10. EVERYBODY DOES
TYPE:
Unscrupulous and determined, but subtle.
SUBJECT:
One who is not sure of herself; who hides an inner shrinking by a brave show of sophistication. In her heart is a horrible doubt bred by the reticence of her elders. She is beginning to feel that there are ancient, eternal fibs rife in the cosmos. She is convinced that everyone is in a conspiracy to keep her in ignorance.
APPARATUS:
1 Living room with sofa.
REMARKS:
The young man in our illustration has compunctions about taking advantage of sentiments so like his own, but sheer inertia carries him along. So it will probably be in your case.
EVERYBODY DOES
“I think you’re perfectly TERRIBLE,” says the girl, smiling as if she doesn’t expect to be believed. “Whoever told you all about everything? I wouldn’t want to live if I felt that way. Why, what would we be here for?”
“I don’t see why we have to be here for anything, particularly,” you answer. “What are mosquitoes for?”
She hesitates for only a second.
“So we won’t get too lazy. They probably wonder why we’re here, slapping them just when they want to eat.”
Look through the window to the lawn outside, covered with snow.
“That’s an unusual remark for a girl of your sort to make,” you muse. “Well, you probably talk that way because this is winter. Now, if I had asked you in July, when there would be plenty of mosquitoes——”
“What ARE you talking about?” she asks. “What do you mean, a girl of my type?”
Laugh and glance at her obliquely. She is very pretty, you think, with that maddeningly serene face of hers. Just now, though she is interested, her expression isn’t really with you. You want to do something about it.
“I mean a girl of your type,” repeat firmly. “A girl who believes everything she’s taught.”
She frowns a little.
“Wouldn’t it be silly to go to school for as long as I have if I didn’t use what they told me?”
“That isn’t what school is for,” you answer hastily. Lord, what a dumbbell! Why am I here, anyway? But she is pretty.
“You’re pretty, anyway,” you say aloud.
“But that’s awfully mean! Pretty anyway! What do you mean? Don’t you think a girl can be pretty and have brains too?”
“Well—brains of a sort.” Now what am I in for? “Sure I guess you have brains. I bet you’re practical in business things.”
“Heavens, no!” she protests. “I can’t do a thing. But I was good at school. I was terribly good in Latin.”
Turn a little on the sofa and smile at her, leaning back. “Ever have any philosophy courses?”
“Of course,” she says promptly. “Three hours a week.”
“And Chapel every morning?”
“Every morning.”
“What did you do in Philosophy? I know about the Chapel.”
“Oh, we studied what all those old birds thought about the world and the mind and reality and those things. And at examinations they asked us to summarize the different points of view.”
“And you had Chapel every day?” you persist. This is something.
“I told you. It was compulsory.”
“They told you what to think, in Chapel?”
“Oh, no!” she cries. “No. Sometimes the Doctor would talk about smoking for girls, and sometimes about movies. And there is a beautiful sermon that he always gives at Easter, about bread and hyacinths. That’s about Art, you know.”
Nod thoughtfully. “Yes. He likes Art, doesn’t he?”
“You’re teasing me,” she says, sadly. “Whenever I talk about religion you get that way. I don’t see why we’re always fighting.”
“We’re not always fighting, are we? All right, let’s stop talking about school. But I did want to ask you something. Why do you think it’s so shocking when I say that God isn’t watching everything you do?” And you think with some anger at yourself that here you are again.
“I didn’t think it was shocking,” she says eagerly. “I’m never shocked. I was just surprised when you told Lilian you didn’t think He was personal enough to have opinions on Prohibition.”
“What makes you think He is?” you ask. Put your arm around her shoulders; she snuggles down comfortably.
“Well,” she begins reasonably, “how would we all be here? Don’t you think we must have come from—I mean, don’t you see that we must be something like Him? Not so perfect or so big and powerful, but—why everybody knows that!”
“So that makes it all right,” you tease her. “If everybody thinks so.”
“Well, I guess they’ve always thought so, for years. And it seems to work. Here we are, aren’t we? Don’t you think we’re improving? It must be right.”
“How did we get started on all this, anyway?” You are bored. “It was talking about Prohibition. It always happens.”
“Yes, that’s how it happened. You fired up when Lilian said it was a success. I’m glad Mother wasn’t there to hear you. She’s a little afraid of you anyway.”
“Is she? Why? I’m safe enough. We just talk—and talk—and talk!” Confound old women!
“I know,” she says happily. “I love to talk seriously. We used to have lots of arguments in my room at school, after hours.... No, I think you’re right; I don’t think Prohibition’s a success at all. I think anybody with sense would know it. Look at the way perfectly nice boys get drunk at every party. I almost died the first time my escort did. Dad said he’d shoot the young puppy. Mother says that never used to happen. I think Prohibition is terrible.”
“You are pretty,” say irrelevantly, and kiss her. She returns the kiss placidly.
“You shouldn’t,” she says, lazily.
“Why? Don’t you like it?”
“Of course not. What made you think I did?”
“Well, most girls do. In fact, I might say that everybody does.”
“Not girls!” she protests, shocked.
“For Pete’s sake!” you cry, exasperated. “Who on earth told you that? You don’t really think so, do you?”
“Why not? Don’t you take a lot for granted?”
“I never take anything for granted. Why do you wear blue? Because it’s becoming. Well, why do you want to look pretty? So that I’ll kiss you. Of course!”
“Don’t do that. I don’t want you to.”
“If I thought you meant it I’d stop. Look here——” Oh Lord, can’t I quit it? “Listen. You’re not consistent.”
“How?”
“You say that whatever people do must be all right, don’t you?”
“If everybody does it and it works out.”
“Well, doesn’t everybody do this?”
“Oh, no!”
“Don’t be an idiot! How do you suppose you were born?”
“But my parents were married.”
You tear your hair. How can one be reasonable with such stupidity?
“That hasn’t any physiological significance!”
“I don’t——”
“You COULD have been born without their being married, couldn’t you?”
She considers, then smiles triumphantly. “Not with my parents!”
“But what the hell did you and your friends talk about at school?”
“Well, some of the girls might have been fast. They wouldn’t say, of course.”
“A lot more than you suspected were probably ‘fast.’”
She resents this. “I’m not so dumb as you think.”
You feel guilty, and at the same time stubborn. You know this feeling: you have had it before and it always gets you into trouble.
“All right. Suppose I talked a little about your friend Lilian? How long have you known her?”
“All my life. Why——” in quick alarm—“do you mean to say that you know anything about Lilian that I don’t?”
“I don’t want to talk about Lilian. But you’re very trusting for your age. Everyone lies to everybody; didn’t you know that? Kiss me and forget about it.”
“I can’t. You have to tell me. Tell me!”
For a moment you feel sorry. You shouldn’t have done it; you know it. Your arm tightens about her. You have to stop her somehow; she is going to cry.
“Please don’t worry so. Everybody does. Please don’t cry, baby. You are a baby. It really doesn’t matter, I tell you. Not if everybody does.”
“No!”
“All right! I didn’t mean it!”
She wipes her eyes and sits up, looking at you curiously.
“Really? Did you mean it? Everybody? Lilian? You?”
“I don’t want to talk.” You feel miserable. You feel like worrying her some more. Put your arms around her, give her a little shake.
“Stop talking about it!” Kiss her hard; she kisses you with a new quality in her response. There is something defiant in her kiss.
Later, going home, you begin to feel badly again.
“I wish I could control myself. I always get into trouble. That was queer, though. Oh, well.”
Pause at the edge of the pavement, watching the sweep of the traffic, “She is pretty.”