“All styles arise out of some economic upheaval; e.g., short skirts after war because there is little cloth.”
“For the well-dressed woman! This is a Byzantine civilization, the patterns of speech, dress, books, the same, no one desires an irritating originality. Anything inspired is in bad taste, inept.”
“How to put this in gags, hits?” I had confidence in my agility. I imagined myself riding two saddles at once—advertising and scholarship. I found it equally easy to write the propaganda and the Robespierre. I wrote:
N.B. to myself:
“Find a new gag, e.g., Orchids to you. Time marches on; this type.”
“Why American women are not so well dressed as French women with the same income?”
“Aphrodite was, in a sheet, a perfectly dressed woman, but she wouldn’t become Miss America today. We prefer dress models to sculptors’ models; do not start figuring from the Venus de Milo up.”
“Don’t get uplift from a rash buy, if you want to be smart. You don’t buy a steak because you need a psychological uplift.”
This is the dreary stuff I wrote in my first days in Jane Street, already seeing a golden future for myself, as an advertising writer, or a buyer. I wrote:
“Buying and wearing clothes is a business, a life business; a regular business. Your friends are your competitors; don’t let your competitors buy for you!”
This was my last sartorial aphorism. I looked at this remark of my own and began to sweat. I was on the slide. I read in my notebook:
“A little frock—it’s feminine to wear high heels—Sunday best— the latest—a woman with a touch of white—do men like shape in women, or dollar-bearing clothes?”
How low had I sunk already? To ease my conscience I began instead a story for the New Yorker, where I knew a blond young man in neat suits, who seemed very fond of me. He was the kind that I would not marry and did not even sleep with; and he promised to do much for me. So, wishing to see my name in print in the paper, and hoping I’d get thereby a pass to Hollywood, I set to work to write one of those New York jargon bits: LIFE IS A TERRIBLE STORY or, Vas vaist doo, vas vaist doo?
“Across the courts, Mrs. S. comes in her flowered and quilted dressing gown at eight-fifteen A.M. and says-
“ ‘Nu, barin, barinya, vaist doo what that is, Henry? In Rossian, is Barin Lord, Master; Barinya, that is die Madame … Nu, hite-a day, the sun shines. Nu, what is it? Ich bin a so vernickt from mine krankhite. Kaput! Kaput! Abattis! Yes, abattis, the French say. Mir, Henry! you must to die Madame explainen; sie most ihr Mamma zu clean die zimmer hite-a helpen, warum ist mine Back all in pieces. Ach! So weak—vot is die use? A living corpse, wirklich, a living corpse. Ich war so kaput die ander Tag dass I could not mine name spellen … Nu, so vot is it? Old is old. Listen, Henry, though a zo feel fun! I was thinking. Oy, was a Deep in Detroit, Michigan, Mr. Lacher, went to the Polygram, aber doo vaist shone, vair dey play polo, polo, vaice ik? Zu de Polygram ist er gegone and a boy hat him geschlah! Er hat it earned all right. A zoll thief! Vass for frechheit? “You will get fifty cents, a dollar perhaps, maybe,” to me he says. What could I do? He begs, he prays, “You will do me a big favor,” says he; what is half a dollar? I vass in de street mit Henry in de baby carriage. Ich hab de boy nit gezane. Also, seine Madame auch—ha! a solche daughter and die mutter war a zair stolze Fee. An animal. Really! Nu, ich can nit it helpen. So I go in de court. I sit, I wait. Dann asks de Jodge, “Oh! Mrs. Schmidt,” says he, very polite, “and iss it true?” What can I say? Der Lacher, hat zelt zine tale. And he looks. Yes, to me he said, “Do me a groser gefall, please.” Bitte! Bitte, Madame! Indeed! I am villing! But vass vaice ik? I say to de Jodge, “De boy is a very roff boy, dass vaice ik, aber ik var nit zu de Polygram.” What for shall I lie, Madame? Der Lacher, hat zair goot gevoost dass ik can nit mit a baby carriage zu de Polygram gane. De Jodge, auch. Und den, ik kom home kvick. She was a nice woman, a Mrs.—dass ik vaice nit, ist terrible—life is a terrible story, Madame—Ik hob all’s fairgessen, a head like a cat, she war a goot friend of mine—yes, Mrs. Johnson, a Svede, but she war a zoll kind—she comes to me—“Oh! Mrs. Schmidt,” says she, “if you have to go to de court, I will look after your dear little boy.” She looked him after, but er hat nit mir die half-dollar gegeben. A solche stealthief! Ach! Ik vaste mine werter. Ik vaice, ik vaice! Yoonge, yoonge, a zoll dombbell life—ik vaice—ja, Henry—warum lachst du, mein kind! Ja, without fun, life is a terrible story.’ ”
Across the court from the Fords’ were a German mother, Mrs. Schmidt, Henry, her son, and the daughter-in-law, a Yankee girl, who provided each day and three times a day such material. Henry came home for lunch. The daughter-in-law, a chipped blonde, whose surface was worn off, although only about twenty-six, was doing some comic-strip continuities. She was a retired pillow-girl, by which I mean one of those female youngsters like me who choke the big city, hanging out their shingles in ones, twos, or threes, in rooms with kitchenette and bath, in the fashionable districts, and who make up their furniture-lack by colored cushions, pillows, and lamps.
I could work twelve hours a day. Free, now, at night, I worked hard. I typed manuscripts for publishers, did easy literary jobs, and wrote my letters. I read books sometimes for nights on end and was able to make up for it, in a week end. I sometimes, exhausted, bloodless, would fall into bed, singing with joy for my ability to work myself to a standstill. I regretted nothing. Most evenings, however, I went up to the sitting room of the Fords’, where my new friend, Susannah, her departing husband, Brock, and her probable lover, Aleck, sat and disputed about things political and artistic. It seemed to me that both Brock and Aleck preferred me to Susannah. Brock was a tall, languid brunet, with fine eyes, and a caressing manner toward all women. Sue said he disappointed her at night, but I am putting mildly what she told in detail. Aleck was a tall, mild, blue-eyed boy; on his head a close-fitting cap of crimped blond hair. He worked in a chic dress shop, and wished to be an artist and have an exhibition in Fifty-seventh Street. He took taxis to and from his work, and knew no places in New York but Madison and Fifth, Fifty-seventh, Fifty-eighth, and certain addresses in Park Avenue.
I was much taken by Aleck, while it was Brock who would come down to my apartment, if Susannah was out, and tell me his marital troubles.
Susannah had been going to a psychoanalyst for months to avoid a break-up, yet she preferred Aleck to Brock. All of them solemnly discussed this subject at night as they discussed Browder, Herriot, or Chamberlain. The little boy Blaise also listened to their marital discussions. At this time there was a widespread notion that middle-class life could only be an endless series of painful experiments, and that children should be prepared early. Many parents, like the wicked Susannah Ford, with this excuse, took advantage of their children’s innocence and unconscious purity, to parade all their sexual vices before them. Susannah hung pictures from Esquire in her son’s bedroom and handed him back, with an indulgent, dulcet laugh, a packet of “art photos” she found under his pillow. “He mustn’t be repressed, especially now,” she said. I complained that the little scoundrel made passes at me in the passageway. “That shows the result of our training,” she said complacently, “he is no introvert.”
I could write a book entirely about Susannah Ford, who was the ornament of her time, in the sense that an ornament is something hung upon the essential and receives a good deal of undeserved notice. She was handsome, had some influence in expensive schools, made the family move when the boy moved from one school (which did not understand his psyche) to another, so that the poor child would not have to travel, for traveling gave a child a sense of impermanence; I mean, in this sense she was a devoted mother. I said to her, “How is it the damn schools can’t understand him when I understand him only too well?” She read the books headlined in the leading newspapers and also in the Daily Worker, subscribed to the rebellious weeklies, had all the medical and pseudoscientific fads, was easily persuaded to place half her estate in an enterpris
e owned by a radical party, in such a way that she could never ask for accountings, because this poking and prying was unworthy of a radical; and at the same time, was sharp with her husbands about alimony; in every way thus, she tried to be a required woman, to conform to all the current notions in society. She cherished notions of service to society and thought she was a left socialist and an aesthete. She had fetishes on the mantelpiece and Gauguin, Soyer, and Burliuk on the walls. At the same time, she was a wicked woman. To free his libido and her own, she talked to her son about the Oedipus complex, that is, about incest; and in this strange way, tried to attach the boy to herself. She brought this child and Luke’s orphan child, Leon, into conversations about the sexes, trying to surprise their miserable secrets, so that she could make them part of table conversation. Meanwhile, she lived daily with her two mates, Brock and Aleck, and one or the other slept on a studio couch in the living room.
Often, I called upon her in the afternoon, when I came home from consulting with Mrs. Patrice and her artists and printers; and knocking at the door of the second-floor flat, found poor Aleck much discomposed, while Susannah was nowhere to be seen, though at home. Aleck found his situation humiliating, and began to tell me his troubles, when he found that Brock did the same. It was at this time that Susannah took that dislike to me which she continues to this day.
It was winter and almost Christmas. The wind howled down those black streets so near the wharves. We (Susannah and I) had planned with Aleck and Brock and the children, Leon and Blaise, a fine Christmas party. I had been invited to my father’s, where Persia had a tree, and to Grandmother Morgan’s, to the hotel, and to Arnhem, in Westchester. I knew I would have plenty to eat and drink at the Morgans’, but hated those drunken parties which had seemed so sophisticated to me a few years ago. I only cared for the party in my own house, here, in Jane Street. I felt sure, now, that whatever man Susannah let fall, Brock or Aleck, I would get. In fact, they both loved me. I was, indeed, wretched in my love affairs at this time, and was looking for consolation. I had quarreled, one October night, with Luke Adams, who wasted my time. I never forgot anything to do with this man. He caused me so much pain; and every wild joy I had from him I paid for a thousand times with shame, the shame of being abandoned and the misery, the misery of the confident young beauty who feels she is just a telephone number in a little book.
It was a Saturday afternoon in October, just after I had moved to Jane Street, when Luke turned up there. He was newly shaved, cleanly dressed, and smelling sweet. After about an hour, during which he kept repeating, “I can’t stay long, I’ve got to go,” and kept by him his coat, satchel, and umbrella, I got him to accept a drink and gradually took from him his coat, hat, and other things. When I brought the drink I smiled almost tearfully and with that tearing woman-voice which comes unasked out of my throat, said,
“Why are you so mean to me, Luke? You don’t telephone me. You come here suddenly after a long interval. It seems to me there are unwritten engagements. The unwritten ones are the best.”
He said, “I’m not mean to you, Letty; it’s just that I’m afraid of you. You’re a dangerous girl, you’re a lovable girl, pretty too. I could fall in love with you. I don’t want to; gee, I’ve only just settled down after a life of wandering and where would I be? Jesus, I can’t start wanting you. That’s terrible; I’ve been through that too often.” He shifted uneasily. “Haven’t you got some wine, Letty. I thought you always had some,” he laughed good-naturedly. “Do you know what I want to do, stretch out for about half an hour on your divan. Do you mind? I haven’t had any sleep in nights. That hall’s filled with smoke, they all smoke pipes, filthy pipes, Jesus,” he laughed; “where’s that fruit you had last time I came, eh? What happened to you, Letty? I thought you were so hospitable?” He laughed and stretched himself out; then stretched out his muscular brown hand, “Thanks, Letty.” I put a cover over him. “Thanks, Letty”; his voice was at once sleepy, between a smile and a yawn. “Thanks, dear.” He turned his back to me. I thought a moment, and went out, quietly shutting the door. In a quarter of an hour I was back with wine, fruit, and chocolate cookies which he liked. I put these in two bowls which I stood on a little table near him and I resolved to lie down myself, for I had slept little the night before, having been disturbed by Aleck’s tender advances. But at the sounds I made, he turned round, saw the wine, sat up, stretched out his hand, and pulled me to him, “You went and got those for me? Sweet—Letty!” and he pulled me onto his knee, kissed me, and fell sideways with me on the bed. “Gee,” he kept murmuring, “gee, if it weren’t that you were so young, you’re too young for me, and your daddy, what would he think, I could—” I hung to his lip and gave myself up to this delicious pretense of wrestling; he kept murmuring, “Solander is such a fine guy, we mustn’t worry your papa, must we,” and I kept saying, “Oh, Papa is so wonderful,” while we entwined like two stout vines that are still growing and have nowhere to hang but to each other and are feeling persistently for the strongest hold. But suddenly while we were so profoundly entwining, he said in my ear in his smiling voice, “Let’s get up, Letty, I mustn’t, I mustn’t—” and he rose, carrying me with him, so that we sat on the edge of the couch. He stretched out his hand, took the jug of wine and said, “We’ll drink wine instead; I must remember you’re a young girl.” Thus, I knew I was to be disappointed by him again, and I wondered how he could bear to cheat, but said no more. We sat at the table now and drank a quantity of wine.
He went away, with his slippery backward smiles and grimaces of his dark face, saying, “You’re a dangerous little girl.” “Come back and see me soon,” I cried. “Ah, Letty,” said he, and went through the door into the street. I saw him passing the window with hunched shoulders under his overcoat; he spat into the gutter. He looked old and chilly. My appetite was sharpened for him; I telephoned him two or three times before he came again, and then he came unexpectedly. How soft, genial, hesitant his voice on the phone at his office: it amused me to hear his chary, wary tones when I spoke, “Is that Luke?” “Ye-es, ye-es, who is it?” One night at eight he telephoned, “Are you alone, Letty?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well—perhaps I shouldn’t come.”
“Why not?”
“We-ell,” a soft laugh, “you’re all alone, Letty; that’s dangerous.”
“Well, come if you like.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t.”
“Make up your mind, Luke.”
“No, I shouldn’t,” a soft, dolorous laugh.
“Luke!” I cried, “why don’t you come? I’m all alone.”
“Well, maybe, I will.”
I arranged things to look as if I were working on my Robespierre novel (not waiting for him); and put out some brandy which fortunately I still had. Sitting, typing expertly at the window, I perceived Luke Adams, mooching along the sidewalk opposite, taking stock of me. When he came in, he said paternally, “You weren’t waiting for me, you were working; you’re the kind of girl I like, Letty.”
“Oh, yes; since you couldn’t make up your mind.”
“My mind. He-he!” He threw himself in the corner armchair and beamed at me. I picked up his coat and hat; I noticed his clean shirt and new shave. “Have you some coffee, Letty? It’s getting frosty,” he rubbed his lean hands together. I made coffee, brought it to him, pulled down the blinds, and drew a straight chair close to him. When he had drunk the cup, he said gently, “Come here, little Letty. A real woman! I bet you’re a good cook. You’ll be a good wife. You won’t spend money on clothes, or movies, you’ll just stay at home and mind the children”—he chuckled—“and sew a fine seam. Or perhaps write short stories, eh, for the slicks? Eh? Isn’t that your ambition?”
“Luke,” said I, “why are you putting me off?”
He laughed, “Sit here, on my knee.” I sat down, a stout young creature, and felt uneasy enough, for the chair sloped deeply backwards and I was being slid onto his chest. I kissed him on the f
ace and on the throat. “I love thee,” I said in French.
“Je t’aime. I know what that means,” he said.
When I got off his knees, he rose, chuckled, “I must go; it’s late.”
“Did you come to see me to talk over the world situation?”
His eyes cleared, he pulled off his hat again and laughed indulgently, “You see, Letty, I’m a married man.”
“Let me love you—let the fault be mine.”
A wild light came into his face, he threw his hat on the floor and put his arms round me. He said rapturously words which I cannot put down. He muttered, “I’d get on the bed with you, but I know what would happen.”
“Only what we want to happen.”
He held me, his face turned up toward the ceiling and the words of rapture tossing out of his writhing dark lips; he became less incoherent, “I could spend the night with you.”
“Why don’t you?”
“But you see, I am married; I want to be honest. And then I don’t want to go through all that, Letty—if I could have you for a night or two nights, then I could forget you—” I listened, with surprise and irritation.
“I want to go away with you,” he said, ardently, “for a whole week end.” I almost danced with despite, but kept smiling and murmuring at him, “Darling, I am almost French, I know so much but I am afraid of you—” At each sentence of mine he yielded a few feet, softened a little.
“Why afraid?”
“You are only an American, Luke; probably you don’t know anything about love; I’d be afraid with you, to—”
“What do you mean?” he said, no longer smiling.
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