with it.”
So John Potts struck a few minor chords, and Arthura Lewis lifted her
pale-green mantle in both thin arms, smiled at the low ceiling, closed
her eyes, and danced. She did not really dance. She merely bent and
kicked and gestured, approximately in rhythm with the music.
She was not really Miss Arthura Lewis, either. Her first name, which
she had discarded as too usual, was Alice and her last name was Potts,
for she was the pianist’s wife. They were known to live together in the
little apartment across Patchin Place from Marmaduke’s studio, but the
fact of their marriage was scrupulously kept a secret from the other
members of their emancipated circle. No liaison was ever hidden from
the world more zealously than was the regularity and mid-Victorian
respectability of this seeming “free comradeship.”
So John Potts played and Arthura danced, and the theme they were
interpreting was Grace Mallon’s soul. Edwin Marmaduke’s eyes were
turned toward Arthura, but he did not see her. Nor did he see Grace’s
soul. He saw her eyes--very gray and lovely--and her hair, which was
golden-brown and had an indefinable air of mirth about it.
Marmaduke loved Grace better than cigarettes, or incense, or art;
better even than the school of painting of which he was the
acknowledged master, the school which proudly accepted a name first
derisively given it--the Incomprehensiblists. So, while Arthura twisted
and turned and John Potts hammered out discords, he thought of Grace’s
beauty and charm.
To do him justice, he did not think of her great wealth. In fact, he
did not like to think of her wealth, for that wealth came from her
father’s success in a most unesthetic business. Grace was the daughter
of “Try a Tin To-day” Mallon, who was known in the world of canned
goods as the Salmon King.
There was no vulgar hand-clapping after the artists had finished their
interpretation of Grace’s soul; but the Rev. Morris Gildell rattled his
spoon against the sides of his teacup, while Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur
sighed ecstatically and clanked her chain of heavy amber beads. Even in
the act of lighting a cigarette, John Potts started dramatically and
pointed toward the open window.
“La voilà!” he exclaimed. “We have summoned her! I hear the rumble of
her chariot-wheels.”
There did indeed come from the cobbles of Patchin Place the whir
and snort of an automobile. Soon the great gong on the wall clanged
viciously, causing Arthura Lewis to shudder and clasp her long, white
hands to her eyes. Edwin Marmaduke sped down the four flights of stairs
that intervened between his studio and the street door.
His deserted guests looked at one another expectantly.
“Dear Grace!” said Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur. “I hope she came alone. I
can’t stand that friend of hers--what is his name?--that Watson person.”
“He is a terrible bromid,” said Arthura Lewis, lighting a cigarette.
“He’s so very--so very, shall I say, salmony!”
This was said with humorous intent and received with kindly laughter.
“But what has Mr. Watson to do with salmon, anyway?” asked John Potts.
“Does he catch them, or what is it?”
“Nothing so exciting as that,” said the Rev. Morris Gildell, with
a great chuckle. “He merely celebrates them. He is the advertising
manager of the Mallon Salmon Company, and his chief claim to
immortality is that he invented the ‘Try a Tin To-day’ slogan. You know
those great pink pictures of ridiculous-looking fish that we see in
public vehicles and on the highways and byways, each one holding out a
can bearing the legend, ‘Try a Tin To-day’? Watson is responsible for
those mutilations of the landscape.”
“Does Watson paint them himself?” asked Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur. “He
looks capable of it.”
The Rev. Morris Gildell issued another of those shouts of laughter
which made the women’s clubs believe him masculine and hearty.
“Excellent!” he cried, putting an approving hand on Mrs. Anna Watkins
Wilbur’s fat, bare shoulder. “Oh, excellent! No, Watson doesn’t paint
them, but he does worse--he inspires them. He persuades some poor devil
of an artist to make these hideous caricatures of the truth. He is the
Mæcenas of the ‘Try a Tin To-day’ school of painting.”
After waiting for the murmur of amusement to die down, the Rev. Morris
Gildell continued:
“Grace brought Watson to the Feminist Conference at our church last
week, and several people asked me what a rare, free spirit like her
could see in such a clod. I suppose she feels that she must go around
with him occasionally because he is so useful to her father. But I hope
she doesn’t think of marrying him!”
“Marrying him!” exclaimed Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur, Arthura Lewis, and
John Potts in unison. “I hope not!”
“Why,” said Arthura Lewis, “it would be a tragedy for an emancipated
woman like Grace to marry at all! Not to speak of marrying such a
soulless, brainless animal as that David Watson! I’d as soon see her--”
But the conversation was interrupted by the opening of the studio door
and the entrance of Grace and their young host.
Edwin Marmaduke seemed somehow to look younger than before. He had lost
a little of his expression of languor and disdain; and Grace was the
very personification of radiant girlhood. In spite of her knowledge of
her own good looks and good clothes, she was charmingly deferential to
these people, whom she considered intellectuals. Her naively respectful
greeting to the Rev. Morris Gildell seemed for the moment to restore to
that drawing-room revolutionist some strange lost dignity.
Men and women alike greeted the young girl with genuine friendliness.
When her gray motor-cloak had been hung over the corner of an easel,
and she had been seated on one of the few real chairs the studio
boasted, and served with sweet biscuits, a cup of tea, and a cigarette,
then the great event of the afternoon occurred--the unveiling of
Marmaduke’s portrait of her.
The blinds were drawn--for the Incomprehensiblist painting is best
appreciated in semidarkness. The incense-pot received some new fuel;
John Potts played something “very golden” on the piano; and Edwin
Marmaduke reverently drew back the gay Indian scarf that covered his
masterpiece.
II
For a detailed description of Edwin Marmaduke’s “Soul Study in
B-Minor--for G. M.,” the reader is referred to the introduction to the
catalogue of the “Seven Rebels” exhibition at the Stein Galleries, or
to the admirable essay “Incomprehensiblism--a Step Forward,” which
appeared in that sprightly but short-lived weekly review, the _Ultimate
Democracy_. This at least was obvious--that the portrait was large and
mauve; this at least was generally agreed upon--that it was wonderful.
The Rev. Morris Gildell defiantly, Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur cooingly,
Arthura Lewis prayerfully, Grace Mallon respectfully, Edwin Marmaduke
himself modestly--all said it was wonderful. And after Mrs. Anna
Watkins Wilbur had embraced the young painter, and his other guests had
clasped his hand, and they had all said “Wonderfull” many, many times,
they clattered down the uncarpeted stairs to the street.
All, that is, but one--Grace Mallon. She still remained in the old
Italian chair, holding an empty cup and an unlighted cigarette. She
looked out of the window into dusty Patchin Place, and one slender,
unjeweled hand lay on the sill. It was an attractive hand although
the sun had turned it a shade darker than that of Edwin Marmaduke. It
seemed firm and soft at the same time.
Edwin was, after all, human, and therefore he seized it; but Grace
withdrew it from his grasp--not very abruptly, however.
“Now, Edwin,” she said, “you must be very proper and mid-Victorian and
all that sort of thing, since I’m being a reckless, forward young woman
and staying here in your studio all alone with you. Now sit down there
like a good boy and listen to me. Heavens! I wonder what David _would_
say if he knew I was doing this!”
“Why do you care what David Watson would say?” asked Edwin, gently
swinging the thurible to and fro before his goddess. “He’s busy with
his ‘Try a Tin To-day’ pictures. He isn’t thinking about you or
anything else that is beautiful.”
“Stop swinging that incense thing around. You make me nervous!” Grace
replied irrelevantly. “I hate that stuff; it makes me think about when
I had whooping-cough. Of course I don’t care about what David thinks,
silly! Last night he came up to the house, and he said something that
hurt me very much.”
She paused interrogatively. Edwin put the extinguished thurible on a
teakwood stand, dusted his fingers on a yellow silk handkerchief, and
sat down on a cushion at Grace’s feet.
“Well, what did he say?” he asked.
Grace’s colour had risen, making her more adorable than ever.
“Really, Edwin,” she said, “I sometimes think that you are almost too
skilful in repressing your emotions. I said he hurt me very much.”
Edwin threw his cigarette into the coal-scuttle with a despairing
gesture.
“My dear Grace,” he said, “what would you have me do? Challenge him to
a duel? Of course I’m tremendously sorry; but why do you talk to such
an animal as Watson?”
Grace looked at him with a rather cynical smile.
“You men are pretty much alike, after all,” she said. “What David said
that hurt me was just like what you are saying about him. He made fun
of you and your painting--of course, that hurt me terribly--and then
he actually had the nerve--the impudence to _forbid_ me to come to your
studio! Think of it! David Watson, whose only idea of art is a stupid
fish holding a tin of dad’s salmon and saying ‘Try a Tin To-day’--that
man to tell me what to do and what not to do! I’ll tell you what I did.
I forbade him ever to come to my home or to speak to me again! When I
came down here this afternoon, I stopped at dad’s office purposely. I
know David was watching me when I left, and I said to Leon, ‘Take me to
Mr. Marmaduke’s studio in Patchin Place’--loud, so he’d hear me!”
Edwin looked almost handsome as he smiled up at her from his cushion.
“That’s my brave little comrade!” he said. “And soon we shall be
married, sha’n’t we? Remember, you’ll keep your maiden name, and you
won’t promise to honour or obey me, or any of that cruel rubbish.
Gildell will use that lovely, ‘Polyrhythmic Ritual for a Free Mating,’
and there’ll be just the people we love best present. Arthura will
dance, and it will all be wonderful!”
Grace gripped the arms of her chair and moistened her lips nervously.
“Edwin,” she said, “I haven’t told you yet why I stayed here to-day. I
told dad to come here at six o’clock.”
“Mr. Mallon coming here at six o’clock!” said Edwin, rising to his
feet. “Why, it’s five minutes to six now!”
“Yes, he’s coming here right away. And, Edwin--he knows,” said Grace.
“You told him?” asked Edwin in unconcealed amazement.
“Yes, I told him, idiot!” said Grace, springing up from her chair. “How
else do you suppose he knows? Do you think he read my burning passion
written on my brow? Have some sense! Did you never hear of a girl
telling her own father that she was engaged?”
“Of course!” said Edwin. “Of course! I understand. But what did he say,
why is he coming here?”
“That’s just it,” said Grace, drawing on a white glove hurriedly and
splitting it in the process. “I told him last night, right after
David went away; and he said he didn’t like artists and didn’t like
you--don’t be angry, Edwin, he’s only seen you three times. I told him
you were really a great painter, and he said that he wanted me to be
happy, and that he’d have a talk with you and see what you were made
of.”
“See what I am made of!” said Edwin with a sneer. “Why, does he think--”
“Now, Edwin, please, please, _please_, don’t say anything bright!” said
Grace. “You know dad has had only me to talk to since mother died, and
he isn’t used to bright people. He doesn’t like them. Now be sensible,
and--here he comes now!”
They had not heard the great motor-car swing around the corner of
Jefferson Market and come to a stop at the entrance to Patchin Place;
but they heard the clang of the gong on the studio wall, and together
they went to the street-door and brought the Salmon King up the rickety
stairs to the studio.
III
James Mallon was what is called a captain of industry. That is, he was
one of those men who are always shown by the realistic cartoonists to
be grossly fat, with very small heads, tremendous cigars, and suits of
clothes covered with a chaste pattern of dollar-marks.
He no more looked the part, however, than you look the part of the
_Common People_. He was slender, graceful, and modestly dressed; he
had a neat, white mustache, thin gray hair, and a mildly humorous
expression. He loved his motherless daughter, his business, golf,
pinocle, Smithfield ham, buckwheat cakes and maple-sirup, dry Sauterne,
and detective-stories. He did not wear spats.
Mr. Mallon sat in the Italian chair, and after a brief survey of the
room, turned to his postulant son-in-law a puzzled but amiable face.
“Mr. Marmaduke,” he said, “don’t you think that you and I could talk
a little more comfortably if I sent this youngster of mine home? Run
away, Grace, and have Leon take you straight to the house. I’ll be back
in time for dinner.”
Grace gave her father that birdlike peck which is the traditional
filial kiss, and ran down-stairs in accordance with his directions.
She went to her car, and called Leon from his conversation with her
father’s chauffeur. There arose a rumble and a rasping roar, and her
car sped over the cobblestones to the corner and up Sixth Avenue.
Oh, woman, in our hours of ease, what a double-faced hussy you are,
anyway! Grace’s car went away--presumably home--but Grace stayed
behind. She had left the street-door of the house ajar. She tiptoed
up the stairs to the top floor, where her father and her lover were
engaged in important private discourse.
She came to a halt about three steps from the top, and perched in
the dust with her golden-brown head on a level with the broad streak
of light which marked the bottom of the studio door. A shameless
eavesdropper, she listened greedily.
First she heard her father’s voice:
“I have heard your paintings praised highly by critics whose opinions
I respect,” it said. “The fact that I myself fail to appreciate their
merit is by no means to your discredit. I am not a connoisseur, and I
am very old-fashioned in all my tastes. But I must say frankly that
your success as a painter of ultramodern pictures scarcely seems to me
to qualify you to marry my daughter.”
She half hoped, half feared, that Edwin would say:
“I love your daughter and she loves me. That makes our union necessary
and right.”
But instead he said, in a low, tense voice which she had never heard
him use before:
“But I may say without boasting that my art is not a failure, even
financially. I have sold six paintings since last May, and the smallest
check I received was for one hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
“Indeed?” her father replied courteously. “I am glad to hear it, Mr.
Marmaduke--very glad to hear it. I did not know that the public was
sufficiently fond of these new and unusual forms of art to invest
money in them. I see that I was wrong. But you must forgive me, Mr.
Marmaduke, if I say that in my opinion the demand for--what is it you
call them? I am getting old, and my memory is not what it was--ah, yes,
thank you--the demand for Incomprehensiblist paintings is not likely
to be of great duration. The public is fickle, sir; it has no use for
last year’s novelties. Can you expect to invent new methods of painting
yearly for its pleasure? You would have found it more profitable, in
the long run, to paint in the traditional manner.”
Edwin did not speak for several seconds. Then he said, with an air of
deliberation:
“No, Mr. Mallon. I think you are wrong. I tried painting in the
traditional manner, and I made much less money than I am making now.
Except for commercial work, the only sort of painting that pays to-day
is--well, what you would call freak painting.”
“Ah!” Grace heard her father say. “Exactly--except for commercial
work! There is a field for a young man! I cannot blame you for being
an idealist; but you wish to marry my daughter, and I confess
that I should prefer to see her married to a successful commercial
draftsman--say, an artist connected with some sound advertising
agency--than to--well, to an Incomprehensiblist.”
The listening girl smiled at her father’s words. Edwin Marmaduke and
advertisements! It was an amusingly fantastic combination.
She heard Edwin cross the room and open a door. Then he seemed to be
taking something from a closet. There was clattering and grating, as if
canvases were being moved about.
“Before I show you these,” he said, “I must ask you to promise to treat
this matter as strictly confidential.”
“Of course I promise, Mr. Marmaduke,” said her father. “But really I am
not competent to judge your work--”
Edwin made no oral answer. From the sounds that came to her Grace
conjectured that he was lifting and placing one of his paintings on an
easel. She wondered which one it was--certainly it could not be her
portrait!
“Good Lord!” she heard her father say. “Good Lord!”
Then came silence.
IV
Frantic with curiosity, Grace rose from the step and tried to look into
the room through the keyhole. The presence of a key made her effort
unavailing. She heard the rustle of pictures hastily turned, and her
father’s iteration of “Good Lord!”
Then Edwin spoke.
“Now,” he said, “you see that my work has some practical value, don’t
you? You recognise these drawings, don’t you?”
“Recognise them!” said Mr. Mallon. “I should say I did. Do you mean to
tell me--”
“Yes,” said Edwin. “They’re my work, all of them. Watson let the Parker
Company handle their campaign, and I’ve done all their high-class work
for the past three years.”
The Parker Company! Grace dimly remembered hearing that name. Yes,
David Watson had said something about the Parker Company.
“I don’t sign any of this stuff,” said Edwin, “but it’s all mine. I
originated that idea of the fish holding a can in his fin. I make all
the ‘Try a Tin To-day’ pictures.”
She was at first too stunned to move. Vaguely she heard her father’s
laugh, vaguely she heard him congratulating Edwin and inviting him
to the house. Then, with a sense of walking in her sleep, she found
herself at the foot of the stairs, fumbling at the catch of the
street-door. She walked all the way home.
But it was a composed and apparently happy young woman who entered
the Mallon house an hour later. Her father had already returned, and
not even the fact that dinner had been delayed by her tardiness could
account for his air of excitement.
“Grace,” he said, “I was pleasantly surprised by that young man, that
Edwin Marmaduke. He is no mere freak painter--he is a first-class
commercial artist. He doesn’t want it known, but--I should never have
guessed it, it is a tremendous joke on me--he is the man who originated
our ‘Try a Tin To-day’ posters! Did you know that?”
“Impossible!” said Grace. “Is dinner ready?”
“It’s a fact,” said her father. “He showed me the drawings. Of course,
that changes things. I told him to call this evening--how does that
strike you?”
Grace seemed passionately interested in her grapefruit. She looked
steadily at it as she answered.
“Well,” she said, “I’m afraid I won’t be in this evening. You see, I
met David Watson on the way home to-day, and he asked me to go to see
‘The Boomerang’ with him to-night, and I said I’d go.”
“Oh!” said her father. “Then I’d better telephone Marmaduke to come
to-morrow evening instead--or will you?”
“No,” said Grace serenely. “To-morrow night won’t do, either. David is
coming to call.”
Her father looked at her over his glasses. Then he took them off,
polished them with a small piece of chamois, replaced them, and looked
at her again.
“Oh!” he said.
SOME MISCHIEF STILL
CHARACTERS
MAXWELL JOHNSON
MRS. MAXWELL JOHNSON (_née_ HELEN WHITE)
LIONEL MORRIS
JOHN RYAN
A POLICEMAN
PLACE: _New York; the upper West Side_.
TIME: _The present_.
SCENE--_The living room of a six-room apartment. On one side is a
mahogany pianola; at the back is a doorway with a heavy portière, drawn
aside to show a portion of the hall with a wall telephone. At the right
of the doorway is a life size statue of a nude woman, the distance from
her feet to her waist being four times that from her waist to her head,
which is very small and has no features except a prominent nose. Her
arms are stretched out at right angles to her body, and she has been
painted a vivid purple._
_It is evening; the electric lamp is lit and there is a faint light in
the hall._
MAXWELL JOHNSON, _a man of about thirty, is lying in slippered ease
on a chaise-longue, smoking a cigar_. MRS. JOHNSON _is seated facing
him on the bench by the pianola. She is a very pretty young woman,
rather too highly coloured, wearing an extremely décolleté gown of
pale green charmeuse, a long string of large jade beads and a broad
silver bracelet. She has a profusion of bright yellow hair. One knee
is crossed over the other, revealing green silk stockings and silver
slippers._
MAXWELL
But Anarchists don’t ride in automobiles, do they, Nellie?
HELEN
Max, I do wish you wouldn’t tease me about things that are sacred. If
you don’t want to get an automobile, just say so, but don’t try to make
fun of things you can’t possibly understand!
MAXWELL
But, Nellie--
HELEN
It’s hard enough for me to put up with your staying home and lying
around and reading the paper while I go out night after night without
you, and wear myself out at the Settlement and the Ferrer School
and making speeches and addresses and everything in the subway and
back in it, and losing, all the elation and social consciousness
and everything, without having Anarchism and beauty and truth and
everything that really means anything to anybody who tries really to
think just made a joke of!
MAXWELL
Good heavens, Nellie, I’m perfectly willing to buy the automobile; and
I’m not criticising any of your hobbies! I--
HELEN
Hobbies! Does one wear one’s self out for a hobby? Does one die for
a hobby? Is the vote a hobby? Is the Woman’s Movement a hobby? Is
Futurism a hobby? Is the Church of the Social Revolution a hobby? Is
preaching the great truths of sex to one’s unborn children a hobby? Is--
MAXWELL
All right, all right; let me slip in a word, won’t you? I’m not
knocking any of your--devotions. I’ll get the automobile if you want
it. I simply want you to make up your mind whether you want me to get
it, or to use the two thousand for a bungalow at Amaranth, or wherever
that crazy summer colony is.
HELEN
It would be lovely to have our own place at Amaranth--though I suppose
you’d only come out for weekends--you know it’s the most wonderful
place, with the most wonderful scenery, and only really interesting
people are allowed there, poets and sculptors and people who really do
things; and there’s to be a pageant this summer and Lionel Morris says
he wants me to do my barefoot dance; but I do wish we had a car--it
would be wonderful just to get into one’s own car all the time and go
anywhere, and I could take parties of interesting people out on tours
to Ellis Island and the Night Court--
MAXWELL
The Night Court! Yes, I think if you run the car you will go on a tour
to the Night Court pretty soon, and you’ll have a special cop to take
care of you, too. But you decide to-night whether you want the car or
the bungalow, see? I’m game to spend two thousand dollars on one or
the other, but you’ve got to decide. (_From the dining room comes the
loud clink of the steam radiator._) There’s that radiator again! (_The
telephone bell rings._) And there’s the ’phone! (_He goes into the
dining room and is heard muttering and pounding at the radiator, which
continues to clink._ HELEN _goes to the telephone_.)
HELEN
Hello!... Yes; what is it?... Yes, I am Miss White. (_She turns and
looks nervously toward the dining room._) Yes, this is Mrs. Johnson,
Sam. It’s all right; I know what he wants. Tell Mr. Morris to come
right up. (HELEN _and_ MAXWELL _reënter the living room at the same
time. The radiator still clinks, but less loudly, with longer intervals
of silence._)
HELEN
Max, Mr. Morris is coming up to take me to the Mortons’ studio warming.
MAXWELL