The Vegetable
F. Scott Fitzgerald
BY F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
| Novels |
| THIS SIDE OF PARADISE |
| THE BEAUTIFUL AND DAMNED |
| Stories |
| FLAPPERS AND PHILOSOPHERS |
| TALES OF THE JAZZ AGE |
| And a Comedy |
| THE VEGETABLE |
THE VEGETABLE
THE VEGETABLE
or
from President to postman
By
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
world, to make a million dollars, and maybe even
park his toothbrush in White House, hasn’t
got as much to him as a good dog has—he’s
nothing more or less than a vegetable.”
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1923
Copyright, 1923, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
——
Printed in the United States of America
——
Published April, 1923
TO KATHERINE TIGHE and EDMUND WILSON, Jr.
WHO DELETED MANY ABSURDITIES
FROM MY FIRST TWO NOVELS I RECOMMEND
THE ABSURDITIES SET DOWN HERE
| ACT I
ACT II ACT III |
THE VEGETABLE
ACT I
This is the “living” room of Jerry Frost’s house. It is evening. The room (and, by implication, the house) is small and stuffy—it’s an awful bother to raise these old-fashioned windows; some of them stick, and besides it’s extravagant to let in much cold air, here in the middle of March. I can’t say much for the furniture, either. Some of it’s instalment stuff, imitation leather with the grain painted on as an after-effect, and some of it’s dingily, depressingly old. That bookcase held “Ben Hur” when it was a best-seller, and it’s now trying to digest “A Library of the World’s Best Literature” and the “Wit and Humor of the United States in Six Volumes.” That couch would be dangerous to sit upon without a map showing the location of all craters, hillocks, and thistle-patches. And three dead but shamefully unburied clocks stare eyelessly before them from their perches around the walls.
Those walls—God! The history of American photography hangs upon them. Photographs of children with puffed dresses and depressing leers, taken in the Fauntleroy nineties, of babies with toothless mouths and idiotic eyes, of young men with the hair cuts of ’85 and ’90 and ’02, and with neckties that loop, hoist, snag, or flare in conformity to some esoteric, antiquated standard of middle-class dandyism. And the girls! You’d have to laugh at the girls! Imitation Gibson girls, mostly; you can trace their histories around the room, as each of them withered and stated. Here’s one in the look-at-her-little-toes-aren’t-they-darling period, and here she is later when she was a little bother of ten. Look! This is the way she was when she was after a husband. She might be worse. There’s a certain young charm or something, but in the next picture you can see what five years of general housework have done to her. You wouldn’t turn your eyes half a degree to watch her in the street. And that was taken six years ago—now she’s thirty and already an old woman.
You’ve guessed it. That last one, allowing for the photographer’s kind erasure of a few lines, is Mrs. Jerry Frost. If you listen for a minute, you’ll hear her, too.
But wait. Against my will, I’ll have to tell you a few sordid details about the room. There’s got to be a door in plain sight that leads directly outdoors, and then there are two other doors, one to the dining-room and one to the second floor—you can see the beginning of the stairs. Then there’s a window somewhere that’s used in the last act. I hate to mention these things, but they’re part of the plot.
Now you see when the curtain went up, Jerry Frost had left the little Victrola playing and wandered off to the cellar or somewhere, and Mrs. Jerry (you can call her Charlotte) hears it from where she is up-stairs. Listen!
“Some little bug is going to find you, so-o-ome day!”
That’s her. She hasn’t got much of a voice, has she? And she will sing one key higher than the Victrola. And now the darn Victrola’s running down and giving off a ghastly minor discord like the death agony of a human being.
Charlotte. [She’s up-stairs, remember.] Jerry, wind up the graphophone.
There’s no answer.
Jer-ry!
Still no answer.
Jerry, wind up the graphophone. It isn’t good for it.
Yet again no answer.
All right— [smugly]—if you want to ruin it, I don’t care.
The phonograph whines, groans, gags, and dies, and almost simultaneously with its last feeble gesture a man comes into the room, saying: “What?” He receives no answer. It is Jerry Frost, in whose home we are.
Jerry Frost is thirty-five. He is a clerk for the railroad at $3,000 a year. He possesses no eyebrows, but nevertheless he constantly tries to knit them. His lips are faintly pursed at all times, as though about to emit an enormous opinion upon some matter of great importance.
On the wall there is a photograph of him at twenty-seven—just before he married. Those were the days of his high yellow pompadour. That is gone now, faded like the rest of him into a docile pattern without grace or humor.
After his mysterious and unanswered “What?” Jerry stares at the carpet, surely not in æsthetic approval, and becomes engrossed in his lack of thoughts. Suddenly he gives a twitch and tries to reach with his hand some delicious sector of his back. He can almost reach it, but not quite—poor man!—so he goes to the mantelpiece and rubs his back gently, pleasingly, against it, meanwhile keeping his glance focussed darkly upon the carpet.
He is finished. He is at physical ease again. He leans over the table—did I say there was a table?—and turns the pages of a magazine, yawning meanwhile and tentatively beginning a slow clog step with his feet. Presently this distracts him from the magazine, and he looks apathetically at his feet. Then suddenly he sits in a chair and begins to sing, unmusically, and with faint interest, a piece which is possibly his own composition. The tune varies considerably, but the words have an indisputable consistency, as they are composed wholly of the phrase: “Everybody is there, everybody is there!”
He is a motion-picture of tremendous, unconscious boredom.
Suddenly he gives out a harsh, bark-like sound and raises his hand swiftly, as though he were addressing an audience. This fails to amuse him; the arm falters, strays lower——
Jerry. Char-lit! Have you got the Saturday Evening Post?
There is no reply.
Char-lit!
Still no reply.
Char-lit!
Charlotte [with syrupy recrimination]. You didn’t bother to answer me, so I don’t think I should bother to answer you.
Jerry [indignant, incredulous]. Answer you what?
Charlotte. You know what I mean.
Jerry. I mos’ certainly do not.
Charlotte. I asked you to wind up the graphophone.
Jerry [glancing at it indignantly]. The phonograph?
Charlotte. Yes, the graphophone!
Jerry. It’s the first time I knew it. [He is utterly disgusted. He starts to speak several times, but each time he hesitates. Disgust settles upon his face, in a heavy pall. Then he remembers his original question.] Have you got the Saturday Evening Post?
Charlotte. Yes, I told you!
Jerry. You did not tell me!
Charlotte. I can’t help it if you’re deaf!
Jerry. Deaf? Who’s deaf? [After a pause.] No more deaf than you are. [After another pause.] Not half as much.
Charlotte. Don’t talk so loud—you’ll wake the people next door.
Jerry [incredulously]. The people next door!
Charlotte. You heard me!
Jerry is beaten, and taking it very badly. He is beginning to brood when the telephone rings. He answers it.
Jerry. Hello!... [With recognition and rising interest.] Oh, hello.... Did you get the stuff.... Just one gallon is all I want.... No, I can’t use more than one gallon.... [He looks around thoughtfully.] Yes, I suppose so, but I’d rather have you mix it before you bring it.... Well, about nine o’clock, then. [He rings off, gleeful now, smiling. Then sudden worry, and the hairless eyebrows knit together. He takes a note-book out of his pocket, lays it open before him, and picks up the receiver.] Midway 9191.... Yes.... Hello, is this Mr.—Mr. S-n-o-o-k-s’s residence?... Hello, is this Mr. S-n-o-o-k-s’s residence?... [Very distinctly.] Mr. Snukes or Snooks.... Mr. S-n-, the boo—the fella that gets stuff, hooch ... h-o-o-c-h.... No, Snukes or Snooks is the man I want.... Oh. Why, a fella down-town gave me your husband’s name and he called me up—at least, I called him up first, and then he called me up just now—see?... You see? Hello—is this—am I talking to the wife of the—of the—of the fella that gets stuff for you? The b-o-o-t-l-e-g-g-e-r? Oh, you know, the bootlegger. [He breathes hard after this word. Do you suppose Central will tell on him?] ... Oh. Well, you see, I wanted to tell him when he comes to-night to come to the back door.... No, Hooch is not my name. My name is Frost. 2127 Osceola Avenue.... Oh, he’s left already? Oh, all right. Thanks.... Well, good-by.... Well, good-by ... good-by. [He rings off. Again his hairless brows are knit with worry.] Char-lit!
Charlotte [abstractedly]. Yes?
Jerry. Charlit, if you want to read a good story, read the one about the fella who gets shipwrecked on the Buzzard Islands and meets the Chinese girl, only she isn’t a Chinese girl at all.
Charlotte [she’s still up-stairs, remember]. What?
Jerry. There’s one story in there—are you reading the Saturday Evening Post?
Charlotte. I would be if you didn’t interrupt me every minute.
Jerry. I’m not. I just wanted to tell you there’s one story in there about a Chinese girl who gets wrecked on the Buzzard Islands that isn’t a Chinese——
Charlotte. Oh, let up, for heaven’s sakes! Don’t nag me.
Clin-n-ng! That’s the door-bell.
There’s the door-bell.
Jerry [with fine sarcasm]. Oh, really? Why, I thought it was a cow-bell.
Charlotte [witheringly]. Ha-ha!
Well, he’s gone to the door. He opens it, mumbles something, closes it. Now he’s back.
Jerry. It wasn’t anybody.
Charlotte. It must have been.
Jerry. What?
Charlotte. It couldn’t have rung itself.
Jenny [in disgust]. Oh, gosh, you think that’s funny. [After a pause.] It was a man who wanted 2145. I told him this was 2127, so he went away.
Charlotte is now audibly descending a crickety flight of stairs, and here she is! She’s thirty, and old for her age, just like I told you, shapeless, slack-cheeked, but still defiant. She would fiercely resent the statement that her attractions have declined ninety per cent since her marriage, and in the same breath she would assume that there was a responsibility and shoulder it on her husband. She talks in a pessimistic whine and, with a sort of dowdy egotism, considers herself generally in the right. Frankly, I don’t like her, though she can’t help being what she is.
Charlotte. I thought you were going to the Republican Convention down at the Auditorium.
Jerry. Well, I am. [But he remembers the b-o-o—.] No, I can’t.
Charlotte. Well, then, for heaven’s sakes don’t spend the evening sitting here and nagging me. I’m nervous enough as it is.
They both sit. She produces a basket of sewing, selects a man’s nightshirt and begins, apparently, to rip it to pieces. Meanwhile Jerry, who has picked up a magazine, regards her out of the corner of his eye. During the first rip he starts to speak, and again during the second rip, but each time he restrains himself with a perceptible effort.
Jerry. What are you tearing that up for?
Charlotte [sarcastically]. Just for fun.
Jerry. Why don’t you tear up one of your own?
Charlotte [exasperated]. Oh, I know what I’m doing. For heaven’s sakes, don’t n-a-a-ag me!
Jerry [feebly]. Well, I just asked you. [A long pause.] Well, I got analyzed to-day.
Charlotte. What?
Jerry. I got analyzed.
Charlotte. What’s that?
Jerry. I got analyzed by an expert analyzer. Everybody down at the Railroad Company got analyzed. [Rather importantly.] They got a chart about me that long. [He expresses two feet with his hands.] Say— [He rises suddenly and goes up close to her.] What color my eyes?
Charlotte. Don’t ask me. Sort of brown, I guess.
Jerry. Brown? That’s what I told ’em. But they got me down for blue.
Charlotte. What was it all about? Did they pay you anything for it?
Jerry. Pay me anything? Of course not. It was for my benefit. It’ll do me a lot of good. I was analyzed, can’t you understand? They found out a lot of stuff about me.
Charlotte [dropping her work in horror]. Do you think you’ll lose your job?
Jerry [in disgust]. A lot you know about business methods. Don’t you ever read “Efficiency” or the “Systematic Weekly”? It’s a sort of examination.
Charlotte. Oh, I know. When they feel all the bumps on your head.
Jerry. No, not like that at all. They ask you questions, see?
Charlotte. Well, you needn’t be so cross about it.
He hasn’t been cross.
I hope you had the spunk to tell them you thought you deserved a better position than you’ve got.
Jerry. They didn’t ask me things like that. It was up-stairs in one of the private offices. First the character analyzer looked at me sort of hard and said “Sit down!”
Charlotte. Did you sit down?
Jerry. Sure; the thing is to do what they tell you. Well, then the character analyzer asked me my name and whether I was married.
Charlotte [suspiciously]. What did you tell her?
Jerry. Oh, it was a man. I told him yes, of course. What do you think I am?
Charlotte. Well, did he ask you anything else about me?
Jerry. No. He asked me what it was my ambition to be, and I said I didn’t have any ambition left, and then I said, “Do you mean when I was a kid?” And he said, “All right, what did you want to do then?” And I said “Postman,” and he said, “What sort of a job would you like to get now?” and I said, “Well, what have you got to offer?”
Charlotte. Did he offer you a job?
Jerry. No, he was just kidding, I guess. Well, then, he asked me if I’d ever done any studying at home to fit me for a higher position, and I said, “Sure,” and he said, “What?” and I couldn’t think of anything off-hand, so I told him I took music lessons. He said no, he meant about railroads, and I said they worked me so hard that when I got home at night I never want to hear about railroads again.
Charlotte. Was that all?
Jerry. Oh, there were some more questions. He asked me if I’d ever been in jail.
Charlotte. What did you tell him?
Jerry. I told him “no,” of course.
Charlotte. He probably didn’t believe you.
Jerry. Well, he asked me a few more things, and then he let me go. I think I got away with it all right. At least he didn’t give me any black marks on my chart—just a lot of little circles.
Charlotte. Oh, you got away with it “all right.” That’s all you care. You got away with it. Satisfied with nothing. Why didn’t you talk right up to him: “See here, I don’t see why I shouldn’t get more money.” That’s what you’d have ought to said. He’d of respected you more in the end.
Jerry [gloomily]. I did have ambitions once.
Charlotte. Ambition to do what? To be a postman. That was a fine ambition for a fella twenty-two years old. And you’d have been one if I’d let you. The only other ambition you ever had was to marry me. And that didn’t last long.
Jerry. I know it didn’t. It lasted one month too long, though.
A mutual glare here—let’s not look.
And I’ve had other ambitions since then—don’t you worry.
Charlotte [scornfully]. What?
Jerry. Oh, that’s all right.
Charlotte. What, though? I’d like to know what. To win five dollars playing dice in a cigar store?
Jerry. Never you mind. Don’t you worry. Don’t you fret. It’s all right, see?
Charlotte. You’re afraid to tell me.
Jerry. No, I’m not. Don’t you worry.
Charlotte. Yes, you are.
Jerry. All right then. If you want to know, I had an ambition to be President of the United States.
Charlotte [laughing]. Ho—ho—ho—ho!
Jerry is pretending to be interested only in sucking his teeth—but you can see that he is both sorry he made his admission and increasingly aware that his wife is being unpleasant.
Charlotte. But you decided to give that up, eh?
Jerry. Sure. I gave up everything when I got married.
Charlotte. Even gave up being a postman, eh? That’s right. Blame it all on me! Why, if it hadn’t been for me you wouldn’t even be what you are—a fifty-dollar-a-week clerk.
Jerry. That’s right. I’m only a fifty-dollar-a-week clerk. But you’re only a thirty-dollar-a-week wife.
Charlotte. Oh, I am, am I?
Jerry. I made a big mistake when I married you.
Charlotte. Stop talking like that! I wish you were dead—dead and buried—cremated! Then I could have some fun.
Jerry. Where—in the poorhouse?
Charlotte. That’s where I’d be, I know.
Charlotte is not really very angry. She is merely smug and self-satisfied, you see, and is only mildly annoyed at this unexpected resistance to her brow-beating. She knows that Jerry will always stay and slave for her. She has begun this row as a sort of vaudeville to assuage her nightly boredom.
Charlotte. Why didn’t you think of these things before we got married?
Jerry. I did, a couple of times, but you had me all signed up then.
The sound of uncertain steps creaking down the second floor. Into the room at a wavering gait comes Jerry’s father, Horatio—“Dada.”
Dada was born in 1834, and will never see eighty-eight again—in fact, his gathering blindness prevented him from seeing it very clearly in the first place. Originally he was probably Jerry’s superior in initiative, but he did not prosper, and during the past twenty years his mind has been steadily failing. A Civil War pension has kept him quasi-independent, and he looks down as from a great dim height upon Jerry (whom he thinks of as an adolescent) and Charlotte (whom he rather dislikes). Never given to reading in his youth, he has lately become absorbed in the Old Testament and in all Old Testament literature, over which he burrows every day in the Public Library.
In person he is a small, shrivelled man with a great amount of hair on his face, which gives him an unmistakable resemblance to a French poodle. The fact that he is almost blind and even more nearly deaf contributes to his aloof, judicial pose, and to the prevailing impression that something grave and thoughtful and important is going on back of those faded, vacant eyes. This conception is entirely erroneous. Half the time his mind is a vacuum, in which confused clots of information and misinformation drift and stir—the rest of the time he broods upon the minute details of his daily existence. He is too old, even, for the petty spites which represent to the aged the single gesture of vitality they can make against the ever-increasing pressure of life and youth.
When he enters the room he looks neither to left nor right, but with his head shaking faintly and his mouth moving in a shorter vibration, makes directly for the bookcase.
Jerry. Hello, Dada.
Dada does not hear.
Jerry [louder]. Looking for the Bible, Dada?
Dada. [He has reached the bookcase, and he turns around stiffly.] I’m not deaf, sir.
Jerry. [Let’s draw the old man out.] Who do you think will be nominated for President, Dada?
Dada [trying to pretend he has just missed one word]. The——
Jerry [louder]. Who do you think’ll be nominated for President, to-night?
Dada. I should say that Lincoln was our greatest President. [He turns back to the bookcase with an air of having settled a trivial question for all time.]
Jerry. I mean to-night. They’re getting a new one. Don’t you read the papers?
Dada [who has heard only a faint murmur]. Hm.
Charlotte. You know he never reads anything but the Bible. Why do you nag him?
Jerry. He reads the encyclopædia at the Public Library. [With a rush of public spirit.] If he’d just read the newspapers he’d know what was going on and have something to talk about. He just sits around and never says anything.
Charlotte. At least he doesn’t gabble his head off all day. He’s got sense enough not to do that anyway, haven’t you, Dada?
Dada does not answer.
Jerry. Lookit here, Charlit. I don’t call it gabbling if I meet a man in the street and he says, “Well, I see somebody was nominated for President,” and I say, “Yes, I see saw—see so.” Suppose I said, “Yes, Lincoln was our greatest President.” He’d say, “Why, if that fella isn’t a piece of cheese I never saw a piece of cheese.”
Dada [turning about plaintively]. Some one has taken my Bible.
Jerry. No, there it is on the second shelf, Dada.
Dada. [He doesn’t hear.] I don’t like people moving it around.
Charlotte. Nobody moved it.
Dada. My old mother used to say to me, “Horatio—” [He brings this word out with an impressive roundness, but as his eye, at that moment, catches sight of the Bible, he loses track of his thought. He pounces upon the Holy Book and drags it out, pulling with it two or three other books, which crash to the floor. The sound of their fall is very faint on his ears—and under the delusion that his error is unnoticed, he slyly kicks the books under the bookcase. Jerry and Charlotte exchange a glance. With his Bible under his arm Dada starts stealthily toward the staircase. He sees something bright shining on the first step, and, not without difficulty, stoops to pick it up. His efforts are unsuccessful.] Hello, here’s a nail that looks just like a ten-cent piece. [He starts up-stairs.]
Jerry. He thought he found a ten-cent piece.
Charlotte [significantly]. Nobody has yet in this house.
In the ensuing silence Dada can be heard ascending the stairs. About half-way up there is a noise as if he had slipped down a notch. Then a moment of utter silence.
Jerry. You all right, Dada?
No answer. Dada is heard to resume his climb.
He was just resting. [He goes over and starts picking up the books. Cli-n-ng! There’s the front door-bell again. It occurs to him that it’s the b-o-o.] I’ll answer it.
Charlotte [who has risen]. I’ll answer it. It’s my own sister Doris, I know. You answered the last one.
Jerry. That was a mistake. It’s my turn this time by rights.
Answering the door-bell is evidently a pleasant diversion over which they have squabbled before.
Charlotte. I’ll answer it.
Jerry. You needn’t bother.
Cli-n-ng! An impatient ring that.
Charlotte and Jerry [together]. Now, listen here—
They both start for the door. Jerry turns, only trying to argue with her some more, and what does the woman do but slap his face! Then, quick as a flash, she is by him and has opened the door.
What do you think of that? Jerry stands there with an expressionless face. In comes Charlotte’s sister Doris.
Well, now, I’ll tell you about Doris. She’s nineteen, I guess, and pretty. She’s nice and slender and dressed in an astonishingly close burlesque of the current fashions. She’s a member of that portion of the middle-class whose girls are just a little bit too proud to work and just a little bit too needy not to. In this city of perhaps a quarter of a million people she knows a few girls who know a few girls who are “social leaders,” and through this connection considers herself a member of the local aristocracy. In her mind, morals, and manners she is a fairly capable imitation of the current moving-picture girl, with overtones of some of the year’s débutantes whom she sees down-town. Doris knows each débutante’s first name and reputation, and she follows the various affairs of the season as they appear in the society column.
She walks—walks, not runs—haughtily into the room, her head inclined faintly forward, her hips motionless. She speaks always in a bored voice, raising her eyebrows at the important words of each sentence.
Doris. Hello, people.
Jerry [a little stiffly—he’s mad.] Why, hello, Doris.
Doris sits down with a faint glance at her chair, as though suspecting its chastity.
Doris. Well, I’m engaged again.
She says this as though realizing that she is the one contact this couple have with the wider and outer world. She assumes with almost audible condescension that their only objective interest is the fascinating spectacle of her career. And so there is nothing personal in her confidences; it is as though she were reporting dispassionately an affair of great national, or, rather, passional importance. And, indeed, Jerry and Charlotte respond magnificently to her initial remark by saying “Honestly?” in incredulous unison and staring at her with almost bated breath.
Doris [laconically]. Last night.
Charlotte [reproachfully]. Oh, Doris! [flattering her, you see, by accusing her of being utterly incorrigible.]
Doris. I simply couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stand him any longer, and this new fella I’m engaged to now simply had to know—because he was keeping some girl waiting. I just couldn’t stand it. The strain was awful.
Charlotte. Why couldn’t you stand it? What was the trouble?
Doris [coolly]. He drank.
Charlotte, of course, shakes her head in sympathy.
He’d drink anything. Anything he could get his hands on. He used to drink all these mixtures and then come round to see me.
A close observer might notice that at this statement Jerry, thinking of his nefarious bargain with the b-o-o, perceptibly winces.
Charlotte. Oh, that’s too bad. He was such a clean-cut fella.
Doris. Yes, Charlotte, he was clean-cut, but that was all. I couldn’t stand it, honestly I couldn’t. I never saw such a man, Charlotte. He took the platinum sardine. When they go up in your room and steal your six-dollar-an-ounce perfume, a girl’s got to let a man go.
Charlotte. I should say she has. What did he say when you broke it off?
Doris. He couldn’t say anything. He was too pie-eyed. I tied his ring on a string, hung it around his neck and pushed him out the door.
Jerry. Who’s the new one?
Doris. Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t know much about him, but I’ll tell you what I do know from what information I could gather from mutual friends, and so forth. He’s not quite so clean-cut as the first one, but he’s got lots of other good qualities. He comes from the State of Idaho, from a town named Fish.
Jerry. Fish? F-i-s-h?
Doris. I think so. It was named after his uncle ... a Mr. Fish.
Jerry [wittily]. They’re a lot of Fish out there.
Doris [not comprehending]. Well, these Fishes are very nice. They’ve been mayor a couple of times and all that sort of thing, if you know what I mean. His father’s in business up there now.
Jerry. What business?
Doris. He’s in the funereal-parlor business.
Jerry [indelicately]. Oh, undertaker.
Doris. [She’s sensitive to the word.] Well, not exactly, but something like that. A funereal parlor is a sort of—oh, a sort of a good undertaking place, if you know what I mean. [And now confidentially.] As a matter of fact, that’s the part of the thing I don’t like. You see, we may have to live out in Fish, right over his father’s place of business.
Jerry. Why, that’s all right. Think how handy it’ll be if——
Charlotte. Keep still, Jerry!
Jerry. Is he in the same business as his father?
Doris. No. At least not now. He was for a while, but the business wasn’t very good and now he says he’s through with it. His father’s bought him an interest in one of the stores.
Jerry. A Fish store, eh?
The two women look at him harshly.
Charlotte [wriggling her shoulders with enjoyment]. Tell us more about him.
Doris. Well, he’s wonderful looking. And he dresses, well, not loud, you know, but just well. And when anybody speaks to him he goes sort of— [To express what Mr. Fish does when any one speaks to him, Doris turns her profile sharply to the audience, her chin up, her eyes half-closed in an expression of melancholy scorn.]
Charlotte. I know—like Rudolph Valentine.
Doris [witheringly—do you blame her?]. Valentino.
Jerry. What does it mean when he does that?
Doris. I don’t know, just sort of—sort of passion.
Jerry. Passion!
Doris. Emotion sort of. He’s very emotional. That’s one reason I didn’t like the last fella I was engaged to. He wasn’t very emotional. He was sort of an old cow most of the time. I’ve got to have somebody emotional. You remember that place in the Sheik where the fella says: “Must I play valet as well as lover?” That’s the sort of thing I like.
Charlotte [darting a look at Jerry]. I know just what you mean.
Doris. He’s not really as tall as I’d like him to be, but he’s got a wonderful build and a good complexion. I can’t stand anybody without a good complexion—can you? He calls me adorable egg.
Jerry. What does he mean by that?
Doris [airily]. Oh, “egg” is just a name people use nowadays. It’s considered sort of the thing.
Jerry [awed]. Egg?
Charlotte. When do you expect to get married?
Doris. You never can tell!
A pause, during which they all sigh as if pondering. Then Doris, with a tremendous effort at justice, switches the conversation away from herself.
Doris [patronizingly, condescendingly]. How’s everything going with you two? [To Jerry.] Does your father still read the Bible?
Jerry. Well, a lot of the time he just thinks.
Doris. He hasn’t had anything to do for the last twenty years but just think, has he?
Jerry [impressed]. Just think of the things he’s probably thought out.
Doris [blasphemously]. That old dumb-bell?
Charlotte and Jerry are a little shocked.
How’s everything else been going around here?
Jerry. I got analyzed to-day at——
Charlotte [interrupting]. The same as ever.
Jerry. I got anal——
Charlotte [to Jerry]. I wish you’d be polite enough not to interrupt me.
Jerry [pathetically]. I thought you were through.
Charlotte. Well, you’ve driven what I had to say right out of my head. [To Doris.] What do you think he said to-night? He said if he hadn’t married me he’d be President of the United States.
At this Jerry drops his newspaper precipitately, walks in anger to the door, and goes out without speaking.
You see? Just a display of temper. But it doesn’t worry me. [She sighs—the shrew.] I’m used to it.
Doris tactfully makes no reply. After a momentary silence she changes the subject.
Doris. Well, I find I just made an awful mistake.
Charlotte [eagerly]. Not keeping both those men for a while? That’s what I think.
Doris. No. I mean—do you remember those three dresses I had lengthened?
Charlotte [breathlessly]. Yes.
Doris [tragically]. I’ll never be able to wear them.
Charlotte. Why?
Doris. There’s a picture of Mae Murray in the new Motion Picture Magazine ... my dear, half her calf!
Charlotte. Really?
At this point the door leading to the dining-room opens and Jerry comes in. Looking neither to left nor to right, he marches to his lately vacated place, snatches up half his newspaper, and goes out without speaking. The two women bestow on him a careless glance and continue their discussion.
Doris. It was just my luck. I wish I’d hemmed them like I thought of doing, instead of cutting them off. That’s the way it always is. As soon as I get my hair bobbed, Marilyn Miller begins to let hers grow. And look at mine— [She removes her hat.] I can’t do a thing with it. [She replaces her hat.] Been to the Bijou Theatre?
Charlotte. No, what’s there?
Again Jerry comes in, almost unbearably self-conscious now. The poor man has taken the wrong part of the paper. Silently, with a strained look, he makes the exchange under the intense supervision of four eyes, and starts back to his haven in the dining-room. Then he jumps as Doris speaks to him.
Doris. Say!
Jerry [morosely dignified]. What?
Doris [with real interest]. What makes you think you could be President?
Jerry [to Charlotte]. That’s right. Make a fool of me in front of all your relations! [In his excitement he bangs down his paper upon a chair.]
Charlotte. I haven’t said one word—not one single solitary word—have I, Doris?