Mr. Jones meets his friend, Mr. Brown:
"Surprised to see that your house is for sale, Brown."
"Oh--er--yes" replies Brown; "that is, I don't know. I keep that sign up
on the lawn." Then with a burst of confidence: "Mrs. Brown meets so many
nice people that way, don't you know!"
So it is that we have a reputation for being willing to sell anything in
California, even our souls. Of course, it isn't at all necessary to have
a sign displaying "For Sale" to have constant inquiries as to the price
of your place. After the days of "The Sabine Farm" were only a lovely
memory, we bought a bungalow in Pasadena, or, rather, we are buying it
on the instalment plan. It is really an adorable little place with a
very flowery garden, surrounded by arbors covered with roses, wistaria,
and jasmine (I think I should say we have been very fortunate in our
dwelling-places since we emigrated), and passers-by usually stop and
comment favorably. Young men bring their girls and show them the sort of
little place they'd like to own, and often they ring the door-bell for
further inquiries. Driven to bay, I have put a price of half a million
on our tiny estate. When I mention this, the investigators usually
retreat hastily, looking anxiously over their shoulders to see if my
keeper is anywhere in sight. As to the real-estate men, they are more in
number than the sands of the sea, and the competition is razor-edged. If
you have the dimmest idea of ever buying a lot or house, or if you are
comfortably without principle, you won't need to keep a motor at all.
The real-estate men will see that you get lots of fresh air, and they
are most obliging about letting you do your marketing on the way home.
We have an especial friend in the business. He never loses hope, or his
temper. It was he that originally found us "The Sabine Farm." He let us
live there in peace till we were rested, for which we are eternally
grateful, and then he began to throw out unsettling remarks. The boys
ought to have a place to call home where they could grow up with
associations. Wasn't it foolish to pay rent when we might be applying
that money toward the purchase of a house? Of course it told on us in
time and we began to look about. "The Sabine Farm" would not do, as it
was too far from J----'s business, and the lotus-flower existence of our
first two years was ours no longer. Every lot we looked at had
irresistible attractions, and insurmountable objections. At last,
however, we settled on a piece of land looking toward the mountains,
with orange trees on either hand, paid a part of the price, and supposed
it was ours for better or worse. Just then the war darkened and we felt
panicky, but heaven helped us, for there was a flaw in the title, and
our money came trotting back to us, wagging its tail. It was after this
that we stumbled on the arbored bungalow, and bought it in fifteen
minutes. I asked Mr. W---- if he liked bass fishing, and whether he'd
ever found one gamier to land than our family. He will probably let us
live quietly for a little while, and then he will undoubtedly tell us
that this place is too small for us. I know him!
In case of death or bankruptcy the situation is much more intense. Every
mouse hole has its alert whiskered watcher, and after a delay of a few
days for decency, such pressure is brought to bear that surviving
relatives rarely have the courage to stand pat. Probably a change of
surroundings _is_ good for them.
If people can't be induced to sell, often they will rent. There is an
eccentric old woman in town who owns a most lovely lot, beautifully
planted, that is the hope and snare of every real-estate man, but,
though poor, she will not part with it. She has a house, however, that
she rents in the season. One day some Eastern people were looking at it,
and timidly said that one bath-room seemed rather scant for so large a
house.
"Oh, do you think so?" said Mrs. Riddle. "It is enough for us. Mr.
Riddle and I aren't what you'd call bathers. In fact, Mr. Riddle doesn't
bathe at all; I sponge!"
Real estate isn't the only interest of the West. We all read the
advertising page of the local paper just as eagerly as we do the foreign
news. If I feel at all lonely or bored I generally advertise for
something. Once I wanted a high-school boy to drive the motor three
afternoons a week. The paper was still moist from the press when my
applicants began to telephone. I took their names and gave them
appointments at ten-minute intervals all the following morning, only
plugging the telephone when J---- and I felt we must have some sleep. In
the morning, forgetting the little wad of paper we had placed in the
bell, I took down the receiver to call the market, when a tired voice
started as if I had pressed a button:
"I saw your 'ad' in the paper last night, etc." When they arrived they
ranged in age from sixteen to sixty. The latter was a retired clergyman,
the Rev. Mr. Bain, who said he drove for his wife, but (here he fitted
his finger-tips together, and worked them back and forth in a manner
that was a blend of jauntiness and cordiality) he thought he could fit
us both in!
I blush to state that I selected a younger chauffeur! Emboldened by the
success of my first advertising venture, I decided to try again. This
time I wished to sell our superfluous old furniture. The war has made me
dislike anything about the place that isn't really in use. Having lived
some years in Pennsylvania, and having amassed quite a collection of
antique mahogany furniture, I felt justified in thinning out a few
tables and odd pieces that our desirable bungalow is too small to hold.
The results weren't as pronounced as before, but they quite repaid me. I
sold my best table to a general, which gave me a lot of confidence, but
my greatest triumph was a hat-rack. It was a barren, gaunt-looking
affair, like a leafless tree in winter, but it was mahogany, and it was
old. Two ladies who were excitedly buying tables spied it, and exclaimed
in rapture. I rose to the occasion:
"That is the most unusual piece I have," I unblushingly gushed. "It is
solid mahogany and very old. I never saw another like it. Yes, I would
sell it for twenty-five dollars."
They both wanted it--I was almost afraid it might make feeling between
them, till I soothed the loser by selling her an old brass tea-kettle
that I had picked up in a curiosity shop in Oxford years ago. It was so
old that it had a hole in it, which seemed to clinch the matter. I sent
for the packer the moment they were out of the house, and had the things
boxed and away before they could change their minds. When I showed
J---- the money, he said I was wasting my time writing, that he was sure
I had a larger destiny.
Speaking of having furniture boxed carries me back to the time when we
lived in Pennsylvania and I bought many things of a pleasant old rascal
who just managed to keep out of jail. One time he showed me a lovely old
table of that ruddy glowing mahogany that adds so much to a room. I said
I would take it, but told him not to send it home till afternoon. I
wanted time to break it to J---- after a good luncheon. J---- was very
amiable and approving, and urged me to have it sent up, so I went down
to the shop to see about it. To my dismay I found it neatly crated and
just being loaded into a wagon. I called frantically to my rascally
friend, who tried to slip out of the back door unobserved, but in vain.
I fixed him with an accusing eye.
"What are you doing with my table?" I demanded.
"Did you really want it?" he queried.
"Of course I want it. Didn't I say I'd take it?" I was annoyed.
"Oh, well," to his men, "take it off, boys." "You see," turning to me,
"a man from Seattle was in after you left, and he said he'd take that
round table over there if I'd sell him this one too. I showed him
another one every bit as good as this, but he wouldn't look at it;
still, I guess I'll box it up in that crate with his round one, and when
it gets to Seattle I reckon he won't want to send it way back. It's a
long way to Seattle!"
"That's your business, not mine," I remarked coldly, though I felt an
unholy desire to laugh. "Just send mine home before any one else tempts
you."
I still sleep in a Hepplewhite four-poster that he wheedled out of an
old Pennsylvania Dutch woman for a mere song. The posts at the head were
sawed off so that the bed could stand in a room with a sloping ceiling,
but, fortunately, the thrifty owner had saved the pieces instead of
using them for firewood, so I have had them neatly stuck on again.
I think perhaps a subconscious recollection of his methods was what made
me so successful with the hat-rack.
War work has brought out much latent ability of this kind. Lilies of the
field, who had never needed to toil or spin for themselves, were glad to
do so for the Red Cross. In Pasadena we had a small Spanish street
(inside a building), with tiny shops on either side, where you could buy
anything from an oil painting to a summer hat. In front was a gay little
plaza with vines and a fountain, where lunch and tea were served by the
prettiest girls in town in bewitching frilled caps with long black
streamers and sheer lawn aprons over blue and green frocks. The Tired
Business Men declined to lunch anywhere else, and there was a moment
when we feared it might have to be given up, as there was some feeling
in town on account of the vacant stools at their old-time counters! It
all went to prove that you don't need to be brought up in "trade" to be
a great success at it.
No one has stuck to his or her usual rôle in the past two years, which
has added a piquancy to life. We have all wanted to do our bit and the
"Why not?" that I feel so strongly in California has spread over the
whole country. In order to make the most efficient use of the newly
discovered talents on every side, the Red Cross sent out cards with
blanks to be filled by all those ready to work, asking what they felt
themselves fitted to do, when could they work, and how long. One card
read "willing but nervous, might possibly pray."
Our Red Cross Street brought in many people full of enthusiasm and
energy, who might never have rolled a bandage. I shan't soon forget the
strenuous days of its opening. J---- and another diplomat, who also has
a talent for pouring oil on troubled waters, were in charge of the
financial part of the enterprise, and theirs was the task of seeing that
none of the chapter funds were used, so that no possible criticism could
arise. A pretty young actress offered to give a première of a comedy
which she was about to take on the road, for the benefit of the street,
and every one was delighted until they saw a rehearsal. It was one of
those estranged-husband-one-cocktail-too-many farces, full of innuendo
and profanity. J---- and his partner were much upset, but it was too
late to withdraw. The company, in deference to the Red Cross, agreed to
leave out everything but the plain damns. Even then it wasn't what they
would have chosen, and two very depressed "angels" met in the hall of
the High School Auditorium, on the night of the performance. Nothing had
gone right. The tickets were late coming from the printer, the
advertising man had had tonsilitis, every one was "fed up" with Red
Cross entertainments, and it was pouring in torrents. There was a
sprinkling of gallant souls on the first floor of the big hall, and that
was all. The fact that they wouldn't make much money wasn't what was
agitating the "angels" nearly as much as the wrath of the pink-and-white
lady about to appear. Then came the inspiration. I wish I could say it
was J----'s idea, but it was Mr. M----'s. A night school of several
hundred is in session in that building every evening, and a cordial
invitation to see a play free brought the whole four hundred in a body
to fill the auditorium, if not completely, at least creditably. They
loved it and were loud in their applause. The "damns" didn't bother them
a bit. They encored the lady, which, combined with a mammoth bouquet,
provided by the "management," gave the whole thing quite a triumphant
air. When we all went behind the scenes after the play, the atmosphere
was really balmy. The lady expressed herself as greatly pleased and
gratified by so large and enthusiastic an audience. ("On such a bad
night, too!") I retired behind a bit of scenery and pinched myself
till I felt less hilarious. One thing I know, and that is that if
J---- should ever change his business it won't be to go into any
theatrical enterprise. I don't think even the "movies" could lure
him, and yet she was a very pretty actress!
It is a far cry from blonde stars to funerals, but J---- feels no change
of subject, however abrupt, is out of place when talking of his "first
night," so I would like to say a few words about that branch of
California business. In the first place, no one ever dies out here until
they are over eighty, unless they are run over or meet with some other
accident. J---- says that old ladies in the seventies, driving
electrics, are the worst menace to life that we have. When our
four-score years and ten have been lived--probably a few extra for good
measure--an end must come, but a California funeral is so different! A
Los Angeles paper advertises "Perfect Funerals at Trust Prices." We
often meet them bowling gayly along the boulevards, the motor hearse
maintaining a lively pace, which the mourners are expected to follow.
The nearest J---- ever came to an accident was suddenly meeting one on
the wrong side of the road, and the funeral chauffeur's language was not
any more scriptural than J----'s. As we were nowhere near eighty, we
felt we had a lot of life still coming to us and gave grateful thanks
for our escape.
Life is a good thing. I maintain it in the face of pessimists, but it is
a particularly good thing in California, with its sunshine and its
possibilities. I shan't go on because I believe I have said something of
this same sort before. It makes you ready for the next thing, whatever
that may be, and you feel pretty sure that it will be interesting. It's
a kind of perpetual "night before Christmas" feeling. Some time ago when
I picked up my evening paper my eye fell on this advertisement:
"Wanted: A third partner in a well-established trading business in the
South Seas. Schooner now fitting out in San Francisco to visit the
Islands for cargo of copra, pearls, sandalwood, spices, etc. Woman of
forty or over would be considered for clerical side of enterprise, with
headquarters on one of the islands. This is a strictly business
proposition--no one with sentiment need apply."
When I read it first I couldn't believe it. I rubbed my eyes and read it
again. There it was next to the Belgian hares, the bargains in orange
groves and the rebuilt automobiles. It was fairly reeking with romance.
I felt like finding an understudy for my job at home, boarding the
schooner and sailing blithely out of the Golden Gate. The South Seas is
the next stop beyond Southern California. I think I could keep their old
books, though I never took any prizes in arithmetic at school. How
amusing it would be to enter in my ledger instead of "two dozen eggs"
and "three pounds of butter," "two dozen pearls at so much a dozen" (or
would they be entered by ounces?) and "fifty pounds of sandalwood," or
should I reckon that by cords? I could find out later. I would wear my
large tortoise-shell spectacles (possibly blinders in addition), and I
should attend strictly to business for a while, but when a full moon
rose over a South Sea lagoon, and the palm trees rustled and the
phosphorescence broke in silver on the bow of the pearl schooner, where
she rode at anchor in our little bay, could I keep my contract and avoid
sentiment? How ridiculous to suppose that stipulating that the lady
should be forty or over would make any difference! What is forty? If
they had said that she must be a cross-eyed spinster with a hare-lip, it
would have been more to the point. I'm not a spinster or cross-eyed, but
why go on? I don't intend to commit myself about the age limit. I don't
have to, because I am not going to apply for the position, after all. I
have a South Sea temperament but as it is securely yoked to a New
England upbringing, the trade wind will only blow the sails of my
imagination to that sandalwood port.
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