CHAPTER VII.
LETTERS AND SCIENCE.
May 29.
I've revised my opinion of the newspapers. The Star has done me a goodturn, a great service.
I had tried to borrow money of Cadge, for the third time, and she toldme she had none--which was true, or she would have let me have it. Thenshe said:--
"Why don't you sell a story to some paper--either something veryscientific, or else, 'Who's the Handsomest Man in New York?' or--"
"I think I ought to get something from them, after all the stuffthey've printed; but how? To whom do I go?"
"Nobody! Heavens!" cried Cadge. "Want to create an earthquake on ParkRow? You're a disturber of traffic. Let me manage. I know the ropes andit helps me at the office to bring in hot features. They might give youfifty for it, too."
And I actually did get $50 for digging out of the text books an essayon Rats as Disseminators of Bubonic Plague; they only used a little ofit, but the pictures and the signature and the nonsense about me as ascientist were the real thing, Cadge said.
The money, the money, the money was the real thing to me! It has givenme a breathing spell--. that and the hundred for signing a patentmedicine testimonial; but I had to sacrifice more than half I got fromboth sources to pacify greedy creditors. And a month betweenremittances, and so little when they come! Father _can't_ refuse tomortgage; why doesn't he write to me?
The day I took the article to Cadge I had a long talk with her and withPros. Reid, who spends at the eyrie every hour he can spare. One musthave some society or go crazy, though perhaps they aren't exactly whatI'd choose if my kingdom had opened to me.
Pros. has shrewd eyes that inspire confidence--gray eyes with the tirednight work look in them. He talks amazing slang at times, at others notat all; and I wish every one might be as kind and thoughtful.
I could think of nothing all the evening but my bills, and at last Iwas moved to ask him abruptly:--
"What can a girl do to get money, Pros.?"
"'Pends on the girl."
"This girl; a somewhat educated person; and grasping. One who wantsmuch money and wants it right now."
"Princesses don't earn money; they have it."
"Suppose the Princess were enchanted--or--or something? Oh, you may notthink me serious, but I really don't know what I shall do, if my shipdoesn't come in pretty soon."
He looked quizzically at me; he thinks I plead poverty as a joke; Cadgewould never tell him how I have tried to borrow.
"'Twould be a hard case, supposing it possible," he said, "because youwould want a good deal of money, and because you'd be a bother to have'round--too beautiful. You couldn't sell many newspaper stories,because you'd soon cease to be a novelty as a special, and would get apress ticket to City Hall Park. Reporting's another coloured horsealtogether--poor pay, and takes training to get it. Beauty's adisadvantage even there; too much beauty. Tell you what you could do,though, if ever you _should_ want to earn money--go on the stage."
"Girl I knew," said Cadge, "made a pot of money going round to summerresorts, giving women lessons, energizing and decomposing; kind ofDelsarte; said it made her 'most die--to see 'em rolling on the floorlike elephants, trying to get lean, and eating 'emselves fat four timesa day, with caramels between--and not be able to laugh. Might try theBarnard girls. It can't be sure beauty to be up there; I've seen someof 'em. Say now; that's not so bad--'How to be Helen; in TwentyLessons.' Or say, Princess; answer the great question: 'Does Soap Hurtthe Skin?'"
She grinned. Cadge fancies, I suppose, that by any mail I may get a bigcheck from home.
"You display almost human intelligence," said Pros, admiringly;"stage's better, though."
"But, Mr. Reid, that's too public."
"Inherited instinct; no more public than--than being a beauty." Hegazed at me with mild audacity,--"Money getting's prosaic, off thestage. Most girls who want cash become tiddlety-wink typewriters ateight per; bargain price; fully worth four. Now that isn't your class;if $8 a week would satisfy you, which it wouldn't, do you supposethere's an office in town that'd have you? Men won't subject theirclerks to the white light of beauty; wives won't stand for it, either.There are places where no girl can get work unless she'spulchritudinous. Catch the idea? A pretty London barmaid can't drawmore beer than an ugly one, but draws more custom. What's a Princess todo with such jobs? You'd be like the man who wouldn't be fool enough tomarry any woman who'd be fool enough to have him--in getting work, Imean. This is the other side of all that rot about Woman's Century andWoman's Widening Sphere. Never go into an office, Miss Winship; my wifewon't, when we're married."
"'Cause she'll be in one already," interrupted Cadge; "why, if I had tomope 'round all day in a flat, I'd be driven to drink--club tea.Imagine it; Cadge Bryant a clubwoman!"
"Clubwomaning is exciting enough, election time."
"But men get money," I persisted. "Isn't there anything a girl can do?"
"I've a sister," said Reid, "--other sister out in Cincinnati--whowants a profession; law's the one I'm recommending. It's so harmless.Course she'll never have any practice; she won't get out and hustlewith the greasy Yahoudis who run the bar now-a-days. No, so long as mysister has the career fever, I say law, every time. Cadge, why don'tyou study law?"
"The dear boy does so enjoy talking nonsense," Cadge explainedindulgently.
"In ordinary business," Reid went on, "pretty women are only employedas lures for men. Swell milliners have 'em to overawe with their greatgrieving eyes the Hubbies who're inclined to kick at market rates forbonnets. Now there's dry goods, chief theme of half the race. You'dthink there'd be a show there for a pretty girl; well, there ain't.It's retail trade; one girl can sell about as many papers of pins in aday as another."
"Some pretty cloak and suit models get big wages," said Cadge.
"Yes, in the jobbing houses. That's wholesale trade, and every dickercounts. Have to corset themselves to death, though."
"It's a fact," Cadge put in. "Many's the filler I've written about it.Girl has to destroy her beauty to get a living by her beauty."
"Sure! Fashions not made to fit women, but women to fit fashions. Thenthose girls have an awful time, if they're careful about theirassociates. Why, it's getting so a model is expected to sell goodsherself--held responsible if she doesn't. No sale, no job next week.See the situation," Pros. added, "--on the one hand the buyer, a vainman away from home, with thousands to invest; on the other a girl whomust get that money for her firm. Well, of course it's not so bad asthat, but----"
"But _I_ wouldn't corset myself Redfern shape and go into such horridplaces for the world," I cried.
No more than Judge Baker, or Father, or any one else, could Reid see mysituation. What do I care about earning $8 a week--or $80? I must havea great deal of money, at once; to pay my debts and to live upon. Menget money quickly--in Wall Street or by inventions or----
"Course not," said Pros. "You're the Princess; and Princesses may beHonorary Presidents and ask questions and take an interest, but theydon't do things."
"Pros. is right about the stage," said Cadge; "that's the best sort ofwholesale business. You sell a chance to look at you to fifteen hundredpeople at once; and folks can't paw you over to see how your clothesfit, either. I'd like it myself, but I'm too--well, after all, I mightdo; I'm at least picturesquely ugly."
And so the antiphony of discouragement ended in a laugh.
I wonder--women on the stage do get big sums, and they often graduatefrom it to society. If even a music hall singer can become a duchess----
Bellmer's father made his money in sugar, they say. If I had it, Icould storm any position. I suppose Mrs. Terry has shooed him off onthat automobile tour I heard about; but he must come back--and so mustStrathay.
I can't wait long, I'm not safe an hour from human vultures hungry formoney, though I've none to yield them.
I must do something. No sooner had Mrs. Whitney vanished from the flatin a whirlwind of tears and reproaches than in cam
e the furniture man,as if he had been watching the house, to threaten that, unless I pay atonce, he will take away everything. He was not rude in words, but oh,so different from the oily people who sold me the things. His ferreteyes searched the apartment; he seemed counting every article.
"The furniture's safe," I said; "it won't walk away."
"Of course it's safe," he answered with a suspicion of a sneer; "butwhen'll it be paid for?"
"I don't know; go away!" I said. "I've written to my father."
The fellow looked at me with open admiration.
"Better 'tend to this thing; better write again to--your father," hesaid and walked off, leaving me cold and tremulous with rage.
I must have imagined the pause, the inflection; but he has me undersurveillance. Like a thief!
I flew to the dining-room and swallowed a glass of sherry, for I wasfaint and quivering; but before I had turned from the sideboard Cadgebounced into the room, tearing through the flat to find me, and stoppedto stare, open-eyed.
"Drop that!" she cried.
"Oh, don't preach! I've just been having such a time!"
"Everybody has 'em; I've had fifty a year for fifty years. And I don'tmind your drowning sorrow in the flowing bowl, either. But do it like aman, in company. Honest now, Helen."
She changed the subject abruptly to the errand that had brought her;but, before she went away, she looked curiously at the sideboard andsaid:----
"Helen, you really don't----"
"Mercy, no! Scarcely at table, even. Why I used to be shocked to seehow things to drink are thrust upon women, even in department stores.But they're not all deadly; there's 'creme de menthe' now--the pep'mintextract Ma used to give me for stomach-ache."
Cadge laughed with me, but she turned quickly grave again.
"Mind what I tell you, Princess," she said, "and never, never drinkeven 'pep'mint extract' in the house like that, alone; if you do, I seeyour finish; reporters learn a thing or two."
She's right--for ordinary women. But I told her the truth; I don't carefor wine. I've seen girls flushed at dinner, but I know too much ofphysiology, and I care too much for my beauty.
Still, in emergencies----
Emergencies--oh! I could have named to her the very day I first tastedwine. It was here in the Nicaragua, the day Darmstetter----
Well, well,--I mustn't think about that. I can't understand why I don'thear from Father. Impossible to make him see how different are mypresent tastes and pressing needs from those I brought from home. Ihope he won't delay long about the money.
My position is becoming intolerable. I owe the butcher, grocer,furniture dealer, photographer--and the milliner is the worst of all.The money I got from the _Star_ is filched from me by people who needit far less than I. Why, I even owe money to the maids, and I can'tdischarge either of them, because I'd have to pay her. But they mustsomehow be sent away.
I wonder if Father couldn't sell the farm. That would bring more than amortgage; but it might take months, and even then I need in a singleyear more than all he has in the world.
Will any woman who reads the story of my life--the real story whichsometime I shall write, leaving out the paltry details which now harassme--will any woman believe that the most beautiful woman in the worldin the wonderful year, of the finding of the Bacillus actually thoughtof tramping the streets, looking for work, like a story heroine seekingher fortune? I shall have to do something--anything!
But I can't work; I'm not calm enough, and it would ruin my beauty.
The luck must change!
Sometimes I see more clearly than the sordidness of this horribleexistence, a big palace with a terraced front and a mile long drivestraight to the park gate, past great trees and turf that is alwaysgreen; and long rows of stately ladies looking down on me from theirframes on the lofty wall beside soldiers that have stood silent guardthere three hundred years. I can see a beautiful woman courtesying to aQueen and all the world reading it in the morning paper; and a big townhouse with myriad lights blinking through the fog outside, whereshivering wretches watch the carriages drive up to my door. Fortwenty--no thirty years--I might be the one inimitable and whollyadorable being, clothed with rare garments, blazing with jewels,confidant of statesmen, maker of the men who make history. History! Ishould _be_ history!
I could do it all myself--I have never had a chance, never yet theglimmer of a chance, but I could do anything, conquer anything, achieveanything!
It is so little that I ask--the money to live upon, and a chance, onlythe chance--it is maddening to be denied that!--and fair play to livemy life and carry out my destiny.
There was a time when I wanted less, expected less; like Cadge withqueer, devoted Pros. or Kitty Reid, her hair blowing about her face,happy with her daubs, messing about in the studio. Was I happier when Iwas like that? I would not go back to it! I would not barter my beautyfor any other gift on earth. I shall fight and fight to the last ditch.I don't propose to be a pawn on the chess-board.
If it comes to that, I shall know what to do!