Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [36]
He listened. He thought it over. He suspected Harriet was bluffing. Except for Carolyn’s absurd behavior she had no legitimate complaint. She was adequately paid and she knew it. She had a comfortable room of her own next to the kitchen, she had a day off each week and occasionally an extra day off if there was a bona-fide reason. She got a liberal gift at Christmas and a two-week paid vacation every summer. She could, of course, find another job in the neighborhood without much trouble, because she had a good reputation; all the same he thought she was pretending to be more insulted than she actually was. She must have some other reason for threatening to quit. He could not guess what that might be, but for the moment it was irrelevant. The problem, he decided, was not Harriet. The problem was Carolyn.
And the more he considered her foolish command the more it exasperated him because her behavior was a reflection upon himself, as though in some way he had not communicated to her his own sense of personal dignity. He sent for her. He lectured her for quite a while, and at last he concluded: “You will treat Harriet courteously. She is not your property, nor is she mine. President Lincoln once said ‘It is no pleasure to me to triumph over anyone.’ Remember that, Carolyn, as long as you live. And now let us hear no more of this.”
41 Onward, Christian Soldiers
Once a year Dr. Foster came to dinner. He arrived at seven and he departed at ten. He never forgot to bring a little gift—flowers, a box of salted nuts, hard candies, or a bottle of sherry made by the monks in California. One year he brought a copy of a book of essays he had written, which were published by a local house. Mrs. Bridge already had bought and read his book, and she had told him how much she enjoyed it, but evidently he had forgotten; or possibly there was a surplus and he worried that the unsold copies might unceremoniously appear on a department-store bargain table. For whatever reason, there were now two copies of Dr. Foster’s book in the house, both copies autographed. Mr. Bridge had read a few pages. Dr. Foster mentioned Mankind frequently, and almost every page contained some reference to faith or hope. The essays were modestly confessional, confessing to such sins as the desire when he was a boy to run off with a circus; but, as he noted, he had managed to overcome this temptation. Mr. Bridge had not opened the book a second time. There was nothing specifically wrong, except that it was dull. It was remarkably dull. The man seemed to possess an exceptional gift for being dull. Sentence after sentence had been hauled to the surface as though he had cranked them out of a cistern in a bucket. And like most men who are incurably dull he considered himself lively, and was under the impression that everybody talked about him; consequently he was twice as dull in person as he was in the pulpit, or when he commenced an essay: I take pen in hand ...
The annual dinner, therefore, was an evening to be dreaded. Three hours in the man’s company was suffocating. How or why the custom had started, he could not remember. The minister’s salary no doubt was small, so he did not eat well, and presumably he very often ate alone; perhaps for some such reasons Mrs. Bridge pitied him and invited him to dinner. It seemed altogether unnecessary. The man had chosen that sort of life. If that was what he wanted let him have it.
But he said nothing, and each year when his wife reminded him that Dr. Foster was coming to dinner again on a certain evening he merely nodded. If only the minister held some violent prejudice, no matter how preposterous, then at least he would be worth talking to. But he had no prejudice, or if he did he had buried it beneath a haystack of piety. Indeed, he was so careful not to offend anybody that he seldom offered an opinion about anything; and whatever he said, he qualified, chuckling and coughing into his fist. Bland was the word for him. He was a fifty-year-old Boy Scout.