So Little Time

by John P. Marquand

  “Oh,” Louella said, and she nodded with knowing sympathy. “It must be the English Novel course. We have it too, at Smith.”

  “It’s sort of hard to understand,” Jeffrey said. “Well—”

  He stopped, and Louella stopped, too. They had come to the end of the library path.

  “It’s just the right afternoon for iced tea, isn’t it?” Louella said.

  “What?” Jeffrey asked her.

  “Iced tea,” Louella said. “I’ve got some made. Wouldn’t you like to have some on the porch?”

  It took a moment to grasp that she was asking him to accompany her to her home to have iced tea, asking him to walk with her up Center Street and right to her front porch. His common sense told him that he ought to take it casually and so he framed his words carefully in his head before he spoke them.

  “I wouldn’t mind some iced tea at all,” he said.

  The new leaves of the maple trees on Center Street were all yellowish green, but he was not thinking of the leaves. He was thinking that his trousers were baggy. He was wondering what the people on Center Street would be saying when they saw him walking with Louella Barnes without a hat.

  “May I carry your book for you?” he said.

  “Oh, no,” she answered, “it’s very light.” He did not want to snatch for it, but he knew that it would not look right unless he carried the book.

  “I’m not as delicate as that,” she said. “I’m not just a Dresden china affair.” But she had handed him the book.

  Her heels tapped sharply on the brick walk beneath the maple trees. She was almost as tall as he was, but not quite, and he wished that his trousers were pressed. He wanted her to see that she had made no mistake in asking him to walk home with her.

  “It’s funny,” Louella said, “we haven’t seen each other for a long while, have we? That is, not to talk to.”

  “It’s because we’ve been away at college,” Jeffrey said.

  “Some men in your class,” Louella said, “were at the Senior Prom this winter. I had a blind date with one of them.”

  He did not know what a blind date was, but he certainly did not want her to know that he did not know it.

  “Did you?” he said. “Who was it?” He did not know whether you should have said “it” or “he” but it must have been all right.

  “Dick Elwell,” she said. “He comes from New York. Do you know him?”

  “Elwell?” Jeffrey said, and he pretended to be groping through the endless list of his acquaintances. “Maybe I’ve met him, but I don’t know him.”

  “Then there’s Tommy Rogers,” she said, “the one who plays hockey. He’s in your class, isn’t he?”

  “Rogers,” Jeffrey said. “It’s a pretty big class at college. Rogers—maybe I’ve met him, but I don’t know him.”

  “Then there was a boy named Ames,” Louella said. “A red-headed boy with freckles who had a new way of dancing the Boston. I think his first name was Tom. He’s in your class, too; do you know him?”

  “Ames,” Jeffrey said. “Let’s see, Ames—It’s a pretty big class. Did anybody come up there whose name begins with ‘W’?”

  “Why with ‘W’?” Louella said.

  “Well, you see, it’s a pretty big class,” Jeffrey said, “but all the ‘W’s’ sit together. I know a good many men whose names begin with ‘W.’”

  “Williams,” Louella said, “why then you must know Bert Williams.”

  “Williams,” Jeffrey said, “there was a man named Williams in Phil I, but we didn’t talk much.”

  Louella was right. It was just the day for iced tea. It had not struck him as being particularly hot, until he walked with Louella up Center Street, but after all, though he hardly knew anyone to speak to after four years in college, he was a college man. The iron fence of the Barnes lawn was in front of him. They were turning in the gate. They were walking up the tarred walk and the white lilacs by the yellow porch were all in bloom. The awnings were out above the downstairs windows. Jeffrey drew his shoulders back. After all he was a college man.

  “In English 12,” Jeffrey said, “there’s a man named Winterstein. He’s quite a writer. That’s English 12, under Professor C. T. Copeland. We call him ‘Copey.’ Did you ever meet a man named Winterstein?”

  “Winterstein,” Louella said, “let me see. I seem to know the name, but I don’t think I ever met him.”

  The porch was cool and shaded from the afternoon sun, with a slate-gray floor and a bilious yellow railing. There was not much effort at beauty on porches in those days—no colored rugs, no tables with plate glass tops—but Louella’s porch remained in his mind ever afterward as a sort of metric standard. Ever afterward, he found himself supporting a fixed belief that no porch was in proper taste unless it had heavy dull-green rocking chairs, and a round wicker table painted black, and unless it had one of those Cape Cod hammocks made of khaki canvas with a purple denim cushion in each corner, suspended from the ceiling by galvanized iron chains. For years the Barnes porch was clear and solid in his mind. He dreamed of it once in the war—he saw the green rocking chairs and the white lilacs that half-concealed the street. He was standing there again with that same sensation of happiness and there was that same sound, the faint squeak of the Cape Cod hammock, swinging on its chains.

  “I’ll get the tea,” Louella said.

  “May I help you?” Jeffrey asked. It must have been the right thing to say, because she smiled, although she shook her head.

  “Oh, no,” Louella said. “I’ll be only a minute. Just sit down and make yourself at home.”

  Jeffrey smoothed his coat and mopped his forehead and then folded his handkerchief carefully and put it in his breast pocket. A Cadillac car went by and then a Ford with a brass radiator and brass lamps, and then an ice wagon. He was trying to plan what to say to Louella next, telling himself that he must not laugh or talk too loudly, and that he must not shuffle his feet. Louella was gone for such a long while that he wondered whether she might not be sorry that she had asked him and whether she might not be waiting in the house, hoping that he would go away, but just as that thought came to him the front door opened and there was Louella, carrying a tray. She had taken off her tailored coat; and her shirtwaist had more frills and pleats on it than he had expected and her hair did not look so tight. On the tray she carried was a pitcher of real cut glass, and two tall goblets and a cut-glass sugar bowl, and also a large glass plate containing some thin sandwiches cut in hearts and circles with a little ring of parsley around them. From the top of the pitcher arose a green spray of mint leaves.

  “There,” Louella said, “sit down and make yourself at home.”

  Jeffrey could not take his eyes from the tray and the cut glass and, without intending, he must have looked at it too hard.

  “I think it’s nice to have things nice when you have iced tea, don’t you?” Louella asked.

  “Yes,” Jeffrey said, “that’s right.”

  He sat down in one of the rocking chairs and Louella sat down on the one beside him and crossed her ankles carefully and smoothed her gray skirt.

  “I suppose you have to work pretty hard, now,” Louella said, “with final exams coming. I do.”

  “If you do your work every day,” Jeffrey said, “there’s no reason to be afraid of examinations.” He sipped his iced tea thoughtfully. “I’m not afraid of them.”

  He smiled when he said it, because he did not want to show off.

  “I’m not either,” Louella said, “but a lot of people are.”

  He was glad that they were both brave and not afraid of examinations, but now that they both had said so, the subject seemed to be completely exhausted. He leaned back in an effort to think of something else to say. He forgot it was a rocking chair. He had to raise his legs straight off the floor to right himself.

  “They rock back pretty quickly, if you’re not used to them,” Louella said, and she laughed and Jeffrey laughed.

  “Yes,” Jeffre
y said, and changed his center of gravity by hitching himself forward.

  “Some men are so silly, aren’t they?” Louella said, “and some girls, too.”

  It made him forget about the rocking chair.

  “I like men who do things, and girls, too,” Louella said, “I mean worth-while things.”

  He felt easier, even in the rocking chair, because it must have meant that she thought he was doing worth-while things.

  “Have you read The Winning of Barbara Worth?” Louella asked.

  “No,” Jeffrey said, “I don’t have much time. I only read what they hand me out to read.”

  “I’ll lend it to you when you go,” Louella said.

  Jeffrey pulled his feet under him. The rocking chair pitched slightly forward. He put his hands on the arms to steady himself.

  “Maybe I’d better be going now,” he said.

  “Oh, no,” Louella said, “no, please.”

  Jeffrey leaned backward and again he forgot it was a rocking chair.

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” Louella spoke quickly before he could answer. “We’ll play the phonograph. We’ll bring it out here, that is, if you like music, but I guess you’ll have to help me.”

  Jeffrey wiped his feet on the jute mat by the front door and followed Louella into the hall. The phonograph was in the little sitting room, on the left. He saw the beveled mirror over the fireplace and a fan of white paper between the andirons. He had never seen white paper made into a fan like that. The phonograph was square and heavy, but even with the iced tea, there was room for it on the porch table.

  “Here is ‘Gems from The Pink Lady,’” Louella said. And they sat side by side in the rocking chairs.

  There was no need to talk as the songs went on. He could sit relaxed, and occasionally he could look at her, as she listened. He could see her profile as she looked out toward Center Street. He could see the way her hair curled tightly over her ears, held in place by her hair net. She was the beautiful lady to whom he raised his eyes. He was the gay roué who was saying Not yet, he’d be single for six months more. The river was flowing on to the sea, and she was the girl from the Saskatchewan.

  “It’s lovely music,” Louella said.

  “Yes,” he said, “it’s fine.”

  There was a moment’s silence, but he was not embarrassed by the silence. He was still by the banks of the Saskatchewan.

  “Now, we’ll play the ‘Gems from The Quaker Girl,’” Louella said. “Here it is—”

  As he sat there, he seemed to be dancing with Louella Barnes at the Senior Prom at Smith. His arm was around her waist. Her hand was resting on his shoulder. He forgot that he did not know how to dance.

  “There’re lots more,” Louella said. “I’ll play them when you come again.”

  Jeffrey hitched himself forward in the rocking chair.

  “Maybe I’d better be going now,” he said.

  “No, no,” Louella said, “it’s early. Father isn’t back yet.”

  It occurred to Jeffrey that it might be better if he left before Mr. Barnes appeared, but he sank back in his chair.

  “We haven’t talked about anything at all,” Louella said. “What are you going to do when you’re finished with college?”

  It must have been the music, it could not have been the iced tea. It must have been some strain of romanticism within him which made him think of the impossible. He had only taken a drink once in his life, and that had been with Alf, but the music had the same effect, relaxing, blotting out all inhibition. The idea that his father wanted him to help out at the office selling real estate was repellent there on the Barnes porch. He thought of mentioning the Foreign Legion or the Lafayette Escadrille, but he was sure that she would think that he was showing off.

  “I guess I’ll be a newspaper man,” he said.

  He had never intended to be a newspaper man, and he did not know how one went about it, but now he knew he would have to do it, or he could never speak to Louella Barnes again.

  “Oh, Jeffrey,” she said, “why, I think that’s wonderful.”

  He could see himself with a horrible clarity afterwards, seated there by the cut-glass pitcher and the cut-glass goblets, trying to reach beyond himself.

  “Oh, Jeffrey,” she said again, “I think that’s wonderful. Do you know anyone who works on a newspaper?”

  “No,” Jeffrey said, “that is, not exactly.”

  “Well, I think it’s wonderful,” Louella said. “Here come Mother and Father now.”

  Jeffrey pushed himself out of the rocking chair. “I’ve got to be going now,” he said. “Really.”

  “Oh, no,” Louella said, and she put her hand on his arm. He could not believe it, but there it was. “Please wait. Father and Mother would love to see you.”

  He could see Mr. and Mrs. Barnes walking slowly up the tarred path. Mr. Barnes wore a straw hat and carried a rolled-up newspaper which meant that he must have come from the city on the 6:01 train. Mr. Barnes waved his paper when he saw Louella.

  “Hello,” he called, “hello, Chick.”

  Jeffrey felt that he ought not to have been there to have heard that term of endearment.

  “Well, of all things,” said Mrs. Barnes, “if it isn’t Jeffrey Wilson.”

  “Well,” Mr. Barnes said, “I’m glad to see you, Jeffrey. Are they working you hard at college?”

  “And iced tea,” Mrs. Barnes said, “and the best pitcher. It’s a real party.”

  “Oh, Mother,” Louella said, “you know the pitcher makes it nicer.”

  “I could do with some of that myself,” Mr. Barnes said.

  “I’ll get you some in the kitchen, Harold,” Mrs. Barnes told him, and she smiled at Jeffrey. “Are you coming, Harold?”

  But Mr. Barnes lingered on the porch.

  “Where’s that brother of yours?” he asked. “Where’s Alf?”

  “He’s down in New York, sir,” Jeffrey said, “the last we heard of him.”

  Mr. Barnes laughed.

  “Of course he is,” he said. “This town couldn’t hold a boy like Alf. Alf was quite a card.”

  “Yes sir,” Jeffrey said, “we miss him.”

  “The girls must miss him,” Mr. Barnes said. “Alf was quite a ladies’ man.”

  “Father,” Louella said, “what do you think—Jeffrey’s going to be a newspaper man.”

  “Well, well,” Mr. Barnes said, “are you? Now that’s an interesting thing to do.”

  “Harold,” Mrs. Barnes called from the house. “Can I talk to you a minute?” And Jeffrey and Louella were on the porch alone.

  “I’ve got to be going, really,” Jeffrey said.

  “Oh, no, please don’t,” Louella told him. “I’ll get you some more iced tea. Father and Mother don’t like sitting on the porch. They like to sit inside.”

  “It’s pretty near time for supper,” Jeffrey said. “I’ve got to be going, really.”

  “Wait a minute,” Louella said, “I’ll get you The Winning of Barbara Worth, and next time you come, you can tell me how you like it.” She looked at the empty cut-glass pitcher. “I’m afraid I didn’t make enough iced tea.”

  “There was plenty of it,” Jeffrey said. “Thank you very much.”

  “Good-by,” Louella said, “and come back soon, now that you’ve found your way.”

  She was smiling at him when he held her hand. “Come as soon as you can,” she said, “now that you’ve found your way.”

  17

  We’ll Show ’Em, Won’t We, Jeff?

  Once, it might have been a year before that afternoon upon the Barnes porch, Jeffrey had been intrigued by an advertisement which extolled the merits of a book on the power of will. It seemed that the author of this volume had stumbled accidentally upon a means of mobilizing a great reservoir of force and energy which hitherto had lain unutilized within the mind of everyone. This could be called forth by exercising the power of will. If you knew this secret, you, too, could dominate any situation.
You had only to look at Napoleon Bonaparte and Andrew Carnegie. It appeared that both these men had been plagued by seemingly insuperable deficiencies until they had learned the Secret. The author of this volume himself admitted freely that he had been a pitiable mental case. He had lost job after job; he had been the constant butt of ridicule and had been tongue-tied at social gatherings, and then, one day, he too had hit upon the Secret. Today, the author of this book, whom Jeffrey had never heard mentioned as a prominent character, simply by exercising his mind for a few minutes each day had arisen from the ruck of the many to the pinnacle of the few, and there he stood, offering you, too, a helping hand. Out of the kindness of his heart, and not in any sense out of a desire for personal profit, since riches and fame now rained upon him automatically, he was offering his revelation to you, too. He had charted your way for you, step by step in simple, easy lessons which you could study yourself in your own room without making any noise. And here was the first lesson in putting your will to work. There was the coupon. All you had to do was to cut it out, and the postman would deliver the book at your door, and if you did not feel a mental upsurge at the end of ten days, you could send it back.

  Jeffrey had clipped the coupon, largely out of shame because a year before that he had not bought a book about how to have big muscles. Yet, when the book arrived—and he still kept it hidden in his upper bureau drawer under his knitted muffler in case Tilly or his aunt should ask him about it—it had not been exactly what he had hoped, perhaps because he had not been up to it. Printed on absorbent and pulpy paper was a series of exercises for your will. When you had one perfectly, you could continue to the next. You first said to yourself—not aloud because you never had to say anything aloud—“I will to will. Attention.” Then you stood for a moment focusing your eyes on every object in your room, blotting out all extraneous thought. Then you turned your back and, upon a clean sheet of paper, you wrote down all the objects, and then you checked the list. And then you said again to yourself: “I will to will. Attention.” There were not many objects in Jeffrey’s room on Lime Street except the bed and the hooked rug and the washstand and the bureau. He was able to accomplish the first lesson, but when he was finished with it he seemed to feel no stirrings of a new and unknown power. It was true that the book told him that he might be disappointed at first and exhorted him to continue with the next lesson, but somehow he never got to it, what with the pressure of his college work. He knew he was what the book called a “quitter,” but he never did do the second lesson.