V
She often passed Erik Valborg on the street; the brown
jersey coat became unremarkable. When she was driving with
Kennicott, in early evening, she saw him on the lake shore,
reading a thin book which might easily have been poetry. She
noted that he was the only person in the motorized town who
still took long walks.
She told herself that she was the daughter of a judge, the
wife of a doctor, and that she did not care to know a capering
tailor. She told herself that she was not responsive to men
. . . not even to Percy Bresnahan. She told herself
that a woman of thirty who heeded a boy of twenty-five was
ridiculous. And on Friday, when she had convinced herself
that the errand was necessary, she went to Nat Hicks's shop,
bearing the not very romantic burden of a pair of her husband's
trousers. Hicks was in the back room. She faced the Greek
god who, in a somewhat ungodlike way, was stitching a coat
on a scaley sewing-machine, in a room of smutted plaster walls.
She saw that his hands were not in keeping with a Hellenic
face. They were thick, roughened with needle and hot iron
and plow-handle. Even in the shop he persisted in his finery.
He wore a silk shirt, a topaz scarf, thin tan shoes.
This she absorbed while she was saying curtly, "Can I
get these pressed, please?"
Not rising from the sewing-machine he stuck out his hand,
mumbled, "When do you want them?"
"Oh, Monday."
The adventure was over. She was marching out.
"What name?" he called after her.
He had risen and, despite the farcicality of Dr. Will
Kennicott's bulgy trousers draped over his arm, he had the grace
of a cat.
"Kennicott."
"Kennicott. Oh! Oh say, you're Mrs. Dr. Kennicott then,
aren't you?"
"Yes." She stood at the door. Now that she had carried
out her preposterous impulse to see what he was like, she was
cold, she was as ready to detect familiarities as the virtuous
Miss Ella Stowbody.
"I've heard about you. Myrtle Cass was saying you got
up a dramatic club and gave a dandy play. I've always wished
I had a chance to belong to a Little Theater, and give some
European plays, or whimsical like Barrie, or a pageant."
He pronounced it "pagent"; he rhymed "pag" with "rag."
Carol nodded in the manner of a lady being kind to a tradesman,
and one of her selves sneered, "Our Erik is indeed a lost
John Keats."
He was appealing, "Do you suppose it would be possible
to get up another dramatic club this coming fall?"
"Well, it might be worth thinking of." She came out of
her several conflicting poses, and said sincerely, "There's a new
teacher, Miss Mullins, who might have some talent. That
would make three of us for a nucleus. If we could scrape up
half a dozen we might give a real play with a small cast. Have
you had any experience?"
"Just a bum club that some of us got up in Minneapolis
when I was working there. We had one good man, an interior
decorator—maybe he was kind of sis and effeminate, but he
really was an artist, and we gave one dandy play. But I—
Of course I've always had to work hard, and study by myself,
and I'm probably sloppy, and I'd love it if I had training in
rehearsing—I mean, the crankier the director was, the better
I'd like it. If you didn't want to use me as an actor, I'd love
to design the costumes. I'm crazy about fabrics—textures
and colors and designs."
She knew that he was trying to keep her from going, trying
to indicate that he was something more than a person to whom
one brought trousers for pressing. He besought:
"Some day I hope I can get away from this fool repairing,
when I have the money saved up. I want to go East and work
for some big dressmaker, and study art drawing, and become
a high-class designer. Or do you think that's a kind of fiddlin'
ambition for a fellow? I was brought up on a farm. And then
monkeyin' round with silks! I don't know. What do you
think? Myrtle Cass says you're awfully educated."
"I am. Awfully. Tell me: Have the boys made fun of
your ambition?"
She was seventy years old, and sexless, and more advisory
than Vida Sherwin.
"Well, they have, at that. They've jollied me a good deal,
here and Minneapolis both. They say dressmaking is ladies'
work. (But I was willing to get drafted for the war! I tried
to get in. But they rejected me. But I did try! ) I thought
some of working up in a gents' furnishings store, and I had
a chance to travel on the road for a clothing house, but somehow—
I hate this tailoring, but I can't seem to get enthusiastic
about salesmanship. I keep thinking about a room in gray
oatmeal paper with prints in very narrow gold frames—or
would it be better in white enamel paneling?—but anyway, it
looks out on Fifth Avenue, and I'm designing a sumptuous—"
He made it "sump-too-ous"—"robe of linden green chiffon
over cloth of gold! You know—tileul. It's elegant. . . .
What do you think?"
"Why not? What do you care for the opinion of city
rowdies, or a lot of farm boys? But you mustn't, you really
mustn't, let casual strangers like me have a chance to judge
you."
"Well— You aren't a stranger, one way. Myrtle Cass
—Miss Cass, should say—she's spoken about you so often. I
wanted to call on you—and the doctor—but I didn't quite
have the nerve. One evening I walked past your house, but
you and your husband were talking on the porch, and you
looked so chummy and happy I didn't dare butt in."
Maternally, "I think it's extremely nice of you to want
to be trained in—in enunciation by a stage-director. Perhaps
I could help you. I'm a thoroughly sound and uninspired
schoolma'am by instinct; quite hopelessly mature."
"Oh, you aren't either!"
She was not very successful at accepting his fervor with the
air of amused woman of the world, but she sounded reasonably
impersonal: "Thank you. Shall we see if we really can get
up a new dramatic club? I'll tell you: Come to the house this
evening, about eight. I'll ask Miss Mullins to come over, and
we'll talk about it."