John Passos - The 42nd Parallel

“Now, Mr. Barrow, what we want is a statement that will allay unrest. We must make both sides in this controversy understand the value of coöperation. That’s a great word, coöperation… First we’ll get it down in rough… You’ll please make suggestions from the angle of organized labor, and you, Mr. Jonas, from the juridical angle. Ready, Miss Williams… Released by J. Ward Moorehouse, Public Relations Counsel, Hotel Shoreham, Washington, D.C., Jan. 15, 1916…” Then Janey was too busy taking down the dictation to catch the sense of what was being said.

That evening when she got home she found Alice already in bed. Alice wanted to go to sleep, but Janey chattered like a magpie about Mr. Barrow and labor troubles and J. Ward Moorehouse and what a fine man he was, and so kind and friendly and had such interesting ideas for collaboration between capital and labor, and spoke so familiarly about what the President thought and what Andrew Carnegie thought and what the Rockefeller interests or Mr. Schick or Senator LaFollette intended, and had such handsome boyish blue eyes, and was so nice, and the silver teaservice, and how young he looked in spite of his prematurely gray hair, and the open fire and the silver cocktail shaker and the crystal glasses.

“Why, Janey,” broke in Alice, yawning, “I declare you must have a crush on him. I never heard you talk about a man that way in my life.” Janey blushed and felt very sore at Alice. “Oh, Alice, you’re so silly… It’s no use talking to you about anything.” She got undressed and turned out the light. It was only when she got to bed that she remembered that she hadn’t had any supper. She didn’t say anything about it because she was sure Alice would say something silly.

Next day she finished the job for Mr. Barrow. All morning she wanted to ask him about Mr. Moorehouse, where he lived, whether he was married or not, where he came from, but she reflected it wouldn’t be much use. That afternoon, after she had been paid, she found herself walking along H Street past the Shoreham. She pretended to herself that she wanted to look in the storewindows. She didn’t see him, but she saw a big shiny black limousine with a monogram that she couldn’t make out without stooping and it would look funny if she stooped; she decided that was his car.

She walked down the street to the corner opposite the big gap in the houses where they were tearing down the Arlington. It was a clear sunny afternoon. She walked round Lafayette Square looking at the statue of Andrew Jackson on a rearing horse among the bare trees.

There were children and nursemaids grouped on the benches. A man with a grizzled vandyke with a black portfolio under his arm sat down on one of the benches and immediately got up again and strode off; foreign diplomat, thought Janey, and how fine it was to live in the Capital City where there were foreign diplomats and men like J. Ward Moorehouse. She walked once more round the statue of Andrew Jackson rearing green and noble on a greennoble horse in the russet winter afternoon sunlight and then back towards the Shoreham, walking fast as if she were late to an appointment. She asked a bellboy where the public stenographer was. He sent her up to a room on the second floor where she asked an acideyed woman with a long jaw, who was typing away with her eyes on the little sector of greencarpeted hall she could see through the halfopen door, whether she knew of anyone who wanted a stenographer. The acideyed woman stared at her. “Well, this isn’t an agency, you know.” “I know; I just thought on the chance…” said Janey, feeling everything go suddenly out of her. “Do you mind if I sit down a moment?” The acideyed woman continued staring at her.

“Now, where have I seen you before…? No, don’t remind me… You… you were working at Mrs. Robinson’s the day I came in to take out her extra work. There, you see, I remember you perfectly.” The woman smiled a yellow smile. “I’d have remembered you,” said Janey, “only I’m so tired of going round looking for a job.”

“Don’t I know?” sighed the woman.

“Don’t you know anything I could get?”

“I’ll tell you what you do… They were phoning for a girl to take dictation in number eight. They’re using ’em up like… like sixty in there, incorporating some concern or something. Now, my dear, you listen to me, you go in there and take off your hat like you’d come from somewhere and start taking dictation and they won’t throw you out, my dear, even if the other girl just came, they use ’em up too fast.”

Before Janey knew what she was doing she’d kissed the acideyed woman on the edge of the jaw and had walked fast along the corridor to number eight and was being let in by the sleekhaired man who recognized her and asked, “Stenographer?”

“Yes,” said Janey and in another minute she had taken out her pad and paper and taken off her hat and coat and was sitting at the end of the shinydark mahogany table in front of the crackling fire, and the firelight glinted on silver decanters and hotwater pitchers and teapots and on the black perfectly shined shoes and in the flameblue eyes of J. Ward Moorehouse.

There she was sitting taking dictation from J. Ward Moorehouse.

At the end of the afternoon the sleekhaired man came in and said, “Time to dress for dinner, sir,” and J. Ward Moorehouse grunted and said, “Hell.” The sleekhaired man skated a little nearer across the thick carpet. “Beg pardon, sir; Miss Rosenthal’s fallen down and broken ’er ’ip. Fell on the ice in front of the Treasury Buildin’, sir.”

“The hell she has… Excuse me, Miss Williams,” he said and smiled. Janey looked up at him indulgent-understandingly and smiled too. “Has she been fixed up all right?”

“Mr. Mulligan took her to the orspital, sir.”

“That’s right… You go downstairs, Morton, and send her some flowers. Pick out nice ones.”

“Yessir… About five dollars’ worth, sir?”

“Two fifty’s the limit, Morton, and put my card in.”

Morton disappeared. J. Ward Moorehouse walked up and down in front of the fireplace for a while as if he were going to dictate. Janey’s poised pencil hovered above the pad. J. Ward Moorehouse stopped walking up and down and looked at Janey. “Do you know anyone, Miss Williams… I want a nice smart girl as stenographer and secretary, someone I can repose confidence in… Damn that woman for breaking her hip.”

Janey’s head swam. “Well, I’m looking for a position of that sort myself.”

J. Ward Moorehouse was still looking at her with a quizzical blue stare. “Do you mind telling me, Miss Williams, why you lost your last job?”

“Not at all. I left Dreyfus and Carroll, perhaps you know them… I didn’t like what was going on round there. It would have been different if old Mr. Carroll had stayed, though Mr. Dreyfus was very kind, I’m sure.”

“He’s an agent of the German government.”

“That’s what I mean. I didn’t like to stay after the President’s proclamation.”

“Well, round here we’re all for the Allies, so it’ll be quite all right. I think you’re just the person I like… Of course, can’t be sure, but all my best decisions are made in a hurry. How about twentyfive a week to begin on?”

“All right, Mr. Moorehouse; it’s going to be very interesting work, I’m sure.”

“Tomorrow at nine please, and send these telegrams from me as you go out:

“Mrs. J. Ward Moorehouse

“Great Neck Long Island New York

“May have to go Mexico City explain Saltworths unable attend dinner Hope everything allright love to all Ward

“Miss Eleanor Stoddard

“45 E 11th Street New York

“Write me what you want brought back from Mexico as ever J.W.