So Big by Edna Ferber (read books for money .txt) 📕

or paint or ride or write or sing⁠—but not well enough. They’re professional amateurs, trying to express something they don’t feel; or that they don’t feel strongly enough to make it worth while expressing.”

She admitted, though, that they did appreciate the things that other people did well. Visiting and acknowledged writers, painters, lecturers, heroes, they entertained lavishly and hospitably in their Florentine or English or Spanish or French palaces on the north side of Chicago, Illinois. Especially foreign notables of this description. Since 1918 these had descended upon Chicago (and all America) like a plague of locusts, starting usually in New York and sweeping westward, devouring the pleasant verdure of greenbacks and chirping as they came. Returning to Europe, bursting with profits and spleen, they thriftily wrote of what they had seen and the result was more clever than amiable; bearing, too, the taint of bad taste.

North Shore hostesses vied for the honour of entertaining these notables. Paula⁠—pretty, clever, moneyed, shrewd⁠—often emerged from these contests the winner. Her latest catch was Emile Goguet⁠—General Emile Goguet, hero of Champagne⁠—Goguet of the stiff white beard, the empty left coat-sleeve, and the score of medals. He was coming to America ostensibly to be the guest of the American Division which, with Goguet’s French troops, had turned the German onslaught at Champagne, but really, it was whispered, to cement friendly relations between his country and a somewhat diffident United States.

“And guess,” trilled Paula, “guess who’s coming with him, Dirk! That wonderful Roelf Pool, the French sculptor! Goguet’s going to be my guest. Pool’s going to do a bust, you know, of young Quentin Roosevelt from a photograph that Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt⁠—”

“What d’you mean⁠—French sculptor! He’s no more French than I am. He was born within a couple of miles of my mother’s farm. His people were Dutch truck farmers. His father lived in High Prairie until a year ago, when he died of a stroke.”

When he told Selina she flushed like a girl, as she sometimes still did when she was much excited. “Yes, I saw it in the paper. I wonder,” she added, quietly, “if I shall see him.”

That evening you might have seen her sitting, crosslegged, before the old carved chest, fingering the faded shabby timeworn objects the saving of which Dirk had denounced as sentimental. The crude drawing of the Haymarket; the wine-red cashmere dress; some faded brittle flowers.

Paula was giving a large⁠—but not too large⁠—dinner on the second night. She was very animated about it, excited, gay. “They say,” she told Dirk, “that Goguet doesn’t eat anything but hard-boiled eggs and rusks. Oh, well, the others won’t object to squabs and mushrooms and things. And his hobby is his farm in Brittany. Pool’s stunning⁠—dark and sombre and very white teeth.”

Paula was very gay these days. Too gay. It seemed to Dirk that her nervous energy was inexhaustible⁠—and exhausting. Dirk refused to admit to himself how irked he was by the sallow heart-shaped exquisite face, the lean brown clutching fingers, the air of ownership. He had begun to dislike things about her as an unfaithful spouse is irritated by quite innocent mannerisms of his unconscious mate. She scuffed her heels a little when she walked, for example. It maddened him. She had a way of biting the rough skin around her carefully tended nails when she was nervous. “Don’t do that!” he said.

Dallas never irritated him. She rested him, he told himself. He would arm himself against her, but one minute after meeting her he would sink gratefully and resistlessly into her quiet depths. Sometimes he thought all this was an assumed manner in her.

“This calm of your⁠—this effortlessness,” he said to her one day, “is a pose, isn’t it?” Anything to get her notice.

“Partly,” Dallas had replied, amiably. “It’s a nice pose though, don’t you think?”

What are you going to do with a girl like that!

Here was the woman who could hold him entirely, and who never held out a finger to hold him. He tore at the smooth wall of her indifference, though he only cut and bruised his own hands in doing it.

“Is it because I’m a successful business man that you don’t like me?”

“But I do like you.”

“That you don’t find me attractive, then.”

“But I think you’re an awfully attractive man. Dangerous, that’s wot.”

“Oh, don’t be the wide-eyed ingénue. You know damned well what I mean. You’ve got me and you don’t want me. If I had been a successful architect instead of a successful business man would that have made any difference?” He was thinking of what his mother had said just a few years back, that night when they had talked at her bedside. “Is that it? He’s got to be an artist, I suppose, to interest you.”

“Good Lord, no! Some day I’ll probably marry a horny-handed son of toil, and if I do it’ll be the horny hands that will win me. If you want to know, I like ’em with their scars on them. There’s something about a man who has fought for it⁠—I don’t know what it is⁠—a look in his eye⁠—the feel of his hand. He needn’t have been successful⁠—though he probably would be. I don’t know. I’m not very good at this analysis stuff. I only know he⁠—well, you haven’t a mark on you. Not a mark. You quit being an architect, or whatever it was, because architecture was an uphill disheartening job at the time. I don’t say that you should have kept on. For all I know you were a bum architect. But if you had kept on⁠—if you had loved it enough to keep on⁠—fighting, and struggling, and sticking it out⁠—why, that fight would show in your face today⁠—in your eyes and your jaw and your hands and in your way of standing and walking and sitting and talking. Listen. I’m not criticizing you. But you’re all smooth. I like ’em bumpy. That sounds terrible. It isn’t what I mean at all. It isn’t⁠—”

“Oh, never mind,” Dirk said,