The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (177 page)

Mrs. Trescott was in the circle of tea-fighters largely through a sort of artificial necessity — a necessity, in short, which she had herself created in a spirit of femininity.

When the painter and his family came for the holidays, Mrs. Trescott had for some time been feeling that it was her turn to give a tea party, and she was resolved upon it now that she was reinforced by the beautiful wife of the painter, whose charms would make all the other women feel badly. And Mrs. Trescott further resolved that the affair should be notable in more than one way. The painter’s wife suggested that, as an innovation, they give the people good tea; but Mrs. Trescott shook her head; she was quite sure they would not like it.

It was an impressive gathering. A few came to see if they could not find out the faults of the painter’s wife, and these, added to those who would have attended even without that attractive prospect, swelled the company to a number quite large for Whilomville. There were the usual preliminary jolts, and then suddenly the tea party was in full swing, and looked like an unprecedented success.

Mrs. Trescott exchanged a glance with the painter’s wife. They felt proud and superior. This tea party was almost perfection.

III

Jimmie and the angel child, after being oppressed by innumerable admonitions to behave correctly during the afternoon, succeeded in reaching the garden, where the stove awaited them. They were enjoying themselves grandly, when snow began to fall so heavily that it gradually dampened their ardor as well as extinguished the fire in the stove. They stood ruefully until the angel child devised the plan of carrying the stove into the stable, and there, safe from the storm, to continue the festivities. But they were met at the door of the stable by Peter Washington.

“What you ‘bout, Jim?”

“Now — it’s snowin’ so hard, we thought we’d take the stove into the stable.”

“An’ have er fiah in it? No, seh! G’w’on ‘way f’m heh! — g’w’on! Don’ ‘low no sech foolishin’ round yer. No, seh!”

“Well, we ain’t goin’ to hurt your old stable, are we?” asked Jimmie, ironically.

“Dat you ain’t, Jim! Not so long’s I keep my two eyes right plumb squaah pinted at ol’ Jim. No, seh!” Peter began to chuckle in derision.

The two vagabonds stood before him while he informed them of their iniquities as well as their absurdities, and further made clear his own masterly grasp of the spirit of their devices. Nothing affects children so much as rhetoric. It may not involve any definite presentation of common-sense, but if it is picturesque they surrender decently to its influence. Peter was by all means a rhetorician, and it was not long before the two children had dismally succumbed to him. They went away.

Depositing the stove in the snow, they straightened to look at each other. It did not enter either head to relinquish the idea of continuing the game. But the situation seemed invulnerable.

The angel child went on a scouting tour. Presently she returned, flying. “I know! Let’s have it in the cellar! In the cellar! Oh, it’ll be lovely!”

The outer door of the cellar was open, and they proceeded down some steps with their treasure. There was plenty of light; the cellar was high-walled, warm, and dry. They named it an ideal place. Two huge cylindrical furnaces were humming away, one at either end. Overhead the beams detonated with the different emotions which agitated the tea party.

Jimmie worked like a stoker, and soon there was a fine bright fire in the stove. The fuel was of small brittle sticks which did not make a great deal of smoke.

“Now what’ll we cook?” cried little Cora. “What’ll we cook, Jim? We must have something to cook, you know.”

“Potatoes?” said Jimmie.

But the angel child made a scornful gesture. “No. I’ve cooked ‘bout a million potatoes, I guess. Potatoes aren’t nice any more.”

Jimmie’s mind was all said and done when the question of potatoes had been passed, and he looked weakly at his companion.

“Haven’t you got any turnips in your house?” she inquired, contemptuously. “In
my
house we have
turnips
.”

“Oh, turnips!” exclaimed Jimmie, immensely relieved to find that the honor of his family was safe. “Turnips? Oh, bushels an’ bushels an’ bushels! Out in the shed.”

“Well, go an’ get a whole lot,” commanded the angel child. “Go an’ get a whole lot. Grea’ big ones.
We
always have grea’ big ones.”

Jimmie went to the shed and kicked gently at a company of turnips which the frost had amalgamated. He made three journeys to and from the cellar, carrying always the very largest types from his father’s store. Four of them filled the oven of little Cora’s stove. This fact did not please her, so they placed three rows of turnips on the hot top. Then the angel child, profoundly moved by an inspiration, suddenly cried out,

“Oh, Jimmie, let’s play we’re keepin’ a hotel, an’ have got to cook for ‘bout a thousand people, an’ those two furnaces will be the ovens, an’ I’ll be the chief cook—”

“No; I want to be chief cook some of the time,” interrupted Jimmie.

“No; I’ll be chief cook my own self. You must be my ‘sistant. Now I’ll prepare ’em — see? An’ then you put ’em in the ovens. Get the shovel. We’ll play that’s the pan. I’ll fix ‘em, an’ then you put ’em in the oven. Hold it still now.”

Jim held the coal-shovel while little Cora, with a frown of importance, arranged turnips in rows upon it. She patted each one daintily, and then backed away to view it, with her head critically sideways.

“There!” she shouted at last. “That’ll do, I guess. Put ’em in the oven.”

Jimmie marched with his shovelful of turnips to one of the furnaces. The door was already open, and he slid the shovel in upon the red coals.

“Come on,” cried little Cora. “I’ve got another batch nearly ready.”

“But what am I goin’ to do with these?” asked Jimmie. “There ain’t only one shovel.”

“Leave ‘m in there,” retorted the girl, passionately. “Leave ‘m in there, an’ then play you’re comin’ with another pan. ‘Tain’t right to stand there an’
hold
the pan, you goose.”

So Jimmie expelled all his turnips from his shovel out upon the furnace fire, and returned obediently for another batch.

“These are puddings,” yelled the angel child, gleefully. “Dozens an’ dozens of puddings for the thousand people at our grea’ big hotel.”

IV

At the first alarm the painter had fled to the doctor’s office, where he hid his face behind a book and pretended that he did not hear the noise of feminine revelling. When the doctor came from a round of calls, he too retreated upon the office, and the men consoled each other as well as they were able. Once Mrs. Trescott dashed in to say delightedly that her tea party was not only the success of the season, but it was probably the very nicest tea party that had ever been held in Whilomville. After vainly beseeching them to return with her, she dashed away again, her face bright with happiness.

The doctor and the painter remained for a long time in silence, Trescott tapping reflectively upon the window-pane. Finally he turned to the painter, and sniffing, said: “What is that, Willis? Don’t you smell something?”

The painter also sniffed. “Why, yes! It’s like — it’s like turnips.”

“Turnips? No; it can’t be.

“Well, it’s very much like it.”

The puzzled doctor opened the door into the hall, and at first it appeared that he was going to give back two paces. A result of frizzling turnips, which was almost as tangible as mist, had blown in upon his face and made him gasp. “Good God! Willis, what can this be?” he cried.

“Whee!” said the painter. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

The doctor made his way hurriedly to his wife, but before he could speak with her he had to endure the business of greeting a score of women. Then he whispered, “Out in the hall there’s an awful—”

“THE SOLEMN ODOR OF BURNING TURNIPS ROLLED IN LIKE A SEA-FOG”

But at that moment it came to them on the wings of a sudden draught. The solemn odor of burning turnips rolled in like a sea-fog, and fell upon that dainty, perfumed tea party. It was almost a personality; if some unbidden and extremely odious guest had entered the room, the effect would have been much the same. The sprightly talk stopped with a jolt, and people looked at each other. Then a few brave and considerate persons made the usual attempt to talk away as if nothing had happened. They all looked at their hostess, who wore an air of stupefaction.

The odor of burning turnips grew and grew. To Trescott it seemed to make a noise. He thought he could hear the dull roar of this outrage. Under some circumstances he might have been able to take the situation from a point of view of comedy, but the agony of his wife was too acute, and, for him, too visible. She was saying: “Yes, we saw the play the last time we were in New York. I liked it very much. That scene in the second act — the gloomy church, you know, and all that — and the organ playing — and then when the four singing little girls came in—” But Trescott comprehended that she did not know if she was talking of a play or a parachute.

He had not been in the room twenty seconds before his brow suddenly flushed with an angry inspiration. He left the room hastily, leaving behind him an incoherent phrase of apology, and charged upon his office, where he found the painter somnolent.

“Willis!” he cried, sternly, “come with me. It’s that damn kid of yours!”

The painter was immediately agitated. He always seemed to feel more than any one else in the world the peculiar ability of his child to create resounding excitement, but he seemed always to exhibit his feelings very late. He arose hastily, and hurried after Trescott to the top of the inside cellar stairway. Trescott motioned him to pause, and for an instant they listened.

“Hurry up, Jim,” cried the busy little Cora. “Here’s another whole batch of lovely puddings. Hurry up now, an’ put ’em in the oven.”

Trescott looked at the painter; the painter groaned. Then they appeared violently in the middle of the great kitchen of the hotel with a thousand people in it. “Jimmie, go up-stairs!” said Trescott, and then he turned to watch the painter deal with the angel child.

With some imitation of wrath, the painter stalked to his daughter’s side and grasped her by the arm.

“‘HERE’S ANOTHER BATCH OF LOVELY PUDDINGS’”

“Oh, papa! papa!” she screamed. “You’re pinching me! You’re pinching me! You’re pinching me, papa!”