One Of The Old Girls
All of those ladies who end their conversation with you by wearily
suggesting that you go down to the basement to find what you seek,
do not receive a meager seven dollars a week as a reward for their
efforts. Neither are they all obliged to climb five weary flights
of stairs to reach the dismal little court room which is their
home, and there are several who need not walk thirty-three blocks
to save carfare, only to spend wretched evenings washing out
handkerchiefs and stockings in the cracked little washbowl, while
one ear is cocked for the stealthy tread of the Lady Who Objects.
The earnest compiler of working girls' budgets would pass
Effie Bauer hurriedly by. Effie's budget bulged here and there
with such pathetic items as hand-embroidered blouses, thick club
steaks, and parquet tickets for Maude Adams. That you may
visualize her at once I may say that Effie looked twenty-four--from
the rear (all women do in these days of girlish simplicity in hats
and tailor-mades); her skirts never sagged, her shirtwaists were
marvels of plainness and fit, and her switch had cost her sixteen
dollars, wholesale (a lady friend in the business). Oh, there was
nothing tragic about Effie. She had a plump, assured style, a keen
blue eye, a gift of repartee, and a way of doing her hair so that
the gray at the sides scarcely showed at all. Also a knowledge of
corsets that had placed her at the buying end of that important
department at Spiegel's. Effie knew to the minute when coral beads
went out and pearl beads came in, and just by looking at her
blouses you could tell when Cluny died and Irish was born. Meeting
Effie on the street, you would have put her down as one of the many
well-dressed, prosperous-looking women shoppers--if you hadn't
looked at her feet. Veteran clerks and policemen cannot disguise
their feet.
Effie Bauer's reason for not marrying when a girl was the same
as that of most of the capable, wise-eyed, good-looking women one
finds at the head of departments. She had not had a chance. If
Effie had been as attractive at twenty as she was at--there, we
won't betray confidences. Still, it is certain that if Effie had
been as attractive when a young girl as she was when an old girl,
she never would have been an old girl and head of Spiegel's corset
department at a salary of something very comfortably over one
hundred and twenty-five a month (and commissions). Effie had
improved with the years, and ripened with experience. She knew her
value. At twenty she had been pale, anaemic and bony, with a
startled-faun manner and bad teeth. Years of saleswomanship had
broadened her, mentally and physically, until she possessed a wide
and varied knowledge of that great and diversified subject known as
human nature. She knew human nature all the way from the fifty-
nine-cent girdles to the twenty-five-dollar made-to-orders. And if
the years had brought, among other things, a certain hardness about
the jaw and a line or two at the corners of the eyes, it was not
surprising. You can't rub up against the sharp edges of this world
and expect to come out without a scratch or so.
So much for Effie. Enter the hero. Webster defines a hero in
romance as the person who has the principal share in the
transactions related. He says nothing which would debar a
gentleman just because he may be a trifle bald and in the habit of
combing his hair over the thin spot, and he raises no objections to
a matter of thickness and color in the region of the back of the
neck. Therefore Gabe I. Marks qualifies. Gabe was the gentleman
about whom Effie permitted herself to be guyed. He came to Chicago
on business four times a year, and he always took Effie to the
theater, and to supper afterward. On those occasions, Effie's
gown, wrap and hat were as correct in texture, lines, and paradise
aigrettes as those of any of her non-working sisters about her. On
the morning following these excursions into Lobsterdom, Effie would
confide to her friend, Miss Weinstein, of the lingeries and
neligees:
"l was out with my friend, Mr. Marks, last evening. We went
to Rector's after the show. Oh, well, it takes a New Yorker to
know how. Honestly, I feel like a queen when I go out with him.
H'm? Oh, nothing like that, girlie. I never could see that
marriage thing. Just good friends."
Gabe had been coming to Chicago four times a year for six
years. Six times four are twenty-four. And one is twenty-five.
Gabe's last visit made the twenty-fifth.
"Well, Effie," Gabe said when the evening's entertainment had
reached the restaurant stage, "this is our twenty-fifth
anniversary. It's our silver wedding, without the silver and the
wedding. We'll have a bottle of champagne. That makes it almost
legal. And then suppose we finish up by having the wedding. The
silver can be omitted."
Effie had been humming with the orchestra, holding a lobster
claw in one hand and wielding the little two-pronged fork with the
other. She dropped claw, fork, and popular air to stare
open-mouthed at Gabe. Then a slow, uncertain smile crept about her
lips, although her eyes were still unsmiling.
"Stop your joking, Gabie," she said. "Some day you'll say
those things to the wrong lady, and then you'll have a
breach-of-promise suit on your hands."
"This ain't no joke, Effie," Gabe had replied. "Not with me it
ain't. As long as my mother selig lived I wouldn't ever marry a
Goy. It would have broken her heart. I was a good son to her, and
good sons make good husbands, they say. Well, Effie, you want to
try it out?"
There was something almost solemn in Effie's tone and
expression. "Gabie," she said slowly, "you're the first man that's
ever asked me to marry him."
"That goes double," answered Gabe.
"Thanks," said Effie. "That makes it all the nicer."
"Then---- Gabe's face was radiant. But Effie shook her head
quickly.
"You're just twenty years late," she said.
"Late!" expostulated Gabe. "I ain't no dead one yet."
Effie pushed her plate away with a little air of decision,
folded her plump arms on the table, and, leaning forward, looked
Gabe I. Marks squarely in the eyes.
"Gabie," she said gently, "I'll bet you haven't got a hundred
dollars in the bank----"
"But----" interrupted Gabe.
"Wait a minute. I know you boys on the road. Besides your
diamond scarf pin and your ring and watch, have you got a cent over
your salary? Nix. You carry just about enough insurance to bury
you, don't you? You're fifty years old if you're a minute, Gabie,
and if I ain't mistaken you'd have a pretty hard time of it getting
ten thousand dollars' insurance after the doctors got through with
you. Twenty-five years of pinochle and poker and the fat of the
land haven't added up any bumps in the old stocking under the
mattress."
"Say, looka here," objected Gabe, more red-faced than usual,
"I didn't know was proposing to no Senatorial investigating
committee. Say, you talk about them foreign noblemen being
mercenary! Why, they ain't in it with you girls to-day. A feller
is got to propose to you with his bank book in one hand and a bunch
of life-insurance policies in the other. You're right; I ain't
saved much. But Ma selig always had everything she wanted. Say,
when a man marries it's different. He begins to save."
"There!" said Effie quickly. "That's just it. Twenty years
ago I'd have been glad and willing to start like that, saving and
scrimping and loving a man, and looking forward to the time when
four figures showed up in the bank account where but three bloomed
before. I've got what they call the home instinct. Give me a yard
or so of cretonne, and a photo of my married sister down in Iowa,
and I can make even a boarding-house inside bedroom look like a
place where a human being could live. If I had been as wise at
twenty as I am now, Gabie, I could have married any man I pleased.
But I was what they call capable. And men aren't marrying capable
girls. They pick little yellow-headed, blue-eyed idiots that don't
know a lamb stew from a soup bone when they see it. Well, Mr. Man
didn't show up, and I started in to clerk at six per. I'm earning
as much as you are now. More. Now, don't misunderstand me, Gabe.
I'm not throwing bouquets at myself. I'm not that kind of a girl.
But I could sell a style 743 Slimshape to the Venus de Milo
herself. The Lord knows she needed one, with those hips of hers.
I worked my way up, alone. I'm used to it. I like the excitement
down at the store. I'm used to luxuries. I guess if I was a man
I'd be the kind thy call a good provider--the kind that opens wine
every time there's half an excuse for it, and when he dies his
widow has to take in boarders. And, Gabe, after you've worn tai-
lored suits every year for a dozen years, you can't go back to
twenty-five-dollar ready-mades and be happy."
"You could if you loved a man," said Gabe stubbornly.
The hard lines around the jaw and the experienced lines about
the eyes seemed suddenly to stand out on Effie's face.
"Love's young dream is all right. But you've reached the age
when you let your cigar ash dribble down onto your vest. Now me,
I've got a kimono nature but a straight-front job, and it's kept me
young. Young! I've got to be. That's my stock in trade. You
see, Gabie, we're just twenty years late, both of us. They're not
going to boost your salary. These days they're looking for kids on
the road--live wires, with a lot of nerve and a quick come-back.
They don't want old-timers. Why, say, Gabie, if I was to tell you
what I spend in face powder and toilette water and hairpins alone,
you'd think I'd made a mistake and given you the butcher bill
instead. And I'm no professional beauty, either. Only it takes
money to look cleaned and pressed in this town."
In the seclusion of the cafe corner, Gabe laid one plump,
highly manicured hand on Effie's smooth arm. "You wouldn't need to
stay young for me, Effie. I like you just as you are, with
out the powder, or the toilette water, or the hair-pins."
His red, good-natured face had an expression upon it that was
touchingly near patient resignation as he looked up into Effie's
sparkling countenance. "You never looked so good to me as you do
this minute, old girl. And if the day comes when you get
lonesome--or change your mind--or----"
Effie shook her head, and started to draw on her long white
gloves. "I guess I haven't refused you the way the dames in the
novels do it. Maybe it's because I've had so little practice. But
I want to say this, Gabe. Thank God I don't have to die knowing
that no man ever wanted me to be his wife. Honestly, I'm that
grateful that I'd marry you in a minute if I didn't like you so
well."
"I'll be back in three months, like always," was all that Gabe
said. "I ain't going to write. When I get here we'll just take in
a show, and the younger you look the better I'll like it."
But on the occasion of Gabe's spring trip he encountered a
statuesque blonde person where Effie had been wont to reign.
"Miss--er Bauer out of town?"
The statue melted a trifle in the sunshine of Gabe's
ingratiating smile.
"Miss Bauer's ill," the statue informed him, using a heavy
Eastern accent. "Anything I can do for you? I'm taking her
place."
"Why--ah--not exactly; no," said Gabe. "Just a temporary
indisposition, I suppose?"
"Well, you wouldn't hardly call it that, seeing that she's
been sick with typhoid for seven weeks."
"Typhoid!" shouted Gabe.
"While I'm not in the habit of asking gentlemen their names,
I'd like to inquire if yours happens to be Marks--Gabe I. Marks?"
"Sure," said Gabe. "That's me."
"Miss Bauer's nurse telephones down last week that if a
gentleman named Marks--Gabe I. Marks--drops in and inquires for
Miss Bauer, I'm to tell him that she's changed her mind."
On the way from Spiegel's corset department to the car, Gabe
stopped only for a bunch of violets. Effie's apartment house
reached, he sent up his card, the violets, and a message that the
gentleman was waiting. There came back a reply that sent Gabie up
before the violets were relieved of their first layer of tissue
paper.
Effie was sitting in a deep chair by the window, a flowered
quilt bunched about her shoulders, her feet in gray knitted bedroom
slippers. She looked every minute of her age, and she knew it, and
didn't care. The hand that she held out to Gabe was a limp, white,
fleshless thing that seemed to bear no relation to the plump, firm
member that Gabe had pressed on so many previous occasions.
Gabe stared at this pale wraith in a moment of alarm and
dismay. Then:
"You're looking--great!" he stammered. "Great! Nobody'd
believe you'd been sick a minute. Guess you've just been stalling
for a beauty rest, what?"
Effie smiled a tired little smile, and shook her head slowly.
"You're a good kid, Gabie, to lie like that just to make me
feel good. But my nurse left yesterday and I had my first real
squint at myself in the mirror. She wouldn't let me look while she
was here. After what I saw staring back at me from that glass a
whole ballroom full of French courtiers whispering sweet nothings
in my ear couldn't make me believe that I look like anything but a
hunk of Roquefort, green spots included. When I think of how my
clothes won't fit it makes me shiver."
"Oh, you'll soon be back at the store as good as new. They
fatten up something wonderful after typhoid. Why, I had a
friend----"
"Did you get my message?" interrupted Effie.
"I was only talking to hide my nervousness," said Gabe, and
started forward. But Effie waved him away.
"Sit down," she said. "I've got something to say." She
looked thoughtfully down at one shining finger nail. Her lower lip
was caught between her teeth. When she looked up again her eyes
were swimming in tears. Gabe started forward again. Again Effie
waved him away.
"It's all right, Gabie. I don't blubber as a rule. This
fever leaves you as weak as a rag, and ready to cry if any one says
`Boo!' I've been doing some high-pressure thinking since nursie
left. Had plenty of time to do it in, sitting here by this window
all day. My land! I never knew there was so much time. There's
been days when I haven't talked to a soul, except the nurse and the
chambermaid. Lonesome! Say, the amount of petting I could stand
would surprise you. Of course, my nurse was a perfectly good
nurse--at twenty-five per. But I was just a case to her. You
can't expect a nurse to ooze sympathy over an old maid with the
fever. I tell you I was dying to have some one say `Sh-sh-sh!'
when there was a noise, just to show they were interested.
Whenever I'd moan the nurse would come over and stick a thermometer
in my mouth and write something down on a chart. The boys and
girls at the store sent flowers. They'd have done the same if I'd
died. When the fever broke I just used to lie there and dream, not
feeling anything in particular, and not caring much whether it was
day or night. Know what I mean?"
Gabie shook a sympathetic head.
There was a little silence. Then Effie went on. "I used to
think I was pretty smart, earning my own good living, dressing as
well as the next one, and able to spend my vacation in Atlantic
City if I wanted to. I didn't know I was missing anything. But
while I was sick I got to wishing that there was somebody that
belonged to me. Somebody to worry about me, and to sit up
nights--somebody that just naturally felt they had to come
tiptoeing into my room every three or four minutes to see if I was
sleeping, or had enough covers on, or wanted a drink, or something.
I got to thinking what it would have been like if I had a husband
and a--home. You'll think I'm daffy, maybe."
Gabie took Effie's limp white hand in his, and stroked it
gently. Effie's face was turned away from him, toward the noisy
street.
"I used to imagine how he'd come home at six, stamping his
feet, maybe, and making a lot of noise the way men do. And then
he'd remember, and come creaking up the steps, and he'd stick his
head in at the door in the funny, awkward, pathetic way men have in
a sick room. And he'd say, `How's the old girl to-night? I'd
better not come near you now, puss, because I'll bring the cold
with me. Been lonesome for your old man?'
"And I'd say, `Oh, I don't care how cold you are, dear. The
nurse is downstairs, getting my supper ready.'
"And then he'd come tiptoeing over to my bed, and stoop down,
and kiss me, and his face would be all cold, and rough, and his
mustache would be wet, and he'd smell out-doorsy and smoky, the way
husbands do when they come in. And I'd reach up and pat his cheek
and say, `You need a shave, old man.'
"`I know it,' he'd say, rubbing his cheek up against mine.
"`Hurry up and wash, now. Supper'll be ready.'
"`Where are the kids?' he'd ask. `The house is as quiet as
the grave. Hurry up and get well, kid. It's darn lonesome without
you at the table, and the children's manners are getting something
awful, and I never can find my shirts. Lordy, I guess we won't
celebrate when you get up! Can't you eat a little something
nourishing for supper--beefsteak, or a good plate of soup, or
something?'
"Men are like that, you know. So I'd say then: `Run along,
you old goose! You'll be suggesting sauerkraut and wieners next.
Don't you let Millie have any marmalade to-night. She's got a
spoiled stomach.'
"And then he'd pound off down the hall to wash up, and I'd
shut my eyes, and smile to myself, and everything would be all
right, because he was home."
There was a long silence. Effie's eyes were closed. But two
great tears stole out from beneath each lid and coursed their slow
way down her thin cheeks. She did not raise her hand to wipe them
away.
Gabie's other hand reached over and met the one that already
clasped Effie's.
"Effie," he said, in a voice that was as hoarse as it was
gentle.
"H'm?" said Effie.
"Will you marry me?"
"I shouldn't wonder," replied Effie, opening her eyes. "No,
don't kiss me. You might catch something. But say, reach up and
smooth my hair away from my forehead, will you, and call me a
couple of fool names. I don't care how clumsy you are about it.
I could stand an awful fuss being made over me, without being
spoiled any."
Three weeks later Effie was back at the store. Her skirt
didn't fit in the back, and the little hollow places in her cheeks
did not take the customary dash of rouge as well as when they had
been plumper. She held a little impromptu reception that extended
down as far as the lingeries and up as far as the rugs. The old
sparkle came back to Effie's eye. The old assurance and vigor
seemed to return. By the time that Miss Weinstein, of the French
lingeries, arrived, breathless, to greet her Effie was herself
again.
"Well, if you're not a sight for sore eyes, dearie," exclaimed
Miss Weinstein. "My goodness, how grand and thin you are! I'd be
willing to take a course in typhoid myself, if I thought I could
lose twenty-five pounds."
"I haven't a rag that fits me," Effie announced proudly.
Miss Weinstein lowered her voice discreetly. "Dearie, can you
come down to my department for a minute? We're going to have a
sale on imported lawnjerie blouses, slightly soiled, from nine to
eleven to-morrow. There's one you positively must see.
Hand-embroidered, Irish motifs, and eyeleted from soup to nuts, and
only eight-fifty."
"I've got a fine chance of buying hand-made waists, no matter
how slightly soiled," Effie made answer, "with a doctor and nurse's
bill as long as your arm."
"Oh, run along!" scoffed Miss Weinstein. "A person would
think you had a husband to get a grouch every time you get reckless
to the extent of a new waist. You're your own boss. And you know
your credit's good. Honestly, it would be a shame to let this
chance slip. You're not getting tight in your old age, are you?"
"N-no," faltered Effie, "but----"
"Then come on," urged Miss Weinstein energetically. "And be
thankful you haven't got a man to raise the dickens when the bill
comes in."
"Do you mean that?" asked Effie slowly, fixing Miss Weinstein
with a thoughtful eye.
"Surest thing you know. Say, girlie, let's go over to Klein's
for lunch this noon. They have pot roast with potato pfannkuchen
on Tuesdays, and we can split an order between us."
"Hold that waist till to-morrow, will you?" said Effie. "I've
made an arrangement with a--friend that might make new clothes
impossible just now. But I'm going to wire my party that the
arrangement is all off. I've changed my mind. I ought to get an
answer to-morrow. Did you say it was a thirty-six?"
-THE END-
Edna Ferber's short story: One Of The Old Girls
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