CORINNA AND HER MAN

I

Corinna had always objected to her mother’s attitude toward her father—to the attitude of other women she knew toward their husbands. She spoke frequently to her mother about it, even when she was a young girl.

“Ma,” she had said, “I don’t see why you slave so over Pa. Your whole life is made up of worrying over him and about him. He doesn’t pay any attention except to sort of expect it and take it for granted. You spend hours getting dinner and having it on the table hot, the minute he gets home. He never notices, unless something goes wrong. He just eats. You’re always picking out things he likes or that are good for him, and having those instead of what you like. First thing in the morning you scurry around the kitchen and make me help, getting breakfast, and you hurry home afternoons to get dinner. You don’t dare ask people to the house evenings, like Miss Herron, if he doesn’t like them. You treat him so carefully, always trying not to worry him or annoy him—always telling me ‘your Pa won’t like that,’ when I do things. I wouldn’t live like you, you bet.”

Mrs. Ferguson was a nervous, round little woman, full of quick, meaningless little movements. She had a large, rather flat face, full of small but not disfiguring wrinkles. She had always smiled patiently, at Corinna.

“You don’t know your Pa,” she’d say, “or men. Men have got to be waited on, got to be treated right. Wait until you’re grown up and married—you’ll find out. Men have got to have their meals on time and got to have the house the way they want it, neat if they are neat, full of people if they like things lively. You don’t know men.”

“Huh,” Corinna had sneered, “you bet I’ll never make a slave of myself for any man. If I ever marry, the man’ll do what I want. I shan’t be always worrying for fear I’m doing the wrong thing.”

Yet, looking among her mother’s acquaintances and at the parents of her own friends, she noticed the existence of this same state of affairs that so annoyed her in her own family. The man was always being catered to. When he was at home, if at no other time, the house had to move along with an outward smoothness. Little unpleasant things were hidden away. All of the plans of the household were for amusing, entertaining, the man. If he liked to play cards, the cards were brought out immediately after dinner and one game followed another. The man could quarrel with the plays of the others, if he wanted to, grumble at his own ill-luck, at the playing of his partners—it was all accepted with an assumed merriment as part of life. If the man liked to read, his chair, the most comfortable in the house, was drawn up before the best light, and the children, when there were children, had to talk quietly so as not to disturb him.

“The man, the man, always the man,” thought Corinna. “Just because he brings home the money. The women pretend to joke about being home on time, about slaving for him, but they do it just the same. You bet when I’m married things won’t be like that. This is a newer generation. It’s about time to quit worshipping the man, making such a fuss over him, slaving for him.”

Corinna, who was, in her way, thoughtful, somewhat of a philosopher, worried a little over it. She didn’t like to think that, in each household, one person—the male head of the house—should govern things so thoroughly, blindly. She didn’t believe especially in woman’s suffrage, she wasn’t interested in voting, she knew women couldn’t invent things—at least she knew she couldn’t; she wasn’t interested in science or art, things like that. She just didn’t like the idea of being subservient to—cowed by—a man. Why—she knew men.

In spite of her mother, she realized that men weren’t superior people, after all. They were rather more stupid than women, on the whole, a bit heavy, with a thick sense of humour. Men were ashamed to show emotions, easy victims to flattery. Of course they were all right to marry. A girl ought to marry. An old maid sort of admits that she can’t get a man. Being married gives one a sense of being somebody. Marriage was all right—only married women ought to learn—oughtn’t to be such fools, making themselves servants and slaves and an admiring audience, all in one. She wouldn’t.

II

Because Corinna’s parents were poor, when she finished high school at eighteen, she knew she had to do something to support herself until such time as marriage should relieve her of the necessity of buying her own clothes and helping at home. She felt that school-teaching required too much training—would be tiresome—and, besides, most teachers became old maids in the end. She didn’t want to go into a store. She had no special talent or ambition. So she went to a business college and, after eight months—she was not very clever or quick in learning word-signs—she was able to take a business letter with fair rapidity and transcribe it with some degree of accuracy on the typewriter.

She liked the profession of stenographer. It was decent, dressy. She even looked ahead to becoming some one’s private secretary, wearing good clothes and sweeping in, half an hour later than the other stenographers, to an office marked “private,” being consulted on numerous business problems—saving the firm money by her wisdom—and maybe marrying the boss in the end.

Her first position lasted two months, her next three. Then she got with a wholesale hardware concern and took dictation a bit more rapidly from the stove buyer, a married man who had four children and who was always worrying about catching cold. She settled down, fairly comfortably, making enough money to wear nice clothes, arriving at the office always a bit late in the morning, always anxious to leave a little before five at night, wasting too much time at noon or in the cloak-room gossiping with the other girls, but, on the whole, as good as the firm expected of her.

Corinna’s evenings were spent at dances or the theatre or going to bed at seven to make up for lost sleep. She accepted invitations from any one who asked her—men she met at the office or through girls, old school acquaintances. She didn’t care particularly for any of them, but wanted to be with men, especially those who wore good clothes and knew how to treat a girl. She was lively and vivacious, rather a pretty girl in a light, indistinct way, with a nice mouth and a pretty little nose.

This smoothness of days at the office, and of evenings having a good time, continued until Corinna was twenty. Then she fell in love.

She had been waiting, poised, to fall in love for a long time. She had been eagerly looking for love, watching every man she met with a kind of painful eagerness, ready to yield affection at the first opportunity. She met the fellow at a semi-public dance, where she was taken by a boy she had met at business college. The man she fell in love with was named Rodney Cantwell and her escort had known him and had introduced them.

All night, after that first meeting, the name “Rodney, Rodney,” went through her mind. Rodney Cantwell! He was quite wonderful, all that a man one loved ought to be. He was tall, with light, rather rough hair, which he brushed back from his forehead in an uneven sweep. His eyes seemed a mysterious blue-grey. He held them half-closed, squinting when he laughed. He danced better than any one Corinna had ever danced with. He asked her to go to a dance with him the following week.

All week Corinna lived in a sort of delirium. She borrowed money from her mother and bought a new evening dress of flimsy pink silk, with no wearing qualities—Corinna usually was rather careful to get durable things. She thought of nothing but Rodney, to the detriment of her dictation and the stove-buyer’s temper.

On Saturday night, when Rodney called, she met him with a delicious lump of expectancy in her throat. She learned, suddenly, without experience, a new coquetry. Before this, she had been, with the boys and young men she knew, more or less natural, as natural, that is, as girls ever are with men. There had been a sort of decent companionship. Suddenly, this was changed.

On the way to the dance she found herself talking with a new piquancy, hinting at adventures she had never had, admirers she had never known, a life that was non-existent. She tried to make herself valuable, desirable. She became playful, indifferent. At the dance the music seemed especially fascinating. She hardly spoke to the few people she knew there, preferring to dance every dance with Rodney, letting herself lie, hardly conscious, in his arms as she danced.

At the door of her apartment, as he took her home, he put his arms around her and kissed her. Other men had kissed her, but only after much playful fencing, long acquaintanceship. Now, she yielded to Rodney’s kisses in a way she had never done. After he had left her, she lay awake most of the night and spent the rest of it and all of Sunday morning, dreaming of him.

III

Married to Rodney! That would be life! Not the slavery of her mother. Married to Rodney, life would have, constantly, a new meaning. She could coquette with life, play with life—living became suddenly sparkling, many coloured.

Before this, she had not asked for romance. She had never dreamed of even this much romance. She had just asked that she become not like her mother, a slave to a man who cared nothing for her, for whom she cared nothing. Her mother did not love her father. Other women she knew did not love their husbands. She saw that, now. They tolerated them, because they were being supported. They slaved for them because men wanted slaves. Married to Rodney—love, a full flowering of love—

Rodney did not telephone her for two weeks. She thought of him every day, more than she had ever thought of one person—one thing—in all of her life before. Rodney—she saw his light, thick, rather rough hair, felt his cheek against hers. She thought of him every night after she had got into bed, picturing him in the dark, imagining herself kissing him and being kissed over and over again.

Then, just as she was bewilderingly accepting the fact that perhaps, after all, he did not care for her, Rodney telephoned her and asked her to go to another dance with him—no excuse, no discussion of his two weeks of silence. She accepted him eagerly—and bought another new dress, a thin white one, this time. She must look charming.

The second dance was like the first. Her heart sang when she was with him. She was astonished at herself, at her emotions. She had not thought herself capable of such things. She sneered at her mother even as she felt sorry for her. What did her mother—the other women she knew—know about such feelings—about men like Rodney? They had never even met men like Rodney.

For three weeks, then, Rodney took her to a dance every Saturday night. On a Wednesday he took her to the theatre. And, after each outing there were kisses in the front hall of the apartment. Finally he asked her something—but it was not to marry him.

Corinna was surprised. Then she was furious at Rodney for misunderstanding her, at herself for not being able to yield to him. She went over all of the old platitudes of respectability—what kind of a girl did he think she was? had she led him to think, by word or action, that she would dream of such a thing—how dared he talk to her—even think of her like that?

And Rodney, with a stubborn sort of persistency went over his list of platitudes, too. After all—what harm was there? He liked her all right—would take care of her—she knew that—he would marry her if he could—surely she knew—had known from the first—that he wasn’t the marrying kind. She had kissed him, hadn’t she—encouraged him—led him on? Other girls....

Corinna did not see Rodney any more. He never telephoned her again. She knew where she could reach him, knew where he was employed. But what was there to say to him? She was properly bound with all of the virtues of her class. Kisses were all right. Coquetries were all right. Why, she had even definitely decided to marry Rodney. Of course, her low-cut evening dresses, her little tricks—pressing against him with her bare shoulder, of kissing him, of touching his face with her fingers—these were proper as long as they were baits to matrimony. They were decent then, legitimate. But Rodney had “insulted” her. He had misunderstood her.

As time passed, she definitely decided that she had been mistaken in him, that Rodney had, from the first, been unprincipled, unworthy of her company, that he had led her on—tried to get the best of her, but that, at the first hint of his true feelings toward her, she had sent him from her in great and righteous wrath. She had had a lucky escape.

For months, then, she longed to see Rodney, but she knew what seeing him would mean. She wanted only matrimony. It was respectable, decent, the right thing—to be married.... But now it was unthinkable that she should even consider Rodney.

Life became dull-coloured, tinted only by the thought of what she had been through, of her escape—a fascinating, secret thing. She went to dances with the men she had known before, tried to look especially nice, in case Rodney should see her. She carried with her, though, from that time, some of the coquetry that being in love with Rodney had given her. She found that, even though it was artificial now, it added to her popularity.

IV

A year later she fell in love again, a faint echo of what she had felt for Rodney. He was blond, too, but in a faded way, just as her love for him was faded. There were some visits to the theatre—Fred didn’t care for dancing—a few parties, his salary was small. Then she found that Fred, too, had definite ideas against matrimony—would not marry until his income was almost twice its present size.

Corinna knew the type—you go with them and go with them for years and years, and become middle-aged; finally, after every one you know is settled, you either separate and remain single or lapse almost unconsciously into matrimony. Not if she knew herself.

Of course she wouldn’t be Fred’s slave if she married him. She knew that. But—waiting years and years and then maybe his changing his mind or his salary never growing after all—It was not what you’d call a real opportunity. Corinna’s pale love for Fred faded out altogether. She broke an engagement or two, failed to keep a telephone appointment—was surprised to find how little she missed him.

Matrimonial chances did not come in great numbers to Corinna. In fact, during the next two years she did not have a single proposal of marriage nor any chance that might have been twisted into a proposal. Men took her to the theatre or to dances—she was an excellent dancer—told her their troubles, allowed her to be pleasantly entertaining. She coquetted and flirted and giggled—talked to the girls she knew about what a wonderful time she was having and how popular she was. One at a time the other girls she knew married and went to housekeeping in little apartments. She was twenty-four. It worried her, definitely, now, not being married.

Then Arthur Slossen came to work at the woollen factory where Corinna was now employed—she had left the hardware concern several years before and took dictation now from a grandfatherly old fellow who suffered with asthma. Arthur Slossen was not handsome. Corinna had no illusions about that. He was insignificant-looking, rather retiring and had a slight accent, showing unmistakably that he was foreign-born, a stigma in the set in which Corinna moved.

But, because he was a man and new, Corinna smiled at him and coquetted. She was not surprised when he asked her, three weeks after he entered the office, to go to the theatre with him. He was as unattractive as any man Corinna had ever known. He lacked, alike, all vices and virtues that would have made for interest. He was gentle, even gentlemanly. He was fairly well educated, but, outside of reading the newspapers morning and evening, he had no interest in the printed world. From his evening newspaper he cut out the sermons written by a well-known minister and read from them aloud occasionally. He was kindly and meant well by every one. Altogether, Corinna found him as boring as possible.

But, because he was a man and an escort, Corinna smiled at him, made eyes at him, went through her whole repertoire of tricks. Almost mechanically, she led him on, as she had tried to lead on other men before him.

One night, after she had “gone with” him for about six months, he asked her to marry him. The proposal came almost as a surprise to Corinna. Of course she had definitely played for a proposal—yet she had always played for proposals and had never received them. And here was Arthur Slossen—less of a catch than any man she had ever known—and he had asked her to marry him. To be sure there was really nothing definitely the matter with him. He was fairly nice-looking. He was a little stoop-shouldered, a little indefinite. He had a foreign accent and rather an embarrassed, humble way. But he was really quite all right. As attractive as her father must have been, or her Uncle Will. After all—a husband.... She could stop work in the office—she had never become a real private secretary, after all, and her bosses were always married and paid no attention to her. If she hadn’t any chances until now, she wasn’t likely to have any after twenty-five—twenty-five is getting on—her complexion wasn’t as good as it used to be, her face was becoming broader, flatter, like her mother’s.

V

Corinna and Arthur were married in June, and Corinna’s friends spoke sentimentally about “the month of brides” and gave her a kitchen shower. The couple went to housekeeping in a four-room apartment and Corinna started in to learn how to cook—she’d never paid much attention to kitchen arts before, being in school, first, and later busy all day in the office.

Corinna now had more time to notice Arthur. And when she looked at him—and looked at the husbands of the other girls she knew—he seemed as desirable as any of them. He had a foreign accent and round shoulders and no sparkle of style—but what were those others? They had other faults just as glaring. But Corinna was glad that at least her generation did not become slaves of their husbands. And, as she rejoiced in this, she presently made a new discovery; she found that she actually despised Arthur. And, despising him, she watched her girl friends, talked with them, and found that all of the other young married women she knew despised their husbands, too.

She knew, too, why she despised Arthur. It was because of his meekness and his stupidity, his lack of life and excitement—because, in marrying him, she had definitely killed any chances of a romantic marriage that might, some day, have come to her. But, more than that. Corinna knew that she despised him—and that other women despised their husbands—because she had been able to marry him. All other men she had known—Rodney and Fred and the others, a man named Phillips and one named Billy Freer and Jim Henderson—they had, in one way or another, managed to escape her. They had been cleverer than she—and avoided matrimony altogether, or at least with her. It had been a duel, her wits and tricks against theirs—and they had won. Only Arthur had lost, simple Arthur, too stupid to get away. So she despised him because he had allowed himself to be caught—and to be caught by her tricks—old tricks, worn-out tricks, tricks at twenty-five, tricks that had failed to ensnare the others.

Life settled down, monotonously. Because she despised Arthur, Corinna was able to disregard him almost entirely. She would spend whole days, slovenly, in a soiled negligée, washing her face carelessly half an hour before he came home, or allowing it to remain daubed with cold cream, serving delicatessen dinners or cold meats and beans. She had no scruples about cheating him. She was true to him because no pleasant opportunities presented themselves.

Finally, bored at staying home so much, she met men she knew down-town and had luncheon with them or went to the matinée. She even flirted with good-looking men on the street or in hotel lobbies and then had tea. The men were not very interesting nor were the flirtations very exciting—the most desirable men wouldn’t notice her and those who did got awfully “fresh”—but it was better than nothing. What if Arthur did find out? What could he do? Kick her out? She’d like to see him. What if he did? She hadn’t done anything actually bad. She was a married woman, had “Mrs.” in front of her name. It wasn’t as if she were a poor worm, like her mother had been. She was a good stenographer, could get a position any day, she knew that. Of course it was easier, spending her days in negligée reading magazines or eating candy, or down-town shopping or flirting. It was a lot better, more comfortable, than working. But, if the worst came to the worst, it wouldn’t be so awfully bad if she left Arthur. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t get along. Poor old Arthur—he ought to be glad he had her—who was he to be considered, anyhow?

She thought of Rodney. His proposal no longer seemed insulting now. She remembered Rodney—his wonderful rough blond hair, his narrow grey eyes, his kisses. She was no longer a young girl with a necessary virtue. She was a married woman now, a woman of the world, not a silly little working girl. If she wanted a little affair....

She tried to reach Rodney over the telephone. He had left that position years before. No one there knew where he was. She sent a note to him, addressed to his former home. It was returned to her. Of course, she’d meet him on the street some day. In the meantime....

She spent as much money as she could on clothes, as little as possible on the household. Arthur was pretty good about money. He was getting ahead, too. He had two raises the first year of their marriage. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, after all, he made good? She had never thought of that possibility, of his making money. He had been a pitiful way out—a way out of working and the stigma of being unmarried. What if he became something—improved?

VI

When they had been married a year and a half Arthur was promoted to assistant buyer in his department with quite a definite raise in salary. Then, suddenly, for the first time since her marriage, Corinna stopped despising him. He became almost important, some one to notice, to pay attention to. He could and did give her small luxuries far beyond those she would have been able to earn had she still been employed.

Almost unconsciously he took up more of her time. They could not afford a servant, although they were living in a more pretentious apartment—and Arthur, after a long day in the office, often came home tired, out of sorts. He needed cheering up, entertaining. His digestion was not good and he complained of “delicatessen slops,” so that Corinna was forced to cook a regular dinner in the evening. She did it a bit grudgingly, but she was a little afraid of Arthur when he complained or when he quarrelled with her. After all, it was his money that was used to run the house—he deserved a little something from it....

A few months later Corinna’s father died and her mother gave up her own small apartment and came to live with Corinna. Arthur liked his mother-in-law, in an indefinite sort of way, and agreed to the arrangement without a word. But, after that, when matters of money for the household came up, he sometimes dared to assert himself, mentioning that, after all, as long as he was paying for the running of the household and was supporting, unaided, both Corinna and her mother, perhaps his opinion might be listened to and his desires fulfilled.

The next year Corinna’s daughter was born. Corinna did not especially want a baby. Still, all of her friends were having them.... When she knew the baby was coming, she yielded herself deliberately to having it, spending more months than necessary in the house in negligée, ashamed to go on the street on account of her figure. She lay on the couch then, ate huge amounts of chocolates and read sentimental stories in the magazines. After the baby came she did not regain her figure, but retained some of the plumpness which characterized her mother.

There was a maid, now, an ill-trained, slow girl, but, even so, Corinna did not resume the pursuits of her early married life. There were fewer teas with men acquaintances. Perhaps because she was heavier and less entertaining, perhaps because the baby took up much of her time, perhaps because her mother and Arthur seemed to question her more, there seemed fewer chances for “fun.” She associated more with women and talked babies and servants and played bridge. At the end of two years another baby came, Arthur, junior, and before another two years had passed, Corinna’s third child, Archie, was born.

Corinna was definitely middle-aged, now, although she felt that she was still young and didn’t look her age, nearly. She spent her time with the children mostly, for even with the help of her mother and the one maid, the children were always falling down or crying or needing attention.

There was always a lot to do. When she went down-town, it was usually, definitely, on a shopping trip, with a list of things in her purse that had to be looked after. She wore rather expensive things, a bit flashy, too full of ornament, not very carefully made, sometimes torn where one of the children had pulled, but quite “in style” as to the cut of the skirt and the colour.

Arthur did very well in business. When Beatrice, the oldest child, was twelve, he became buyer for his department. With the years, Arthur had changed a little, too. He was a nervous fellow and, when he was home, he insisted that the children be kept quiet. He was on rather a strict diet, which precluded most good things to eat and did not help his disposition. But he retained his quiet habits and his love of home and did not develop any new desires outside of his business ambitions.

VII

It was when Beatrice was thirteen that she said something which surprised Corinna.

“Mother,” she said, “when I get grown up and married, you bet I’m not going to be a slave to a husband, the way you are to Dad.”

“The way I am, Bee? How can you talk like that? Your father is the kindest man. Doesn’t he give you everything? He never....”

“He’s good to us, of course,” the child persisted. “It isn’t that. It’s just—you’re sort of a slave to him. I guess all women are. You bet I won’t be when I’m grown up and married. You were worried all day yesterday for fear Miss Loftus would call last night, because she gets on Father’s nerves.”

“You know how nervous he is; mustn’t be bothered....”

“Oh, I know. Only it doesn’t keep you from being a slave. You worry about what he eats—and if he’s a little late, coming home from the office—and if company stays too late—and if the matinée lasts too long and he’ll be home first—and about his meals and clothes.”

“Nonsense,” said Corinna, “you don’t understand men, dear. They like to have their meals on time, things regular. When you are grown up....”

When her daughter had gone away, Corinna looked back a little at her own life, started to think about things, puzzled over things as she had done when she was younger. With the children and all, there had been little time for introspection. She remembered what she had said to her mother, years before. She had believed—all this time—that she had followed her original plan of independence. She—a slave—to a man—as her mother had been—nonsense! Why—Arthur was no one to slave for—Arthur!

She had thought—all these years—indefinitely—that she still looked down on Arthur, did as she pleased. But she knew, finally now, that after the first year or two of matrimony she had never done that. She knew that her daughter was right, as she had been right. All she was living for was peace and quiet, a regular household, the children well, Arthur satisfied.

There had been quarrels, a few years before. But Corinna had found that Arthur hadn’t greatly minded quarrelling. There were always quarrels in the office, it seemed. One quarrel more or less, in a day, hadn’t mattered to him. But Corinna’s day was so tasteless—children, the household—that it was Arthur’s coming home that added flavour to her life. Arthur—whom she had so despised! She had wanted peace in the evenings, because evenings were the pleasantest part of the day. She knew now, as she must have recognized subconsciously then, that Arthur was the important thing in her life, that his home-comings were the big events for her.

Now she was fat and thirty-eight and already slightly wrinkled. There was nobody—nothing—she was interested in. The children—her home, of course—but outside of that. She doubted if she could take shorthand notes if she tried. She knew she could no longer operate a typewriter—older women couldn’t get positions, anyhow.

She thought of long days of dictation in an office, and shuddered. Arthur made a good living. There were two servants, now, and a good sized apartment and a little place up in the country for the summer. They might even afford a small car next year. Arthur was particular, of course, a bit cranky, even. He still cared for her, never looked at other women, she knew that. He was not very affectionate, never had been. She had been glad of that, at one time. Now she almost wished he were a bit more demonstrative. But he still spoke of their marriage as a success, of their affair as a “love match.” She was glad he felt that way. After all, life was pleasant enough; little household things during the day, shopping, bridge, matinées—Arthur in the evenings. Other women envied her—her home and her children and Arthur. Why, Arthur was nicer than most husbands. She went over in her mind all of the women she knew—all the same—as they had been when she was a little girl—all struggling, working to please the man—the man—

Corinna remembered how strongly she had felt against this when she was a little girl. She knew how her daughter was beginning to feel now. It wasn’t fair of course. It didn’t seem right—that the man should always come first, that his wishes should come first—that she should spend hours—her days—her life—planning for him, doing things for him—always the man—the man.

Yet Corinna thought of the women she knew who had never married—fearing each day that they’d be too old to be allowed to keep on working—discontented, lonely. She knew that women, like herself, who had accepted matrimony—or who had reached for and found matrimony—were slaves. It wasn’t fair. But life wasn’t fair to women. You couldn’t get out of it—do anything about it. If you weren’t married—and didn’t have money—you were lonely, worked hard—had a difficult time of it. If you were married—Corinna knew people only in her own class—you were a slave—as much of a slave as if you had lived hundreds of years ago. Life was not beautiful nor romantic nor lovely. She did not love Arthur—yet, she certainly did not despise him—she really admired him a great deal—getting ahead without pull or anything like that. He worked hard—didn’t get much out of life, either, deserved peace and quiet, things the way he wanted them at home. Life was funny, not especially interesting—children—little things.... She was a slave, of course—still, life was better than it might be—some one to look forward to seeing in the evenings—to worry about pleasing—to do things for—a man.