Chapter: CHAPTER XXVIII


IT WAS at a supper of the Jolly Seventeen in August that Carol heard of
"Elizabeth," from Mrs. Dave Dyer.

Carol was fond of Maud Dyer, because she had been particularly agreeable
lately; had obviously repented of the nervous distaste which she had
once shown. Maud patted her hand when they met, and asked about Hugh.

Kennicott said that he was "kind of sorry for the girl, some ways; she's
too darn emotional, but still, Dave is sort of mean to her." He was
polite to poor Maud when they all went down to the cottages for a swim.
Carol was proud of that sympathy in him, and now she took pains to sit
with their new friend.

Mrs. Dyer was bubbling, "Oh, have you folks heard about this young
fellow that's just come to town that the boys call 'Elizabeth'? He's
working in Nat Hicks's tailor shop. I bet he doesn't make eighteen a
week, but my! isn't he the perfect lady though! He talks so refined, and
oh, the lugs he puts on--belted coat, and pique collar with a gold pin,
and socks to match his necktie, and honest--you won't believe this, but
I got it straight--this fellow, you know he's staying at Mrs. Gurrey's
punk old boarding-house, and they say he asked Mrs. Gurrey if he ought
to put on a dress-suit for supper! Imagine! Can you beat that? And him
nothing but a Swede tailor--Erik Valborg his name is. But he used to be
in a tailor shop in Minneapolis (they do say he's a smart needle-pusher,
at that) and he tries to let on that he's a regular city fellow. They
say he tries to make people think he's a poet--carries books around and
pretends to read 'em. Myrtle Cass says she met him at a dance, and he
was mooning around all over the place, and he asked her did she like
flowers and poetry and music and everything; he spieled like he was a
regular United States Senator; and Myrtle--she's a devil, that girl,
ha! ha!--she kidded him along, and got him going, and honest, what d'you
think he said? He said he didn't find any intellectual companionship
in this town. Can you BEAT it? Imagine! And him a Swede tailor! My! And
they say he's the most awful mollycoddle--looks just like a girl. The
boys call him 'Elizabeth,' and they stop him and ask about the books he
lets on to have read, and he goes and tells them, and they take it
all in and jolly him terribly, and he never gets onto the fact they're
kidding him. Oh, I think it's just TOO funny!"

The Jolly Seventeen laughed, and Carol laughed with them. Mrs. Jack
Elder added that this Erik Valborg had confided to Mrs. Gurrey that he
would "love to design clothes for women." Imagine! Mrs. Harvey Dillon
had had a glimpse of him, but honestly, she'd thought he was awfully
handsome. This was instantly controverted by Mrs. B. J. Gougerling, wife
of the banker. Mrs. Gougerling had had, she reported, a good look
at this Valborg fellow. She and B. J. had been motoring, and passed
"Elizabeth" out by McGruder's Bridge. He was wearing the awfullest
clothes, with the waist pinched in like a girl's. He was sitting on
a rock doing nothing, but when he heard the Gougerling car coming he
snatched a book out of his pocket, and as they went by he pretended to
be reading it, to show off. And he wasn't really good-looking--just kind
of soft, as B. J. had pointed out.

When the husbands came they joined in the expose. "My name is Elizabeth.
I'm the celebrated musical tailor. The skirts fall for me by the thou.
Do I get some more veal loaf?" merrily shrieked Dave Dyer. He had some
admirable stories about the tricks the town youngsters had played on
Valborg. They had dropped a decaying perch into his pocket. They had
pinned on his back a sign, "I'm the prize boob, kick me."

Glad of any laughter, Carol joined the frolic, and surprised them by
crying, "Dave, I do think you're the dearest thing since you got your
hair cut!" That was an excellent sally. Everybody applauded. Kennicott
looked proud.

She decided that sometime she really must go out of her way to pass
Hicks's shop and see this freak.


II


She was at Sunday morning service at the Baptist Church, in a solemn row
with her husband, Hugh, Uncle Whittier, Aunt Bessie.

Despite Aunt Bessie's nagging the Kennicotts rarely attended church. The
doctor asserted, "Sure, religion is a fine influence--got to have it to
keep the lower classes in order--fact, it's the only thing that appeals
to a lot of those fellows and makes 'em respect the rights of property.
And I guess this theology is O.K.; lot of wise old coots figured it
all out, and they knew more about it than we do." He believed in the
Christian religion, and never thought about it, he believed in the
church, and seldom went near it; he was shocked by Carol's lack of
faith, and wasn't quite sure what was the nature of the faith that she
lacked.

Carol herself was an uneasy and dodging agnostic.

When she ventured to Sunday School and heard the teachers droning that
the genealogy of Shamsherai was a valuable ethical problem for children
to think about; when she experimented with Wednesday prayer-meeting and
listened to store-keeping elders giving their unvarying weekly testimony
in primitive erotic symbols and such gory Chaldean phrases as "washed
in the blood of the lamb" and "a vengeful God"; when Mrs. Bogart boasted
that through his boyhood she had made Cy confess nightly upon the basis
of the Ten Commandments; then Carol was dismayed to find the Christian
religion, in America, in the twentieth century, as abnormal as
Zoroastrianism--without the splendor. But when she went to church
suppers and felt the friendliness, saw the gaiety with which the sisters
served cold ham and scalloped potatoes; when Mrs. Champ Perry cried to
her, on an afternoon call, "My dear, if you just knew how happy it makes
you to come into abiding grace," then Carol found the humanness behind
the sanguinary and alien theology. Always she perceived that the
churches--Methodist, Baptist, Congregational, Catholic, all of
them--which had seemed so unimportant to the judge's home in her
childhood, so isolated from the city struggle in St. Paul, were
still, in Gopher Prairie, the strongest of the forces compelling
respectability.

This August Sunday she had been tempted by the announcement that the
Reverend Edmund Zitterel would preach on the topic "America, Face Your
Problems!" With the great war, workmen in every nation showing a desire
to control industries, Russia hinting a leftward revolution against
Kerensky, woman suffrage coming, there seemed to be plenty of problems
for the Reverend Mr. Zitterel to call on America to face. Carol gathered
her family and trotted off behind Uncle Whittier.

The congregation faced the heat with informality. Men with highly
plastered hair, so painfully shaved that their faces looked sore,
removed their coats, sighed, and unbuttoned two buttons of their
uncreased Sunday vests. Large-bosomed, white-bloused, hot-necked,
spectacled matrons--the Mothers in Israel, pioneers and friends of Mrs.
Champ Perry--waved their palm-leaf fans in a steady rhythm. Abashed boys
slunk into the rear pews and giggled, while milky little girls, up front
with their mothers, self-consciously kept from turning around.

The church was half barn and half Gopher Prairie parlor. The streaky
brown wallpaper was broken in its dismal sweep only by framed texts,
"Come unto Me" and "The Lord is My Shepherd," by a list of hymns, and by
a crimson and green diagram, staggeringly drawn upon hemp-colored paper,
indicating the alarming ease with which a young man may descend from
Palaces of Pleasure and the House of Pride to Eternal Damnation. But the
varnished oak pews and the new red carpet and the three large chairs on
the platform, behind the bare reading-stand, were all of a rocking-chair
comfort.

Carol was civic and neighborly and commendable today. She beamed and
bowed. She trolled out with the others the hymn:

     How pleasant 'tis on Sabbath morn
     To gather in the church
     And there I'll have no carnal thoughts,
     Nor sin shall me besmirch.

With a rustle of starched linen skirts and stiff shirt-fronts, the
congregation sat down, and gave heed to the Reverend Mr. Zitterel. The
priest was a thin, swart, intense young man with a bang. He wore a
black sack suit and a lilac tie. He smote the enormous Bible on the
reading-stand, vociferated, "Come, let us reason together," delivered a
prayer informing Almighty God of the news of the past week, and began to
reason.

It proved that the only problems which America had to face were
Mormonism and Prohibition:

"Don't let any of these self-conceited fellows that are always trying to
stir up trouble deceive you with the belief that there's anything to
all these smart-aleck movements to let the unions and the Farmers'
Nonpartisan League kill all our initiative and enterprise by fixing
wages and prices. There isn't any movement that amounts to a whoop
without it's got a moral background. And let me tell you that while
folks are fussing about what they call 'economics' and 'socialism'
and 'science' and a lot of things that are nothing in the world but a
disguise for atheism, the Old Satan is busy spreading his secret net
and tentacles out there in Utah, under his guise of Joe Smith or Brigham
Young or whoever their leaders happen to be today, it doesn't make any
difference, and they're making game of the Old Bible that has led this
American people through its manifold trials and tribulations to its firm
position as the fulfilment of the prophecies and the recognized leader
of all nations. 'Sit thou on my right hand till I make thine enemies
the footstool of my feet,' said the Lord of Hosts, Acts II, the
thirty-fourth verse--and let me tell you right now, you got to get up a
good deal earlier in the morning than you get up even when you're going
fishing, if you want to be smarter than the Lord, who has shown us the
straight and narrow way, and he that passeth therefrom is in
eternal peril and, to return to this vital and terrible subject of
Mormonism--and as I say, it is terrible to realize how little attention
is given to this evil right here in our midst and on our very doorstep,
as it were--it's a shame and a disgrace that the Congress of these
United States spends all its time talking about inconsequential
financial matters that ought to be left to the Treasury Department, as I
understand it, instead of arising in their might and passing a law that
any one admitting he is a Mormon shall simply be deported and as it were
kicked out of this free country in which we haven't got any room for
polygamy and the tyrannies of Satan.

"And, to digress for a moment, especially as there are more of them in
this state than there are Mormons, though you never can tell what will
happen with this vain generation of young girls, that think more about
wearing silk stockings than about minding their mothers and learning to
bake a good loaf of bread, and many of them listening to these sneaking
Mormon missionaries--and I actually heard one of them talking right out
on a street-corner in Duluth, a few years ago, and the officers of the
law not protesting--but still, as they are a smaller but more immediate
problem, let me stop for just a moment to pay my respects to these
Seventh-Day Adventists. Not that they are immoral, I don't mean, but
when a body of men go on insisting that Saturday is the Sabbath, after
Christ himself has clearly indicated the new dispensation, then I think
the legislature ought to step in----"

At this point Carol awoke.

She got through three more minutes by studying the face of a girl in
the pew across: a sensitive unhappy girl whose longing poured out
with intimidating self-revelation as she worshiped Mr. Zitterel. Carol
wondered who the girl was. She had seen her at church suppers. She
considered how many of the three thousand people in the town she did not
know; to how many of them the Thanatopsis and the Jolly Seventeen were
icy social peaks; how many of them might be toiling through boredom
thicker than her own--with greater courage.

She examined her nails. She read two hymns. She got some satisfaction
out of rubbing an itching knuckle. She pillowed on her shoulder the head
of the baby who, after killing time in the same manner as his mother,
was so fortunate as to fall asleep. She read the introduction,
title-page, and acknowledgment of copyrights, in the hymnal. She tried
to evolve a philosophy which would explain why Kennicott could never
tie his scarf so that it would reach the top of the gap in his turn-down
collar.

There were no other diversions to be found in the pew. She glanced back
at the congregation. She thought that it would be amiable to bow to Mrs.
Champ Perry.

Her slow turning head stopped, galvanized.

Across the aisle, two rows back, was a strange young man who shone among
the cud-chewing citizens like a visitant from the sun-amber curls, low
forehead, fine nose, chin smooth but not raw from Sabbath shaving. His
lips startled her. The lips of men in Gopher Prairie are flat in the
face, straight and grudging. The stranger's mouth was arched, the upper
lip short. He wore a brown jersey coat, a delft-blue bow, a white silk
shirt, white flannel trousers. He suggested the ocean beach, a tennis
court, anything but the sun-blistered utility of Main Street.

A visitor from Minneapolis, here for business? No. He wasn't a business
man. He was a poet. Keats was in his face, and Shelley, and Arthur
Upson, whom she had once seen in Minneapolis. He was at once too
sensitive and too sophisticated to touch business as she knew it in
Gopher Prairie.

With restrained amusement he was analyzing the noisy Mr. Zitterel. Carol
was ashamed to have this spy from the Great World hear the pastor's
maundering. She felt responsible for the town. She resented his gaping
at their private rites. She flushed, turned away. But she continued to
feel his presence.

How could she meet him? She must! For an hour of talk. He was all that
she was hungry for. She could not let him get away without a word--and
she would have to. She pictured, and ridiculed, herself as walking up
to him and remarking, "I am sick with the Village Virus. Will you please
tell me what people are saying and playing in New York?" She pictured,
and groaned over, the expression of Kennicott if she should say,
"Why wouldn't it be reasonable for you, my soul, to ask that complete
stranger in the brown jersey coat to come to supper tonight?"

She brooded, not looking back. She warned herself that she was probably
exaggerating; that no young man could have all these exalted qualities.
Wasn't he too obviously smart, too glossy-new? Like a movie actor.
Probably he was a traveling salesman who sang tenor and fancied himself
in imitations of Newport clothes and spoke of "the swellest business
proposition that ever came down the pike." In a panic she peered at him.
No! This was no hustling salesman, this boy with the curving Grecian
lips and the serious eyes.

She rose after the service, carefully taking Kennicott's arm and smiling
at him in a mute assertion that she was devoted to him no matter what
happened. She followed the Mystery's soft brown jersey shoulders out of
the church.

Fatty Hicks, the shrill and puffy son of Nat, flapped his hand at the
beautiful stranger and jeered, "How's the kid? All dolled up like a
plush horse today, ain't we!"

Carol was exceeding sick. Her herald from the outside was Erik Valborg,
"Elizabeth." Apprentice tailor! Gasoline and hot goose! Mending dirty
jackets! Respectfully holding a tape-measure about a paunch!

And yet, she insisted, this boy was also himself.


III


They had Sunday dinner with the Smails, in a dining-room which centered
about a fruit and flower piece and a crayon-enlargement of Uncle
Whittier. Carol did not heed Aunt Bessie's fussing in regard to Mrs.
Robert B. Schminke's bead necklace and Whittier's error in putting on
the striped pants, day like this. She did not taste the shreds of roast
pork. She said vacuously:

"Uh--Will, I wonder if that young man in the white flannel trousers, at
church this morning, was this Valborg person that they're all talking
about?"

"Yump. That's him. Wasn't that the darndest get-up he had on!" Kennicott
scratched at a white smear on his hard gray sleeve.

"It wasn't so bad. I wonder where he comes from? He seems to have lived
in cities a good deal. Is he from the East?"

"The East? Him? Why, he comes from a farm right up north here, just this
side of Jefferson. I know his father slightly--Adolph Valborg--typical
cranky old Swede farmer."

"Oh, really?" blandly.

"Believe he has lived in Minneapolis for quite some time, though.
Learned his trade there. And I will say he's bright, some ways. Reads
a lot. Pollock says he takes more books out of the library than anybody
else in town. Huh! He's kind of like you in that!"

The Smails and Kennicott laughed very much at this sly jest. Uncle
Whittier seized the conversation. "That fellow that's working for Hicks?
Milksop, that's what he is. Makes me tired to see a young fellow that
ought to be in the war, or anyway out in the fields earning his living
honest, like I done when I was young, doing a woman's work and then come
out and dress up like a show-actor! Why, when I was his age----"

Carol reflected that the carving-knife would make an excellent dagger
with which to kill Uncle Whittier. It would slide in easily. The
headlines would be terrible.

Kennicott said judiciously, "Oh, I don't want to be unjust to him.
I believe he took his physical examination for military service. Got
varicose veins--not bad, but enough to disqualify him. Though I will say
he doesn't look like a fellow that would be so awful darn crazy to poke
his bayonet into a Hun's guts."

"Will! PLEASE!"

"Well, he don't. Looks soft to me. And they say he told Del Snafflin,
when he was getting a hair-cut on Saturday, that he wished he could play
the piano."

"Isn't it wonderful how much we all know about one another in a town
like this," said Carol innocently.

Kennicott was suspicious, but Aunt Bessie, serving the floating island
pudding, agreed, "Yes, it is wonderful. Folks can get away with all
sorts of meannesses and sins in these terrible cities, but they can't
here. I was noticing this tailor fellow this morning, and when Mrs.
Riggs offered to share her hymn-book with him, he shook his head, and
all the while we was singing he just stood there like a bump on a log
and never opened his mouth. Everybody says he's got an idea that he's
got so much better manners and all than what the rest of us have, but if
that's what he calls good manners, I want to know!"

Carol again studied the carving-knife. Blood on the whiteness of a
tablecloth might be gorgeous.

Then:

"Fool! Neurotic impossibilist! Telling yourself orchard fairy-tales--at
thirty. . . . Dear Lord, am I really THIRTY? That boy can't be more than
twenty-five."


IV


She went calling.

Boarding with the Widow Bogart was Fern Mullins, a girl of twenty-two
who was to be teacher of English, French, and gymnastics in the high
school this coming session. Fern Mullins had come to town early, for the
six-weeks normal course for country teachers. Carol had noticed her on
the street, had heard almost as much about her as about Erik Valborg.
She was tall, weedy, pretty, and incurably rakish. Whether she wore a
low middy collar or dressed reticently for school in a black suit with a
high-necked blouse, she was airy, flippant. "She looks like an absolute
totty," said all the Mrs. Sam Clarks, disapprovingly, and all the
Juanita Haydocks, enviously.

That Sunday evening, sitting in baggy canvas lawn-chairs beside the
house, the Kennicotts saw Fern laughing with Cy Bogart who, though still
a junior in high school, was now a lump of a man, only two or three
years younger than Fern. Cy had to go downtown for weighty matters
connected with the pool-parlor. Fern drooped on the Bogart porch, her
chin in her hands.

"She looks lonely," said Kennicott.

"She does, poor soul. I believe I'll go over and speak to her. I was
introduced to her at Dave's but I haven't called." Carol was slipping
across the lawn, a white figure in the dimness, faintly brushing the
dewy grass. She was thinking of Erik and of the fact that her feet
were wet, and she was casual in her greeting: "Hello! The doctor and I
wondered if you were lonely."

Resentfully, "I am!"

Carol concentrated on her. "My dear, you sound so! I know how it is. I
used to be tired when I was on the job--I was a librarian. What was your
college? I was Blodgett."

More interestedly, "I went to the U." Fern meant the University of
Minnesota.

"You must have had a splendid time. Blodgett was a bit dull."

"Where were you a librarian?" challengingly.

"St. Paul--the main library."

"Honest? Oh dear, I wish I was back in the Cities! This is my first year
of teaching, and I'm scared stiff. I did have the best time in college:
dramatics and basket-ball and fussing and dancing--I'm simply crazy
about dancing. And here, except when I have the kids in gymnasium class,
or when I'm chaperoning the basket-ball team on a trip out-of-town, I
won't dare to move above a whisper. I guess they don't care much if
you put any pep into teaching or not, as long as you look like a Good
Influence out of school-hours--and that means never doing anything you
want to. This normal course is bad enough, but the regular school will
be FIERCE! If it wasn't too late to get a job in the Cities, I swear I'd
resign here. I bet I won't dare to go to a single dance all winter. If
I cut loose and danced the way I like to, they'd think I was a perfect
hellion--poor harmless me! Oh, I oughtn't to be talking like this. Fern,
you never could be cagey!"

"Don't be frightened, my dear! . . . Doesn't that sound atrociously old
and kind! I'm talking to you the way Mrs. Westlake talks to me! That's
having a husband and a kitchen range, I suppose. But I feel young, and I
want to dance like a--like a hellion?--too. So I sympathize."

Fern made a sound of gratitude. Carol inquired, "What experience did you
have with college dramatics? I tried to start a kind of Little Theater
here. It was dreadful. I must tell you about it----"

Two hours later, when Kennicott came over to greet Fern and to yawn,
"Look here, Carrie, don't you suppose you better be thinking about
turning in? I've got a hard day tomorrow," the two were talking so
intimately that they constantly interrupted each other.

As she went respectably home, convoyed by a husband, and decorously
holding up her skirts, Carol rejoiced, "Everything has changed! I have
two friends, Fern and----But who's the other? That's queer; I thought
there was----Oh, how absurd!"


V


She often passed Erik Valborg on the street; the brown jersey coat
became unremarkable. When she was driving with Kennicott, in early
evening, she saw him on the lake shore, reading a thin book which might
easily have been poetry. She noted that he was the only person in the
motorized town who still took long walks.

She told herself that she was the daughter of a judge, the wife of a
doctor, and that she did not care to know a capering tailor. She told
herself that she was not responsive to men . . . not even to Percy
Bresnahan. She told herself that a woman of thirty who heeded a boy
of twenty-five was ridiculous. And on Friday, when she had convinced
herself that the errand was necessary, she went to Nat Hicks's shop,
bearing the not very romantic burden of a pair of her husband's
trousers. Hicks was in the back room. She faced the Greek god who, in a
somewhat ungodlike way, was stitching a coat on a scaley sewing-machine,
in a room of smutted plaster walls.

She saw that his hands were not in keeping with a Hellenic face. They
were thick, roughened with needle and hot iron and plow-handle. Even
in the shop he persisted in his finery. He wore a silk shirt, a topaz
scarf, thin tan shoes.

This she absorbed while she was saying curtly, "Can I get these pressed,
please?"

Not rising from the sewing-machine he stuck out his hand, mumbled, "When
do you want them?"

"Oh, Monday."

The adventure was over. She was marching out.

"What name?" he called after her.

He had risen and, despite the farcicality of Dr. Will Kennicott's bulgy
trousers draped over his arm, he had the grace of a cat.

"Kennicott."

"Kennicott. Oh! Oh say, you're Mrs. Dr. Kennicott then, aren't you?"

"Yes." She stood at the door. Now that she had carried out her
preposterous impulse to see what he was like, she was cold, she was as
ready to detect familiarities as the virtuous Miss Ella Stowbody.

"I've heard about you. Myrtle Cass was saying you got up a dramatic club
and gave a dandy play. I've always wished I had a chance to belong to a
Little Theater, and give some European plays, or whimsical like Barrie,
or a pageant."

He pronounced it "pagent"; he rhymed "pag" with "rag."

Carol nodded in the manner of a lady being kind to a tradesman, and one
of her selves sneered, "Our Erik is indeed a lost John Keats."

He was appealing, "Do you suppose it would be possible to get up another
dramatic club this coming fall?"

"Well, it might be worth thinking of." She came out of her several
conflicting poses, and said sincerely, "There's a new teacher, Miss
Mullins, who might have some talent. That would make three of us for a
nucleus. If we could scrape up half a dozen we might give a real play
with a small cast. Have you had any experience?"

"Just a bum club that some of us got up in Minneapolis when I was
working there. We had one good man, an interior decorator--maybe he was
kind of sis and effeminate, but he really was an artist, and we gave one
dandy play. But I----Of course I've always had to work hard, and study
by myself, and I'm probably sloppy, and I'd love it if I had training in
rehearsing--I mean, the crankier the director was, the better I'd like
it. If you didn't want to use me as an actor, I'd love to design the
costumes. I'm crazy about fabrics--textures and colors and designs."

She knew that he was trying to keep her from going, trying to indicate
that he was something more than a person to whom one brought trousers
for pressing. He besought:

"Some day I hope I can get away from this fool repairing, when I have
the money saved up. I want to go East and work for some big dressmaker,
and study art drawing, and become a high-class designer. Or do you think
that's a kind of fiddlin' ambition for a fellow? I was brought up on
a farm. And then monkeyin' round with silks! I don't know. What do you
think? Myrtle Cass says you're awfully educated."

"I am. Awfully. Tell me: Have the boys made fun of your ambition?"

She was seventy years old, and sexless, and more advisory than Vida
Sherwin.

"Well, they have, at that. They've jollied me a good deal, here and
Minneapolis both. They say dressmaking is ladies' work. (But I was
willing to get drafted for the war! I tried to get in. But they
rejected me. But I did try! ) I thought some of working up in a gents'
furnishings store, and I had a chance to travel on the road for a
clothing house, but somehow--I hate this tailoring, but I can't seem
to get enthusiastic about salesmanship. I keep thinking about a room in
gray oatmeal paper with prints in very narrow gold frames--or would it
be better in white enamel paneling?--but anyway, it looks out on
Fifth Avenue, and I'm designing a sumptuous----" He made it
"sump-too-ous"--"robe of linden green chiffon over cloth of gold! You
know--tileul. It's elegant. . . . What do you think?"

"Why not? What do you care for the opinion of city rowdies, or a lot
of farm boys? But you mustn't, you really mustn't, let casual strangers
like me have a chance to judge you."

"Well----You aren't a stranger, one way. Myrtle Cass--Miss Cass, should
say--she's spoken about you so often. I wanted to call on you--and the
doctor--but I didn't quite have the nerve. One evening I walked past
your house, but you and your husband were talking on the porch, and you
looked so chummy and happy I didn't dare butt in."

Maternally, "I think it's extremely nice of you to want to be trained
in--in enunciation by a stage-director. Perhaps I could help you. I'm
a thoroughly sound and uninspired schoolma'am by instinct; quite
hopelessly mature."

"Oh, you aren't EITHER!"

She was not very successful at accepting his fervor with the air of
amused woman of the world, but she sounded reasonably impersonal: "Thank
you. Shall we see if we really can get up a new dramatic club? I'll tell
you: Come to the house this evening, about eight. I'll ask Miss Mullins
to come over, and we'll talk about it."


VI


"He has absolutely no sense of humor. Less than Will. But hasn't
he-----What is a 'sense of humor'? Isn't the thing he lacks the
back-slapping jocosity that passes for humor here? Anyway----Poor lamb,
coaxing me to stay and play with him! Poor lonely lamb! If he could be
free from Nat Hickses, from people who say 'dandy' and 'bum,' would he
develop?

"I wonder if Whitman didn't use Brooklyn back-street slang, as a boy?

"No. Not Whitman. He's Keats--sensitive to silken things. 'Innumerable
of stains and splendid dyes as are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd
wings.' Keats, here! A bewildered spirit fallen on Main Street. And Main
Street laughs till it aches, giggles till the spirit doubts his own self
and tries to give up the use of wings for the correct uses of a 'gents'
furnishings store.' Gopher Prairie with its celebrated eleven miles of
cement walk. . . . I wonder how much of the cement is made out of the
tombstones of John Keatses?"


VII


Kennicott was cordial to Fern Mullins, teased her, told her he was a
"great hand for running off with pretty school-teachers," and promised
that if the school-board should object to her dancing, he would "bat 'em
one over the head and tell 'em how lucky they were to get a girl with
some go to her, for once."

But to Erik Valborg he was not cordial. He shook hands loosely, and
said, "H' are yuh."

Nat Hicks was socially acceptable; he had been here for years, and
owned his shop; but this person was merely Nat's workman, and the
town's principle of perfect democracy was not meant to be applied
indiscriminately.

The conference on a dramatic club theoretically included Kennicott, but
he sat back, patting yawns, conscious of Fern's ankles, smiling amiably
on the children at their sport.

Fern wanted to tell her grievances; Carol was sulky every time she
thought of "The Girl from Kankakee"; it was Erik who made suggestions.
He had read with astounding breadth, and astounding lack of judgment.
His voice was sensitive to liquids, but he overused the word "glorious."
He mispronounced a tenth of the words he had from books, but he knew it.
He was insistent, but he was shy.

When he demanded, "I'd like to stage 'Suppressed Desires,' by Cook and
Miss Glaspell," Carol ceased to be patronizing. He was not the yearner:
he was the artist, sure of his vision. "I'd make it simple. Use a big
window at the back, with a cyclorama of a blue that would simply hit you
in the eye, and just one tree-branch, to suggest a park below. Put
the breakfast table on a dais. Let the colors be kind of arty and
tea-roomy--orange chairs, and orange and blue table, and blue Japanese
breakfast set, and some place, one big flat smear of black--bang! Oh.
Another play I wish we could do is Tennyson Jesse's 'The Black Mask.'
I've never seen it but----Glorious ending, where this woman looks at
the man with his face all blown away, and she just gives one horrible
scream."

"Good God, is that your idea of a glorious ending?" bayed Kennicott.

"That sounds fierce! I do love artistic things, but not the horrible
ones," moaned Fern Mullins.

Erik was bewildered; glanced at Carol. She nodded loyally.

At the end of the conference they had decided nothing.

 Carol goes to a meeting of the Jolly Seventeen and speaks to Maud Dyer, who for some reason has been really nice to Carol lately. Let's not forget that the last time we saw her, she was getting a private visit from Carol's husband Will... Maud Dyer tells all about a new young tailor named Erik who has moved into Gopher Prairie. He's so fancy in his manner and dress that people have nicknamed him Elizabeth. Apparently, this dude whines and moans about how he can't find any intellectual companionship in the town. Everyone laughs, including Carol. They even find out that it's Erik's dream to design clothing for women. When the meeting is over, Carol decides that she'll walk by the tailor shop to have a look at the new "freak" in town. Next, Carol attends a sermon by the local Baptist reverend that's all about loving America and crushing communism... and apparently Mormonism. During the sermon, Carol looks around and sees a young man who shines out from among the boring people of Gopher Prairie. After the sermon, she asks who the young man was and finds out that he's none other than Erik Valbourg, the effeminate tailor no one seems to like. She decides that she must meet him. Later, Carol brings Valbourg up when talking to Will and her in-laws. They make fun of Erik, and Carol thinks about murdering her in-laws with a knife. When Erik Valbourg first came to Gopher Prairie, there was a young woman named Fern Mullins who came on the same train. The folks around the town are suspicious of her because she's so pretty and not shy about showing it off. Carol goes to introduce herself to Fern and learns that Fern wishes she were back in a big city. Carol can relate and feels an instant connection with Fern. One day, Carol takes a pair of Will's pants to get pressed at the tailor's. She runs into Erik Valbourg and he gets excited when he finds out who she is. He's heard all about her knowledge of culture and her efforts to start a dramatic club. He feels like he's found someone he can finally talk to. He thinks Carol should get a club together again and volunteers to make the costumes. Carol goes away thinking that Erik has no sense of humor and only a superficial bit of knowledge. But she's still attracted by the way he seems to reach for the stars with everything he does. Will, meanwhile, always greets Erik rudely, because he thinks Erik is beneath him. Sure enough, Carol holds another meeting of the Gopher Prairie Dramatic Club, and Erik is one of the first to arrive. He has a grand vision for the play they should put on, although the ending is a little gruesome for the conservative folks of Gopher Prairie.

