Chapter 15 Mr. Julius Edward Schwartz was a regular visitant at the flat of Mrs. Lawrence and Una. Mrs. Lawrence liked him. In his presence she abandoned her pretense of being interested in Mamie Maggins' arid intellectualism and Una's quivering anxieties. Mr. Schwartz was ready for any party whenever he was in off the road. Una began to depend on him for amusements. Mrs. Lawrence encouraged her to appear at her best before him. When he, or one of Mrs. Lawrence's men, was coming, the two women had an early and quick dinner of cold ham and canned soup, and hastily got out the electric iron to press a frock. Produced Pemberton's flesh-tinted Vanisho powder and the lipstick whose use Una hated, but which she needed more and more as she came back from the office bloodless and cold. They studied together the feminine art of using a new veil, a flower, or fresh white-kid gloves to change one's appearance. Poor Una, she was thinking now, secretly and shame-facedly, of the beautifying methods which she saw advertised in every newspaper and cheap magazine. She rubbed her red desk-calloused elbows with Pemberton's cold cream. She cold-creamed and massaged her face every night, standing wearily before a milky mirror in the rather close and lingerie-scattered bedroom, solemnly rotating her fingers about her cheeks and forehead, stopping to conjecture that the pores in her nose were getting enlarged. She rubbed her hair with Pemberton's olivine and petrol to keep it from growing thin, and her neck with coconut oil to make it more full.  By a twist of psychology, though she had not been particularly fond of Mr. Schwartz, it had anointed herself for his coming because he was a representative of men, yet after months of thus dignifying his attentions, the very effort made her suppose that she must be fond of him. Not Mr. Schwartz, but her own self, did she be fool with Pemberton's Preparations de Paris. Sometimes with him alone, sometimes with him and Mrs. Lawrence, and one of Mrs. Lawrence's young businessman attendants, Una went to theaters and dinners and heterogeneous dances. She was dazzled and excited when Mr. Schwartz took her to the opening of the Champ du Palme-Palme, the latest potpourri of amusements on Broadway. All under one roof were a Super Vaudeville show, a smart musical comedy, and the fireworks of one act plays, a Chinese restaurant, and a Louis Kahn's restaurant, and a Syrian Desert Caravan restaurant, a ballroom and an ice skating rink, a summer garden that in midwinter luxuriated in real trees and real grass, and a real brook crossed by Japanese bridges. Mr. Schwartz was tireless and extravagant and hearty at the Champ du Palme-Palme. He made Una dance and skate. He had a box for the Vaudeville. He gave her caviar canopy and lobster à la rue des Toissures in the Louis Kahn's room, and sparkling burgundy in the summer garden, where mockingbirds sang in the wavering branches above their table. Una took away an impressionistic picture of the evening, scarlet and shadowy green, sequins of gold, slim shoulders veiled and costly mist, the glitter of spangles, the hissing of silk, low laughter, and continual music quieter than a dream, crowds that were not harsh busy folk of the streets, but a nodding procession of gallant men and women, a kindly cleverness which inspired her, and a dusky perfume in which she could meditate forever like an Egyptian goddess thrown at the end of incense-curtained aisles, great tapestries of velvet and jeweled lights, swift smiling servants, and the languorous well-being of eating strange delicious foods, orchids and the scent of poppies and spell of the lotus flower, the bead of wine and lips that yearned, ecstasy in the oriental pride of a superb Jewess who was singing to the demure enchantment of little violins. Her restlessness satisfied, a momentary pang of distrust healed by the brotherly talk of the broad-shouldered man who cared for her and nimbly fulfilled her every whim, an unvoiced desire to keep him from drinking so many high-balls, an enduring thankfulness to him when she was back at the flat, a defiant joy that he had kissed her good night just once and so tenderly, a determination to be good for him, and a fear that he had spent too much money on her tonight, and a plan to reason with him about whiskey and extravagance, a sudden hatred of the office to which she would have to return in the morning, and a stronger, more sardonic hatred of hearing Mr. S. Herbert Ross pluck out his vest pocket harp and hymn his own praise in a one-man choir, cherubic but slightly fat, a descent from high gardens of moonlight to the reality of the flat where Lawrence was breathing loudly in her sleep, the oily smell of hairs tangled in her old hairbrush, the sight of the alarm clock which in just six hours would be flogging her off to the mill. A sudden, frightened query as to what scornful disdain Walter Babson would fling at her if he saw her glorying in this broadway circus with the heavy Mr. Schwartz, a ghostly, night-born feeling that she still belonged to Walter, living or dead, and a wonder as to where in all the world he might be, a defiant protest that she idealized Walter that he wasn't so awfully superior to the chomp-du-pom-pom as this astral body of his was pretending, and a still more defiant gratitude to Mr. Schwartz as she crawled into the tousal bed and Mrs. Lawrence half-woke to yawn. Oh, that you, Golden! God, I'm sleepy! What time is it? Una was sorry. She hated herself as what she called a quitter, but now, in January 1910, she was at an impasse. She could just stagger through each day of S. Herbert Ross and office diplomacy's. She had been at Pemberton's for a year and a third, and longer than that with Mrs. Lawrence at the flat. The summer vacation of 1909 she had spent with Mrs. Lawrence at a Jersey Coast resort. They had been jealous, had quarreled, and made it up every day, like lovers. They had picked up two summer men, and Mrs. Lawrence had so often gone off on picnics with her man that Una had become uneasy, felt soiled, and come back to the city early. For this Mrs. Lawrence had never forgiven her. She had recently become engaged to a doctor who was going to Akron, Ohio, and she exasperated Una by giving her bland advice about trying to get married. Una never knew whether she was divorced or whether the mysterious Mr. Lawrence had died. But even the difficile Lawrence was preferable to the strain at the office. Una was tired, cleaned through and through. She felt as though her very soul had been drained out by a million bloodsucker details, constant adjustments to Ross's demands for admiration of his filthiest office political deals, and the need of keeping friendly with both sides when Ross was engaged in one of his frequent altercations with an assistant. Often she could not eat in the evening. She would sit on the edge of the bed and cry hopelessly, with a long, feeble, peculiarly feminine sobbing, till Mrs. Lawrence slammed the door and went off to the motion pictures. Una kept repeating a little litany she had made regarding the things she wished people would stop doing, praying to be delivered from Ross's buoyant egotism, from Mrs. Lawrence's wearing of Una's best veils, from Mr. Schwartz's acting as though he wanted to kiss her whenever he had a whiskey breath, from the office manager who came in to chat with her just when she was busiest, from the office boy who always snapped his fingers as he went down the corridor outside her door, and from the elevator boy who sucked his teeth. She was sorry. She wanted to climb. She didn't want to be a quitter, but she was at an impasse. On a January day the Pemberton office beheld that most terrifying crisis that can come to a hard slave-driving office. As the office put it, the old man was on a rampage. Mr. Pemberton's senior, most horrally awful of all the big chiefs, had indigestion or a poor balance sheet. He decided that everything was going wrong. He raged from room to room. He denounced the new poster, the new top for the talcum-powder container, the arrangement of the files, and the whispering in the amen corner of veteran stenographers. He sent out flocks of office memos. Everybody trembled. Mr. Pemberton's sons actually did some work, and, as the fire spread and the minor bosses in turn raged among their subordinates, the girls who packed soap down in the works, expected to be fired. After a visitation from Mr. Pemberton and three raging memos within fifteen minutes, Mr. S. Herbert Ross retreated toward the Lafayette Cafe, and Una was left to face Mr. Pemberton's bare-like growls on his next appearance. When he did appear, he seemed to hold her responsible for all the world's long sadness. Meanwhile, the printer was telephoning for Mr. Ross's OK on copy. The engravers wanted to know where the devil was that color-proof. The advertising agency sarcastically indicated that it was difficult for them to insert an advertisement before they received the order, and a girl from the cashier's office came nagging in about a bill for India Inc. The memos began to get the range of her desk again, and Mr. Pemberton's voice could be heard in a distant part of the office, approaching, menacing, all pervading. Una fled. She ran to a washroom, locked the door, leaned panting against it, as though detectives were pursuing her. She was safe for a moment. They might miss her, but she was insulated from demands of, Where's Ross, Ms. Golden? Well, why don't you know where he is? From telephone calls, and from memos whose polite pleas was a gloved threat. But even to this refuge, the familiar sound of the office penetrated. The whir, which usually sounded as a homogeneous murmur, but which, in her acute sensitiveness, she now analyzed into the voices of different typewriters. One flat rapid staccato, one a steady dull rattle, the zzz of typewriter carriages being shoved back, the roll of closing elevator doors, and the rumble of the ascending elevator, the long burr of an unanswered telephone at a desk again and again, and at last an angry, well, hello, yes, yes, this is Mr. Jones, what do you want? Voices mingled, a shout for Mr. Brown, the hall attendant yelping, Ms. Golden, where's Ms. Golden? Anything for Sanford? Mr. Smith, do you know if there's anything for Sanford? Always, over and through all, the enveloping clatter of typewriters, and the city roar behind that, breaking through the barrier of the door. The individual analyzed sounds again blended in one insistent noise of hurry, which assailed Una's conscience, summoned her back to her work. She sighed, washed her stinging eyes, opened the door, and trailed back toward her den. In the corridor she passed three young stenographers, and heard one of them cry, yes, but I don't care if old Alfalfa goes on a rampage twenty-five hours a day. I'm through. Listen, may, say, what do you know about me? I'm engaged. No, honest, straight, I am. Look at the ring. Odd is not. It's a regular engagement ring. I'm going to be out of this hellhole in two weeks, and Papa Pemberton can work off his temper on somebody else. Me, I'm going to do a slumber marathon till noon every day. Gee, engaged, said the other girls, and engaged, going to sleep till noon every day, and not see Mr. Ross or Mr. Pemberton. That's my idea of heaven, thought Una. There was a pile of inquiring memos from Mr. Pemberton and the several department heads on her desk. As she looked at them, Una reached the point of active protest. S. Herbert runs for shelter when the storm breaks and leaves me here to stand it. Why isn't he supposed to be here on the job just as much as I am? She declined. Why haven't I the nerve to jump up and go out for a cup of tea the way he would? By Jiminy I will. She was afraid of the indefinite menace concealed in all the Pemberton system as she signaled an elevator. But she did not answer a word when the hall attendant said, You are going out, Miss Golden? She went to a German Jewish bakery and lunchroom, and reflectively got down thin coffee served in a thick cup, a sugar-warted coffee kuch and two crullers. She was less willing to go back to work than she had been in her refuge in the washroom. She felt that she would rather be dead than return and subject herself to the strain. She was through, like the little engaged girl. She was a quitter. For half an hour she remained in the office, but she left promptly at five-thirty, though her desk was choked with work, and though Mr. Ross telephoned that he would be back before six, which was his chivalrous way of demanding that she stay till seven. Mr. Schwartz was coming to see her that evening. He had suggested vaudeville. She dressed very carefully. She did her hair in a new way. When Mr. Schwartz came, she cried that she couldn't go to a show. She was clean-played out. She didn't know what she could do. Pemberton's was too big a threshing machine for her. She was tired, absolutely all in. Poor little sister, he said, and smoothed her hair. She rested her face on his shoulder. It seemed broad and strong and protective. She was glad when he put his arm about her. She was married to Mr. Schwartz about two weeks later. She had got herself to call him Ed. Eddie she could not encompass, even in that fortnight of rushing change in bewilderment. She asked for a honeymoon trip to Savannah. She wanted to rest. She had to rest, or she would break, she said. They went to Savannah, to the live oaks and parks, and quiet old squares. But she did not rest. Always she brooded about the unleashed brutality of their first night on the steamer, the strong inescapable man-smell of his neck and shoulders, the boisterous jokes he kept telling her. He insisted on their staying at a commercial hotel at Savannah. Whenever she went to lie down, which was frequently, he played poker and drank high balls. He tried in his sincerest way to amuse her. He took her to theaters, restaurants, roadhouses. He arranged a three-days hunting trip with a darky cook. He hired motorboats and motor cars, and told her every here's a new one that he heard. But she dreaded his casual seeming suggestions that she drank plenty of champagne. Dreaded his complaints, whiny as a small boy. Come now, Looney, show a little fire. I tell you, a fellow's got a right to expect it at this time. She dreaded his frankness of undressing, of shaving. Dreaded his occasional irritated protests of, don't be a finicking romantic school-miss. I may not wear silk under-claw and perfume myself like some bum-actor, but I'm a regular guy. Dreaded being alone with him. Dreaded always the memory of that first cataclysmic night of their marriage. And mourned, as in secret for year on year, thousands of women do mourn. Oh, I wouldn't care now if he had just been gentle, been considerate. Oh, Ed is good. He does mean to care for me and give me a good time, but— When they returned to New York, Mr. Schwert said robustly, Well, little old trip made considerable hole in my wad. I'm clean-busted. Down to one hundred bucks in the bank. Why, I thought you were several thousand ahead.  Thought I'd make a killing and got turned into lamb chops.  Passenger carrying game that that blank, blank, blank, blank let me in for. Never mind, little sister. We'll start saving now. And it was worth it. Some trip, eh? You enjoyed it, didn't you, after the first couple days while you were seasick? You'll get over all your fool-girly-girly notions now. Women always are like that. I remember the first Mrs. was, too. And maybe a few other skirts, though I guess I hadn't better tell no tales out of school on little old Eddie Schwert's, eh? Of course, you high-strung virgin kind of she-mails take some time to learn to get over your choosy, finicky ways. But, Lord, love you. I don't mind that much. Never could stand for these roughnecks that claim they'd rather have a good, healthy, walloping country wench than a nice, refined city lady. Why, I like refinement. Yes, sir, I like refinement. Yes, sir, I sure do. Well, it sure was some trip. Guess we won't forget it in a hurry, eh? Sure is nice to rub up against some southern swells like we did that night at the Avocado Club.  He was a comical cuss, eh? That story of his. No, said Una. I'll never forget the trip. But she tried to keep the frenzy out of her voice. The frenzy was dying, as so much of her was dying.  Dead had her heart been at Pemberton's, yet it had secreted enough life to suffer horribly now when it was again being mauled to death. And she wanted to spare this man. She realized that poor Ed Schwartz, puttering about their temporary room in a side street family hotel, yawning and scratching his head, and presumably comfortable in suspenders over a woolen undershirt, she realized that he treasured a joyous memory of their savanna diversions. She didn't want to take joy away from anybody who actually had it, she reflected, as she went over to the Coorslace Hotel curtains, parted them, stared down on the truck-filled street and murmured, No, I can't ever forget. End of Chapter 15. Part 3 Chapter 16 of The Job This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Job by Sinclair Lewis. Part 3 Man and Woman. Chapter 16 For two years Una Golden Schwartz moved amid the blank procession of phantoms who haunt cheap family hotels, the apparitions of the corridors, to whom there is no home, nor purpose, nor permanence. Mere lodgers for the night, though for score on score of tasteless years, they use the same alien hotel room as a place in which to take naps and store their trunks and comb their hair and sit waiting for nothing. The men are mysterious. They are away for hours or months or they sit in the smoking room, glancing up expectant of fortunes that never come. But the men have friends. They are permitted familiarities by the bartender in the café. It is the women and children who are most dehumanized. The children play in the corridors. They become bold and sophisticated. They expect attention from strangers. At 14 the girls have long dresses and mature admirers and the boys ape the manners of their shallow elders and discuss brands of cigarettes. The women sit and rock, empty-hearted and barren of hands. When they try to make individual homes out of their fixed molds of rooms, the hard walls, the brass bedsteads, the inevitable bureaus, the small rockers and the transoms that always let in too much light from the hall at night, then they are only the more pathetic. For the small pictures of pulpy babies photographed as cupids, the ten souvenirs and the pseudo-Turkish scarves draped over trunks rob the rooms of the simplicity which is their only merit. For two years, two years snatched out of her life and traded for some nambulatory peace, Una lived this spectral life of one room in a family hotel on the side street near Sixth Avenue. The only other dwelling places she saw were the flats of friends of her husband. He often said, with a sound of pride, we don't care a darn for all these would-be social climbers, the wife and I lead a regular bohemian life. We know a swell little bunch of live ones and we have some pretty nifty parties, let me tell you, with plenty poker and hard liquor. And one-two of the bunch have got their own cars. I tell you, they make a whole lot more coin than a lot of these society column guys, even if they don't throw on the agony, and we all pile in and go up to some roadhouse and sing and play the piano and have a real time. Conceive, Una, if through the fumes of cheap cigarettes you can make out the low heights of her fading hair, sitting there, trying patiently to play a good candy fist of poker, which, as her husband often and irritably assured her, she would never learn to do. He didn't, he said, mind her losing his good, hard-earned money, but he hated to see Eddie Schwartz's own wife more of a boob than Mrs. Jock Sanderson, who's a regular guy plays poker like a man. Mrs. Sanderson was a black-haired, big-buzzomed woman with a face as hard and smooth and expressionless as a dinner plate, with cackling laughter and a tendency to say, oh, hell, boys, apropos of nothing. She was a good sport and a good mixer, Mr. Schwartz averred, and more and more as the satisfaction of having for his new-married mistress a refined lady grew dull, he adjured the refined lady to imitate Mrs. Sanderson. Fortunately, Mr. Schwartz was out of town two-thirds of the time. But one-third of the time was a good deal, since for weeks before his coming she dreaded him, and for weeks after his going she remembered him with chill shame, since she hadn't even the whole-hearted enthusiasm of hating him, but always told herself that she was a prude, an abnormal, thin-blooded creature, and that she ought to appreciate Ed's desire to have her share his good times, be coarse and jolly and natural. His extravagance was constant. He was always planning to rent an expensive apartment and furnish it, but the money do him after each trip he spent immediately, and they were never able to move away from the family hotel. He had to have taxicabs when they went to theaters.  And he would order champagne, the one sort of good wine that he knew. He always overtipped waiters and enjoyed his own generosity. Generous he really was in a clumsy way. He gave to Una all he had over from his diversions, urged her to buy clothes and go to Matt Nays while he was away, and told it as a good joke that he blew himself so extensively on their parties that he often had to take daycoaches instead of sleepers for a week after he left New York. Una had no notion of how much money he made, but she knew that he never saved it. She would beg, why don't you do like so many of the other traveling men? Your Mr. Sanderson is saving money and buying real estate, even though he does have a good time. Let's cut out some of the unnecessary parties and things. Rats, my Mr. Sanderson is a little tight, like all them scotch laddies. I'm going to start saving one of these days. But what can you do when the firm screws you down on expense allowances and don't hardly allow you one red scent of bonus on new business? There's no chance for a man today.   He did not seem to be a socialist of the same type as Mamie Magan, but he was interested in socialism to this extent. He always referred to it at length whenever Una mentioned saving money. She had not supposed that he drank so much. Always he smelled of whiskey, and she found quart bottles of it in his luggage when he returned from a trip. But he never showed signs of drunkenness, except in his urgent attentions to her after one of their jolly bohemian parties. More abhorrent to her was the growing slackness in his personal habits. He had addressed her with great volubility and earnestness upon his belief that now they were married, she must get rid of all her virginal book learn notions about reticence between husband and wife. Such feminine hanky-panky tricks, he assured her, were the cause of all these finicky, unhappy marriages and these rotten divorces. Lot of fool clubwomen and suffragettes and highbrows expecting a man to be like a son. A man's a man, and the sooner a female gets on to that fact and doesn't nag, nag, nag him and lets him go round being comfortable and natural, the kinder he'll be to her, and the better it'll be for all parties concerned. Every time. Don't forget that, old lady. Why, there's J.J. Vance at our shop. Married one of these up-de-de poetry-reading finicky women. Why, he did everything for that woman. Got a swell little house and yonkers and a vacuum cleaner and a hired girl and everything. Then, my God, she said she was lonely, didn't have enough housework, that was the trouble with her, and darned if she doesn't kick when J.J. comes in all played out at night because he makes himself comfortable and sits around in his shirt sleeves and slippers. Tell you, the first thing these women have got to learn is that a man's a man, and if they learn that, they won't need a vote. Mr. Schwartz's notion of being a man was to perform all hygienic processes as publicly as the law permitted. Apparently he was proud of his God-given body, though it had been slightly bloated since God had given it to him, and wanted to inspire her not only with the artistic vision of it but with his care for it. His thick woolen undergarments were so uncompromisingly woolen-y. Nor had Mr. Schwartz any false modesty in his speech. If Una had made out a list of all the things she considered the most banal or nauseatingly vulgar, she would have included most of the honest fellow's favorite subjects, and at least once a day he mentioned his former wife.  Una identified him with vulgarity so completely that she must often have been unjust to him. At least she was surprised now and then by a reassertion that he was a highbrow and that he decidedly disapproved of any sort of vulgarity. Several times this came out when he found her reading novels which were so coarsely realistic as to admit the sex and sweat of the world. Even if they are true to life, he said, I don't see why it's necessary to drag in unpleasant subjects. I tell you, a fellow gets too much of bad things in this world without reading about them in books. Trouble with all these realists, as you call them, is that they're such dirty-minded hounds themselves that all they can see in life is the bad side. Una surmised that the writers of such novels might perhaps desire to show the bad side in the hope that life might be made more beautiful. But she wasn't quite sure of it, and she suffered herself to be overborn when he snorted nonsense. These fellas are just trying to show how sensational they can be. To say nothing of talking like they were so damn superior to the rest of us don't read them. Read pure authors like Howard Bangkok Bench, where whenever any lady gets seduced or anything like that, the author shows it's because the villain is an atheist or something, and he treats all those things in a nice, fine, decent manner.   My God, I don't know where you get those rotten ideas. Certainly not for me. Let me tell you, no kid of mine is going to be made nasty minded by having a lot of stuff like that taught her. Yes, sir, actually taught her right out in school. Luna was sufficiently desirous of avoiding contention to keep to novels which portrayed life, offices and family hotels and perspiratory husbands as all for the best. But now and then she doubted and looked up from the pile of her husband's white footed black cotton socks to question whether life need be confined to Panama and Pemberton and Schwartz. In deference to Mr. Schwartz's demands on the novelists, one could scarce even suggest the most dreadful scene in Luna's life lest it be supposed that other women really are subject to such horror, or that the statistics regarding immoral diseases really mean anything in households such as we ourselves know. She had reason to suppose that her husband was damaged goods. She crept to an old family doctor and had a fainting joy to find that she had escaped contamination. Though, said the doctor, I doubt if it would be wise to have a child of his. I won't, she said, grimly. She knew the ways of not having children. The practical Mr. Schwartz had seen to that. Strangely enough he did not object to birth control, even though it was discussed by just the sort of people who wrote these sensational realistic novels. There were periods of reaction when she blamed herself for having become so set in antipathy that she always saw her faults, saw as a fault even the love for amusements which had once seemed a virtue in him. She tried wistfully and honestly to be just. She reminded herself constantly that she had enjoyed some of the parties with him. Theater and a late supper with a couple just back from South America. But there were so many buts. Life was all one obliterating. But her worst moments were when she discovered that she had grown careless about appearing before him in that drabbest, most ignoble effeminate tire, a pair of old corsets, that she was falling into his own indelicacies. Such marionette tragedies mingled ever with the grander passion of seeing life as a ruined thing. Her birthright to aspiring cleanness sold for a mess of quick-lunch potage. And as she walked in a mist of agony, a dumb, blind creature heroically distraught, she could scarce distinguish between sordidness and the great betrayals, so chill and thick was the fog about her. She thought of suicide often, but too slow and sullen was her protest for the climax of suicide. And the common sense which she still had urged her that someday, incredibly, there might again be hope. Oftener she thought of a divorce. Of that she had begun to think even on the second day of her married life. She suspected that it would not be hard to get a divorce on statutory grounds. Whenever Mr. Schwertz came back from a trip he would visibly remove from his suitcase bunches of letters in cheaply pretentious envelopes of pink and lavender. She scorned to try to read them, but she fancied that they would prove interesting to the judges. When Mr. Schwertz was away, Una was happy by contrast. Indeed, she found a more housey and rest than at any other period since her girlhood, and in long hours of thinking and reading and trying to believe in life, the insignificant good little thing became a calm, browed woman. Mrs. Lawrence had married the doctor and gone off to Ohio. They motored much, she wrote, and read aloud, and expected a baby. Una tried to be happy in them. Una had completely got out of touch with Mr. and Mrs. Sessions, but after her marriage she had gone to call on Mamie Maggin, now prosperous and more earnest than ever, in a Greenwich Village flat. On Jenny Cassavant, some time of the home club, now obscurely on the stage. On Curly-haired Rose Larson, who had married a young lawyer. But Una had fancied that they were suspiciously kind to her, and in angry pride she avoided them. She often wondered what they had heard about Mr. Schwertz from the talkative Mrs. Lawrence. She conceived scenes in which she was hotly rapsotic in defending her good, sensible husband before them. Then she would long for them and admit that doubtless she had merely imagined their supercilious pity. But she could not go back to them as a beggar for friendship. Also, though she never admitted this motive to herself, she was always afraid that some day, if she kept in touch her husband would demand, why don't you trot out these fussy lady-friends of yours? Ashamed of me, eh? So she drifted away from them. And at times when she could not endure solitariness, she depended upon the women of the family hotel, whom she met in the corridors and café and parlor. The aristocrats among them, she found, were the wives of traveling salesmen, good husbands and well-loved, most of them, writing to their wives daily and longing for the time when they could have places in the suburbs, with room for chickens and children and love. These aristocrats mingled only with the sound middle-class of the hotel women, whose husbands were clerks and bookkeepers resident in the city, or traveling machinery experts who went about installing small power plants. They gossiped with Una about the husbands of the day-class A women, men suspected to be itinerant quack doctors, sellers of dubious mining or motor stock, or even crooks and gamblers. There was a group of three or four cheery, buxom, much-bediamonded, much-massaged women, whose occasionally-appearing husbands were sleek and overdressed. To Una these women were cordial. They invited her to go shopping, to matinees. But they stopped so often for cocktails. They told so many intimate stories of their relations with their husbands that Una was timid before them, and edged away from their invitations that she was desperately lonely. Doubtless she learned more about the mastery of people from them, however than from the sighing, country-bred hotel women of whom she was more fond, for the cheerful hussies had learned to make the most of their shoddy lives. Only one woman in the hotel did Una accept as an actual friend, Mrs. Wade, a solid, slangy, contented woman, with a child to whom she was devoted. She had, she told Una, been stuck with a lemon of a husband. He was making five thousand a year when I married him, and then he went to pieces. Good-looking, but regular, poor white trash. So I cleaned house, kicked him out. He's in Boston now, touches me for a ten-spot now and then. I support myself and the kid by working for a department store. I'm a whiz at bossing dressmakers, make a loose-seal gown out of the rind of an edam cheese, take nothing off nobody, especially you don't see me taking any more husbands off nobody. Mostly Una was able to make out an existence by herself. She read everything, from the lacy sentimentalism of Myrtle Reid to Samuel Butler and translations of Gorky and Flaubert. She nibbled at histories of art, and was confirmed in her economic theology by shallow but earnest manuals of popular radicalism. She got books from a branch public library, or picked them up at second-hand stalls. At first she was determined to be serious in her reading, but more and more she took light fiction as a drug to numb her nerves and forgot the tales as soon as she had read them. In ten years of such hypnotic reading, Mrs. Una Golden Schwartz would not be very different from that Mrs. Captain Golden, who alone in a flat had read all day and forgotten what she had read and let life dream into death. But now Una was still fighting to keep in life. She began to work out her first definite philosophy of existence. In essence it was not so very different from the blatant optimism of Mr. S. Herbert Ross except that it was sincere. Life is hard and astonishingly complicated, she concluded. No one great reform will make it easy. Most of us who work or want to work will always have trouble or discontent, so we must learn to be calm and train all our faculties and make others happy. No more original than this was her formulated philosophy, the commonplace creed of a commonplace woman in a rather less than commonplace family hotel. The important thing was not the form of it, but her resolve not to sink into nothingness. She hoped that someday she would get a job again. She sometimes borrowed a typewriter from the manager of the hotel and she took down in shorthand the miscellaneous sermons by Baptists, Catholics, reformed rabbis, Christian scientists, theosophists, high church Episcopalians, Hindu yogis, or anyone else handy, with which she filled up her dull Sundays. Except as practice and stenography she found their conflicting religions of little value to lighten her life. The ministers seemed so much vaguer than the hard-driving businessmen with whom she had worked, and the question of what Joshua had done seemed to have little relation to what Julius Schwartz was likely to do. The city had come between her and the Panama belief that somehow mysteriously one acquired virtue by enduring dull sermons. She depended more on her own struggle to make a philosophy. That philosophy, that determination not to sink into paralyzed despair, often broke down when her husband was in town, but she never gave up trying to make it vital to her. So, through month on month, she read, rocking slowly in the small wooden rocker, or lying on the first cover-letted bed, while round her the hotel room was still and stale-smelling and fixed. And outside the window passed the procession of life, trucks laden with crates of garments consigned to Kansas City and Bangor and Seattle and Bemidji, taxi cabs with passengers for the mammoth hotels, office girls and policemen and salesmen, and all the lusty crew that had conquered the city, or were well content to be conquered by it. End of Chapter 16 Part 3 Chapter 17 of The Job This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Job by Sinclair Lewis. Part 3 Man and Woman. Chapter 17 Member of 1912, at a time when Una did not expect the return of her husband for at least three weeks, she was in their room in the afternoon reading, Salesmanship for Women, and ruminatively eating lemon drops from a small bag. As though he were a betrayed husband dramatically surprising her, Mr. Schwartz opened the door, dropped a large suitcase, and stood, glaring. Well, he said, with no preliminary. So here you are. For once you could... Why Ed? I didn't expect to see you for... He closed the door and gesticulated. No, of course you didn't.  Why Ed? Oh, don't why Ed me. Well, ain't you going to come and kiss me? Nice reception when a man's come home tired from a hard trip, wife so busy reading a book that she don't even get up from her chair and make him welcome in his own room that he pays for. Yes, by... Why, you didn't... You don't act as though... Yes, sure, that's right, lay it all on.  Well, neither would anybody if they'd had all the worries I've had sitting there worrying on a slow hot train that stopped at every pigpin. Yes, and on a day coach too, by golly. Somebody in this family has got to economize. While you sit here cool and comfortable, not a thing on your mind but your hair.  Oh, sure, but I made up my mind. I thought it all out for once and I made up my mind to one thing. You can help me out by economizing, anyway. Oh, Ed, I don't know what you're driving at. I haven't been extravagant ever. Why, I've asked you any number of times not to spend so much money for suppers and so forth. Yes, sure, lay it all on to me. I'm fair game for everybody that's looking for a nice soft, easy, safe boob to kick. Why, look there. While she still sat marveling, he pounced on the meek little five cent bag of lemon drops, shook it as though it were a very small kitten and wine. Look at this. Candy or something all the while. You never have a single scent left when I come home. Candy and ice cream sodas and matinees and dresses and everything you can think of. If it ain't one thing, it's another. Well, you'll either save from now on. Look here. What do you mean working off your grouch on? Or else you won't have anything to spend. Understand? And when it comes down to talking about grouches, I suppose you'll be real pleased to know this will be sweet news, probably to you. I've been fired. Fired? Oh, Ed. Yes, fired, oh, Ed. Canned, got the gate, thrown out, got the razzle-dazzle, got the hook thrown into me. Bounced, coyoodled. That is, at least I will be as soon as I let the old man get at me, judging from the love letters he's been sending me, inviting me to cut a switch and come out to the woodshed with him. Oh, Ed, dear, what was the trouble? She walked up to him, laid her hand on his shoulder.    Oh, I don't hardly know what it is all about. My sails have been falling off, all righty. But, good Lord, that's no fault of mine. I work my territory just as hard as I ever did, but I can't meet the competition of the floorwax people. They're making an auto polish now, better article at a lower price, and what can I do? They got a full line, varnish, cleaner, polish, swell window displays, national advertising, swell discounts, everything. And I can't buck competition like that. And then a lot of the salesmen at our shop are jealous of me, and one thing and another. Well, now I'll go down and spit the old man in the eye a couple of times and get canned, unless I can talk him out of his bad acting.  I'll be the little misunderstood boy. But I don't honestly think I can put anything across on him. I'm—oh, hell, I guess I'm getting old. I ain't got the pep I used to have. Not but what J. Eddie Schwartz can still sell goods, but I can't talk up to the boss like I could once. I gotta feel some sympathy at the home office. And I by God deserve it, the way I've worked enslaved for that bunch of cutthroats, and now, sure, that's the way it goes in this world.   Could he? I don't drink very much, and you know it. I don't hardly touch a drop, except maybe just for sociability. God, this temperance wave gets my goat. Lot of hot air females telling me what I can do and what I can't do. Fella that knows when to drink and when to stop. Drink? Why, you ought to see some of the boys. There's Burke McCullough say, I bet he puts away forty drinks a day if he does one, and I don't know that it hurts him any, but me. Yes, I know, dear. I was just thinking, maybe your boss is one of the temperance cranks, Buna interrupted. Mr. Schwartz's arguments regarding the privileges of a manly man sounded very familiar. This did not seem to be a moment for letting her husband get into the full swing of them. She begged, what will you do if they let you out? I wish there was something I could do to help. Dunno, there's a pretty close agreement between a lot of the leading paint and varnish people, gentlemen's agreement, and it's pretty hard to get in any place if you're in Dutch with any of the others. Well, I'm going down now and watch him guillotine me. You better not wait to have dinner with me. I'll be there late, thrashing all over the carpet with the old man, and then I gotta see some fellas and start something. Come here, Buna. He stood up. She came to him, and when he put his two hands on her shoulders she tried to keep her aversion to his touch out of her look.  He was unhappy and his eyes were old. Nope, he said. Nope, can't be done. You mean well, but you haven't got any fire in you. Kid, can't you understand that there are wives who've got so much passion in them that if their husbands came home clean-lipped, like I am, they'd—oh, their husbands would just naturally completely forget their troubles and love. Real love, with fire in it. Women that aren't ashamed of having bodies. But, oh Lord, it ain't your fault. I shouldn't have said anything. There's lots of wives like you. More in one man's admitted his wife was like that, when he's had a couple drinks under his belt to loosen his tongue. You're not to blame, but—I'm sorry. Don't mind my grouch when I came in. I was so hot and I'd been worrying and wanted to blame things onto somebody. Don't wait for me at dinner.  Goodbye. All she knew was that at six a woman's purring voice on the telephone asked if Mr. Eddie Schwartz had returned to town yet. That he did not reappear till after midnight. That his return was heralded by wafting breezes with whiskey laden. That in the morning there was a smear of rice powder on his right shoulder, and that he was not so urgent in his attentions to her as ordinarily. So her sympathy for him was lost. But she discovered that she was neither jealous nor indignant, merely indifferent. He told her at breakfast that, with his usual discernment, he had guessed right. When he had gone to the office he had been discharged. Went out with some business acquaintances in the evening. Got to pull all the wires I can now, he said. She said nothing. They had less than two hundred dollars ahead. But Mr. Schwartz borrowed a hundred from his friend, Burke McCullough, and did not visibly have to suffer from want of highballs, cigars, and Turkish baths. From the window of their room Una used to see him cross the street to the café entrance of the huge Saffron Hotel, and once she saw him emerge from it with a fluffy blonde. But she did not attack him. She was spellbound in a strange apathy, as in a dream of swimming on forever in a warm and slate-hued sea. She was confident that he would soon have another position. He had overridden her own opinions about business, the opinions of the underling who never seized the great work as a rounded whole, till she had come to have a timorous respect for his commercial ability. Apparently her wifely respect was not generally shared in the paint business. At least Mr. Schwartz did not soon get his new position. The manager of the hotel came to the room with his bill and pressed for payment, and after three weeks, after a night when he had stayed out very late and come home reeking with perfume, Mr. Schwartz began to hang about the room all day long and to soak himself in the luxury of complaining despair. Then came the black days. There were several scenes, during which she felt like a beggar about to be arrested, between Mr. Schwartz and the landlord before her husband paid part of a bill whose size astounded her. Mr. Schwartz said that he was expecting something to turn up. Nothing he could do but wait for some telephone calls. He sat about with his stockinged feet cocked up on the bed, reading detective stories till he fell asleep in his chair. He drank from unlabeled pint flasks of whiskey all day. Once, when she opened a bureau drawer of his by mistake, she saw half a dozen whiskey flasks mixed with grimy collars and the sour smell nauseated her. But on food they had to economize on that. He took her to a restaurant of fifteen-cent breakfasts and twenty-five-cent dinners. It was the parlor floor of an old brownstone house, two rooms with eggy tablecloths and moldings of dusty stucco. She avoided his presence as much as possible. Mrs. Wade, the practical dressmaker who was her refuge among the women of the hotel, seemed to understand what was going on and gave Una a key to her room. Here Una sat for hours. When she went back to their room quarrels would spring up apropos of anything or nothing. The fault was hers as much as his. She was no longer trying to conceal her distaste, while he, who had a marital conscience of a sort, was almost pathetic in his apologies for being unable to show her a good time. And he wanted her soothing. He was more and more afraid of her as the despair of the jobless man in the hard city settled down on him. He wanted her to agree with him that there was a conspiracy against him. She listened to him and said nothing till he would burst out in abuse. You women that have been in business simply ain't fit to be married. You think you're too good to help a man. Yes, even when you haven't been anything but dub stenographers. I never noticed that you were such a wail of a success. I don't suppose you remember how you used to yop to me about the job being too much for you.  Yes, sir, I tell you, business simply unfits a skirt for marriage. No, she said, not for marriage that has any love and comradeship in it, but I admit a businesswoman doesn't care to put up with being a cow and a stable.  Maybe, she went on, the business women will bring about a new kind of marriage in which men will have to keep up respect and courtesy. I wonder, I wonder how many millions of women in what are supposed to be happy homes are sick over being chambermaids and mistresses till they get dulled and used to it. Nobody will ever know. All these books about women being emancipated you'd think marriage had changed entirely. Yet, right now, in 1912, in Panama and this hotel not changed a bit. The business women must simply compel men to, oh, to shave. She went out, perhaps she slammed the door a little in an unemancipated way to Mrs. Wade's room. That discussion was far more gentle and coherent than most of their quarrels. It may have been rather to the credit of Mr. Schwartz. It may have been a remnant of the clean pride which the boy, Eddie Schwartz, must once have had that whenever she hinted that she would like to go back to work. He raged. So, you think I can't support you, eh? My God, I can stand insults from all my old friends, the fellas that used to be tickled to death to have me buy them a drink, but now they dodge around the corner as though they thought I was going to try to borrow four bits from them. I can stand their insults, but by God it is pretty hard on a man when his own wife lets him know that she don't think he can support her. And he meant it. She saw that, felt his resentment, but she more and more often invited an ambition to go back to work, to be independent and busy, no matter how weary she might become, to die, if need be, in the struggle. Certainly that death would be better than being choked and muck. One of them would have to go to work anyway. She discovered that an old acquaintance of his had offered him an eighteen-dollar-a-week job as a clerk in a retail paint shop, till he should find something better. Mr. Schwartz was scornful about it, and his scorn, which had once intimidated Una, became grotesquely absurd to her. Then the hotel manager came with a curt ultimatum. Pay up or get out, he said. Mr. Schwartz spent an hour telephoning to various acquaintances, trying to raise another hundred dollars. He got the promise of fifty. He shaved, put on a collar that for all practical purposes was quite clean, and went out to collect his fifty as proudly as though he had earned it. Una stared at herself in the mirror over the bureau, and said aloud, I don't believe it. It isn't you, Una Golden, that worked and paid your debts.  Oh, no, no. You wouldn't do that. You couldn't marry a man like that simply because the job had exhausted you. Why, you'd die at work first. Why, if you married him for board and keep, you'd be a prostitute. You'd be marrying him just because he was a good provider. And probably, when he didn't provide any more, you'd be quitter enough to leave him, maybe for another man. You couldn't do that. I don't believe life could bully you into doing that. Oh, I'm hysterical. I'm mad. I can't believe I am what I am. And yet I am. Now he's getting that fifty and buying a drink. Mr. Schwertz actually came home with forty-five out of the fifty intact. That was because he wanted to be able to pay the hotel manager and insultingly inform him that they were going to leave. The manager bore up under the blow. They did move to a furnished housekeeping room on West 19th Street in the very district of gray rooms and pathetic landlady's where Una had sought a boarding house after the death of her mother. As furnished housekeeping rooms go, theirs was highly superior. Most of them are carpetless, rusty and small of coal stove, and filled with cockroaches and the smell of carbolic acid. But the Mason Schwertz was almost clean. It had an impassioned green carpet, a bedspring which scarcely sagged at all, a gas range, and at least a dozen vases with Rococo handles and blobs of guilt. Gee, this ain't so bad, declared Mr. Schwertz.  With which he prepared to settle down to a life of leisure. He went out and bought a pint of whiskey, a pound of steak, a pound of cheese, a loaf of bread, six cigars, and for her a bar of fudge. So far as Una could calculate he had less than forty dollars. She burst out on him. She seemed to be speaking with the brusque voice of an accomplishing man. In that voice was all she had ever heard from executives. All the subconsciously remembered man driving force of the office world. She ordered him to go and take the job in the paint shop at eighteen dollars a week or eight dollars a week.  She drove him out and when he was gone she started to make their rooms presentable with an energy she had not shown for months. She began to dust, to plan curtains for the room, to plan to hide the brick-a-brack, to plan to rent a typewriter and get commercial copying to do. If any one moment of life is more important than the others, this may have been her crisis, when her husband had become a begging pauper and she took charge. Began not only to think earnest commonplace little una thoughts about mastering life but actually to master it. End of Chapter 17. Part 3 Chapter 18 of The Job. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Job by Sinclair Lewis. Part 3 Chapter 18 So long as Mr. Schwartz contrived to keep his position in the retail paint store, Una was busy at home copying documents and specifications and form letters for a stenographic agency and trying to make a science of quick and careful housework. She suspected that, now he had a little money again Mr. Schwartz was being riotous with other women as riotous as one can be in New York on 18 dollars a week, with debts and a wife to interfere with his manly pleasures. But she did not care. She was getting ready to break the cocoon and its grubbiness didn't much matter. Sex meant nothing between them now. She did not believe that she would ever be in love again in any phase, noble or crude. While she aspired and worked, she lived like a nun in a cell. And now that she had something to do she could be sorry for him. She made the best possible dinners for him on their gas range. She realized, sometimes not often, for she was not a contemplative seer but a battered woman, that their marriage had been as unfair to him as it was to her. In small town, boy gang talks behind barns in clerkly confidences as a young man in the chatter of smoking cars and provincial hotel offices he had been trained to know only two kinds of women, both very complacent to smart live wires. The bouncing lassies who laughed and kissed and would share with a man his pleasures, such as poker and cocktails and rapid motoring to no place in particular and the meek, attentive, refined kind the wives and mothers who cared for a man and admired him and believed whatever he told them about his business. Una was of neither sort for him though for Walter Babson she might have been quite of the latter kind. Mr. Schwertz could not understand her and she was as sorry for him as was compatible with a decided desire to divorce him and wash off the stain of his damp pulpy fingers with the water of life. But she stayed home and washed and cooked and earned money for him till he lost his retail store position by getting drunk and getting haughty to a customer. Then the chrysalis burst and Una was free again free to labor, to endeavor, to die perhaps but to die clean, to quest and meet whatever surprises life might hold. She couldn't go back to Troy Wilkins's nor to Mr. S. Herbert Ross and the little Pemberton stenographers who had married. But she made a real business of looking for a job. While Mr. Schwertz stayed home and slept and got mental bed sores and drank himself to death rather too slowly, on another fifty dollars which he had borrowed after a very done campaign Una was joyous to be out early looking over advertisements visiting typewriter companies employment agencies. She was slow in getting work because she wanted twenty dollars a week. She knew that any firm taking her at this wage would respect her far more than if she was an easy purchase. Work was slow to come and she who had always been so securely above the rank of poppers who submit to the dreadful surgery of charity became afraid. She went at last to Mamie Magan. Mamie was now the executive secretary of the Hebrew young women's professional union. She seemed to be a personage. In her office she had a secretary who spoke of her with adoring awe. And when Una said that she was a personal friend of Miss Magan the secretary cried, oh then perhaps you'd like to go to her apartment at blank Washington place. She's almost always home for tea at five. The small tired looking Una, a business woman again in her old tailor made and a new small hat walked longingly toward Washington place and tea. In her seven years in New York she had never known anybody except S. Herbert Ross who took tea as a regular function. It meant to her the gentlest of all forms of distinction more appealing than riding in motors or going to the opera. That Mamie Magan had during Una's own experience evolved from a home club girl to an executive who had tea at her apartment every afternoon was in spiriting meeting her an adventure. An apartment of buff colored walls and not bad prints was Mamie's, small but smooth. And taking tea in a manner which seemed to Una impressively suave were the insiders of the young charity worker's circle. But Mamie's uncouth face and eyes of molten heroism stood out among them all and she hobbled over to Una and kissed her. When the cluster had thinned she got Una aside and invited her to the southern kitchen on Washington square. Una did not speak of her husband. I want to get on the job again and I wish you'd help me. I want something at twenty a week. I'm more than worth it and my chance to really climb was all she said and Mamie nodded. And so they talked of Mrs. Harriet Fike of the home club, of dreams and work and the fight for suffrage. Una's marriage slipped away. She was ardent and unstained again. Mamie's nod was worth months of Mr. Schwartz's profuse masculine boasts within ten days Mamie's friend Mr. Fine of Truax and Fine, the real estate people sent for Una and introduced her to Mr. Daniel T. Truax. She was told to come to work on the following Monday as Mr. Truax's secretary at twenty one dollars a week. She went home defiant determined to force her husband to let her take the job. She didn't need to use force. He, slipper and drowsy by the window, said That's fine. That'll keep us going till my big job breaks. I'll hear about it by next week anyway. Then, in three four weeks, you can kick Truax and Fine in the face and beat it. Say, girly, that's fine. Say, tell you what I'll do. Let's have a little party to celebrate. I'll chase out and rush a growler of beer and some weenies. No, I've got to go out again. Can't you stop just long enough to have a little celebration? I've been kind of lonely last few days, little sister.  He was peering at her with a real wistfulness. But in the memory of Mamie Magan, the lame woman with a golden heart, Una could not endure his cackling enthusiasm about the job he would probably never get. No, I'm sorry, she said, and closed the door. From the walk she saw him puzzled and anxious at the window. His face was becoming so ruddy and fatuous and babyish. She was sorry for him, but she was not big enough to do anything about it. Farrow was like sympathy for a mangy alley cat which she could not take home. She had no place to go. She walked for hours, planlessly, and dined at a bakery and lunchroom in Harlem. Sometimes she felt homeless, and always she was prosaically footsore. But now and then came the understanding that she again had a chance. End of Chapter 18 Part 3 Chapter 19 of The Job This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Job by Sinclair Lewis Part 3 Man and Woman Chapter 19 So toward the end of 1912, when she was 31 years old, Mrs. Una Golden Schwertz began her business career as confidential secretary to Mr. Truax of Truax & Fine. Her old enemy, Routine, was constantly in the field. Routine of taking dictation of getting out the letters, prompting Mr. Truax's memory as to who Mrs. A was and what Mr. B had telephoned, keeping plots and plans and memos in order, making out cards regarding the negotiations with possible sellers of suburban estates. She did not, as she had hoped, always find this routine one jolly round of surprises. She was often weary, sometimes bored. But in the splendor of being independent again, and of having something to do that seemed worthwhile, she was able to get through the details that never changed from day to day. And she was rewarded, for the whole job was made fascinating by human contact. She found herself enthusiastic about most of the people she met at Truax & Fines. She was glad to talk with them, to work with them, to be taken seriously as a brain, a loyalty, a woman. By contrast with two years of hours, either empty or filled with Schwartz, the office world was of the loftiest dignity. It may have been that some of the men she met were Schwartz's to their wives, but to her they had to be fellow workers. She did not believe that the long hours, the jealousies, the worry or Mr. Truax's belief that he was several planes above ordinary humanity, were desirable or necessary parts of the life at Truax & Fines. Here, too, she saw nine hours of daily strain, aging slim girls into skinny females. But now her whole point of view was changed. Instead of looking for the evils of the business world, she was desirous of seeing in it all the blessings she could. And without ever losing her belief that it could be made more friendly, she was, nevertheless, able to rise above her own personal weariness and see that the world of jobs, offices, business had made itself creditably superior to those other muddled worlds of politics and amusement and amorous Schwartz's. She believed again, as in commercial college she had callally believed, that business was beginning to see itself as communal world ruling and beginning to be inspired to communal, kingly virtues and responsibility. Looking for the good, sometimes in her joy of escape, looking for it almost with the joy of an S. Herbert Ross in picking little lucrative flowers of sentiment along the roadside, she was able to behold more daily happiness about her. Fortunately Truax and Fines was a good office, not too hard, not too strained and factional like Pemberton's, not wavering like Troy Wilkins's. Despite Mr. Truax's tendency to courteous whining, it was doing its work squarely and quietly. That was fortunate. Offices differ as much as office managers, and had chance condemned Una to another nerve-twanging Pemberton's, her slight strength might have broken. She might have fallen back to Schwartz and the gutter. Peaceful as reapers singing on their homeward path now seemed the teasing voices of men and girls as, they waited for the elevator at 5.35. The cheerful, good night Mrs. Schwartz, was a Vesper benediction, altogether sweet with its earnest of rest and friendship. Tranquility she found when she stayed late in the deserted office. Here no Schwartz could reach her. Here her toil counted for something in the world's work, in the making suburban homes for men and women and children. She sighed, and her breast felt barren, as she thought of the children. But tranquility there was and a brilliant beauty of the city as across dark spaces of evening were strung the jewels of light as in small French restaurants sounded desirous violins. On warm evenings of autumn Una would lean out of the window and be absorbed in the afterglow above the North River, smoke clouds from Jersey factories drifting across the long Carmen Stain, air sweet and cool, and the yellow lighted windows of other skyscrapers giving distant companionship. She fancied sometimes that she was watching the afterglow over a far northern lake among the pines, and with a sigh more of content than of restlessness she turned back to her work. Time ceased to exist when she worked alone. Of time and of the office she was manager. What if she didn't go out to dinner till eight? She could dine whenever she wanted to. If a clumsy man called Eddie Schwartz got hungry he could get his own dinner. What if she did work slowly? There were no telephone messages, no Mr. Truax to annoy her. She could be leisurely and do the work as it should be done. She was no longer afraid of the rustling silence about her as Una Golden had been at Troy Wilkins's. She was a woman now, and trained to fill the blank spaces of the deserted office with her own colored thoughts. Hours of bustling life in the daytime office had their human joys as well. Una went out of her way to be friendly with the ordinary stenographers, and, as there was no vast Pembertonian system of caste, she succeeded and had all the warmth of their little confidences. Nor after her extensive experience with Messour's Schwartz, Anderson and McCullough did even the noisiest of the salesmen offend her. She laughed at the small signs they were always bringing in and displaying. Oh, forget it! I've got troubles of my own. Or is that you again?  The sales manager brought this ladder back from Philadelphia and hung it on his desk, and when the citizenry surrounded it, Una joined them. As a married woman she was not expected to be shocked by the word hell. But most beautiful was Christmas Eve, when all distinctions were suspended for an hour before the office closed, when Mr. Truax distributed gold pieces and handshakes, when Chaz, the hat-tilted sales manager, stood on a chair carrying a solo. Mr. Fine hung Holly on all their desks, and for an hour stenographers and salesmen and clerks and chiefs all were friends. When she went home to Schwartz she tried to take some of the holiday friendship. She sought to forget that he was still looking for the hypothetical job while he subsisted on her wages and was increasingly apologetic. She boasted to herself that her husband hated to ask her for money, that he was large and strong and masculine. She took him to dinner at the Pequot, in a room of gold and tapestry, but he got drunk and wept into his sherbet that he was a drag on her, and she was glad to be back in the office after Christmas. The mist of newness had passed, that confusion of the recent arrival in office or summer hotel or a revengeful reception, and she now saw the office inhabitants as separate people. She wondered how she could ever have thought that the sales manager and Mr. Fine were confusingly alike, or have been unable to get the salesman's names right. There was the chief, Mr. Daniel T. Truax, usually known as D.T., a fussily courteous whiner with a rabidly face, his pink nose actually quivered, a little yellow moustache and a little round stomach. Himself and his business he took very seriously, though he was far less tricky than Mr. Pemberton. The real estate board of trade was impressed by his unsmiling insistence on the dignity of the profession and always asked him to serve on committees. It was Mr. Truax who bought the property for sub-development, and though he had less abstract intelligence than Mr. Fine, he was a better judge of what the people want, of just how high to make restrictions on property, and what whim would turn the commuters north or south in their quest for homes. There was the super chief, the one person related to the firm whom Una hated, Mrs. D.T. Truax. She was not officially connected with the establishment and her office habits were irregular. Mostly they consisted in appearing at the most dangerous and asking maddening questions. She was fat, massaged, glittering, wheezy voiced, nagging. Una peculiarly hated Mrs. Truax's nails. Una's own fingertips were hard with typing. Her manicuring was a domestic matter of clipping and hypocritical filing. But to Mrs. Truax, manicuring was a life work. Because of much clipping of the cuticle, the flesh at the base of each nail had become a noticeably raised cushion of pink flesh. Her nails were too pink, too shiny, too shapely, and sometimes they were unearthly white at the ends because of nail paste left under them. At that startling whiteness Una stared, all the while Mrs. Truax was tapping her fingers and prying into the private morals of the pretty haul girl, and infillating Una with the lawn yawn that so perfectly suited her upper west side jowls. Collating Mrs. Truax and the matrons of the visiting board of the Temperance Home Club, Una concluded that women trained in egotism but untrained in thought to be legally enjoined from giving their views to young women on the job. The most interesting figure in the office was Mr. Fine, the junior partner, a Harvard Jew who was perfectly the new type of businessman. Serious, tall, spectacled, clean shaven, lean faced, taking business as a profession and kindly justice as a religion, studying efficiency but hating the metamorphosis of clerks into machines, he was the distinction and the power of Truax and Fine. At first Una had thought him humorless and negligible, but she discovered that it was he who pulled Mr. Truax out of his ruts, his pious trickeries, his cramping economies. She found that Mr. Fine loved books and the opera and that he could be boyish after hours. Then the sales manager, that driving but festive soul, Mr. Charles Salmond, whom everybody called Chaz, pronounced Chaz, a good soul who was a little tiresome because he was so consistently an anthology of New York. He believed in Broadway, the Follies, good clothes, a motor car, Palm Beach and the value of the Salvation Army among the lower classes. When Mr. Fine fought for real beauty in their suburban developments, it was Chaz who echoed all of New York by rebelling. We aren't in business for our health. This idealistic game is okay for the guys that have the cash, but you can't expect my salesmen to sell this simplicity and high-thinking stuff to prospects that are interested in nothing but a sound investment with room for a garage and two kids. Sixty or seventy salesmen, clerks, girls, these Una was beginning to know. Finally there was a keen, wide-awake woman willing to do anything for anybody, not forward but not to be overridden, a woman with a slight knowledge of architecture and a larger knowledge of the way of promotion, a woman whom Una took seriously. And the name of this paragon was Mrs. Una Golden Schwartz. Around these human islands flowed a sea of others. She had a sense of flux and change and energy of hundreds of thousands of people rushing about her always, crowds on Broadway and Fifth Avenue and Sixth, and on 34th Street where stood the Zodiac Building in which was the office, crowds in the hall of the Zodiac Building examining the Black and White Directory Board with its list of two hundred offices or waiting to surge into one of the twelve elevators, those packed vertical railroads. A whole village life in the hallway of the Zodiac Building, the Imperial Elevator Starter in a uniform of blue and gold, and merely regal elevator runners with less gold and more faded blue, the oldest of the elevator boys, Harry the Greek who knew everybody in the building, the cigar stand with piles of cigarettes, cans of advertised tobacco, maple fudge wrapped in tin foil, stamps and even a few cigars. Also the keeper thereof, an Italian with an air of swooning romance. More romantic Italians in the glass enclosed barbershop, desperate Desmond devils with white coats like undress uniforms and pistaches that recall the Riviera and Baccarat and a secret service count. The two manicure girls of the barbershop, princesses reigning among admirers from the offices upstairs, janitors with brooms and charwomen with pails and a red sarcastic man, the engineer and a meek puppet who was merely the superintendent of the whole thing. Una watched these village people to whom the Zodiac Hall was main street and in their satisfied confirmation to a life of marble floors and artificial light, she found such settled existence as made her feel at home in this town with its 18 strata called floors. She too, at least during the best hours of the day, lived in the Zodiac building's microcosm. And to her office penetrated the ever flowing crowds, salesmen, buyers of real estate, inquirers persons who seemed to have as a hobby the collection of real estate folders. Indeed her most important task was the strategy of handling callers, the callers who came to see Mr. Truax himself and were passed on to Una by the hall girl. To the clever secretary, the management of callers becomes a question of scientific tactics and Una was clever at it because she liked people. She had to recognize the type of awkward shabby visitor who looks like a beggar but has in his pocket the cash for investment in lots. And the insinuating caller with tailor-made garments and a smart tie who presents himself as one who yearns to do a good turn to his dear, dear personal friend Mr. D.T. Truax but proves to be an insurance agent or a salesman of adding machines. She had to send away the women with high-pitched voices and purely imaginary business who came in for nothing whatever and were willing to spend all of their own time and Mr. Truax's in obtaining the same. Women with unsalable houses to sell or improbable lots to buy dissatisfied clients or mere cranks, old, shattered, unhappy women to whom Una could give sympathy but no time. She was expert at standing filially listening to them at the elevator while all the time her thumb steadily pressed the elevator signal. Una had been trained, perhaps as much by enduring Mr. Schwartz as by pleasing Mr. S. Herbert Ross, to be firm, to say no, to keep Mr. Truax's sacred rights undisturbed. She did not conventionally murmur, Mr. Truax is in a conference just now and if you will tell me the nature of your business instead she had surprising, delightful convincing things for Mr. Truax to be doing just at that particular moment. From Mr. Truax himself she learned new ways of delicately getting rid of people. He did not merely rise to indicate that an interview was over but also arranged a system of counterfeit telephone calls to Una calling up from the outside office and Mr. Truax answering, yes, I'll be through now in just a moment as a hint for the visitor. He even practiced such play-acting as putting on his hat and coat and rushing out to greet an important but unwelcome caller with, oh, I'm so sorry, I'm just going out late for important engagement. Give him a secretary full instructions and I know she'll take her view just as well as I could personally, and returning to his private office by a rear door. Mr. Truax, like Mr. S. Herbert Ross, gave Una maxims but his had very little to do with stars and argoses and the road to success and vivisection and the abstract virtues. They concerned getting to the office on time and never letting a customer bother him if an office salesman could take care of the matter. So round Una flowed all the energy of life and she of the listening and desolate hotel room and the overshadowing storm clouds was happy again. She began to make friendships. Chaz, the office manager, stopped often at her desk to ridicule and Mr. Fine to praise the plans she liked to make for garden suburbs which should be filled with poets, thatched roofs, excellent plumbing, artistic conversation, fireplaces, incinerators, books, and convenient trains. Some day, said Mr. Fine to her, we'll do that sort of thing just as the Sage Foundation is doing it at Forest Hills. And he smiled encouragingly.  And he smiled encouragingly. Rott, said Chaz, and amiably chucked her under the chin. End of chapter 19


crypto doesn't need a blockchain, crypto doesn't need a token. There is no way to stop Bitcoin. This is Paolo Ardoiro, the CEO of Tether, the world's largest stablecoin operator. In this Cointelegraph interview, Paolo addressed the challenges facing Tether in the competitive stablecoin market and shared his crypto outlook for 2024. I would like to address this prediction that was made by Vanak. They say in a recent report that USDC is poised to flip USDT in 2024 as quote, more institutional adoption will reveal a preference for USDC already evident on newer L2 chains. So what do you think about this assessment? Well, it's an interesting assessment. The way I think about it is that of course Vanak is an institutional player and they only look at the market from the institutional point of view. For them, the market seems to think that the market is all about institutions and crypto is becoming mainstream in the institutional space. They're reality and look, we are extremely glad, as I said before, if our competitors keep growing and Tether doesn't have to be the first and the biggest stablecoins forever. So in general, I don't mind. What I think though is that I'm glad to see that our competition is focusing on the institutional space because that was never, never the goal and the interest of Tether and USDT. We are the stablecoin used by hundreds of millions of people. Our competition, while it focuses on Wall Street and the same guys in the transport in Europe, you know, the plastic institutions, the banks, the hedge funds, we are more than happy to leave that entire market for our competition. We believe that crypto is about something else, is about providing help and rails to the unbanked people. And we believe that is the only reason to exist, not maybe not the only, but is the main reason to exist of crypto and Bitcoin and stablecoins is to democratize the access to financial services. So if someone has a better luck in growing their market cap with institutional investors, that's fine. Yeah, that's interesting. So basically, USDT as the stablecoin of the elites and the USDT as the stablecoin of the people. Not long ago, Tether announced its collaboration with the US law enforcement agencies, including the FBI and Secret Service. You helped these law enforcement agencies retrieving some funds, freezing some accounts of entities that were on the US sanction list. So I read some critical comments about that online regarding the fact that basically these comments were saying that now Tether won't be a neutral medium of exchange, but it will be subjected to the arbitrariness of US authorities. How would you reply to people that are concerned about that aspect? So first of all, every single stablecoin has freezing capabilities. The reason is fairly simple, right? Stablecoins, the dollar stablecoins, your stablecoins, they represent an underlying fiat currency and they are using the banking rails to operate. So how would be possible to not using the banking rails, using the banking system? Because from one side, people want the stability of USDT or stablecoins in general. And if you want stability, you pretend as a customer of a stablecoin that the stablecoin has safe assets, like TBAs, right? But on the other side, well, but you shouldn't have to comply with law enforcement. We use blockchains that are decentralized transport layers as a transport layer. But in the end, the stablecoin is centralized. So if we were not complying with law enforcement requests, so first of all, our job, our stability to the stablecoin would not be guaranteed. Because of course, if you are not complying with real world laws, then the stablecoin itself could be impacted. So it's important to understand that there is a huge difference between a stablecoin and a big coin. If you know it's something that is untouchable, that is unstoppable, that is resistant to the wrath of God, you use Bitcoin. If you want to have access to the dollar and dollar in your pockets and you want to use it in a better way, cheaper way, faster way, in a more resilient way, then your cash or in your bag count in dollars, use USDT. Right. So you mentioned Bitcoin. So I would like now to switch the attention to Bitcoin, specifically to a prediction that was made by, I believe, your friend Samson Mao in a previous interview with us was very bullish. She said that in 2024, he expects Bitcoin to reach $1 million price because of the combination effect of the halving and the ETF approval, which he expects to be approved early next year. So what do you think about this prediction? Well, Samson is a good friend and anything that he will say below his number, he will call me a bear. A few years ago for Bitcoin, many of the institutional investors were calling Bitcoin something a product only for criminals. And now they are jumping on the Bitcoin bandwagon. So I think we should be happy about the result, about the fact that we called them out. Now we called their hypocrisy out and now they are joining the Bitcoin ranks or at least on the face, if they are joining the Bitcoin ranks. But in the end, the more we go ahead, you know, the price of course matters as important. But the price is a reflection of the fact that there is no way to stop Bitcoin, full stop. Coming back to stablecoins, stablecoins are great because they are probably the only cryptocurrency that has reached sort of mass adoption with a use case that has nothing to do with speculation. What will it take for something like that to emerge in the crypto space in 2024? Will we see something like stablecoins, another killer use case emerge? And what could that be according to you? Well, there is a little bit of distinction to be made. People will decouple the need of a token and the need of a blockchain from the pure innovation, right? Real world ecosystem as I like to call it is a set of tools, could be, I don't know, a booking system, could be a Nuber competitor, could be everything built on this new dogma of being decentralized and leveraging cryptography to enhance privacy and to cut intermediaries. The thing that I think is it will not survive in 2024 or will keep going down in interest is yet another token, right? I think we are going to not leave that moment anymore, right? So everyone that today comes and say, well, I have this new token because I have this great project. I mean, I hear more and more voices telling that person, you know, stop, we don't need another token.   What's your need in your life? What is the thing you use throughout your day that could be improved through cryptography and decentralization? You mentioned the competitor of Uber or competitor of booking system, but built on a decentralized rails. What is the obstacle that still prevents that from reaching the masses according to you? A simple word and the word is that you are or we are referred to is greed. Someone could implement some of these tools through a blockchain, but the blockchain is the worst tool to implement some of these use cases. If you were to implement a peer-to-peer Uber, for sure and truly peer-to-peer and truly decentralized, it would not have, of course, any point of failures and it wouldn't need a token, right? It could be used Bitcoin or USDT for payments, but it wouldn't need yet another token. So ask yourself why a VC or why a person should build something that will not yield them much money? Because if it's truly peer-to-peer, if it's truly decentralized, why it means that it doesn't have any point of failure and a token is a point of failure? Because think about what is happening with the SEC, right? So if many projects that issue tokens are now on in the crosshairs of the SEC. So because most of these tokens are actually centralized in the hands of a small group of people, making it more likely to be a security. So if you were to do something unstoppable, something perfect, it would not have a token and so it wouldn't have a blockchain because blockchains are slow because they require global shared state. But then that system is not related to crypto in any way, right? Because it doesn't rely on a token nor on a blockchain. Is it that correct? But here is the point, right? So you said it's not related to crypto because doesn't rely on a token or blockchain, but crypto means cryptography. So peer-to-peer, so it actually relates to crypto and the fundamental values of crypto, that is cryptography for privacy and for attesting the truth without the need of exposing yourself, right? The fact that crypto, blockchain and tokens are correlated is in a way is true, but also is also a lie in the sense that crypto doesn't need a blockchain, crypto doesn't need a token. BitTorrent didn't have a blockchain and was decentralized. Then do you need a token to be decentralized? No, of course not. You just need the cryptography to attest who you are with zero knowledge proof or other systems. And that's the beauty of it. Awesome. I think that's very interesting. Crypto is not equivalent to blockchains or tokens, so that's a very interesting take. And yeah, let's see how everything is going to play out in 2024. And yeah, let's be in touch for next year, Paolo. Thanks a lot for talking to us today. Thank you Giovanni for your time. Always a pleasure.


Hello everybody. I want to speak to you today about the Teaching for Transitions team. And in particular, I want to speak to you about using a fairly, I suppose, difficult topic, or a difficult strategy, social media for a transformative pedagogy. There's been a lot of discussion recently about the relative merits of using social media in the classroom. And here we can see very much why social media isn't needed, because here we all are. And I can eyeball every single one of you, and I can tell very clearly whether or not you're watching me, or listening to me, or whether you're engaged. However, when we begin to take classes online, or either totally online or in a blended environment, well then clearly we begin to lose that personal connection. And we'd say my, you know, staggering abilities as a stand-up comedian and teacher, all of a sudden become dissipated as the barriers, or the perceived barriers of distance and time begin to impinge on the core course content. So what I'm going to suggest now is a strategy perhaps for us to get beyond those boundaries of space and time. And to see where the virtual can actually be personal, and how the virtual can actually be material. So I'm going to use the exemplar of our MA in Digital Cultures in UCC, which is the fourth new program that this particular stream of digital humanities has brought online in the past four years. And why has there been such, I suppose, a demand for these programs? It's coming from the students themselves, it's coming from the world at large, but also it's coming from us as educators, because we see these incredible young people in front of us who, because they're coming perhaps from something that's not a STEM background, see themselves as somehow disadvantaged in the world of work, because they're historians, or because they're philosophers, or because they're archaeologists or geographers. In my case, I come from the School of English. And because of that, I'm very keenly aware of what it means to, if you like, write ourselves or inscribe ourselves on the world. So how we communicate is critical to how we are assessed and how we deliver our person to the world. And in that way then, it's becoming increasingly important to have an embedded digital literacy as part and parcel of all of the work that we as educators do. Not as a peripheral thing or not on the side, but I think that it's possible to have it embedded within each and every one of our courses. So nobody has written an essay for me since 2008, right? And that coming from an English department is an absolutely heretical statement. That is anathema to many of my colleagues, right? But what they've done instead is they have published their work online. So since 2008, 2009, 2010, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, I have archives of all of the students' work of the transition that I have made myself from somebody who's very tentatively dipping their foot in the water, right? To somebody who's dived in. Absolutely hook, line, sinker, right? And I'm now totally submerged, hopefully still breathing, right, in this new world. So how have we achieved that? So we've achieved it not from a very techno-managerialist approach of monetizing stuff and getting it online for the sake of it. We've achieved it not because it's the zeitgeist and because everybody's on it, but through profound engagement with what it means to be readers, writers, critical thinkers, engaged participants, knowledge makers. Lawrence Lessig in his book, The Future of Ideas, has a gorgeous thought that we're moving now through Web Point 2.0 technologies from a situation where passive consumers of knowledge produced elsewhere to become active producers of that culture. And that's a huge shift in transition for many of us. So all the more so then for students who, for the most part on the springboard program, are people who see themselves as disenfranchised from university. We have a very broad range of ethnicities. We have a broad range of ages. We have a broad range similar to Anna in the occupational health and safety at work program. We have people who have a junior cert and we have people who have PhDs in the room. So how then can we bring them to the space? And luckily, technology for the most part for many of them is new. So then what do you do? What does everybody in this room have? Everybody has some kind of a device in their hand or in their pocket. So we connect them using ubiquitous technologies, stuff that they might already use, whether that is Facebook, whether that is Twitter, whether that is simply creating websites and being online. And that has a profound infrastructural impact on the university because we're demanding things like virtual personal service bases from the computer center, which is a first. And that's good. Why? Because they are building and they're performing their learning out in the world. This is public and at times this is dangerous. I don't know what they're going to say all of the time, you know. And it may or may not be woohoo. That's a fantastic course. They may be asking deep questions about why we do what we do, how we do what we do, and why this is meaningful for them in the world. So then we're deliberately making a culture of active learners, active engaged participants in local, national and international debates. We set, for instance, a hashtag for the group. So that if I'm not there, somebody else will be there. That there is a movement beyond the hour, beyond the space of the room. And there is an active engagement with other communities of learners, whether they're here in Ireland, everybody here is probably familiar with the Ed Chat, i.e. hashtag that's ongoing. But every discipline here has an international community of engaged scholars who are working every day on a particular hashtag. So you can't get to that conference, well then you can just track what's happening. In this room today, every single link that was put up there on the screen could, for instance, be archived and curated. And for assessment, that's what we do. We ask them to curate. We ask them to create a curation in their own web space. We ask them to know each other. We ask them to comment on each other's work. There is a profound peer-to-peer engagement. And that's what has transformed their capacity and their belief in themselves in terms of their own ability to communicate, not just with the people in the room, but in local, national and international debate. And they've done that over the last number of years. Thank you so much for your attention.