Fanny Brandeis, working under the light of her green-shaded desk lamp, wondered, a little bitterly, if Christmas would ever mean anything to her but pressure, weariness, work. She told herself that she would not think of that Christmas of one year ago. One year! As she glanced around the orderly little office, and out to the stock room beyond, then back to her desk again, she had an odd little feeling of unreality. Surely it had been not one year, but many years—a lifetime—since she had elbowed her way up and down those packed aisles of the busy little store in Winnebago—she and that brisk, alert, courageous6 woman.
“Mrs. Brandeis, lady wants to know if you can't put this blue satin dress on the dark-haired doll, and the pink satin.... Well, I did tell her, but she said for me to ask you, anyway.”
“Mis' Brandeis, this man says he paid a dollar down on a go-cart last month and he wants to pay the rest and take it home with him.”
And then the reassuring7, authoritative8 voice, “Coming! I'll be right there.”
“Coming!” That had been her whole life. Service. And now she lay so quietly beneath the snow of the bitter northern winter.
At that point Fanny's fist would come down hard on her desk, and the quick, indrawn breath of mutinous10 resentment11 would hiss12 through her teeth.
She kept away from the downtown shops and their crowds. She scowled13 at sight of the holly14 and mistletoe wreaths, with their crimson15 streamers. There was something almost ludicrous in the way she shut her eyes to the holiday pageant16 all around her, and doubled and redoubled her work. It seemed that she had a new scheme for her department every other day, and every other one was a good one.
Slosson had long ago abandoned the attempt to keep up with her. He did not even resent her, as he had at first. “I'm a buyer,” he said, rather pathetically, “and a pret-ty good one, too. But I'm not a genius, and I never will be. And I guess you've got to be a genius, these days, to keep up. It used to be enough for an infants' wear buyer to know muslins, cottons, woolens17, silks, and embroideries18. But that's old-fashioned now. These days, when you hire an office boy you don't ask him if he can read and write. You tell him he's got to have personality, magnetism19, and imagination. Makes me sick!”
The Baby Book came off the presses and it was good. Even Slosson admitted it, grudgingly20. The cover was a sunny, breezy seashore picture, all blue and gold, with plump, dimpled youngsters playing, digging in the sand, romping21 (and wearing our No. 13E1269, etc., of course). Inside were displayed the complete baby outfits23, with a smiling mother, and a chubby24, crowing baby as a central picture, and each piece of each outfit22 separately pictured. Just below this, the outfit number and price, and a list of the pieces that went to make it up. From the emergency outfit at $3.98 to the outfit de luxe (for Haynes-Cooper patrons) at $28.50, each group was comprehensive, practical, complete. In the back of the book was a personal service plea. “Use us,” it said. “We are here to assist you, not only in the matter of merchandise, but with information and advice. Mothers in particular are in need of such service. This book will save you weariness and worry. Use us.”
Fanny surveyed the book with pardonable pride. But she was not satisfied. “We lack style,” she said. “The practical garments are all right. But what we need is a little snap. That means cut and line. And I'm going to New York to get it.” That had always been Slosson's work.
She and Ella Monahan were to go to the eastern markets together. Ella Monahan went to New York regularly every three weeks. Fanny had never been east of Chicago. She envied Ella her knowledge of the New York wholesalers and manufacturers. Ella had dropped into Fanny's office for a brief moment. The two women had little in common, except their work, but they got on very well, and each found the other educating.
“Seems to me you're putting an awful lot into this,” observed Ella Monahan, her wise eyes on Fanny's rather tense face.
“You've got to,” replied Fanny, “to get anything out of it.”
“I guess you're right,” Ella agreed, and laughed a rueful little laugh. “I know I've given 'em everything I've got—and a few things I didn't know I had. It's a queer game—life. Now if my old father hadn't run a tannery in Racine, and if I hadn't run around there all the day, so that I got so the smell and feel of leather and hides were part of me, why, I'd never be buyer of gloves at Haynes-Cooper. And you——”
“Brandeis' Bazaar25.” And was going on, when her office boy came in with a name. Ella rose to go, but Fanny stopped her. “Father Fitzpatrick! Bring him right in! Miss Monahan, you've got to meet him. He's”—then, as the great frame of the handsome old priest filled the doorway—“he's just Father Fitzpatrick. Ella Monahan.”
The white-haired Irishman, and the white-haired Irish woman clasped hands.
“And who are you, daughter, besides being Ella Monahan?”
“Buyer of gloves at Haynes-Cooper, Father.”
“You don't tell me, now!” He turned to Fanny, put his two big hands on her shoulders, and swung her around to face the light. “Hm,” he murmured, noncommittally, after that.
“Hm—what?” demanded Fanny. “It sounds unflattering, whatever it means.” “Gloves!” repeated Father Fitzpatrick, unheeding her. “Well, now, what d'you think of that! Millions of dollars' worth, I'll wager27, in your time.”
“Two million and a half in my department last year,” replied Ella, without the least trace of boastfulness. One talked only in terms of millions at Haynes-Cooper's.
“What an age it is! When two slips of women can earn salaries that would make the old kings of Ireland look like beggars.” He twinkled upon the older woman. “And what a feeling it must be—independence, and all.”
“I've earned my own living since I was seventeen,” said Ella Monahan. “I'd hate to tell you how long that is.” A murmur26 from the gallant28 Irishman. “Thanks, Father, for the compliment I see in your eyes. But what I mean is this: You're right about independence. It is a grand thing. At first. But after a while it begins to pall29 on you. Don't ask me why. I don't know. I only hope you won't think I'm a wicked woman when I say I could learn to love any man who'd hang a silver fox scarf and a string of pearls around my neck, and ask me if I didn't feel a draft.”
“Wicked! Not a bit of it, my girl. It's only natural, and commendable—barrin' the pearls.”
“I'd forego them,” laughed Ella, and with a parting handshake left the two alone.
Father Fitzpatrick looked after her. “A smart woman, that.” He took out his watch, a fat silver one. “It's eleven-thirty. My train leaves at four. Now, Fanny, if you'll get on your hat, and arrange to steal an hour or so from this Brobdingnagian place a grand word that, my girl, and nearer to swearing than any word I know—I'll take you to the Blackstone, no less, for lunch. How's that for a poor miserable30 old priest!”
“You dear, I couldn't think of it. Oh, yes, I could get away, but let's lunch right here at the plant, in the grill——”
“Never! I couldn't. Don't ask it of me. This place scares me. I came up in the elevator with a crowd and a guide, and he was juggling31 millions, that chap, the way a newsboy flips32 a cent. I'm but a poor parish priest, but I've got my pride. We'll go to the Blackstone, which I've passed, humbly33, but never been in, with its rose silk shades and its window boxes. And we'll be waited on by velvet-footed servitors, me girl. Get your hat.”
Fanny, protesting, but laughing, too, got it. They took the L. Michigan avenue, as they approached it from Wabash, was wind-swept and bleak34 as only Michigan avenue can be in December. They entered the warm radiance of the luxurious35 foyer with a little breathless rush, as wind-blown Chicagoans generally do. The head waiter must have thought Father Fitzpatrick a cardinal36, at least, for he seated them at a window table that looked out upon the icy street, with Grant Park, crusted with sooty snow, just across the way, and beyond that the I. C. tracks and the great gray lake. The splendid room was all color, and perfume, and humming conversation. A fountain tinkled38 in the center, and upon its waters there floated lily pads and blossoms, weirdly39 rose, and mauve, and lavender. The tables were occupied by deliciously slim young girls and very self-conscious college boys, home for the holidays, and marcelled matrons, furred and aigretted. The pink in Fanny's cheeks deepened. She loved luxury. She smiled and flashed at the handsome old priest opposite her.
“You're a wastrel,” she said, “but isn't it nice!” And tasted the first delicious sip40 of soup.
“It is. For a change. Extravagance is good for all of us, now and then.” He glanced leisurely41 about the brilliant room, then out to the street, bleakly42 windswept. He leaned back and drummed a bit with his fingers on the satin-smooth cloth. “Now and then. Tell me, Fanny, what would you say, off-hand, was the most interesting thing you see from here? You used to have a trick of picking out what they call the human side. Your mother had it, too.”
Fanny, smiling, glanced about the room, her eyes unconsciously following the track his had taken. About the room, and out, to the icy street. “The most interesting thing?” Back to the flower-scented room, with its music, and tinkle37, and animation43. Out again, to the street. “You see that man, standing44 at the curb45, across the street. He's sort of crouched46 against the lamp post. See him? Yes, there, just this side of that big gray car? He's all drawn9 up in a heap. You can feel him shivering. He looks as if he were trying to crawl inside himself for warmth. Ever since we came in I've noticed him staring straight across at these windows where we're all sitting so grandly, lunching. I know what he's thinking, don't you? And I wish I didn't feel so uncomfortable, knowing it. I wish we hadn't ordered lobster47 thermidor. I wish—there! the policeman's moving him on.”
Father Fitzpatrick reached over and took her hand, as it lay on the table, in his great grasp. “Fanny, girl, you've told me what I wanted to know. Haynes-Cooper or no Haynes-Cooper, millions or no millions, your ravines aren't choked up with ashes yet, my dear. Thank God.”
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1
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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blizzard
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| n.暴风雪 | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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6
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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7
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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9
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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13
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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16
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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woolens
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| 毛织品，毛料织物； 毛织品，羊毛织物，毛料衣服( woolen的名词复数 ) | |
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18
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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grudgingly
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romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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outfits
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| n.全套装备( outfit的名词复数 )；一套服装；集体；组织v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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32
flips
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| 轻弹( flip的第三人称单数 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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39
weirdly
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| 古怪地 | |
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40
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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41
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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42
bleakly
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| 无望地，阴郁地，苍凉地 | |
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43
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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44
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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45
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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46
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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