Complete Stories (35 page)
Authors: Dorothy Parker,Colleen Bresse,Regina Barreca
“Well, good luck, Miss Wilmarth,” he said. “And thank you so much.”
“Thank
you,
Mr. Cruger,” she said. “I—I can’t tell you how I’ve enjoyed it all the time I was here. I never had a pleasanter—And the flowers, and everything. I just don’t know what to say. I’m the one that ought to thank
you
.”
you,
Mr. Cruger,” she said. “I—I can’t tell you how I’ve enjoyed it all the time I was here. I never had a pleasanter—And the flowers, and everything. I just don’t know what to say. I’m the one that ought to thank
you
.”
She held out her hand, in a brown cotton glove. Anyway, worn cotton was easier to the touch than dry, corded flesh. It was the last moment of her. He scarcely minded looking at the long face on the red, red neck.
“Well!” he said. “Well! Got everything? Well, good luck, again, Miss Wilmarth, and don’t forget us.”
“Oh, I won’t,” she said. “I—oh, I won’t do that.”
She turned from him and got quickly into the car, to sit upright against the pale gray cushions. The chauffeur placed her hat-box at her feet and the florist’s box on the seat beside her, closed the door smartly, and returned to his wheel. Gerald waved cheerily as the car slid away. Miss Wilmarth did not wave to him.
When she looked back, through the little rear window, he had already disappeared in the house. He must have run across the sidewalk—run, to get back to the fragrant room and the little yellow roses and Camilla. Their little pink baby would lie sleeping in its bed. They would be alone together; they would dine alone together by candlelight; they would be alone together in the night. Every morning and every evening Gerald would drop to his knees beside her to kiss her perfumed hand and call her sweet. Always she would be perfect, in scented chiffon and deep lace. There would be lean, easy young men, to listen to her drawl and give her their laughter. Every day there would be shiny white boxes for her, filled with curious blooms. It was perhaps fortunate that no one looked in the limousine. A beholder must have been startled to learn that a human face could look as much like that of a weary mare as did Miss Wilmarth’s.
Presently the car swerved, in a turn of the traffic. The florist’s box slipped against Miss Wilmarth’s knee. She looked down at it. Then she took it on her lap, raised the lid a little and peeped at the waxy white bouquet. It would have been all fair then for a chance spectator; Miss Wilmarth’s strange resemblance was not apparent, as she looked at her flowers. They were her flowers. A man had given them to her. She had been given flowers. They might not fade maybe for days. And she could keep the box.
Harper’s Bazaar
, December 1932
, December 1932
Advice to the Little Peyton Girl
Miss Marion’s eyes were sweet and steady beneath her folded honey-colored hair, and her mouth curved gently. She looked as white and smooth as the pond-lilies she had set floating in the blue glass bowl on the low table. Her drawing-room was all pale, clear colors and dark, satiny surfaces, and low light slanted through parchment—Miss Marion’s room, from the whole world, hushed for her step, dim to enhance her luminous pallor and her soft and gracious garments. It was sanctuary to the little Peyton girl; and Miss Marion’s voice was soothing as running water, and Miss Marion’s words were like cool hands laid on her brow.
Before she had decided to do it, the little Peyton girl had told all her trouble. It was, as you looked at it, either a girl’s fool worry or the worst of human anguish. For two weeks the little Peyton girl had not seen the Barclay boy. He had become preoccupied with other little girls.
“What shall I do, Miss Marion?” the little Peyton girl said.
Miss Marion’s eyes, dark with compassion, dwelt on the small, worried face.
“You like him so much, Sylvie?” she said.
“I—yes, you see, I—” the girl said, and stopped to swallow. “It’s so awful without him; it’s so awful. You see, we saw each other every day—every single day, all summer. And he’d always telephone me, when he got home, even if he’d left me ten minutes before. And he’d always call me as soon as he woke up, to say good morning and tell me he was coming over. Every day. Oh, Miss Marion, you don’t know how lovely it was.”
“Yes, I do, dear,” Miss Marion said. “I know, Sylvie.”
“And then it just stopped,” the girl said. “It just suddenly stopped.”
“Really suddenly, Sylvie?” Miss Marion said.
“Well,” Sylvie said. She tried a little smile. “Why, one night, you see, he’d been over at our house—we’d been sitting on the porch. And then he went home, and he didn’t telephone me. And I waited and waited. I—I can’t tell you how awful it was. You wouldn’t think it would matter that much, that he didn’t call up, would you? But it did.”
“I know it did,” Miss Marion said. “It does.”
“I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t do anything,” Sylvie said. “It—oh, it got to be half-past two. I couldn’t imagine what had happened. I thought he’d smashed up in his car or something.”
“I wonder if you really thought that, dear,” Miss Marion said.
“Why, of course, I—” the girl said, and then she shook her head. “You know everything, Miss Marion, don’t you? No, I—well, you see, there was a dance at the club and we’d sort of thought of going, only I—well, I didn’t want to go to dances very much; it was much nicer just being alone with him. So I guess what I thought was he’d gone on to the dance when he left our house. And I just got so I couldn’t stand it, and I called him up.”
“Yes,” Miss Marion said. “You called him up. How old are you, Sylvie? Nineteen, aren’t you? And I’ve seen women of thirty-nine make just the same mistakes. It’s strange. And was he home when you called him?”
“Yes,” Sylvie said. “I—well, I woke him up, you see, and he wasn’t very nice about it. And I asked him why he hadn’t called me, and he—he said there wasn’t any reason to call me, he’d been with me all evening, he didn’t have anything to say. And he hadn’t been to the dance, only—you see, I thought he had. I—I didn’t believe him. And so I cried.”
“He heard you cry?” Miss Marion said.
“Yes,” Sylvie said. “He said—excuse me, Miss Marion—he said, ‘Oh, for the love of God!’ and he hung up. And I just couldn’t bear that, not saying good night or anything, and so I—so I called him up again.”
“Oh, my poor child,” Miss Marion said.
“He said he was sorry he’d hung up,” Sylvie said, “and everything was all right, only I asked him again wouldn’t he please tell me honestly whether he’d been to the dance. And he—oh, he just talked
awfully,
Miss Marion. I can’t tell you.”
awfully,
Miss Marion. I can’t tell you.”
“Don’t, dear,” Miss Marion said.
“So after that,” the girl said, “oh, I don’t know—it went on, every day, for a while, and then lots of times he didn’t telephone, and then there were days he didn’t come over—he’d be playing tennis and things with other people. And then Kitty Grainger came back from Dark Harbor, and I—I guess he went over to her house a lot. They all do.”
“Did you tell him you didn’t like that?” Miss Marion said.
“Yes, I did, Miss Marion,” Sylvie said. “I couldn’t help it—it made me so mad. She’s an awful girl; she’s just awful. Why, she’d kiss
anybody
. She’s the kind that always leaves dances and goes out on the golf course with some boy and doesn’t come back for
hours
. It made me simply wild that he’d rather be with her than with me. Honestly, it wouldn’t have been bad if it had been some terribly nice girl, some one miles more attractive than me. That wouldn’t have been so bad, would it, Miss Marion?”
anybody
. She’s the kind that always leaves dances and goes out on the golf course with some boy and doesn’t come back for
hours
. It made me simply wild that he’d rather be with her than with me. Honestly, it wouldn’t have been bad if it had been some terribly nice girl, some one miles more attractive than me. That wouldn’t have been so bad, would it, Miss Marion?”
“I don’t know, dear,” Miss Marion said. “I’m afraid one never thinks a man leaves one for a finer woman. But Sylvie—one
never
points out the imperfections of his friends.”
never
points out the imperfections of his friends.”
“Well, I couldn’t help it,” Sylvie said. “And so we had some terrible rows, you see. Kitty Grainger and those friends of hers—why, they’re just the same kind she is! So, well, then I sort of saw him less and less, and, you see, every time he came over I was so scared it was the last time that I wasn’t much fun, I guess. And I kept asking him what was the matter that he didn’t come over every day the way he used to, and he said there wasn’t a thing the matter. And I’d keep saying was it anything I’d done, and he said no, of course it wasn’t. Honestly he did, Miss Marion. And now—well, I haven’t seen him for two weeks. Two weeks. And I haven’t heard a word from him. And—and I just don’t think I can stand it, please, Miss Marion. Why, he
said
there was nothing the matter. I didn’t know that you could see somebody every day, all the time, and then it would just stop. I didn’t think it could stop.”
said
there was nothing the matter. I didn’t know that you could see somebody every day, all the time, and then it would just stop. I didn’t think it could stop.”
“Weren’t you ever afraid it would, Sylvie?” Miss Marion said.
“Oh, the last times I saw him, I was,” the girl said. “And—well, I suppose I was, right from the start. It was so much fun, I thought it was too wonderful to last. He’s so attractive and everything, I was always scared about other girls. I used to tell him, oh, I knew he’d throw me down. It was just fooling, of course; but it wasn’t, too.”
“You see, Sylvie,” Miss Marion said, “men dislike dismal prophecies. I know Bunny Barclay is only twenty, but all men are the same age. And they all hate the same things.”
“I wish I were like you, Miss Marion,” Sylvie said. “I wish I always knew what to do. I guess I’ve done everything wrong. But still, he
said
there was nothing the matter. You don’t know how awful it is not to be able to talk to him now. If we could just talk things over, if we could just get things straightened out, I think—”
said
there was nothing the matter. You don’t know how awful it is not to be able to talk to him now. If we could just talk things over, if we could just get things straightened out, I think—”
“No, dear,” Miss Marion said. “Men hate straightening out unpleasantness. They detest talking things over. Let the past die, my child, and go gaily on from its unmarked grave. Remember that when you see Bunny again, Sylvie. Behave as if you had been laughing together an hour before.”
“But maybe I’ll never see him again,” the girl said. “I can’t get near him. I’ve called him and I’ve called him and I’ve called him. Why, I telephoned him three times today! And he’s never home. Well, he can’t always be out, Miss Marion. Usually it’s his mother that answers. And she’d say he was out, anyway. She hates me.”
“Don’t, child,” Miss Marion said. “When one is unhappy, it is easy to think that the world is hostile; especially the part of the world that immediately surrounds the cause of one’s unhappiness. Of course, Mrs. Barclay doesn’t hate you, Sylvie. How could she?”
“Well, she always says he’s out,” Sylvie said; “and she never knows what time he’ll be back. Maybe it’s true. Oh, Miss Marion, do you think I’ll ever see him again? Do you, truly?”
“Yes, I do,” Miss Marion said, “and I believe you think so, too, dear. Of course, you will. Don’t you go to the club to play tennis?”
“I haven’t been for ages,” the girl said. “I haven’t gone anywhere. It makes Mother just frantic, but I don’t want to go anywhere. I—I don’t want to see him with Kitty and Elsie Taylor and all that crowd. I know he’s with one or the other of them all the time—people tell me. And they say, ‘What’s the matter with you and Bunny, anyway? Did you have a fight?’ And when I say there’s nothing the matter, they look at me so queerly. But he
said
there wasn’t anything the matter. Ah, why did he say that, Miss Marion? Didn’t he mean it?”
said
there wasn’t anything the matter. Ah, why did he say that, Miss Marion? Didn’t he mean it?”
“I’m afraid he didn’t,” Miss Marion said.
“Then what is it?” Sylvie said. “Oh, please tell me what to do. Tell me what you do, that every one loves you so. You must know everything, Miss Marion. I’ll do anything on earth you say. It—oh, made my heart go all quick, when you said you thought I was going to see him again. Do you think—do you think maybe we could ever be the way we were?”
“Dear Sylvie,” Miss Marion said, “listen. Yes, I think that you and Bunny may be close again, but it is you that must accomplish it. And it isn’t going to be easy, child. It isn’t going to be quick. There is no charm you can repeat to bring back love in a moment. You must have two things—patience and courage; and the first is much harder to summon than the second. You must wait, Sylvie, and it’s a bad task. You must not telephone him again, no matter what happens. Men cannot admire a girl who—well, it’s a hard word, but I must say it—pursues them. And you must go back to your friends, and go about with them. You are not to stay at home and pray for the telephone to ring—no, dear. Go out and make yourself gay, and gaiety will come to you. Don’t be afraid that your friends will ask you questions or look at you queerly; you will give them no reason to. And people don’t really say cruel things, dear; it is only in anticipation that pride is hurt.
“And when you meet Bunny again, it must all be different. For there was something the trouble, no matter what he says; something deeply the trouble. You showed him how much you cared for him, Sylvie, showed him he was all-important to you. Men do not like that. You would think they would find it sweet, but they do not. You must be light and you must be easy, for ease is the desire of all men. Talk to him gaily and graciously when you see him, and never hint of the sorrow he has caused you. Men hate reminders of sadness. And there must never be any reproaches, and there must never, never, never be any more ‘terrible rows.’ Nothing so embarrasses a man as to see a woman lose her dignity.
“And you must conquer your fears, dear child. A woman in fear for her love can never do right. Realize that there are times he will want to be away from you; never ask him why or where. No man will bear that. Don’t predict unhappiness, nor foresee a parting; he will not slip away if you do not let him see that you are holding him. Love is like quick-silver in the hand, Sylvie. Leave the fingers open and it stays in the palm; clutch it, and it darts away. Be, above all things, always calm. Let it be peace to be with you.
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