would decree the extinction of
the custom women have of making themselves as pleasing to the eye as
possible? And what benefits would the vandal confer on bedulled mankind?
Momma at least at last was not of that humor. She had become a girl
again at heart. She could never be again the gracile nymph who had
turned the heads of Carthage swains with her flesh of apple-blossom
hue, her fleecy hair in its ribbons, and her gay body in its winsome
fabrics.
But she could be a splendid white-haired matron; and that age has a
nobler beauty and a grander charm than even youth can give, youth so
common and so helpless in its grace.
When Momma walked by chance in front of the long cheval glass, she fell
back with a sob of fear and shame. But she approached again and studied
herself. She stood up straight, lifting her head proudly on her throat,
her torso on her hips; holding herself stalwart as an empress.
And she thanked God for what He had given her, and promised Him she
would take better care of the chalice of her soul. And a happiness
possessed her like a benediction.
* * * * *
The next day she went forth to buy dresses, not mere tents to hide her
shapeless body under, colored bags to cover her lumps and bulges from
the casual and unlingering eye, but exquisite masterpieces from skilled
looms, piously accepting the human form and developing its graces.
Ella was not fool enough to put kittenish anachronisms of dress on
Momma. She made her look herself at her supreme.
And the slithy mannequins who stood about raved over the miracle that
had been accomplished in turning the dowdy peasant that entered the
shop into a high-bred dowager who smiled upon an approving mirror.
Momma’s only grief was that she could not wear any of the gowns out on
the street at once. She had a frantic desire to prance up Fifth Avenue
without delay. But there were alterations to make, and she must wait.
And so must Dr. Courtneidge.
She took the delay as her punishment for having put off so long the day
of her at-one-ment with her better self.
The afternoon was spent among the milliners. Glistening countesses
in black satin came and went with hats like coronets. They set them
daintily on Momma’s turreted hair and lifted them away again. Momma sat
up so straight that she felt taller sitting down than she had seemed
hitherto reaching for a pantry shelf.
It was unbelievable how much it changed her face to change her hat. She
cowered in horror from beneath some of the brims, but others so caught
her up into the clouds that they amounted to translation--apotheosis
almost.
In spite of Ella’s cries of protest, she bought five of the costliest
and wore one of them away.
She went to bed prostrated. But it was the prostration of a girl come
home from a great ball, worn out with rapture and pursued by remembered
music.
* * * * *
Poppa had not heard a word of Momma since the telegram she sent him
saying that she had arrived and been met and was awful tired and
discouraged.
When no letters came he was sure that she was up to her old trick of
concealing the worst from him as long as possible. He was sure that she
was in the hospital, delirious with pain and on her way to the grave.
His heart went mad with visions of her loss and of the dismal life
without her.
On another of his impulses he took a train for New York, sending a
brief telegram to Ella.
He got off the train in much the desolate mood that had dejected Momma
when she arrived. He also resisted the redcap and trudged dolefully to
the line where people waited behind the rope. And up to him also came a
gorgeous creature whom he did not recognize until he heard the ancient
voice.
“Poppa, don’t you know me?”
The voice was Momma’s, but since when was she a tsarina off the throne?
He, too, dropped his handbag and collapsed. And she lifted him and
murmured as she kissed him:
“Don’t you like me?”
“I don’t know you,” he faltered.
But he kissed her suave and fragrant cheek again and looked into the
gleaming eyes of the bride he remembered out of the long ago.
Then he began to laugh in great gulps of blissful anguish, like a boy
who has found on the Christmas tree a richer gift than he had ever
dreamed of, or dared to ask.
Momma cried too. But such a different wail from the wails he had heard
from her of late!
Finally Poppa thought that he must give credit for the redemption where
it was due.
“That Dr. Courtneidge is certainly a wonder. What on earth did he do to
you?”
“I haven’t seen him yet,” said Momma. “And I’m not goin’ to. I’ve taken
what Ella calls the ‘hat cure’ and all the other clothes cures. And
they haven’t cost much more than old Courtneidge would have charged.”
Poppa felt very uneasy walking along with Momma in all her glittering
glory. He had always loved her. Now he felt proud of her with the
goodly pride of a man who has the luck to get a beautiful wife and the
brains to keep her beautiful.
The only fly in the great bowl of ointment was himself, his shabby
self. He confessed as much.
“I’m ashamed to be seen with you, Momma.”
“You won’t be after I get through taking you to the tailor’s and the
other places I’m goin’ to take you to. This is our second honeymoon,
Poppa. We didn’t have any trousseau at tall before, but we’re going to
make up for it now. I think I’ll telegraph for Hattie and give her a
look, just so’s to hear her say: ‘Why, Momma, you ought to be ashamed
of yourself!’”
“I guess you’d oughta, at that,” Poppa guffawed.
And as she swept into Ella’s limousine like a Roman empress entering a
chariot. Momma tittered:
“I am! I’m so ashamed of myself, I’m proud of it!”
_Cosmopolitan Magazine_
BACK PAY
BY
FANNIE HURST
BACK PAY[5]
By FANNIE HURST
I set out to write a love-story, and for the purpose sharpened a
bright-pink pencil with a glass ruby frivolously at the eraser end.
Something sweet. Something dainty. A candied rose-leaf after all is the
bitter war-lozenges. A miss. A kiss. A golf-stick. A motor-car. Or, if
need be, a bit of khaki, but without one single spot of blood or mud,
and nicely pressed as to those fetching peg-top trouser effects where
they wing out just below the skirt-coat. The oldest story in the world
told newly. No wear out to it. Editors know. It’s as staple as eggs
or printed lawn or ipecac. The good old-fashioned love story with the
above-mentioned miss, kiss and, if need be for the sake of timeliness,
the bit of khaki, pressed.
Just my luck that, with one of these most salable tales in the world
at the tip of my pink pencil, Hester Bevins should come pounding and
clamoring at the door of my mental reservation, quite drowning out the
rather high, the lipsy, and, if I do say it myself, distinctly musical
patter of Arline. That was to have been her name. Arline Kildane.
Sweet, don’t you think, and with just a bit of wild Irish rose in it?
But Hester Bevins would not let herself be gainsaid, sobbing a little,
elbowing her way through the group of mental unborns, and leaving me to
blow my pitch-pipe for a minor key.
Not that Hester’s isn’t one of the oldest stories in the world, too.
No matter how newly told, she is as old as sin, and sin is but a few
weeks younger than love--and how often the two are interchangeable!
There is another Hester in fiction who wore a literal scarlet letter,
but she is sprung from the brain of genius, from whence all immortal
brain-children are born. My poor Hester is of far less fertile gray
matter, but here she is as she is.
If it be a fact that the true lady is, in theory, either a virgin or
a lawful wife, then Hester Bevins stands immediately convicted on two
charges.
She was neither. The most that can be said for her is that she was
honestly what she was.
“If the wages of sin is death,” she said to a road-house party of
roysterers one dawn, “then I’ve quite a bit of back pay coming to me.”
And joined in the shout that rose off the table.
I can sketch her in for you rather simply because of the hackneyed
lines of her very, very old story. Whose pasts so quickly mold and
disintegrate as those of women of Hester’s stripe? Their yesterdays are
entirely soluble in the easy waters of their to-days.
For the first seventeen years of her life, she lived in what we might
call Any American Town of, say, fifteen or twenty thousand inhabitants.
Her particular one was in Ohio. Demopolis, I think. One of those
change-engine-and-take-on-water stops with a stucco art-nouveau
station, a roof drooping all round it, as if it needed to be shaved off
like edges of a pie, and the name of the town writ in conch shells on
a green slant of terrace. You know--the kind that first establishes a
ten-o’clock curfew for its young, its dance-halls, and motion-picture
theaters, and then sends in a hurry call for a social-service expert
from one of the large Eastern cities to come and diagnose its malignant
vice undergrowth.
Hester Bevins, of a mother who died bearing her and one of those
disappearing fathers who can speed away after the accident without
even stopping to pick up the child or leave a license-number, was
reared--no; grew up, is better--in the home of an aunt. A blond aunt
with many gold teeth and many pink and blue wrappers.
Whatever Hester knew of the kind of home that fostered her, it left
apparently no welt across her sensibilities. It was a rather poor
house, an unpainted frame in a poor street, but there was never a lack
of gaiety or, for that matter, any pinching lack of funds. It was an
actual fact that, at thirteen, cotton or lisle stockings brought out a
little irritated rash on Hester’s slim young legs, and she wore silk.
Abominations, it is true, at three pair for a dollar, that sprung runs
and would not hold a darn, but, just the same, they were silk. There
was an air of easy _camaraderie_ and easy money about that house. It
was not unusual for her to come home from school at high noon and
find a front-room group of one, two, three, or four guests, almost
invariably men. Frequently these guests handed her out as much as half
a dollar for candy-money, and not another child in school reckoned in
more than pennies.
Once, a guest, for reasons of odd change, I suppose, handed her out
thirteen cents. Outraged perhaps at the meanness of the sum, and with
an early and deep-dyed superstition of thirteen, she dashed the coins
out of his hand and to the four corners of the room, escaping in the
guffaw of laughter that went up.
Often her childish sleep in a small top room with slanting sides would
be broken upon by loud ribaldry that lasted into dawn, but never by
word, and certainly not by deed, was she to know from her aunt any of
its sordid significance.
Literally, Hester Bevins was left to feather her own nest. There were
no demands made upon her. Once, in the little atrocious front parlor of
horsehair and chromo, one of the guests, the town baggage-master, to
be exact, made to embrace her, receiving from the left rear a sounding
smack across cheek and ear from the aunt.
“Cut that! Hester, go out and play! Whatever she’s got to learn from
life, she can’t say she learned it in my house.”
There were even two years of high school, and at sixteen, when she
went, at her own volition, to clerk in Finley’s two story department
store on High Street, she was still innocent, although she and Gerald
Fishback were openly sweethearts.
Gerald was a Thor. Of course, you are not to take that literally; but
if ever there was a carnification of the great god himself, then Gerald
was in his image. A wide streak of the Scandinavian ran through his
make-up, although he had been born in Middletown, and from there had
come recently to the Finley Dry Goods Company as an accountant.
He was so the viking in his bigness that once, on a picnic, he had
carried two girls, screaming their fun, across twenty feet of stream.
Hester was one of them.
It was at this picnic, the Finley annual, that he asked Hester, then
seventeen, to marry him. She was darkly, wildly pretty, as a rambler
rose tugging at its stem is restlessly pretty, as a pointed little
gazelle smelling up at the moon is whimsically pretty, as a runaway
stream from off the flank of a river is naughtily pretty, and she wore
a crisp percale shirt-waist with a saucy bow at the collar, fifty-cent
silk stockings, and already she had almond incarnadine nails with
points to them.
They were in the very heart of Wallach’s Grove, under a natural
cathedral of trees, the noises of the revelers and the small explosions
of soda-water and beer-bottles almost remote enough for perfect quiet.
He was stretched his full and splendid length at the picnickers’
immemorial business of plucking and sucking grass blades, and she
seated very trimly, her little blue-serge skirt crawling up ever so
slightly to reveal the silken ankle, on a rock beside him.
“Tickle-tickle!” she cried, with some of that irrepressible animal
spirit of hers, and leaning to brush his ear with a twig.
He caught at her hand.
“Hester,” he said, “marry me.”
She felt a foaming through her until her finger-tips sang.
“Well, I like that!” was what she said, though, and flung up a pointed
profile that was like that same gazelle’s smelling the moon.
He was very darkly red, and rose to his knees to clasp her about the
waist. She felt like relaxing back against his blondness and feeling
her fingers plow through the great double wave of his hair. But she did
not.
“You’re too poor,” she said.
He sat back without speaking for a long minute.
“Money isn’t everything,” he said finally, and with something gone from
his voice.
“I know,” she said, looking off; “but it’s a great deal if you happen
to want it more than anything else in the world.”
“Then, if that’s how you feel about it, Hester, next to wanting you, I
want it, too, more than anything else in the world.”
“There’s no future in bookkeeping.”
“I know a fellow in Cincinnati who’s a hundred-and-fifty-dollar man.
Hester? Dear?”
“A week?”
“Why, of course not, dear--a month.”
“Faugh!” she said, still looking off.
He felt out for her hand, at the touch of her reddening up again.
“Hester,” he said, “you’re the most beautiful, the most exciting,
the most maddening, the most--the most everything girl in the world!
You’re not going to have an easy time of it, Hester, with your--your
environment and your dangerousness, if you don’t settle down--quick,
with some strong fellow to take care of you. A fellow who loves you.
That’s me, Hester. I want to make a little home for you and protect
you. I can’t promise you the money--right off, but I can promise you
the bigger something from the very start. From the very start, Hester.
Dear?”
She would not let her hand relax to his.
“I hate this town,” she said.
“There’s Cincinnati. Maybe my friend could find an opening there.”
“Faugh!”
“Cincinnati dear, is a metropolis.”
“No, no! You don’t understand. I hate littleness. Even little
metropolises. Cheapness. I hate little towns and little spenders
and mercerized stockings and cotton lisle next to my skin, and
machine-stitched nightgowns--ugh; it scratches!”
“And I--I just love you in those starchy white shirt-waists, Hester.
You’re beautiful.”
“That’s just the trouble. It satisfies you, but it suffocates me. I’ve
got a pink-crêpe-de-Chine soul. Pink crêpe de Chine--you hear?”
He sat back on his heels.
“It--is it true, then, Hester that--that you’re making up with that
Jewish traveling salesman from New York?”
“Why!” she said, coloring. “Why, I’ve only met him twice walking up
High Street evenings!”
“But it _is_ true, isn’t it, Hester?”
“Say, who was answering your questions this time last year?”
“But it _is_ true, isn’t it, Hester? Isn’t it?”
“Well, of all the nerve!”
But it was.
* * * * *
The rest tells glibly. The Jewish salesman, who wore
blue-and-white-striped soft collars with a bar pin across the front,
does not even enter the story. He was only a stepping-stone. From him,
the ascent, or descent, or whatever you choose to call it, was quick
and sheer.
Five years later, Hester was the very private, the very exotic,
manicured, coiffured, scented, svelted, and strictly _de-luxe_ chattel
of one Charles G. Wheeler, of New York city and Rosencranz, Long
Island, vice-president of the Standard Tractor Company, a member of
no clubs but of the Rosencranz church, three lodges, and several
corporations.
You see, there is no obvious detail lacking. Yes; there was an
apartment. “Flat” it becomes under their kind of tenancy, situated on
the windiest bend of Riverside Drive and minutely true to type from
the pale-blue and brocade Verni Martin parlor of talking-machine,
mechanical piano, and cellarette built to simulate a music cabinet,
to the pink-brocaded bedroom with a _chaise longue_ piled high with a
small mountain of lace pillowettes that were liberally interlarded with
paper-bound novels, and a spacious, white-marble adjoining bathroom
with a sunken tub, rubber-sheeted shower, white-enamel weighing scales
and over-loaded medicine-chest of cosmetic array in frosted bottles,
sleeping-, headache-, sedative powders, _et al._ There were also a
negro maid, two Pomeranian dogs, and last, but by no means least, a
private telephone enclosed in a hall closet and lighted by an electric
bulb that turned on automatically to the opening of the door.
There was nothing sinister about Wheeler. He was a rather fair exponent
of that amazing genus known as “typical New Yorker,” a roll of money
in his pocket, and a roll of fat at the back of his neck. He went in
for light checked suits, wore a platinum-and-Oriental-pearl chain
across his waistcoat, and slept at a Turkish bath once a week; was
once named in a large corporation scandal, escaping indictment only
after violent and expensive skirmishes, could be either savage or
familiar with waiters, wore highly manicured nails, which he regarded
frequently in public, white-silk socks only, and maintained, on a
twenty-thousand-a-year scale in the decorous suburb of Rosencranz,
a decorous wife and three children, and, like all men of his code,
his ethics were strictly double-decked. He would not permit his
nineteen-year-old daughter Marion so much as a shopping-tour to the
city without the chaperonage of her mother or a friend, forbade in
his wife, a comely enough woman with a white unmarcelled coiffure and
upper arms a bit baggy with withering flesh, even the slightest of
shirt-waist V’s unless filled in with net, and kept up, at an expense
of no less than fifteen thousand a year--thirty the war-year that
tractors jumped into the war-industry class--the very high-priced,
-tempered, -handled, and -stepping Hester of wild-gazelle charm.
Not that Hester stepped much. There were a long underslung roadster
and a great tan limousine with yellow-silk curtains at the call of her
private telephone.
The Wheeler family used, not without complaint, a large open car of
very early vintage, which in winter was shut in with flapping curtains
with isinglass peepers, and leaked cold air badly.
On more than one occasion they passed on the road--these cars. The
long tan limousine with the shock-absorbers, foot-warmers, two brown
Pomeranian dogs, little case of enamel-top bottles, fresh flowers, and
outside this little jewel-case interior, smartly exposed, so that the
blast hit him from all sides, a chauffeur in uniform that harmonized
nicely with the tans and yellows. And then the grotesque caravan of the
Azoic motor-age, with its flapping curtains and ununiformed youth in
visored cap at the wheel.
There is undoubtedly an unsavory aspect to this story. For purpose of
fiction, it is neither fragrant nor easily digested. But it is not so
unsavory as the social scheme which made it possible for those two cars
to pass thus on the road, and, at the same time, Charles G. Wheeler to
remain the unchallenged member of the three lodges, the corporations,
and the Rosencranz church, with a memorial window in his name on the
left side as you enter, and again his name spelled out on a brass plate
at the end of a front pew.
No one but God and Mrs. Wheeler knew what was in her heart. It is
possible that she did not know what the world knew, but hardly.
That she endured it is not admirable, but then there were the three
children, and, besides, she lived in a world that let it go at that.
And so she continued to hold up her head in her rather poor, mute way,
rode beside her husband to funerals, weddings, and to the college
commencement of their son at Yale. Scrimped a little, cried a little,
prayed a little in private, but outwardly lived the life of the smug in
body and soul.
But the Wheelers’ is another story, also a running social sore; but
it was Hester, you remember, who came sobbing and clamoring to be
told--and so back to her.
As Wheeler once said of her, she was a darn-fine clotheshorse. There
was no pushed-up line of flesh across the middle of her back, as
the corsets did it to Mrs. Wheeler. She was honed to the ounce. The
white-enameled weighing scales, the sweet oils, the flexible fingers
of her masseur, the dumb-bells, the cabinet, salt-water, needle-spray,
and vapor-baths saw to that. Her skin, unlike Marion Wheeler’s, was
unfreckled, and as heavily and tropically white as a magnolia leaf,
and, of course, she reddened her lips, and the moonlike pallor came out
more than ever.
As I said, she was frankly what she was. No man looked at her more than
once without knowing it. To use an awkward metaphor, it was before her
face like an overtone; it was an invisible caul. The wells of her eyes
were muddy with it.
But withal, she commanded something of a manner, even from Wheeler.
He had no key to the apartment. He never entered her room without
knocking. There were certain of his friends she would not tolerate,
from one or another aversion, to be party to their not infrequent
carousals. Men did not always rise from their chairs when she entered
a room, but she suffered few liberties from them. She was absolutely
indomitable in her demands.
“Lord!” ventured Wheeler, upon occasion across a Sunday-noon,
lace-spread breakfast-table, when she was slim and cool-fingered
in orchid-colored draperies, and his newest gift of a six-carat,
pear-shaped diamond blazing away on her right hand. “Say, aren’t these
Yvette bills pretty steep?
“One midnight-blue-and-silver gown $485.00
One blue-and-silver head bandeau 50.00
One serge-and-satin trotteur gown 275.00
One ciel-blue tea-gown 280.00
“Is that the cheapest you can drink tea? Whew!”
She put down her coffee-cup which she usually held with one little
finger poised elegantly outward as if for flight.
“You’ve got a nerve!” she said, rising and pushing back her chair.
“Over whose ticker are you getting quotations that I come cheap?”
He was immediately conciliatory, rising also to enfold her in an
embrace that easily held her slightness.
“Go on,” he said. “You could work me for the Woolworth Building in
diamonds if you wanted it badly enough.”
“Funny way of showing it! I may be a lot of things, Wheeler, but I’m
not cheap. You’re darn lucky that the war is on and I’m not asking for
a French car.”
He crushed his lips to hers.
“You devil!” he said.
There were frequent parties. Dancing at Broadway cabarets. All-night
joy rides, punctuated with road-house stop-overs and not infrequently,
in groups of three or four couples, ten-day pilgrimages to showy
American spas.
“Getting boiled out,” they called it. It was part of Hester’s scheme
for keeping her sveltness.