“TRY A TIN TO-DAY”
“And now,” said John Potts, whirling around on the piano-stool and throwing his lank forelock back with a jerk of his head, “we will interpret Grace Mallon’s soul!”
“Oh, wait till she comes, John!” boomed the Rev. Morris Gildell. “She was at the Karl Marx Forum in our parish-house last night, and she said positively she’d be down here this afternoon.”
“Yes, do wait!” said Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur, placing her fat hands, covered with rings set with semiprecious stones, over those of the pianist. “Do wait! It will be wonderful for her to hear it!”
The host of the occasion was Edwin Marmaduke, painter. He was at present engaged in spooning Arabian incense out of a cocoa-tin and putting it into a large bronze thurible, which hung before a plaster replica of Rodin’s “Le Baiser.” The incense caught fire, and dense clouds of fragrant smoke filled the little studio. Then Marmaduke turned his pale but agreeable face to his guests.
“No, do it now!” he commanded. “Perhaps you and Arthura will bring her with it.”
So John Potts struck a few minor chords, and Arthura Lewis lifted her pale-green mantle in both thin arms, smiled at the low ceiling, closed her eyes, and danced. She did not really dance. She merely bent and kicked and gestured, approximately in rhythm with the music.
She was not really Miss Arthura Lewis, either. Her first name, which she had discarded as too usual, was Alice and her last name was Potts, for she was the pianist’s wife. They were known to live together in the little apartment across Patchin Place from Marmaduke’s studio, but the fact of their marriage was scrupulously kept a secret from the other members of their emancipated circle. No liaison was ever hidden from the world more zealously than was the regularity and mid-Victorian respectability of this seeming “free comradeship.”
So John Potts played and Arthura danced, and the theme they were interpreting was Grace Mallon’s soul. Edwin Marmaduke’s eyes were turned toward Arthura, but he did not see her. Nor did he see Grace’s soul. He saw her eyes—very gray and lovely—and her hair, which was golden-brown and had an indefinable air of mirth about it.
Marmaduke loved Grace better than cigarettes, or incense, or art; better even than the school of painting of which he was the acknowledged master, the school which proudly accepted a name first derisively given it—the Incomprehensiblists. So, while Arthura twisted and turned and John Potts hammered out discords, he thought of Grace’s beauty and charm.
To do him justice, he did not think of her great wealth. In fact, he did not like to think of her wealth, for that wealth came from her father’s success in a most unesthetic business. Grace was the daughter of “Try a Tin To-day” Mallon, who was known in the world of canned goods as the Salmon King.
There was no vulgar hand-clapping after the artists had finished their interpretation of Grace’s soul; but the Rev. Morris Gildell rattled his spoon against the sides of his teacup, while Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur sighed ecstatically and clanked her chain of heavy amber beads. Even in the act of lighting a cigarette, John Potts started dramatically and pointed toward the open window.
“La voilà!” he exclaimed. “We have summoned her! I hear the rumble of her chariot-wheels.”
There did indeed come from the cobbles of Patchin Place the whir and snort of an automobile. Soon the great gong on the wall clanged viciously, causing Arthura Lewis to shudder and clasp her long, white hands to her eyes. Edwin Marmaduke sped down the four flights of stairs that intervened between his studio and the street door.
His deserted guests looked at one another expectantly.
“Dear Grace!” said Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur. “I hope she came alone. I can’t stand that friend of hers—what is his name?—that Watson person.”
“He is a terrible bromid,” said Arthura Lewis, lighting a cigarette. “He’s so very—so very, shall I say, salmony!”
This was said with humorous intent and received with kindly laughter.
“But what has Mr. Watson to do with salmon, anyway?” asked John Potts. “Does he catch them, or what is it?”
“Nothing so exciting as that,” said the Rev. Morris Gildell, with a great chuckle. “He merely celebrates them. He is the advertising manager of the Mallon Salmon Company, and his chief claim to immortality is that he invented the ‘Try a Tin To-day’ slogan. You know those great pink pictures of ridiculous-looking fish that we see in public vehicles and on the highways and byways, each one holding out a can bearing the legend, ‘Try a Tin To-day’? Watson is responsible for those mutilations of the landscape.”
“Does Watson paint them himself?” asked Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur. “He looks capable of it.”
The Rev. Morris Gildell issued another of those shouts of laughter which made the women’s clubs believe him masculine and hearty.
“Excellent!” he cried, putting an approving hand on Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur’s fat, bare shoulder. “Oh, excellent! No, Watson doesn’t paint them, but he does worse—he inspires them. He persuades some poor devil of an artist to make these hideous caricatures of the truth. He is the Mæcenas of the ‘Try a Tin To-day’ school of painting.”
After waiting for the murmur of amusement to die down, the Rev. Morris Gildell continued:
“Grace brought Watson to the Feminist Conference at our church last week, and several people asked me what a rare, free spirit like her could see in such a clod. I suppose she feels that she must go around with him occasionally because he is so useful to her father. But I hope she doesn’t think of marrying him!”
“Marrying him!” exclaimed Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur, Arthura Lewis, and John Potts in unison. “I hope not!”
“Why,” said Arthura Lewis, “it would be a tragedy for an emancipated woman like Grace to marry at all! Not to speak of marrying such a soulless, brainless animal as that David Watson! I’d as soon see her—”
But the conversation was interrupted by the opening of the studio door and the entrance of Grace and their young host.
Edwin Marmaduke seemed somehow to look younger than before. He had lost a little of his expression of languor and disdain; and Grace was the very personification of radiant girlhood. In spite of her knowledge of her own good looks and good clothes, she was charmingly deferential to these people, whom she considered intellectuals. Her naively respectful greeting to the Rev. Morris Gildell seemed for the moment to restore to that drawing-room revolutionist some strange lost dignity.
Men and women alike greeted the young girl with genuine friendliness. When her gray motor-cloak had been hung over the corner of an easel, and she had been seated on one of the few real chairs the studio boasted, and served with sweet biscuits, a cup of tea, and a cigarette, then the great event of the afternoon occurred—the unveiling of Marmaduke’s portrait of her.
The blinds were drawn—for the Incomprehensiblist painting is best appreciated in semidarkness. The incense-pot received some new fuel; John Potts played something “very golden” on the piano; and Edwin Marmaduke reverently drew back the gay Indian scarf that covered his masterpiece.
II
For a detailed description of Edwin Marmaduke’s “Soul Study in B-Minor—for G. M.,” the reader is referred to the introduction to the catalogue of the “Seven Rebels” exhibition at the Stein Galleries, or to the admirable essay “Incomprehensiblism—a Step Forward,” which appeared in that sprightly but short-lived weekly review, the Ultimate Democracy. This at least was obvious—that the portrait was large and mauve; this at least was generally agreed upon—that it was wonderful.
The Rev. Morris Gildell defiantly, Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur cooingly, Arthura Lewis prayerfully, Grace Mallon respectfully, Edwin Marmaduke himself modestly—all said it was wonderful. And after Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur had embraced the young painter, and his other guests had clasped his hand, and they had all said “Wonderfull” many, many times, they clattered down the uncarpeted stairs to the street.
All, that is, but one—Grace Mallon. She still remained in the old Italian chair, holding an empty cup and an unlighted cigarette. She looked out of the window into dusty Patchin Place, and one slender, unjeweled hand lay on the sill. It was an attractive hand although the sun had turned it a shade darker than that of Edwin Marmaduke. It seemed firm and soft at the same time.
Edwin was, after all, human, and therefore he seized it; but Grace withdrew it from his grasp—not very abruptly, however.
“Now, Edwin,” she said, “you must be very proper and mid-Victorian and all that sort of thing, since I’m being a reckless, forward young woman and staying here in your studio all alone with you. Now sit down there like a good boy and listen to me. Heavens! I wonder what David would say if he knew I was doing this!”
“Why do you care what David Watson would say?” asked Edwin, gently swinging the thurible to and fro before his goddess. “He’s busy with his ‘Try a Tin To-day’ pictures. He isn’t thinking about you or anything else that is beautiful.”
“Stop swinging that incense thing around. You make me nervous!” Grace replied irrelevantly. “I hate that stuff; it makes me think about when I had whooping-cough. Of course I don’t care about what David thinks, silly! Last night he came up to the house, and he said something that hurt me very much.”
She paused interrogatively. Edwin put the extinguished thurible on a teakwood stand, dusted his fingers on a yellow silk handkerchief, and sat down on a cushion at Grace’s feet.
“Well, what did he say?” he asked.
Grace’s colour had risen, making her more adorable than ever.
“Really, Edwin,” she said, “I sometimes think that you are almost too skilful in repressing your emotions. I said he hurt me very much.”
Edwin threw his cigarette into the coal-scuttle with a despairing gesture.
“My dear Grace,” he said, “what would you have me do? Challenge him to a duel? Of course I’m tremendously sorry; but why do you talk to such an animal as Watson?”
Grace looked at him with a rather cynical smile.
“You men are pretty much alike, after all,” she said. “What David said that hurt me was just like what you are saying about him. He made fun of you and your painting—of course, that hurt me terribly—and then he actually had the nerve—the impudence to forbid me to come to your studio! Think of it! David Watson, whose only idea of art is a stupid fish holding a tin of dad’s salmon and saying ‘Try a Tin To-day’—that man to tell me what to do and what not to do! I’ll tell you what I did. I forbade him ever to come to my home or to speak to me again! When I came down here this afternoon, I stopped at dad’s office purposely. I know David was watching me when I left, and I said to Leon, ‘Take me to Mr. Marmaduke’s studio in Patchin Place’—loud, so he’d hear me!”
Edwin looked almost handsome as he smiled up at her from his cushion.
“That’s my brave little comrade!” he said. “And soon we shall be married, sha’n’t we? Remember, you’ll keep your maiden name, and you won’t promise to honour or obey me, or any of that cruel rubbish. Gildell will use that lovely, ‘Polyrhythmic Ritual for a Free Mating,’ and there’ll be just the people we love best present. Arthura will dance, and it will all be wonderful!”
Grace gripped the arms of her chair and moistened her lips nervously.
“Edwin,” she said, “I haven’t told you yet why I stayed here to-day. I told dad to come here at six o’clock.”
“Mr. Mallon coming here at six o’clock!” said Edwin, rising to his feet. “Why, it’s five minutes to six now!”
“Yes, he’s coming here right away. And, Edwin—he knows,” said Grace.
“You told him?” asked Edwin in unconcealed amazement.
“Yes, I told him, idiot!” said Grace, springing up from her chair. “How else do you suppose he knows? Do you think he read my burning passion written on my brow? Have some sense! Did you never hear of a girl telling her own father that she was engaged?”
“Of course!” said Edwin. “Of course! I understand. But what did he say, why is he coming here?”
“That’s just it,” said Grace, drawing on a white glove hurriedly and splitting it in the process. “I told him last night, right after David went away; and he said he didn’t like artists and didn’t like you—don’t be angry, Edwin, he’s only seen you three times. I told him you were really a great painter, and he said that he wanted me to be happy, and that he’d have a talk with you and see what you were made of.”
“See what I am made of!” said Edwin with a sneer. “Why, does he think—”
“Now, Edwin, please, please, please, don’t say anything bright!” said Grace. “You know dad has had only me to talk to since mother died, and he isn’t used to bright people. He doesn’t like them. Now be sensible, and—here he comes now!”
They had not heard the great motor-car swing around the corner of Jefferson Market and come to a stop at the entrance to Patchin Place; but they heard the clang of the gong on the studio wall, and together they went to the street-door and brought the Salmon King up the rickety stairs to the studio.
III
James Mallon was what is called a captain of industry. That is, he was one of those men who are always shown by the realistic cartoonists to be grossly fat, with very small heads, tremendous cigars, and suits of clothes covered with a chaste pattern of dollar-marks.
He no more looked the part, however, than you look the part of the Common People. He was slender, graceful, and modestly dressed; he had a neat, white mustache, thin gray hair, and a mildly humorous expression. He loved his motherless daughter, his business, golf, pinocle, Smithfield ham, buckwheat cakes and maple-sirup, dry Sauterne, and detective-stories. He did not wear spats.
Mr. Mallon sat in the Italian chair, and after a brief survey of the room, turned to his postulant son-in-law a puzzled but amiable face.
“Mr. Marmaduke,” he said, “don’t you think that you and I could talk a little more comfortably if I sent this youngster of mine home? Run away, Grace, and have Leon take you straight to the house. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”
Grace gave her father that birdlike peck which is the traditional filial kiss, and ran down-stairs in accordance with his directions. She went to her car, and called Leon from his conversation with her father’s chauffeur. There arose a rumble and a rasping roar, and her car sped over the cobblestones to the corner and up Sixth Avenue.
Oh, woman, in our hours of ease, what a double-faced hussy you are, anyway! Grace’s car went away—presumably home—but Grace stayed behind. She had left the street-door of the house ajar. She tiptoed up the stairs to the top floor, where her father and her lover were engaged in important private discourse.
She came to a halt about three steps from the top, and perched in the dust with her golden-brown head on a level with the broad streak of light which marked the bottom of the studio door. A shameless eavesdropper, she listened greedily.
First she heard her father’s voice:
“I have heard your paintings praised highly by critics whose opinions I respect,” it said. “The fact that I myself fail to appreciate their merit is by no means to your discredit. I am not a connoisseur, and I am very old-fashioned in all my tastes. But I must say frankly that your success as a painter of ultramodern pictures scarcely seems to me to qualify you to marry my daughter.”
She half hoped, half feared, that Edwin would say:
“I love your daughter and she loves me. That makes our union necessary and right.”
But instead he said, in a low, tense voice which she had never heard him use before:
“But I may say without boasting that my art is not a failure, even financially. I have sold six paintings since last May, and the smallest check I received was for one hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
“Indeed?” her father replied courteously. “I am glad to hear it, Mr. Marmaduke—very glad to hear it. I did not know that the public was sufficiently fond of these new and unusual forms of art to invest money in them. I see that I was wrong. But you must forgive me, Mr. Marmaduke, if I say that in my opinion the demand for—what is it you call them? I am getting old, and my memory is not what it was—ah, yes, thank you—the demand for Incomprehensiblist paintings is not likely to be of great duration. The public is fickle, sir; it has no use for last year’s novelties. Can you expect to invent new methods of painting yearly for its pleasure? You would have found it more profitable, in the long run, to paint in the traditional manner.”
Edwin did not speak for several seconds. Then he said, with an air of deliberation:
“No, Mr. Mallon. I think you are wrong. I tried painting in the traditional manner, and I made much less money than I am making now. Except for commercial work, the only sort of painting that pays to-day is—well, what you would call freak painting.”
“Ah!” Grace heard her father say. “Exactly—except for commercial work! There is a field for a young man! I cannot blame you for being an idealist; but you wish to marry my daughter, and I confess that I should prefer to see her married to a successful commercial draftsman—say, an artist connected with some sound advertising agency—than to—well, to an Incomprehensiblist.”
The listening girl smiled at her father’s words. Edwin Marmaduke and advertisements! It was an amusingly fantastic combination.
She heard Edwin cross the room and open a door. Then he seemed to be taking something from a closet. There was clattering and grating, as if canvases were being moved about.
“Before I show you these,” he said, “I must ask you to promise to treat this matter as strictly confidential.”
“Of course I promise, Mr. Marmaduke,” said her father. “But really I am not competent to judge your work—”
Edwin made no oral answer. From the sounds that came to her Grace conjectured that he was lifting and placing one of his paintings on an easel. She wondered which one it was—certainly it could not be her portrait!
“Good Lord!” she heard her father say. “Good Lord!”
Then came silence.
IV
Frantic with curiosity, Grace rose from the step and tried to look into the room through the keyhole. The presence of a key made her effort unavailing. She heard the rustle of pictures hastily turned, and her father’s iteration of “Good Lord!”
Then Edwin spoke.
“Now,” he said, “you see that my work has some practical value, don’t you? You recognise these drawings, don’t you?”
“Recognise them!” said Mr. Mallon. “I should say I did. Do you mean to tell me—”
“Yes,” said Edwin. “They’re my work, all of them. Watson let the Parker Company handle their campaign, and I’ve done all their high-class work for the past three years.”
The Parker Company! Grace dimly remembered hearing that name. Yes, David Watson had said something about the Parker Company.
“I don’t sign any of this stuff,” said Edwin, “but it’s all mine. I originated that idea of the fish holding a can in his fin. I make all the ‘Try a Tin To-day’ pictures.”
She was at first too stunned to move. Vaguely she heard her father’s laugh, vaguely she heard him congratulating Edwin and inviting him to the house. Then, with a sense of walking in her sleep, she found herself at the foot of the stairs, fumbling at the catch of the street-door. She walked all the way home.
But it was a composed and apparently happy young woman who entered the Mallon house an hour later. Her father had already returned, and not even the fact that dinner had been delayed by her tardiness could account for his air of excitement.
“Grace,” he said, “I was pleasantly surprised by that young man, that Edwin Marmaduke. He is no mere freak painter—he is a first-class commercial artist. He doesn’t want it known, but—I should never have guessed it, it is a tremendous joke on me—he is the man who originated our ‘Try a Tin To-day’ posters! Did you know that?”
“Impossible!” said Grace. “Is dinner ready?”
“It’s a fact,” said her father. “He showed me the drawings. Of course, that changes things. I told him to call this evening—how does that strike you?”
Grace seemed passionately interested in her grapefruit. She looked steadily at it as she answered.
“Well,” she said, “I’m afraid I won’t be in this evening. You see, I met David Watson on the way home to-day, and he asked me to go to see ‘The Boomerang’ with him to-night, and I said I’d go.”
“Oh!” said her father. “Then I’d better telephone Marmaduke to come to-morrow evening instead—or will you?”
“No,” said Grace serenely. “To-morrow night won’t do, either. David is coming to call.”
Her father looked at her over his glasses. Then he took them off, polished them with a small piece of chamois, replaced them, and looked at her again.
“Oh!” he said.