About this time a letter from home brought her a sharp disappointment.
Ethel was not a good correspondent, but during the homesick winter
months she had written several times to three of the girls she had known
in school. Two had gone west, but the other one was still in Ohio and
was planning to come to New York, to take a course of training as nurse
in one of the hospitals. In fact it had been all arranged. And Ethel
had not realized how much she had counted on this friend, until now a
letter came announcing her engagement to a young doctor in Detroit. She
was going there to live, and her letter was full of her happiness.
Ethel was very blue that night.
But only a few days after this she received another missive that had
quite a different effect. It was a long bulky epistle, a "round robin"
from the members of the little high school club to which she had
belonged at home. The girls had scattered far and wide. One was
teaching music in an Oklahoma town; another had gone to Cleveland and
was a stenographer in a broker's office there; a third was in Chicago,
the wife of a young lawyer; and a fourth had married an engineer who was
working a mine in Montana. It made an absorbing narrative, and she read
it several times. At first it took her out of herself, far, far out all
over the land. How good it was to get news of them all, how nice and
gossipy and gay. It was almost as though they were here in the room;
she seemed to be talking with each one; and as they chatted on and on,
the feeling grew in Ethel that each was starting like herself and that
some were having no easy time in unfamiliar places. She could read
between the lines.
But the part that struck her most was the contribution of their former
history "prof," a little lame woman with snappy black eyes, who had been
the leading spirit in their long discussions. She was an ardent
suffragist, and she it was who had brought so many modern books and
plays and "movements" into their talk. Chained to her job in the small
town, she had followed voraciously all the news of the seething changing
world outside, of the yeast at work in the cities. And to the letters
of some of the girls who seemed bent upon nothing but social success,
the little teacher now replied by an appeal to all of them:
"Girls, some of these letters worry me. I don't want to preach--you
will lead your own lives. But I cannot help reminding you of the things
we talked about--the splendid things, exciting things that are stirring
in this land today. Oh, what a chance for women--what openings with
narrow doors--what fights to make the doorways wide for the girls who
will come after you! Keep yourselves strong and awake and alive--keep
growing--remember that life is a school and for you it has only just
begun. Don't sit at your desks--in your homes, I mean--blinking with a
man at your side. Keep yourselves free--don't marry for money--don't
let yourselves get under the thumb of any husband, rich or poor, or of
social position or money or clothes or any such silly trumpery. Get the
real things! Oh, I'm preaching, I know, as I did in spite of myself at
home. But girls--dear friends and comrades--be strong--and don't give
up the ship!"
Ethel read it many times. She could hear the voice of the little
"prof," now earnest, scornful, pleading, now obstinate and angry,
again light-hearted, mocking. She recalled how their leader had warned
them against the bribery of men. Most of the girls had smiled at her
then, for they had felt themselves so strong and clear in their aims and
desires.
"Oh, Ethel--Ethel--Ethel Knight. How have the mighty fallen. One week
in New York and your eyes were glued to the windows of shops. You got
ready to dance and find a man."
The thought rose in her mind--"That was Amy's idea." But she dismissed
it with a frown. She turned back to the letters and read them all
through over again. She rose and walked slowly up and down with her
hands locked behind her. Then she went to her desk, and to the round
robin she added this:
"I am in New York and have nothing to say. I have been a fool. I have
spent nearly all my money on a lot of silly clothes. No, not
silly--fetching clothes--for they were meant to fetch a man. But in
getting them I got nothing else. I have had a shock--a terrible one.
My sister Amy suddenly died. I am here now to care for her child. But
am I? Nothing of the kind. The nurse does that and I do nothing. I
just sit or walk about and scowl at what I am missing. No more from me,
girls, until the round robin--the dear splendid thrilling round
robin--comes back here on its next yearly round. I swear I'll have a
job by then! Good luck and God bless us all! We're young!"
Quickly she crammed all the letters into a large envelope, licked it,
pressed it firmly down, and addressed it to, "Miss Barbara Wells,
Bismarck, North Dakota." She stamped it, felt the tears come, kissed the
letter a fierce good-bye, took it out and dropped it in the mail box in
the hall. Then she came back to her own room, and with swift,
determined jerks took off the black cloth wrapping of a large
old-fashioned typewriter, one of the few belongings she had brought from
Ohio. She had purchased it several years ago, and by typing sermons and
other occasional documents she had earned almost money enough for the
clothes that had cost so little at home.
She sat down and began to pound the keys, but soon she stopped and shook
her head. She had never been an expert. Self-taught, her work had been
laboured and slow, and the lapse of months had thrown her out.
"However! Something must be done!" And the pounding went on for days
and days, hour after hour; and when her fingers, wrists and arms felt
like "two long tooth-aches," she exclaimed impatiently:
"Oh, for goodness sake stop being so soft! You're a new woman, Ethel
Knight, and you're going to earn your living!"
At times, however, stopping to rest and carefully scan her labour for
faults, her mind would rove far out into life. She was copying from two
books the little "prof" had given her, the "Life and Letters of George
Sand"; and "The Work of Susan B. Anthony." And as Ethel pounded on, each
book in its own way revealed exciting vistas to her eyes of life in
great cities both here and abroad, life earnest and inspiring, life
bright and thrilling, brilliant, free!
"Oh, your future life, my love, will be far from dull and blinking!"
And this mood lasted for two weeks. Then as her hand grew more expert,
and she scanned the papers for information of employment bureaus, there
came some ugly hours when much pounding was required. She went out and
tramped the streets, meeting the town with angry eyes that struggled for
self-confidence. And twice, although she had dressed herself with a
keen and vigilant eye to her own attractiveness and had gone to the
bureau she had selected, with a sinking heart she turned back from the
door. But the second time, after leaving, with a scowl she faced about,
went back and marched into the office. And a little later when she
emerged, her face had a stunned and dazed expression. She still could
not believe it! For the woman in charge, after one sharp look and a
number of questions, had remarked:
"Why, yes, I think we can place you. I've one position waiting right
now." There had been more questioning, but this had seemed rather
perfunctory. The woman had not appeared to care very much that Ethel
had only one reference--from the old minister back at home; and the
brief exhibition of her skill which Ethel gave upon a machine, with her
fingers excited, cold and tense, had lasted but a minute or two when the
woman had said, "Yes, that will do."
Ethel scowled as she tried to remember it all. There had been one flaw.
What was it?
"Oh, yes, she warned me about men." And here Ethel gave a sharp little
laugh, with a lump of excitement in her throat. "Well, I think I can
handle myself on that point." She recalled with assurance
recollections--and there had been not a few--of youths at home who had
tried to "get fresh," and had soon been shown where they got off!
She was walking very rapidly toward a subway station, and soon she was
on her way downtown.
"Yes, my dear, I'm sorry to say that it isn't your skill, it is your
face that has got you this chance. All right, Face, thank you very
much. If you'll just keep steady, eyes easy and cool, jaw firm but not
too ugly." . . .`
And when a few minutes later she was shown into the private office of
her future employer, she almost laughed in his fat round face--so absurd
in that first moment did all her little qualms appear.
"He's forty and he loves his meals."
And she answered his questions so blithely, with such an anxious
friendliness, that the dumpy man who sat at the desk was plainly
attracted and easily caught. In fact, in his heavy-lidded eyes and
about his thick lips came a look which repelled her a little. "I
shouldn't wonder if even you might get feeling young again," she thought
to herself disgustedly. "But I guess I can attend to that!"
"Yes, sir, fifteen dollars a week," she was saying meanwhile in a firm
brisk tone of voice. "Of course I know it's just a trial, but I'll do
my best, I promise you."
"Vell," said Mr. Greesheimer, "you be here tomorrow at nine und ve'll
see." He sighed. "Ve'll see, my friend." He turned back to his desk
with an abrupt and businesslike little gesture of dismissal.
And this businesslike air he retained on the morrow. As he explained
her work to her, the tone of his voice was crisp and dry. Ladies'
cloaks were Greesheimer's "line," and though his business was still new
he was increasing it rapidly. He was eager, hungry, almost fierce in
the way he snapped off his letters at times; again he was a genial soul,
boasting to her of his success and giving forth shrewd homely proverbs
that he had learned long ago as a child in some Galician village. But
never in those weeks of work did she catch a suggestion of "freshness."
He was her boss, and at times her friend in a fatherly fashion--that was
all. She worked hard, overcame her awkwardness, was punctual, laboured
to please him. And he was not slow to praise.
"You're a smart young goil," he said more than once. "Keep on--it's
great--it suits me fine."
And despite the monotonous bleak detail of her life in that room, Ethel
grew steadily happier there. For she was gaining confidence fast, she
was living up to her ideals. Soon she would be ready to leave this
funny little man and get a place of a different kind--as secretary, for
instance, to some clever woman novelist or noted suffrage leader. She
had already put down her name at three employment bureaus, in each of
which the woman in charge seemed to look upon her with a favourable eye.
Too bad poor Joe disliked it so. When she informed him of what she had
done, he had appeared quite taken back.
"All right, Ethel, go ahead. I don't want to meddle," he had replied.
"Only--" he had scowled at her in an effort to smile--"I don't quite
see--well, go ahead."
Plainly it had been a surprise. It was so utterly different from what
Amy would have done. It had set him thinking, hurt him. "She wants to
get away," he had thought. Ethel had caught his feeling and had pitied
him for it. But mingled with this pity had been a vague resentment:
"The minute you show you've made up your mind to be a little
independent, they treat it like a slap in the face. All right, Mr.
Male Provider, your tender feelings will have to be hurt. There's
nothing the matter, I mean to stay here. I'll stick by you just as long
as you need me. Only, I propose to be free!"
Their relations had grown a little strained. He had stayed at the
office more often at night. Very well, let him sulk in his masculine
way. Only one remark of his had annoyed her. Like the woman in the
employment bureau, he had warned Ethel against men.
"When it comes to looks," he had ended, "you're one in a thousand. And
in this town--"
"Oh, Joe, for goodness sake hush up!" she had cried. A bright spot of
colour had come in each cheek and her strong little mouth had set
viciously. "You'll be telling me next that I got my position simply on
my pretty face! No brains behind it, of course, no mind!" And she had
tapped one foot on the floor in a way which made him look at her in a
curious manner, startled and admiring.
"Oh, no, I won't," he had told her meekly. "You've got the makings of
more real mind than any girl I've ever seen."
"Thank you," she had snapped at him, but she had liked him nevertheless.
So long as one had to live with a man, even as his sister-in-law, it was
well to have him in his place.
So her annoyance had died down, and had only risen a little again when
one day Joe came to her office. There was some excuse, of course, but
his real reason obviously was to have a look at her employer and at the
same time show the man that she had a male protector. Booh! . . .
But Joe had smiled at Greesheimer and had withdrawn quite reassured,
leaving her and her job in peace.
As Ethel's business life went on, her self-confidence grew apace. And
now that she had proved to herself that she had brains behind her face,
she dropped her air of severity and even began to enjoy the glances
which she knew were cast her way, on the streets and in the office.
Even on old Greesheimer, when he was in one of his genial moods, she
would bestow a winning smile. It was good to have both brains and face.
She looked at the city with challenging eyes, a self-supporting woman.
And this state of mind might have lasted some time, had it not happened
that one sunny day toward the end of April Greesheimer opened a letter
with eager trembling fingers, read it swiftly and glared with joy, his
big glistening eyes nearly leaving their sockets. Then he whirled
around in his chair, and as his eye lit on Ethel, he laughed, and in a
harsh queer voice he cried, "Vell? Now you see? I'm rich alreatty, I'm
vell off! I got the Zimmerman contract--see! I can do vot I like! I
got it! I got it!" He capered in triumphant glee, laughing again and
seizing her arms. "Vell, vot you say! Vy don't you speak? By Gott, I
raise your salary!"
"Oh, Mr. Greesheimer!" she cried, half laughing. "It's simply too
wonderful for words!"
"Ha--ha!" He still had her by the arms. "All you young goils could love
me now--eh?--you could take an old fehlah! Ha-ha-ha!" And the next
instant, furious, she felt herself hugged violently, kissed! His lips!
His fat soft body! Ugh! She dug her elbow into him with a stifled cry
and wrenched away. A moment she turned on him eyes ablaze.
"You dirty--beastly--" she gasped for breath, then turned, and seizing
her hat and coat she rushed blindly from the room and through the outer
office. In the elevator crowded with men she felt a queer taste in her
mouth. "That's blood," she thought. "Biting my lip, am I--well, bite
on. I'm not going to cry--I'm not, I'm not--I'll reach that street if
it kills me!"
Meanwhile in his office Greesheimer was still staring, first at the door
and then at the window, and upon his pudgy countenance was a glare of
utter astonishment and honest indignation.
"Mein Gott!" he exploded. "I give her a hug--a hug like a daughter--and
off like a rocket--off she goes!" And in Yiddish and in Hebrew and
Russian and American, Greesheimer expressed himself as he strode swiftly
up and down.
For seven years without a break he had "kept a goil" more fascinating to
his taste than any female in New York. Her name was Sadie, she was a
model in a dressmaker's shop uptown, and she owned him body and soul.
Their marriage had only been put off until he had bridged the dangerous
time in the launching of his business. For Greesheimer had a mother, an
old uncle and a sister and two small nephews to support. But this
Zimmerman contract, "Gott sei danke!" would clear the way for marriage
at once. And as that glorious vision, of relatives all radiant and
Sadie flushed and joyous leaping into his embrace, had burst upon his
dazzled soul, his glance had lit on his employée, and he had hugged her
in his joy! And she--Again did Greesheimer swear! He felt hot angry
blushes rise. And later at his telephone he was saying to a woman
friend who ran an employment bureau:
"I got to have a stenographer. See? Und I don't vant a goil, I vant a
man--a smart young fellah, y'understand. . . . Jewish? Yes! You
betcher! No more Christian goils in mine! Dey have rotten minds--plain
rotten minds!"
But to Ethel, walking blindly, no such explanation occurred. She could
still feel that body, those greedy lips and clutching hands, and out of
her disgust and rage emerged another feeling which grew like a load on
her shoulders, sagging her spirit and crushing her down.
"Joe was right. It was only my face. That beast was only
waiting! . . . I wonder if they're all like that? Probably not.
But how can I tell the sheep from the goats? I thought I could. I
thought I knew how to handle myself--I thought I knew how to get on in
this town! But I don't, it seems--I've done nothing at all! I've just
been a little fool! . . . And New York is like that!"
She glared at the city around her, at its tall, hard unfriendly walls,
the jangling trolleys down below, the trucks and drays and the crowds
rushing by her. For all their hurry, some of the men shot glances at
Ethel that made her burn. One tall thin man even stopped and turned and
she felt his look travel right down to her toes! She walked on and on
with her bare fists clenched. She had left her gloves in the office.
Go back for them? No! Nor to any office, nor any man!
"Oh, yes, I will, I'll go back to Joe--and hear him say, 'I told you
so.'"
She reached the apartment faint and sick. Joe had not come home, thank
goodness. She went to her room and to her bed, and had a good cry,
which relieved her a little. And so, after an hour or two, looking
steadily up at the ceiling, she decided that after a few days' rest she
would go to all three of those bureaus and say, "I'm in the market
still, if you please, but only for a woman boss."
But later, as she was dressing for dinner, her eye was caught by the
photograph of her sister Amy. And the face appeared to her suddenly so
strong and wise with its knowledge of life. She remembered Amy's smiles
at all new "movements" and ideas and work for women. She seemed to be
smiling now, with a good-humoured pitying air, and to be saying:
"Now will you believe me? It isn't what you say to men, it's how you
look and what you wear."
And Ethel stared at it and frowned, in a disillusioned, questioning way.