Chapter IX

by Theodore Dreiser

　　CONVENTION'S OWN TINDER-BOX--THE EYE THAT IS GREENHurstwood's residence on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, was abrick building of a very popular type then, a three-story affairwith the first floor sunk a very little below the level of thestreet. It had a large bay window bulging out from the secondfloor, and was graced in front by a small grassy plot, twenty-five feet wide and ten feet deep. There was also a small rearyard, walled in by the fences of the neighbours and holding astable where he kept his horse and trap.The ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wifeJulia, and his son and daughter, George, Jr., and Jessica. Therewere besides these a maid-servant, represented from time to timeby girls of various extraction, for Mrs. Hurstwood was not alwayseasy to please."George, I let Mary go yesterday," was not an unfrequentsalutation at the dinner table."All right," was his only reply. He had long since wearied ofdiscussing the rancorous subject.A lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, thanwhich there is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate,nothing more calculated to make strong and just the naturescradled and nourished within it. Those who have never experiencedsuch a beneficent influence will not understand wherefore thetear springs glistening to the eyelids at some strange breath inlovely music. The mystic chords which bind and thrill the heartof the nation, they will never know.Hurstwood's residence could scarcely be said to be infused withthis home spirit. It lacked that toleration and regard withoutwhich the home is nothing. There was fine furniture, arranged assoothingly as the artistic perception of the occupants warranted.There were soft rugs, rich, upholstered chairs and divans, agrand piano, a marble carving of some unknown Venus by someunknown artist, and a number of small bronzes gathered fromheaven knows where, but generally sold by the large furniturehouses along with everything else which goes to make the"perfectly appointed house."In the dining-room stood a sideboard laden with glisteningdecanters and other utilities and ornaments in glass, thearrangement of which could not be questioned. Here was somethingHurstwood knew about. He had studied the subject for years in hisbusiness. He took no little satisfaction in telling each Mary,shortly after she arrived, something of what the art of the thingrequired. He was not garrulous by any means. On the contrary,there was a fine reserve in his manner toward the entire domesticeconomy of his life which was all that is comprehended by thepopular term, gentlemanly. He would not argue, he would not talkfreely. In his manner was something of the dogmatist. What hecould not correct, he would ignore. There was a tendency in himto walk away from the impossible thing.There was a time when he had been considerably enamoured of hisJessica, especially when he was younger and more confined in hissuccess. Now, however, in her seventeenth year, Jessica haddeveloped a certain amount of reserve and independence which wasnot inviting to the richest form of parental devotion. She was inthe high school, and had notions of life which were decidedlythose of a patrician. She liked nice clothes and urged for themconstantly. Thoughts of love and elegant individualestablishments were running in her head. She met girls at thehigh school whose parents were truly rich and whose fathers hadstanding locally as partners or owners of solid businesses.These girls gave themselves the airs befitting the thrivingdomestic establishments from whence they issued. They were theonly ones of the school about whom Jessica concerned herself.Young Hurstwood, Jr., was in his twentieth year, and was alreadyconnected in a promising capacity with a large real estate firm.He contributed nothing for the domestic expenses of the family,but was thought to be saving his money to invest in real estate.He had some ability, considerable vanity, and a love of pleasurethat had not, as yet, infringed upon his duties, whatever theywere. He came in and went out, pursuing his own plans andfancies, addressing a few words to his mother occasionally,relating some little incident to his father, but for the mostpart confining himself to those generalities with which mostconversation concerns itself. He was not laying bare his desiresfor any one to see. He did not find any one in the house whoparticularly cared to see.Mrs. Hurstwood was the type of woman who has ever endeavoured toshine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences ofsuperior capability in this direction elsewhere. Her knowledgeof life extended to that little conventional round of society ofwhich she was not--but longed to be--a member. She was notwithout realisation already that this thing was impossible, sofar as she was concerned. For her daughter, she hoped betterthings. Through Jessica she might rise a little. ThroughGeorge, Jr.'s, possible success she might draw to herself theprivilege of pointing proudly. Even Hurstwood was doing wellenough, and she was anxious that his small real estate adventuresshould prosper. His property holdings, as yet, were rathersmall, but his income was pleasing and his position withFitzgerald and Moy was fixed. Both those gentlemen were onpleasant and rather informal terms with him.The atmosphere which such personalities would create must beapparent to all. It worked out in a thousand littleconversations, all of which were of the same calibre."I'm going up to Fox Lake to-morrow," announced George, Jr., atthe dinner table one Friday evening."What's going on up there?" queried Mrs. Hurstwood."Eddie Fahrway's got a new steam launch, and he wants me to comeup and see how it works.""How much did it cost him?" asked his mother."Oh, over two thousand dollars. He says it's a dandy.""Old Fahrway must be making money," put in Hurstwood."He is, I guess. Jack told me they were shipping Vegacura toAustralia now--said they sent a whole box to Cape Town lastweek.""Just think of that!" said Mrs. Hurstwood, "and only four yearsago they had that basement in Madison Street.""Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building nextspring in Robey Street.""Just think of that!" said Jessica.On this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early."I guess I'll be going down town," he remarked, rising."Are we going to McVicker's Monday?" questioned Mrs. Hurstwood,without rising."Yes," he said indifferently.They went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat.Presently the door clicked."I guess papa's gone," said Jessica.The latter's school news was of a particular stripe."They're going to give a performance in the Lyceum, upstairs,"she reported one day, "and I'm going to be in it.""Are you?" said her mother."Yes, and I'll have to have a new dress. Some of the nicestgirls in the school are going to be in it. Miss Palmer is goingto take the part of Portia.""Is she?" said Mrs. Hurstwood."They've got that Martha Griswold in it again. She thinks shecan act.""Her family doesn't amount to anything, does it?" said Mrs.Hurstwood sympathetically. "They haven't anything, have they?""No," returned Jessica, "they're poor as church mice."She distinguished very carefully between the young boys of theschool, many of whom were attracted by her beauty."What do you think?" she remarked to her mother one evening;"that Herbert Crane tried to make friends with me.""Who is he, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Hurstwood."Oh, no one," said Jessica, pursing her pretty lips. "He's just astudent there. He hasn't anything."The other half of this picture came when young Blyford, son ofBlyford, the soap manufacturer, walked home with her. Mrs.Hurstwood was on the third floor, sitting in a rocking-chairreading, and happened to look out at the time."Who was that with you, Jessica?" she inquired, as Jessica cameupstairs."It's Mr. Blyford, mamma," she replied."Is it?" said Mrs. Hurstwood."Yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him,"explained Jessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs."All right, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "Don't be gone long."As the two went down the street, she glanced interestedly out ofthe window. It was a most satisfactory spectacle indeed, mostsatisfactory.In this atmosphere Hurstwood had moved for a number of years, notthinking deeply concerning it. His was not the order of natureto trouble for something better, unless the better wasimmediately and sharply contrasted. As it was, he received andgave, irritated sometimes by the little displays of selfishindifference, pleased at times by some show of finery whichsupposedly made for dignity and social distinction. The life ofthe resort which he managed was his life. There he spent most ofhis time. When he went home evenings the house looked nice.With rare exceptions the meals were acceptable, being the kindthat an ordinary servant can arrange. In part, he was interestedin the talk of his son and daughter, who always looked well. Thevanity of Mrs. Hurstwood caused her to keep her person rathershowily arrayed, but to Hurstwood this was much better thanplainness. There was no love lost between them. There was nogreat feeling of dissatisfaction. Her opinion on any subject wasnot startling. They did not talk enough together to come to theargument of any one point. In the accepted and popular phrase,she had her ideas and he had his. Once in a while he would meeta woman whose youth, sprightliness, and humour would make hiswife seem rather deficient by contrast, but the temporarydissatisfaction which such an encounter might arouse would becounterbalanced by his social position and a certain matter ofpolicy. He could not complicate his home life, because it mightaffect his relations with his employers. They wanted noscandals. A man, to hold his position, must have a dignifiedmanner, a clean record, a respectable home anchorage. Thereforehe was circumspect in all he did, and whenever he appeared in thepublic ways in the afternoon, or on Sunday, it was with his wife,and sometimes his children. He would visit the local resorts, orthose near by in Wisconsin, and spend a few stiff, polished daysstrolling about conventional places doing conventional things.He knew the need of it.When some one of the many middle-class individuals whom he knew,who had money, would get into trouble, he would shake his head.It didn't do to talk about those things. If it came up fordiscussion among such friends as with him passed for close, hewould deprecate the folly of the thing. "It was all right to doit--all men do those things--but why wasn't he careful? A mancan't be too careful." He lost sympathy for the man that made amistake and was found out.On this account he still devoted some time to showing his wifeabout--time which would have been wearisome indeed if it had notbeen for the people he would meet and the little enjoyments whichdid not depend upon her presence or absence. He watched her withconsiderable curiosity at times, for she was still attractive ina way and men looked at her. She was affable, vain, subject toflattery, and this combination, he knew quite well, might producea tragedy in a woman of her home position. Owing to his order ofmind, his confidence in the sex was not great. His wife neverpossessed the virtues which would win the confidence andadmiration of a man of his nature. As long as she loved himvigorously he could see how confidence could be, but when thatwas no longer the binding chain--well, something might happen.During the last year or two the expenses of the family seemed alarge thing. Jessica wanted fine clothes, and Mrs. Hurstwood,not to be outshone by her daughter, also frequently enlivened herapparel. Hurstwood had said nothing in the past, but one day hemurmured."Jessica must have a new dress this month," said Mrs. Hurstwoodone morning.Hurstwood was arraying himself in one of his perfection vestsbefore the glass at the time."I thought she just bought one," he said."That was just something for evening wear," returned his wifecomplacently."It seems to me," returned Hurstwood, "that she's spending a gooddeal for dresses of late.""Well, she's going out more," concluded his wife, but the tone ofhis voice impressed her as containing something she had not heardthere before.He was not a man who traveled much, but when he did, he had beenaccustomed to take her along. On one occasion recently a localaldermanic junket had been arranged to visit Philadelphia--ajunket that was to last ten days. Hurstwood had been invited."Nobody knows us down there," said one, a gentleman whose facewas a slight improvement over gross ignorance and sensuality. Healways wore a silk hat of most imposing proportions. "We canhave a good time." His left eye moved with just the semblance ofa wink. "You want to come along, George."The next day Hurstwood announced his intention to his wife."I'm going away, Julia," he said, "for a few days.""Where?" she asked, looking up."To Philadelphia, on business."She looked at him consciously, expecting something else."I'll have to leave you behind this time.""All right," she replied, but he could see that she was thinkingthat it was a curious thing. Before he went she asked him a fewmore questions, and that irritated him. He began to feel thatshe was a disagreeable attachment.On this trip he enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when it was overhe was sorry to get back. He was not willingly a prevaricator,and hated thoroughly to make explanations concerning it. Thewhole incident was glossed over with general remarks, but Mrs.Hurstwood gave the subject considerable thought. She drove outmore, dressed better, and attended theatres freely to make up forit.Such an atmosphere could hardly come under the category of homelife. It ran along by force of habit, by force of conventionalopinion. With the lapse of time it must necessarily become dryerand dryer--must eventually be tinder, easily lighted anddestroyed.