Alice Adams, Booth Tarkington [thriller novels to read .txt] 📗

just because a lot of idiots didn’t break their necks to get dances with me and because I got mortified about Walter⁠—Walter was pretty terrible⁠—”

“Oh, me, my!” Adams lamented. “I guess that’s something we just have to leave work out itself. What you going to do with a boy nineteen or twenty years old that makes his own living? Can’t whip him. Can’t keep him locked up in the house. Just got to hope he’ll learn better, I suppose.”

“Of course he didn’t want to go to the Palmers’,” Alice explained, tolerantly⁠—“and as mama and I made him take me, and he thought that was pretty selfish in me, why, he felt he had a right to amuse himself any way he could. Of course it was awful that this⁠—that this Mr. Russell should⁠—” In spite of her, the recollection choked her.

“Yes, it was awful,” Adams agreed. “Just awful. Oh, me, my!”

But Alice recovered herself at once, and showed him a cheerful face. “Well, just a few years from now I probably won’t even remember it! I believe hardly anything amounts to as much as we think it does at the time.”

“Well⁠—sometimes it don’t.”

“What I’ve been thinking, papa: it seems to me I ought to do something.”

“What like?”

She looked dreamy, but was obviously serious as she told him: “Well, I mean I ought to be something besides just a kind of nobody. I ought to⁠—” She paused.

“What, dearie?”

“Well⁠—there’s one thing I’d like to do. I’m sure I could do it, too.”

“What?”

“I want to go on the stage: I know I could act.” At this, her father abruptly gave utterance to a feeble cackling of laughter; and when Alice, surprised and a little offended, pressed him for his reason, he tried to evade, saying, “Nothing, dearie. I just thought of something.” But she persisted until he had to explain.

“It made me think of your mother’s sister, your Aunt Flora, that died when you were little,” he said. “She was always telling how she was going on the stage, and talking about how she was certain she’d make a great actress, and all so on; and one day your mother broke out and said she ought ’a’ gone on the stage, herself, because she always knew she had the talent for it⁠—and, well, they got into kind of a spat about which one’d make the best actress. I had to go out in the hall to laugh!”

“Maybe you were wrong,” Alice said, gravely. “If they both felt it, why wouldn’t that look as if there was talent in the family? I’ve always thought⁠—”

“No, dearie,” he said, with a final chuckle. “Your mother and Flora weren’t different from a good many others. I expect ninety percent of all the women I ever knew were just sure they’d be mighty fine actresses if they ever got the chance. Well, I guess it’s a good thing; they enjoy thinking about it and it don’t do anybody any harm.”

Alice was piqued. For several days she had thought almost continuously of a career to be won by her own genius. Not that she planned details, or concerned herself with first steps; her picturings overleaped all that. Principally, she saw her name great on all the billboards of that unkind city, and herself, unchanged in age but glamorous with fame and Paris clothes, returning in a private car. No doubt the pleasantest development of her vision was a dialogue with Mildred; and this became so real that, as she projected it, Alice assumed the proper expressions for both parties to it, formed words with her lips, and even spoke some of them aloud. “No, I haven’t forgotten you, Mrs. Russell. I remember you quite pleasantly, in fact. You were a Miss Palmer, I recall, in those funny old days. Very kind of you, I’m shaw. I appreciate your eagerness to do something for me in your own little home. As you say, a reception would renew my acquaintanceship with many old friends⁠—but I’m shaw you won’t mind my mentioning that I don’t find much inspiration in these provincials. I really must ask you not to press me. An artist’s time is not her own, though of course I could hardly expect you to understand⁠—”

Thus Alice illuminated the dull time; but she retired from the interview with her father still manfully displaying an outward cheerfulness, while depression grew heavier within, as if she had eaten soggy cake. Her father knew nothing whatever of the stage, and she was aware of his ignorance, yet for some reason his innocently skeptical amusement reduced her bright project almost to nothing. Something like this always happened, it seemed; she was continually making these illuminations, all gay with gildings and colourings; and then as soon as anybody else so much as glanced at them⁠—even her father, who loved her⁠—the pretty designs were stricken with a desolating pallor. “Is this life?” Alice wondered, not doubting that the question was original and all her own. “Is it life to spend your time imagining things that aren’t so, and never will be? Beautiful things happen to other people; why should I be the only one they never can happen to?”

The mood lasted overnight; and was still upon her the next afternoon when an errand for her father took her downtown. Adams had decided to begin smoking again, and Alice felt rather degraded, as well as embarrassed, when she went into the large shop her father had named, and asked for the cheap tobacco he used in his pipe. She fell back upon an air of amused indulgence, hoping thus to suggest that her purchase was made for some faithful old retainer, now infirm; and although the calmness of the clerk who served her called for no such elaboration of her sketch, she ornamented it with a little laugh and with the remark, as she dropped the package into her coat-pocket, “I’m sure it’ll please him; they tell me it’s the kind he likes.”

Still playing Lady Bountiful, smiling to herself in