Two days later he was with Gloria in New York.
Another Winter.
Late one February afternoon Anthony came into the apartment and groping through the little hall, pitch-dark in the winter dusk, found Gloria sitting by the window. She turned as he came in.
“What did Mr Haight have to say?” she asked listlessly.
“Nothing,” he answered, “usual thing. Next month, perhaps.”
She looked at him closely; her ear attuned to his voice caught the slightest thickness in the dissyllable.
“You’ve been drinking,” she remarked dispassionately.
“Couple glasses.”
“Oh.”
He yawned in the armchair and there was a moment’s silence between them. Then she demanded suddenly:
“Did you go to Mr Haight? Tell me the truth.”
“No.” He smiled weakly. “As a matter of fact I didn’t have time.”
“I thought you didn’t go… He sent for you.”
“I don’t give a damn. I’m sick of waiting around his office. You’d think he was doing me a favour.” He glanced at Gloria as though expecting moral support, but she had turned back to her contemplation of the dubious and unprepossessing out-of-doors.
“I feel rather weary of life today,” he offered tentatively. Still she was silent. “I met a fellow and we talked in the Biltmore bar.”
The dusk had suddenly deepened but neither of them made any move to turn on the lights. Lost in heaven knew what contemplation, they sat there until a flurry of snow drew a languid sigh from Gloria.
“What’ve you been doing?” he asked, finding the silence oppressive.
“Reading a magazine—all full of idiotic articles by prosperous authors about how terrible it is for poor people to buy silk shirts. And while I was reading it I could think of nothing except how I wanted a grey squirrel coat—and how we can’t afford one.”
“Yes, we can.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes! If you want a fur coat you can have one.”
Her voice coming through the dark held an implication of scorn.
“You mean we can sell another bond?”
“If necessary. I don’t want you to go without things. We have spent a lot, though, since I’ve been back.”
“Oh, shut up!” she said in irritation.
“Why!”
“Because I’m sick and tired of hearing you talk about what we’ve spent or what we’ve done. You came back two months ago and we’ve been on some sort of a party practically every night since. We’ve both wanted to go out, and we’ve gone. Well, you haven’t heard me complain, have you? But all you do is whine, whine. I don’t care any more what we do or what becomes of us and at least I’m consistent. But I will not tolerate your complaining and calamity-howling—”
“You’re not very pleasant yourself sometimes, you know.”
“I’m under no obligations to be. You’re not making any attempt to make things different.”
“But I am—”
“Huh! Seems to me I’ve heard that before. This morning you weren’t going to touch another thing to drink until you’d gotten a position. And you didn’t even have the spunk to go to Mr Haight when he sent for you about the suit.”
Anthony got to his feet and switched on the lights.
“See here!” he cried, blinking, “I’m getting sick of that sharp tongue of yours.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Do you think I’m particularly happy?” he continued, ignoring her question. “Do you think I don’t know we’re not living as we ought to?”
In an instant Gloria stood trembling beside him.
“I won’t stand it!” she burst out. “I won’t be lectured to. You and your suffering! You’re just a pitiful weakling and you always have been!”
They faced one another idiotically, each of them unable to impress the other, each of them tremendously, achingly, bored. Then she went into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.
His return had brought into the foreground all their prebellum exasperations. Prices had risen alarmingly and in perverse ratio their income had shrunk to a little over half of its original size. There had been the large retainer’s fee to Mr Haight; there were stocks bought at one hundred, now down to thirty and forty and other investments that were not paying at all. During the previous spring Gloria had been given the alternative of leaving the apartment or of signing a year’s lease at two hundred and twenty-five a month. She had signed it. Inevitably as the necessity for economy had increased they found themselves as a pair quite unable to save. The old policy of prevarication was resorted to. Weary of their incapabilities they chattered of what they would do—oh—tomorrow, of how they would “stop going on parties” and of how Anthony would go to work. But when dark came down Gloria, accustomed to an engagement every night, would feel the ancient restlessness creeping over her. She would stand in the doorway of the bedroom, chewing furiously at her fingers and sometimes meeting Anthony’s eyes as he glanced up from his book. Then the telephone, and her nerves would relax, she would answer it with ill-concealed eagerness. Some one was coming up “for just a few minutes”—and oh, the weariness of pretence, the appearance of the wine-table, the revival of their jaded spirits—and the awakening, like the mid-point of a sleepless night in which they moved.
As the winter passed with the march of the returning troops along Fifth Avenue they became more and more aware that since Anthony’s return their relations had entirely changed. After that reflowering of tenderness and passion each of them had returned into some solitary dream unshared by the other and what endearments passed between them passed, it seemed, from empty heart to empty heart, echoing hollowly the departure of what they knew at last was gone.
Anthony had again made the rounds of the metropolitan newspapers and had again been refused encouragement by a motley of office boys, telephone girls, and city editors. The word was: “We’re keeping any vacancies open for our own men who are still in France.” Then, late in March, his eye fell on an advertisement in the morning paper and in consequence he found at last the semblance of an occuppation.
YOU CAN SELL!!!
Why not earn while you learn
Our salesmen make $ 50—$200 weekly
There followed an address on Madison Avenue, and instructions to appear at one o’clock that afternoon. Gloria, glancing over his shoulder after one of their usual late breakfasts, saw him regarding it idly.
“Why don’t you try it?” she suggested.
“Oh—it’s one of these crazy schemes.”
“It might not be. At least it’d be experience.”
At her urging he went at one o’clock to the appointed address, where he found himself one of a dense miscellany of men waiting in front of the door. They ranged from a messenger-boy evidently misusing his company’s time to an immemorial individual with a gnarled body and a gnarled cane. Some of the men were seedy, with sunken cheeks and puffy pink eyes—others were young, possibly still in high school. After a jostled fifteen minutes during which they all eyed one another with apathetic suspicion there appeared a smart young shepherd clad in a “waist-line” suit and wearing the manner of an assistant rector who herded them upstairs into a large room, which resembled a schoolroom and contained innumerable desks. Here the prospective salesmen sat down—and again waited. After an interval a platform at the end of the hall was clouded with half a dozen sober but sprightly men who, with one exception, took seats in a semicircle facing the audience.
The exception was the man who seemed the soberest, the most sprightly and the youngest of the lot, and who advanced to the front of the platform. The audience scrutinized him hopefully. He was rather small and rather pretty, with the commercial rather than the Thespian sort of prettiness. He had straight blond bushy brows and eyes that were almost preposterously honest, and as he reached the edge of his rostrum he seemed to throw these eyes out into the audience, simultaneously extending his arm with two fingers outstretched. Then while he rocked himself to a state of balance an expectant silence settled over the hall. With perfect assurance the young man had taken his listeners in hand and his words when they came were steady and confident and of the school of “straight from the shoulder”.
“Men!”—he began, and paused. The word died with a prolonged echo at the end of the hall, the faces regarding him, hopefully, cynically, wearily, were alike arrested, engrossed. Six hundred eyes were turned slightly upward. With an even graceless flow that reminded Anthony of the rolling of bowling-balls he launched himself into the sea of exposition.
“This bright and sunny morning you picked up your favourite newspaper and you found an advertisement which made the plain, unadorned statement that you could sell. That was all it said—it didn’t say ‘what’, it didn’t say ‘how’, it didn’t say ‘why’. It just made one single solitary assertion that you and you and you‘—business of pointing—’could sell. Now my job isn’t to make a success of you, because every man is born a success, he makes himself a failure; it’s not to teach you how to talk, because each man is a natural orator and only makes himself a clam; my business is to tell you one thing in a way that will make you know it—it’s to tell you that you and you and you have the heritage of money and prosperity waiting for you to come and claim it.”
At this point an Irishman of saturnine appearance rose from his desk near the rear of the hall and went out.
“That man thinks he’ll go look for it in the beer parlour around the corner (laughter). He won’t find it there. Once upon a time I looked for it there myself (laughter), but that was before I did what every one of you men no matter how young or how old, how poor or how rich (a faint ripple of satirical laughter), can do. It was before I found—myself!
“Now I wonder if any of you men know what a “Heart Talk” is. A “Heart Talk” is a little book in which I started about five years ago, to write down what I had discovered were the principal reasons for a man’s failure and the principal reasons for a man’s success—from John D. Rockefeller back to John D. Napoleon (laughter), and before that, back in the days when Abel sold his birth-right for a mess of pottage. There are now one hundred of these “Heart Talks”. Those of you who are sincere, who are interested in our proposition, above all who are dissatisfied with the way things are breaking for you at present will be handed one to take home with you as you go out yonder door this afternoon.
“Now in my pocket I have four letters just received concerning ‘Heart Talks’. These letters have names signed to them that are familiar in every household in the U.S.A. Listen to this one from Detroit:
DEAR MR CARLETON
I want to order three thousand more copies of ‘Heart Talks’ for distribution among my salesmen. They have done more for getting work out of the men than any bonus proposition ever considered. I read them myself constantly, and I desire to heartily congratulate you on getting at the roots of the biggest problem that faces our generation today—the problem of salesmanship. The rock-bottom on which the country is founded is the problem of salesmanship.
With many felicitations I am
Yours very cordially,
HENRY W. TERRAL”
He brought the name out in three long booming triumphancies—pausing for it to produce its magical effect. Then he read two more letters, one from a manufacturer of vacuum cleaners and one from the president of the Great Northern Doily Company.
“And now,” he continued, “I’m going to tell you in a few words what the proposition is that’s going to make those of you who go into it in the right spirit. Simply put, it’s this: “Heart Talks” have been incorporated as a company, we’re going to put these little pamphlets into the hands of every big business organization, every salesman, and every man who knows—I don’t say “thinks”, I say “knows”—that he can sell! We are offering some of the stock of the “Heart Talks” concern upon the market, and in order that the distribution may be as wide as possible, and in order also that we can furnish a living, concrete, flesh-and-blood example of what salesmanship is, or rather what it may be, we’re going to give those of you who are the real thing a chance to sell that stock. Now, I don’t care what you’ve tried to sell before or how you’ve tried to sell it. It don’t matter how old you are or how young you are. I only want to know two things—first, do you want success, and, second, will you work for it?
“My name is Sammy Carleton, not “Mr” Carleton, but just plain Sammy. I’m a regular no-nonsense man with no fancy frills about me. I want you to call me Sammy.
“Now this is all I’m going to say to you today. Tomorrow I want those of you who have thought it over and have read the copy of ‘Heart Talks’ which will be given to you at the door, to come back to this same room at this same time, then we’ll go into the proposition further and I’ll explain to you what I’ve found the principles of success to be. I’m going to make you feel that you and you and you can sell!”
Mr Carleton’s voice echoed for a moment through the hall and then died away. To the stamping of many feet Anthony was pushed and jostled with the crowd out of the room.
Further Adventures with “Heart Talks”.
With an accompaniment of ironic laughter Anthony told Gloria the story of his commercial adventure. But she listened without amusement.
“You’re going to give up again?” she demanded coldly.
“Why—you don’t expect me to—”
“I never expected anything of you.”
He hesitated.
“Well—I can’t see the slightest benefit in laughing myself sick over this sort of affair. If there’s anything older than the old story, it’s the new twist.”
It required an astonishing amount of moral energy on Gloria’s part to intimidate him into returning, and when he reported next day, somewhat depressed from his perusal of the senile bromides skittishly set forth in “Heart Talks on Ambition”, he found only fifty of the original three hundred awaiting the appearance of the vital and compelling Sammy Carleton. Mr Carleton’s powers of vitality and compulsion were this time exercised in elucidating that magnificent piece of speculation—how to sell. It seemed that the. approved method was to state one’s proposition and then to say not “And now, will you buy?”—this was not the way—oh, no!—the way was to state one’s proposition and then, having reduced one’s adversary to a state of exhaustion, to deliver oneself of the categorical imperative: “Now see here! You’ve taken up my time explaining this matter to you. You’ve admitted my points—all I want to ask is how many do you want?”
As Mr Carleton piled assertion upon assertion Anthony began to feel a sort disgusted confidence in him. The man appeared to know what he was talking about. Obviously prosperous, he had risen to the position of instructing others. It did not occur to Anthony that the type of man who attains commercial success seldom knows how or why, and, as in his grandfather’s case, when he ascribes reasons, the reasons are generally inaccurate and absurd.
Anthony noted that of the numerous old men who had answered the original advertisement, only two had returned and that among the thirty odd who assembled on the third day to get actual selling instructions from Mr Carleton, only one grey head was in evidence. These thirty were eager converts; with their mouths they followed the working of Mr Carleton’s mouth; they swayed in their seats with enthusiasm, and in the intervals of his talk they spoke to each other in tense approving whispers. Yet of the chosen few who, in the words of Mr Carleton, “were determined to get those deserts that rightly and truly belonged to them”, less than half a dozen combined even a modicum of personal appearance with that great gift of being a “pusher”. But they were told that they were all natural pushers—it was merely necessary that they should believe with a sort of savage passion in what they were selling. He even urged each one to buy some stock himself, if possible, in order to increase his own sincerity.
On the fifth day then, Anthony sallied into the street with all the sensations of a man wanted by the police. Acting according to instructions he selected a tall office-building in order that he might ride to the top storey and work downward, stopping in every office that had a name on the door. But at the last minute he hesitated. Perhaps it would be more practicable to acclimate himself to the chilly atmosphere which he felt was awaiting him by trying a few offices on say, Madison Avenue. He went into an arcade that seemed only semi-prosperous, and seeing a sign which read Percy B. Weatherbee, Architect, he opened the door heroically and entered. A starchy young woman looked up questioningly.
“Can I see Mr Weatherbee?” He wondered if his voice sounded tremulous.
She laid her hand tentatively on the telephone-receiver.
“What’s the name, please?”
“He wouldn’t—ah—know me. He wouldn’t know my name.”
“What’s your business with him? You an insurance agent?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that!” denied Anthony hurriedly. “Oh, no. It’s a—it’s a personal matter.” He wondered if he should have said this. It had all sounded so simple when Mr Carleton had enjoined his flock: “Don’t allow yourself to be kept out! Show them you’ve made up your mind to talk to them, and they’ll listen.”
The girl succumbed to Anthony’s pleasant, melancholy face, and in a moment the door to the inner room opened and admitted a tall, splay-footed man with slicked hair. He approached Anthony with ill-concealed impatience.
“You wanted to see me on a personal matter?”
Anthony quailed.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he said defiantly.
“About what?”
“It’ll take some time to explain.”
“Well, what’s it about?” Mr Weatherbee’s voice indicated rising irritation.
Then Anthony, straining at each word, each syllable, began:
“I don’t know whether or not you’ve ever heard of a series of pamphlets called “Heart Talks”—”
“Good grief!” cried Percy B. Weatherbee, Architect, “are you trying to touch my heart?”
“No, it’s business. ‘Heart Talks’ have been incorporated and we’re putting some shares on the market—”
His voice faded slowly off, harassed by a fixed and contemptuous stare from his unwilling prey. For another minute he struggled on, increasingly sensitive, entangled in his own words. His confidence oozed from him in great retching emanations that seemed to be sections of his own body. Almost mercifully Percy B. Weatherbee, Architect, terminated the interview.
“Good grief!” he exploded in disgust, “and you call that a personal matter!” He whipped about and strode into his private office, banging the door behind him. Not daring to look at the stenographer, Anthony in some shameful and mysterious way got himself from the room. Perspiring profusely he stood in the hall wondering why they didn’t come and arrest him; in every hurried look he discerned infallibly a glance of scorn.
After an hour and with the help of two strong whiskies he brought himself up to another attempt. He walked into a plumber’s shop, but when he mentioned his business the plumber began pulling on his coat in a great hurry, gruffly announcing that he had to go to lunch. Anthony remarked politely that it was futile to try to sell a man anything when he was hungry, and the plumber heartily agreed.
This episode encouraged Anthony; he tried to think that had the plumber not been bound for lunch he would at least have listened.
Passing by a few glittering and formidable bazaars he entered a grocery store. A talkative proprietor told him that before buying any stocks he was going to see how the armistice affected the market. To Anthony this seemed almost unfair. In Mr Carleton’s salesman’s Utopia the only reason prospective buyers ever gave for not purchasing stock was that they doubted it to be a promising investment. Obviously a man in that state was almost ludicrously easy game, to be brought down merely by the judicious application of the correct selling points. But these men-why, actually they weren’t considering buying anything at all.
Anthony took several more drinks before he approached his fourth man, a real-estate agent; nevertheless, he was floored with a coup as decisive as a syllogism. The real-estate agent said that he had three brothers in the investment business. Viewing himself as a breaker-up of homes Anthony apologized and went out.
After another drink he conceived the brilliant plan of selling the stock to the bartenders along Lexington Avenue. This occupied several hours, for it was necessary to take a few drinks in each place in order to get the proprietor in the proper frame of mind to talk business. But the bartenders one and all contended that if they had any money to buy bonds they would not be bartenders. It was as though they had all convened and decided upon that rejoinder. As he approached a dark and soggy five o’clock he found that they were developing a still more annoying tendency to turn him off with a jest.
At five, then, with a tremendous effort at concentration he decided that he must put more variety into his canvassing. He selected a medium-sized delicatessen store, and went in. He felt, illuminatingly, that the thing to do was to cast a spell not only over the store-keeper but over all the customers as well—and perhaps through the psychology of the herd instinct they would buy as an astounded and immediately convinced whole.
“Af’ernoon,” he began in a loud thick voice. “Ga I’il prop’sition.”
If he had wanted silence he obtained it. A sort of awe descended upon the half-dozen women marketing and upon the grey-haired ancient who in cap and apron was slicing chicken.
Anthony pulled a batch of papers from his flapping briefcase and waved them cheerfully.
“Buy a bon’,” he suggested, “good as liberty bon’!” The phrase pleased him and he elaborated upon it. “Better’n liberty bon’. Every one of these bon’s worth two liberty bon’s.” His mind made a hiatus and skipped to his peroration, which he delivered with appropriate gestures, these being somewhat marred by the necessity of clinging to the counter with one or both hands. “Now see here. You taken up my time. I don’t want know why you won’t buy. I just want you say why. Want you say how many!”
At this point they should have approached him with cheque-books and fountain-pens in hand. Realizing that they must have missed a cue Anthony, with the instincts of an actor, went back and repeated his finale.
“Now see here! You taken up my time. You followed prop’sition. You agreed ’th reasonin’? Now, all I want from you is, how many lib’ty bon’s?”
“See here!” broke in a new voice. A portly man whose face was adorned with symmetrical scrolls of yellow hair had come out of a glass cage in the rear of the store and was bearing down upon Anthony. “See here, you!”
“How many?” repeated the salesman sternly. “You taken up my time—”
“Hey, you!” cried the proprietor, “I’ll have you taken up by the police.”
“You mos’ cert’nly won’t!” returned Anthony with fine defiance. “All I want know is how many.”
From here and there in the store went up little clouds of comment and expostulation.
“How terrible!”
“He’s a raving maniac.”
“He’s disgracefully drunk.”
The proprietor grasped Anthony’s arm sharply.
“Get out, or I’ll call a policeman.”
Some relics of rationality moved Anthony to nod and replace his bonds clumsily in the case.
“How many?” he reiterated doubtfully.
“The whole force if necessary!” thundered his adversary, his yellow moustache trembling fiercely.
“Sell’em all a bon’.”
With this Anthony turned, bowed gravely to his late audience, and wobbled from the store. He found a taxi-cab at the corner and rode home to the apartment. There he fell sound asleep on the sofa, and so Gloria found him, his breath filling the air with an unpleasant pungency, his hand still clutching his open brief-case.
Except when Anthony was drinking, his range of sensation had become less than that of a healthy old man and when prohibition came in July he found that, among those who could afford it, there was more drinking than ever before. One’s host now brought out a bottle upon the slightest pretext. The tendency to display liquor was a manifestation of the same instinct that led a man to deck his wife with jewels. To have liquor was a boast, almost a badge of respectability.
In the mornings Anthony awoke tired, nervous, and worried. Halcyon summer twilights and the purple chill of morning alike left him unresponsive. Only for a brief moment every day in the warmth and renewed life of a first high-ball did his mind turn to those opalescent dreams of future pleasure—the mutual heritage of the happy and the damned. But this was only for a little while. As he grew drunker the dreams faded and he became a confused spectre, moving in odd crannies of his own mind, full of unexpected devices, harshly contemptuous at best and reaching sodden and dispirited depths. One night in June he had quarrelled violently with Maury over a matter of the utmost triviality. He remembered dimly next morning that it had been about a broken pint-bottle of champagne. Maury had told him to sober up and Anthony’s feelings had been hurt, so with an attempted gesture of dignity he had risen from the table and seizing Gloria’s arm half led, half shamed her into a taxi-cab outside, leaving Maury with three dinners ordered and tickets for the opera.
This sort of semi-tragic fiasco had become so usual that when they occurred he was no longer stirred into making amends. If Gloria protested—and of late she was more likely to sink into a contemptuous silence—he would either engage in a bitter defence of himself or else stalk dismally from the apartment. Never since the incident on the station platform at Redgate had he laid his hands on her in anger—though he was withheld often only by some instinct that itself made him tremble with rage. Just as he still cared more for her than for any other creature, so did he more intensely and frequently hate her.
So far, the judges of the Appellate Division had failed to hand down a decision, but after another postponement they finally affirmed the decree of the lower court—two justices dissenting. A notice of appeal was served upon Edward Shuttleworth. The case was going to the court of last resort, and they were in for another interminable wait. Six months, perhaps a year. It had grown enormously unreal to them, remote and uncertain as heaven.
Throughout the previous winter one small matter had been a subtle and omnipresent irritant—the question of Gloria’s grey fur coat. At that time women enveloped in long squirrel wraps could be seen every few yards along Fifth Avenue. The women were converted to the shape of tops. They seemed porcine and obscene; they resembled kept women in the concealing richness, the feminine animality of the garment. Yet—Gloria wanted a grey squirrel coat.
Discussing the matter—or, rather, arguing it, for even more than in the first year of their marriage did every discussion take the form of bitter debate full of such phrases as “most certainly”, “utterly outrageous”, “it’s so, nevertheless”, and the ultra-emphatic “regardless”—they concluded that they could not afford it. And so gradually it began to stand as a symbol of their growing financial anxiety.
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