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Odoo 11 Development Cookbook
Second Edition

Over 120 unique recipes to build effective enterprise and

business applications

Alexandre Fayolle
Holger Brunn
BIRMINGHAM - MUMBAI
Odoo 11 Development
Cookbook Second Edition
Copyright © 2018 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written
permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in
critical articles or reviews.

Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure the accuracy of
the information presented. However, the information contained in this book is sold
without warranty, either express or implied. Neither the authors, nor Packt
Publishing or its dealers and distributors, will be held liable for any damages caused
or alleged to have been caused directly or indirectly by this book.

Packt Publishing has endeavored to provide trademark information about all of the
companies and products mentioned in this book by the appropriate use of capitals.
However, Packt Publishing cannot guarantee the accuracy of this information.

Commissioning Editor: Aaron Lazar

Acquisition Editor: Akshay Ghadi
Content Development Editor: Francis Carneiro
Technical Editor: Akhil Nair
Copy Editor: Shaila Kusanale
Project Coordinator: Devanshi Doshi
Proofreader: Safis Editing
Indexer: Tejal Daruwale Soni
Graphics: Jason Monteiro
Production Coordinator: Deepika Naik

First published: April 2016

Second edition: January 2018
Production reference: 1180118

Published by Packt Publishing Ltd.

Livery Place
35 Livery Street
Birmingham
B3 2PB, UK.

ISBN 978-1-78847-181-7

>www.packtpub.com
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Contributors
About the authors
Alexandre Fayolle started working with Linux and free
software in the mid 1990s and quickly became interested in the
Python programming language. In 2012, he joined
Camptocamp to share his expertise on Python, PostgreSQL,
and Linux with
the team implementing Odoo. He currently manages projects
for Camptocamp and is strongly involved in the Odoo
Community Association. In his spare time, he likes to play jazz
on the vibraphone.

I'd like to thank Daniel Reis for his work on the first edition of this
book, and Nadège Gauffre for her patience and understanding while I
was working on the Cookbook.

Holger Brunn has been a fervent open source advocate since

he came into contact with the open source market sometime in
the nineties.

He has programmed for ERP and similar systems in different

positions since 2001. For the last 10 years, he has dedicated his
time to TinyERP, which became OpenERP and evolved into
Odoo. Currently, he works at Therp BV in the Netherlands as a
developer and is an active member of the Odoo Community
Association (OCA).
About the reviewer
Yannick Vaucher is a strong believer in FOSS. Starting in
2011, he is employed by Camptocamp as an Odoo developer.
Besides developing, he also teaches time-to-time technical
Odoo formation to developers.

He joined the Odoo Community Association (OCA) as a core

contributor and manages the Switzerland localization and
Geospatial OCA projects. You may find multiple contributions
to the Odoo module ecosystem have been made by him.
Packt is searching for
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Table of Contents

Preface

Who this book is for

What this book covers

To get the most out of this book

Download the example code files

Conventions used

Sections

Getting ready

How to do it…

How it works…

There's more…

See also

Get in touch

Reviews

1. Installing the Odoo Development Environment

Introduction

Easy installation of Odoo from source

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

Virtual environments

PostgreSQL configuration

Git configuration

Downloading the Odoo source code

Starting the instance

There's more…

Managing Odoo environments using the start command

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

There's more…

Managing Odoo server databases

Getting ready

How to do it...
 Accessing the database management

interface

Setting or changing the master

password

Creating a new database

Duplicating a database

Removing a database

Backing up a database

Restoring a database backup

How it works...

There's more...

Storing the instance configuration in a file

How to do it...

How it works...

Activating the Odoo developer tools

How to do it...

How it works...

Updating Odoo from source

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

2. Managing Odoo Server Instances

Introduction

Configuring the addons path

Getting ready

How to do it…

How it works…

There's more…

Updating the addon modules list

Getting ready

How to do it…

How it works…

Standardizing your instance directory layout

How to do it…

How it works…

See also

Installing and upgrading local addon modules

Getting ready

How to do it…

From the web interface

From the command line

 How it works…

Addon installation

Addon update

There's more…

Installing addon modules from GitHub

Getting ready

How to do it…

How it works…

There's more…

Applying changes to addons

Getting ready

How to do it…

How it works…

See also

Applying and trying proposed pull requests

Getting ready

How to do it…

How it works…

There's more…

3. Server Deployment
Introduction

Installing Odoo for production use

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

There's more...

Server dimensioning

PostgreSQL tuning

Source code version

Backups

See also

Adapting the configuration file for production

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

There's more...

Setting up Odoo as a system service

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...
 There's more...

Configuring a reverse proxy and SSL with nginx and

Let's Encrypt

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

There's more...

See also

Using buildout for repeatable builds

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

There's more...

Temporary merges

Freezing a buildout

See also

Using Docker to run Odoo

Getting ready

How to do it…
 Building a Docker image

Running Odoo in a container

How it works…

There's more…

4. Creating Odoo Addon Modules

Introduction

Creating and installing a new addon module

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

Completing the addon module manifest

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

There's more…

Organizing the addon module file structure

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

Adding models
 Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

Adding Menu Items and Views

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

Adding Access Security

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works…

Using scaffold to create a module

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

5. Application Models

Introduction

Defining the Model representation and order

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...
 There's more...

Adding data fields to a Model

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

There's more...

Using a float field with configurable precision

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

Adding a monetary field to a Model

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

Adding relational fields to a Model

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

There's more...
Adding a hierarchy to a Model

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

There's more...

Adding constraint validations to a Model

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

Adding computed fields to a Model

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

Exposing related fields stored in other Models

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

There's more...

Adding dynamic relations using Reference fields

 Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

Adding features to a Model using inheritance

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

There's more...

Using abstract Models for reusable Model features

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

There's more...

Using delegation inheritance to copy features to

another Model

Getting ready

How to do it...

How it works...

There's more...

6. Basic Server-Side Development

Introduction

Defining model methods and using the API decorators

Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
 But he, once satisfied—his restless and overweening ego
comforted by another victory—turning with a hectic and chronic, and
for him uncontrollable sense of satiety, as well as fear of
complications and burden—to other phases of beauty—other fields
and relationships where there was no such danger. For after all—
one more girl. One more experience. And not so greatly different
from others that had gone before it. And this in the face of the magic
of her meaning before capitulation. He did not understand it. He
could not. He did not even trouble to think about it much. But so it
was. And with no present consciousness or fear of being involved in
any early and unsatisfactory complications which might require
marriage—on the contrary a distinct and definite opposition to any
such complication at any time, anywhere.
Yet, at last, after many, many perfect hours throughout July and
August, the fatal complaint. There was something wrong, she feared.
She had such strange moods—such strange spells, pains, fears—
recently. Could there be? Did he think there could be any danger?
She had done what he said. Oh, if there was! What was she to do
then? Would he marry her? He must, really, then. There was no
other way. Her father—his fierce anger. Her own terrors. She could
not live at home any more. Could they not—would they not—be
married now if anything were wrong? He had said he would if
anything like this ever happened, had he not?
And Hauptwanger, in the face of this, suffering a nervous and cold
reaction. Marriage! The mere thought of such a thing! Impossible!
His father! His hitherto free roving life! His future! Besides, how did
she know? How could she be sure? And supposing she was! Other
girls got out of such things without much trouble. Why not she? And
had he not taken all the usual customary and necessary precautions
that he knew! She was too easily frightened—too uninformed—not
daring enough. He knew of lots of cases where girls got through
situations of this kind with ease. He would see about something first.
But conjoined with this, as she herself could see and feel, a
sudden definite coolness never before sensed or witnessed by her,
which was based on his firm determination not to pursue this
threatening relationship any longer, seeing that to do so meant only
to emphasize responsibility. And in addition, a keen desire to stay
away. Were there not other girls? A whole world full. And only
recently had he not been intrigued by one who was more aware of
the free, smart ways of pleasure and not so likely ever to prove a
burden?
But on the other hand, in the face of a father as strict as Zobel
himself and a mother who believed in his goodness, his course was
not absolutely clear either. And so from this hour on an attempt to
extricate himself as speedily and as gracefully as possible from this
threatening position. But before this a serious, if irritated, effort on his
part to find a remedy among his friends of the boating club and street
corners. But with the result merely of a vivid advertisement of the
fact that this gay and successful adventure of his had now resulted
most unsuccessfully for Ida. And thereafter hints and nods and
nudges among themselves whenever she chanced to pass. And Ida,
because of fear of scandal, staying in as much as she could these
days, or when she did appear trying to avoid Warren Avenue at High
as much as possible. For by now she was truly terrified, seized
indeed with the most weakening emotions based on the stern and
unrelenting countenance of her father which loomed so threateningly
beyond the immediate future. “If me no ifs,” and “but me no buts.”
Oh, how to do? For throughout the trial of this useless remedy, there
had been nothing to do but wait. And the waiting ended in nothing—
only greater horrors. And between all this, and enforced work at the
store and enforced duties at home, efforts to see her beloved—who,
because of new and more urgent duties, was finding it harder and
harder to meet her anywhere or at any time.
“But you must see how it is with me, don’t you, dear? I can’t go on
like this, can’t you see that? You said you’d marry me, didn’t you?
And look at all the time that’s gone already. Oh, I’m almost mad. You
must do something. You must! You must! If father should find out,
what in the world would I do? What would he do to me, and to you,
too? Can’t you see how bad it is?”
Yet in the face of this tortured plea on the part of this frantic and
still love-sick girl, a calm on the part of Hauptwanger that expressed
not indifference but cruelty. She be damned! He would not. He could
not. He must save himself now at whatever cost. And so a
determined attempt not to see her any more at all—never to speak to
her openly anywhere—or to admit any responsibility as to all this.
Yet, because of her inexperience, youth and faith thus far, no
willingness on her part to believe this. It could not be. She had not
even so much as sensed it before. Yet his continuing indifference
which could only be interpreted one way. The absences—the
excuses! And then one day, when pains and terror seized on her and
thereby drove her to him, he looking her calmly and brazenly in the
eye and announcing: “But I didn’t really promise to marry you, and
you know I didn’t. Besides, I’m not to blame any more than you are.
You don’t suppose that just because you don’t know how to take
care of yourself I’ve got to marry you now, do you?”
His eyes now for the first time were truly hard. His intention to end
this by one fell blow was very definite. And the blow was sufficient at
the moment to half unseat the romantic and all but febrile reason of
this girl, who up to this hour had believed so foolishly in love. Why,
how could this be? The horror of it! The implied disaster. And then
half in understanding, half in befuddled unreason, exclaiming: “But,
Ed! Ed! You can’t mean that. Why, it isn’t true! You know it isn’t! You
promised. You swore. You know I never wanted to—until you made
me. Why ... oh, what’ll I do now? My father! I don’t know what he’ll
do to me or to you either. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” And frantically, and
without sufficient balance to warrant the name of reason, beginning
to wring her hands and twist and sway in a kind of physical as well
as mental agony.
At this Hauptwanger, more determined than ever to frighten her
away from him once and for all, if possible, exclaiming: “Oh, cut that
stuff! I never said I’d marry you, and you know it!” and turning on his
heel and leaving her to rejoin the chattering group of youths on the
corner, with whom, before her arrival, he had been talking. And as
much to sustain himself in this fatal decision as well as to carry it off
before them all, adding: “Gee, these skirts! It does beat hell, don’t
it?”
Yet now a little fearsome, if vain and contemptuous, for the
situation was beginning to take on a gloomy look. But just the same
when Johnny Martin, one of his companions and another aspirant for
street corner and Lothario honors, remarked: “I saw her here last
night lookin’ for you, Ed. Better look out. One of these skirts is likely
to do somepin to you one of these days”—he calmly extracted a
cigarette from a silver cigarette case and without a look in the
direction of the half-swooning Ida, said: “Is that so? Well, maybe.
We’ll see first.” And then with a nonchalant nod in the direction of
Ida, who, too tortured to even retreat, was standing quite still,
exclaimed: “Gee, these Germans! She’s got an old man that wouldn’t
ever let her find out anything and now because she thinks there’s
something wrong with her she blames me.” And just then, another
intimate approaching, and with news of two girls who were to meet
them somewhere later, exclaiming: “Hello, Skate! Everything set? All
right, then. We might as well go along. S’long, fellas.” And stepping
briskly and vigorously away.
But the stricken and shaken Ida still loitered under the already
partially denuded September trees. And with the speeding street and
auto cars with their horns and bells and the chattering voices and
shuffling feet of pedestrians and the blazing evening lights making a
kind of fanfare of color and sound. Was it cold? Or was it only herself
who was numb and cold? He would not marry her! He had never
said he would! How could he say that now? And her father to deal
with—and her physical condition to be considered!
As she stood there without moving, there flashed before her a
complete panorama of all the paths and benches of King Lake Park
—the little boats that slipped here and there under the trees at night
in the summertime—a boy and a girl—a boy and a girl—a boy and a
girl—to each boat. And the oars dragging most inconsequentially—
and infatuated heads together—infatuated hearts beating ecstatically
—suffocatingly strong. Yet now—after so many kisses and promises,
the lie given to her dreams, her words—his words on which her
words had been based—the lie given to kisses—hours, days, weeks,
months of unspeakable bliss—the lie given to her own security and
hopes, forever. Oh, it would be best to die—it would—it would.
And then a slow and dragging return to her room, where because
of the absence of her father and stepmother she managed to slip
into her bed and lie there, thinking. But with a kind of fever,
alternating with chills—and both shot through with most menacing
pains due to this most astounding revelation. And with a sudden and
keener volume of resentment than she had ever known gathering in
her brain. The cruelty! The cruelty! And the falsehood! He had not
only lied but insulted her as well. He who only five months before
had sought her so eagerly with his eyes and intriguing smile. The
liar! The brute! The monster! Yet linked and interwoven with such
thoughts as these, a lacerating desire not to believe them—to turn
back a month—two—three—to find in his eyes somewhere a trace of
something that would gainsay it all. Oh, Ed! Ed!
And so the night going—and the dawn coming. A horrible
lacerating day. And after that other days. And with no one to talk to—
no one. If only she could tell her stepmother all. And so other days
and nights—all alone. And with blazing, searing, whirling, disordered
thoughts in unbroken procession stalking her like demons. The
outside world in case she were to be thrust into it! Her own
unfamiliarity and hence fear of it! Those chattering, gaping youths on
the corners—the girls she knew—their thoughts, since they must all
soon know. Her loneliness without love. These and a hundred
related thoughts dancing a fantastic, macabre mental dance before
her.
But even so, within her own brain the persistent and growing
illusion that all she had heard from him was not true—a chimera—
and so for the time being at least continued faith in the value of
pleading. Her wonderful lover. It must be that still some
understanding could be reached. Yet with growing evidence that by
no plea or plaint was he to be restored to his former attitude. For, in
answer to notes, waiting at the corners, at the end of the street which
led down to his father’s coal-dock, in the vicinity of his home—
silence, evasions, or direct insults, and sneers, even.
“What’s the big idea, following me around, anyhow? You think I
haven’t anything else to do but listen to you? Say, I told you in the
first place I couldn’t marry, didn’t I? And now because you think
there’s something wrong with you, you want to make me
responsible. Well, I’m not the only fellow in this neighborhood. And
everybody knows that.”
He paused there, because as he saw this last declaration had
awakened in her a latent strength and determination never
previously shown in any way. The horror of that to her, as he could
see. The whiteness of her face afterwards and on the instant. The
blazing electric points within the pupils of her eyes. “That’s a lie, and
you know it! It’s not true! Oh, how terrible! And for you to say that to
me! I see it all now. You’re just a sneak and a coward. You were just
fooling with me all the time, then! You never intended to marry me,
and now because you’re afraid you think you can get out of it that
way—by trying to blame it on some one else. You coward! Oh, aren’t
you the small one, though! And after all the things you said to me—
the promises! As though I even thought of any one else in my life!
You dare to say that to me, when you know so well!”
Her face was still lily white. And her hands. Her eyes flashed with
transcendent and yet helpless and defeated misery. And yet, despite
her rage—in the center of this very misery—love itself—strong, vital,
burning love—the very core of it. But so tortured that already it was
beginning to drive the tears to her eyes.
And he knowing so thoroughly that this love was still there, now
instantly seizing on these latest truthful words of hers as an insult—
something on which to base an assumed grievance.
“Is that so? A coward, eh? Well, let’s see what you draw down for
that, you little dumb-bell.” And so turning on his heel—the strongest
instinct in him—his own social salvation in this immediate petty
neighborhood at the present time uppermost in his mind. And without
a look behind.
But Ida, her fear and terror at its height, calling: “Ed! Ed! You come
back here! Don’t you dare to leave me like this! I won’t stand for it. I
tell you, I won’t! You come back here now! Do you hear me?” And
seeing that he continued on briskly and indifferently, running after
him, unbelievably tense and a little beside herself—almost mentally
unaccountable for the moment. And he, seeing her thus and amazed
and troubled by this new turn his problem had taken, turning abruptly
with: “Say! You cut out o’ this now before I do something to you, do
you hear? I’m not the one to let you pull this stuff on me. You got
yourself into this and now you can get yourself out of it. Beat it
before I do something to you, do you hear?” And now he drew
nearer—and with such a threatening and savage look in his eyes
that for the first time in all her contact with him Ida grew fearful of
him. That angry, sullen face. Those fierce, cruel, savage eyes. Was it
really true that in addition to all the rest he would really do her
physical harm? Then she had not understood him at all, ever. And so
pausing and standing quite still, that same fear of physical force that
had kept her in subjection to her father overawing her here. At the
same time, Hauptwanger, noting the effect of his glowering rage,
now added: “Don’t come near me any more, do you hear? If you do,
you’re goin’ to get something you’re not going to like. I’m through,
and I’m through for good, see.”
Once more he turned and strode away, this time toward the central
business district of the High and Warren Avenue region—the while
Ida, too shaken by this newest development to quite grasp the full
measure of her own necessity or courage, stood there. The horror of
it! The disgrace! The shame! For now, surely, tragedy was upon her!
For the time being, in order to save herself from too much
publicity, she began to move on—walk—only slowly and with
whirling, staggering thoughts that caused her to all but lurch. And so,
shaking and pale, she made her way once more to her home, where
she stole into her room unnoticed. Yet, now, too tortured to cry but
thinking grimly—fiercely at moments—at other times most weakly
and feebly even—on all that had so recently occurred.
Her father! Her stepmother! If he—she—they should come to
know! But no—something else must happen before ever that should
be allowed to happen. She must leave—or—or, better yet—maybe
drown herself—make way with herself in some way—or—
In the garret of this home, to which as a child on certain days she
had frequently resorted to play, was an old wire clothes-line on which
was hung an occasional wash. And now—might not that—in the face
of absolute fiasco here—might not that—she had read of ending
one’s life in that manner. And it was so unlikely that any one would
trouble to look there—until—until—well—
But would she? Could she? This strange budding of life that she
sensed—feared. Was it fair to it? Herself? To life that had given it to
her? And when she desired so to live? And when he owed her
something—at least help to her and her—her—her—No, she could
not—would not think of that yet, especially when to die this way
would be but to clear the way to easier and happier conquests for
him. Never! Never! She would kill him first—and then herself. Or
expose him and so herself—and then—and then—
But again her father! Her stepmother! The disgrace! And so—
In her father’s desk at the store was a revolver—a large, firm,
squarish mechanism which, as she had heard him say, fired eight
shots. It was so heavy, so blue, so cold. She had seen it, touched it,
lifted it once—but with a kind of terror, really. It was always so
identified with death—anger—not life—But now—supposing—
supposing, if she desired to punish Edward and herself—or just
herself alone. But no, that was not the way. What was the way,
anyhow? What was the way?
And so now brooding in a tortured and half-demented way until her
father, noting her mental state, inquired solemnly as to what had
come over her of late. Had she had a quarrel with Hauptwanger? He
had not seen him about recently. Was she ill in any way? Her
appetite had certainly fallen off. She ate scarcely anything. But
receiving a prompt “No” to both inquiries he remained curious but
inclined to suspend further inquiry for the time being. There was
something, of course, but no doubt it would soon come out.
But now—in the face of this—of course there must be action—
decision. And so, in view of the thoughts as to self-destruction and
the revolver, a decision to try the effect of a physical threat upon
Hauptwanger. She would just frighten him. She might even point the
gun at him—and see what he would do then. Of course, she could
not kill him—she knew that. But supposing—supposing—one aimed
—but not at him, really—and—and—(but, oh no!) a spit of fire, a puff
of smoke, a deadly bullet—into his heart—into hers afterward, of
course. No, no! For then what? Where?
A dozen, a score, of times in less than two days she approached
the drawer that held the revolver and looked at it—finally lifting it up
but with no thought of doing more than just that at the moment. It
was so heavy, so cold, so blue. The very weight and meaning of it
terrorized her, although at last—after the twentieth attempt—she was
able to fit it into her bosom in such a way that it lay quite firm and
still. The horror of it—cold against her breast, where so often during
the summer his head had lain.
And then one afternoon, when she could scarcely endure the
strain longer—her father demanding: “What is the matter with you,
anyhow? Do you know what you’re doing half the time? Is there
anything wrong between you and that beau of yours? I see he
doesn’t come around any more. It is time that you either married or
had nothing more to do with him, anyway. I don’t want any silly
nonsense between you and him, you know.” And this effected the
very decision which she had most dreaded. Now ... now ... she must
act. This evening—at least she must see him again and tell him that
she was going to see his father and reveal all—furthermore, that if
he did not marry her she would kill him and herself. Show him the
gun, maybe, and frighten him with it—if she could—but at any rate
make a last plea as well as a threat. If only—if only he would listen
this time—not turn on her—become frightened, maybe, and help her,
—not curse—or drive her away.
There was the coal-yard of his father that was at the end of an
inlet giving into the river. Or his own home. She might go first to the
coal office. He would be sure to be leaving there at half past five, or
at six he would be nearing his home. At seven or half past departing
from that again very likely to see—to see—whom? But best—best to
go to the coal office first. He would be coming from there alone. It
would be the quickest.
And Hauptwanger coming out of the coal office on this particular
evening in the mood and with the air of one with whom all was well.
But in the windy dusk of this November evening, arc lights blazing in
the distance, the sound of distant cars, distant life, the wind whipping
crisp leaves along the ground—the figure of a girl—a familiar cape
about her shoulders, suddenly emerging from behind a pile of brick
he was accustomed to pass.
“Ed! I want to talk to you a minute.”
“You again! What the hell did I tell you? I ain’t got no time to talk to
you, and I won’t! What did I....”
“Now listen, Ed, stop that, now! I’m desperate. I’m desperate, Ed,
do you hear? Can’t you see?” Her voice was staccato—almost shrill
and yet mournful, too. “I’ve come to tell you that you’ve got to marry
me now. You’ve got to—do you hear?” She was fumbling at her
breast where lay that heavy blue thing—no longer so cold as when
she had placed it there. The handle was upward. She must draw it
now—show it—or hold it under her cloak ready so that at the right
moment she could show it—and make him understand that unless
he did something.... But her hand shaking so that she could scarcely
hold it. It was so heavy—so terrible. She could scarcely hear herself
adding: “Otherwise, I’m going to your father and mine, now. My
father may do something terrible to me but he’ll do more to you. And
so will your father when he knows.... But, anyway....” She was about
to add: “You’ve got to marry me, and right away too, or, or, I’m going
to kill you and myself, that’s all—” and then to produce the revolver,
and wave it before him in a threatening dramatic manner.
But before that the uncalculated and non-understanding fury of
Hauptwanger. “Well, of all the nerve! Say, cut this out, will ya? Who
do you think you are? What did I tell you? Go to my father, if you
want to. Go to yours! Who’s afraid? Do you think they’re going to
believe a —— like you? I never had anything to do with you, and
that’s that!” And then in his anger giving her a push—as much to
overawe her as anything.
But then, in spite of her desire not to give way, fury, blindness,
pain,—whirling, fiery sparks, such as never in all her life before had
she seen—and executing strange, rhythmic, convoluting orbits in her
brain—swift, eccentric, red and yet beautiful orbits. And in the center
of them the face of Hauptwanger—her beloved—but not as it was
now—oh, no—but rather haloed by a strange white light—as it was
under the trees in the spring. And herself turning, and in spite of the
push, jumping before him.
“You will marry me, Ed, you will! You will! You see this? You will
marry me!”
And then, as much to her astonishment as to his—yet with no
particular terror to either of them—the thing spitting flame—making a
loud noise—jumping almost out of her hand—so much so that before
she could turn it away again there was another report—another flash
of red in the dusk. And then Hauptwanger, too astonished quite for
words at the moment, exclaiming: “Jesus! What are you....” And
then, because of a sharp pain in his chest, putting his hand there
and adding: “Oh, Christ! I’m shot!” and falling forward to one side of
her....
And then herself—those same whirling red sparks in her brain,
saying: “Now, now—I must kill myself, too. I must. I must. I must run
somewhere and turn this on myself,” only quite unable to lift it at the
moment—and because of some one—a man—approaching—a
voice—footsteps, running—herself beginning to run—for some tree
—some wall—some gate or doorway where she might stop and fire
on herself. But a voice: “Hey! Stop that girl!” “Murder!” And another
voice from somewhere else: “Hey! Murder! Stop that girl!” And
footsteps, hard, quick ones, immediately behind her. And a hand
grabbing hers in which was still the pistol, wildly and yet unwittingly
held. And as the other hand wrenched at her hand—“Gimme that
gun!” And then a strong youth whom she had never seen before—
and yet not unlike Eddie either—turning her about—restraining her—
“Say, you! What the devil is this, anyhow? Come back here. You
can’t get away with this.”
And yet at the same time not unfriendly eyes looking into hers,
strong hands holding her, but not too roughly, and herself exclaiming:
“Oh, let me go! Let me go! I want to die, too, I tell you! Let me go!”
And sobbing great, dry, shaking sobs.
But after that—and all so quickly—crowds—crowds—men and
women, boys and girls, and finally policemen gathering about her,
each with the rules of his training firmly in mind to get as much
general information as possible; to see that the wounded man was
hurried to a hospital, the girl to a precinct police station; the names
and addresses of various witnesses secured. But with the lorn Ida in
a state of collapse—seated upon a doorstep in a yard surrounded by
a pushing crowd, while voices rang in her ears: “Where? What?
How?” “Sure, sure! Just now, right back there. Sure, they’re calling
the ambulance.” “He’s done for, I guess. Twice in the breast. He
can’t live.” “Gee! He’s all covered with blood.” “Sure, she did. With a
revolver—a great big one. The cop’s got it. She was tryin’ to get
away. Sure, Jimmie Allen caught her. He was just comin’ home.”
“Yeah. She’s the daughter of old Zobel who keeps the paint store up
here in Warren Avenue. I know her. An’ he’s the son of this
Hauptwanger here who owns the coal-yard. I used to work for ’em.
He lives up in Grey Street.”
But in the meantime young Hauptwanger unconscious and being
transferred to an operating table at Mercy Hospital—his case
pronounced hopeless—twenty-four hours of life at the very most.
And his father and mother hearing the news and running there. And
in the same period the tortured Ida transferred to Henderson Avenue
Police Station, where in a rear inquisitorial chamber, entirely
surrounded by policemen and detectives, she was questioned and
requestioned. “Yah say yah seen this fella for the first time over a
year ago? Is that right? He just moved into the neighborhood a little
while before? Ain’t that so?” And the disconsolate, half-conscious Ida
nodding her head. And outside a large, morbid, curious crowd. A
beautiful girl! A young man dying! Some sex mystery here.
And in the interim Zobel himself and his wife, duly informed by a
burly policeman, hurrying white-faced and strained to the station. My
God! My God! And both rushing in breathless. And beads of
perspiration on Zobel’s forehead and hands—and misery, misery
eating at his vitals. What! His Ida had shot some one! Young
Hauptwanger! And in the street, near his office! Murder! Great God!
Then there was something between them. There was. There was.
But might he not have known? Her white face. Her dreary, forsaken
manner these later days. She had been betrayed. That was it.
Devils! Devils! That was it! Eighty thousand hells! And after all he
had said to her! And all his and his wife’s care of her! And now the
neighbors! His business! The police! A public trial! Possibly a
sentence—a death sentence! God in heaven! His own daughter, too!
And that young scoundrel with his fine airs and fine clothes! Why—
why was it that he had let her go with him in the first place? When he
might have known—his daughter so inexperienced. “Where is she?
My God! My God! This is terrible!”
But seeing her sitting there, white, doleful-looking, and looking up
at him when spoken to with an almost meaningless look—a
bloodless, smileless face—and saying: “Yes, I shot him. Yes. Yes. He
wouldn’t marry me. He should have but he wouldn’t—and so—” And
then at once crushing her hands in a sad, tortured way and crying:
“Oh, Ed! Ed!” And Zobel exclaiming: “Ach, God! Ida! Ida! In God’s
name, it can’t be so. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you come to
me? Am I not your father! I would have understood. Of course! Of
course! I would have gone to his father—to him. But now—this—and
now—” and he began to wring his own hands.
Yet the principal thought in his mind that now the world would
know all— And after all his efforts. And beginning volubly to explain
to the desk lieutenant and the detectives and policemen all that he
knew. But the only thought afloat in the unhappy Ida’s brain, once
she awakened again, was: Was this really her father? And was he
talking so—of help? That she might have come to him—for what—
when she had thought—that—that he would not be like that to her.
But ... after a time again ... there was Ed to be thought of. That
terrible scene. That terrible accident. She had not intended to do that
—really. She had not. She had not. No! But was he really dead? Had
she really killed him? That push—almost a blow it was—those
words. But still— Oh, dear! Oh, dear! And then beginning to cry to
herself, silently and deeply, while Zobel and his wife bent over her for
the first time in true sympathy. The complications of life! The terrors!
There was no peace for any one on this earth—no peace—no
peace. All was madness, really, and sorrow. But they would stand by
her now—yes, yes.
 But then the reporters. A public furore fanned by the newspapers,
with their men and women writers, pen and ink artists,
photographers. Their editorials: “Beautiful girl of seventeen shoots
lover, twenty-one. Fires two bullets into body of man she charges
with refusing to keep faith. About to become a mother. Youth likely to
die. Girl admits crime. Pleads to be left alone in misery. Parents of
both in despair.” And then columns and columns, day after day—
since on the following afternoon at three Hauptwanger did die—
admitting that he had wronged her. And a coroner’s jury, called
immediately afterwards, holding the girl for subsequent action by the
Grand Jury, and without bail. Yet, because of her beauty and the
“pathos” of the case—letters to the newspapers, from ministers,
society men and women, politicians and the general public,
demanding that this wronged girl about to become a mother, and
who had committed no wrong other than that of loving too well—if
not wisely—be not severely dealt with—be forgiven—be admitted to
bail. No jury anywhere would convict her. Not in America. Indeed, it
would “go hard” with any jury that would attempt to “further punish” a
girl who had already suffered so much. Plainly it was the duty of the
judge in this case to admit this poor wronged soul to bail and the
peace and quiet of some home or institution where her child might
be born, especially since already a woman of extreme wealth and
social position, deeply stirred by the pathos of this drama, had not
only come forward to sympathize with this innocent victim of love
and order and duty, but had offered any amount of bail that she
might be released to the peace and quiet of her own home—there to
await the outcome of her physical condition as well as the
unavoidable prosecution which must fix her future.
And so, to her wonder and confusion, Ida finally released in the
custody of this outwardly sober and yet inwardly emotional woman,
who ever since the first day of her imprisonment in the central county
jail had sought to ingratiate herself into her good graces and
emotions—a woman middle-aged and plain but soft-voiced and
kindly-mannered, who over and over repeated that she understood,
that she also had suffered—that her heart had been torn, too—and
that she, Ida, need never worry. And so Ida finally transferred (a
bailed prisoner subject to return upon demand) to the wide acres and
impressive chambers of a once country but now city residence, an
integral part of the best residence area of the city. And there, to her
astonishment and wonder—and this in spite of her despair—all
needful equipment and service provided—a maid and servants, her
food served to her in her room when she wished—silence or
entertainment as she chose. And with her own parents allowed to
visit her whenever she chose. Yet she was so uncomfortable in their
presence always now. True, they were kind—gentle, whenever they
came. They spoke of the different life that was to be after this great
crisis was truly past—the birth of the child, which was never other
than indirectly referred to, or the trial, which was to follow later. There
was to be a new store in a new neighborhood. The old one had
already been offered for sale. And after that ... well, peace perhaps,
or a better life. But even in her father’s eyes as he spoke could she
not see the weight of care which he now shouldered? She had
sinned! She had killed a man! And wrecked another family—the
hearts of two other parents as well as her father’s own peace of mind
and commercial and social well-being. And in all his charity, was
there room for that? In the solemnity of his manner, as well as that of
her stepmother, could she feel that there was?
Yet in the main, and because her mood and health seemed to
require it, she was now left to contemplate the inexplicable chain of
events which her primary desire for love had brought about. The
almost amazing difference in the mental attitude of her parents
toward her now and before this dreadful and unfortunate event in her
life! So considerate and sympathetic now as to result in an offer of a
happier home for her and her child in the future, whereas before all
was—or as she sensed it—so threatening and desperate. The
strange and to her inexplicable attitude of this woman even—so kind
and generous—and this in the face of her sin and shame.
And yet, what peace or quiet could there be for her here or
anywhere now? The terrible torture that had preceded that terrible
accident! Her Edward’s cry! His death! And when she loved him so!
Had! Did now! And yet by his dread perverseness, cruelty, brutality,
he had taken himself from her. But still, still—now that he was gone
—now that in dying, as she heard he had said, he had been “stuck
on her” at first, that she had “set him crazy,” but that afterwards,
because of his parents, as well as hers, he had decided that he
would not marry her—she could not help but feel more kindly to him.
He had been cruel. But had he not died? And at her hands. She had
killed him—murdered him. Oh, yes, she had. Oh! Oh! Oh! For in
connection with the actual scene did she not recall some one crying
that his shirt front had been all bloody. Oh! Oh! Oh! And in her heart,
no doubt, when she had jumped in front of him there in the dusk had
been rage—rage and hate even, too, for the moment. Oh, yes. But
he had cried: “Oh, Christ! I’m shot!” (Her Edward’s cry.)
And so, even in the silence of these richly furnished rooms, with a
servant coming to her call, hot, silent tears and deep, racking sobs—
when no one was supposed to see or hear—and thoughts, thoughts,
thoughts—sombre, bleak—as to her lack of sense, her lack of
courage or will to end it all for herself on that dreadful evening when
she so easily might have. And now here she had plighted her word
that she would do nothing rash—would not attempt to take her life.
But the future! The future! And what had she not seen since that
dreadful night! Edward’s father and mother at the inquest! And how
they had looked at her! Hauptwanger, senior—his strong, broad
German face marked with a great anguish. And Mrs. Hauptwanger—
small and all in black, and with great hollow rings under her eyes.
And crying silently nearly all the time. And both had sworn that they
knew nothing of Edward’s conduct, or of his definite interest in her.
He was a headstrong, virile, restless boy. They had a hard time
controlling him. And yet he had not been a bad boy, either—
headstrong but willing to work—and gay—their only son.
At one point in these extensive grounds—entirely surrounded by
Lombardy poplars now leafless—there stood a fountain drained of its
water for the winter. But upon the pedestal, upon a bronze rock, at
the foot of which washed bronze waves of the Rhine, a Rhine
maiden of the blonde German Lorelei type, standing erect and a-
dream, in youth, in love. And at her feet, on his knees, a German
lover of the Ritter type—vigorous, uniformed, his fair blond head and
face turned upward to the beauty about whose hips his arms were
clasped—his look seeking, urgent. And upon his fair bronze hair, her
right hand, the while she bent on him a yearning, yielding glance.
Oh, Edward! Oh, love! Spring! She must not come out here any
more. And yet evening after evening in early December, once the
first great gust of this terrific storm had subsided and she was seeing
things in a less drastic light, she was accustomed to return to look at
it. And sometimes, even in January, a new moon overhead would
suggest King Lake Park! The little boats gliding here and there! She
and Edward in one. Herself leaning back and dreaming as now—
now—this figure of the girl on the rock was doing. And he—he—at
her knees. To be sure, he had cursed her. He had said the
indifferent, cruel words that had at last driven her to madness. But
once he had loved her just this way. It was there, and only there, that
she found spiritual comfort in her sorrow—
But then, in due course, the child—with all these thoughts, moods
enveloping it. And after that the trial, with her prompt acquittal. A
foreseen conclusion. And with loud public acclaim for that verdict
also, since it was all for romance and drastic drama. And then the
final leaving of these great rooms and this personal intimate affection
that had been showered upon her. For after all the legal, if not the
emotional problem, had now been solved. And since her father was
not one who was poor or welcomed charity—a contemplated and
finally accomplished return to a new world—the new home and store
which had been established in a very different and remote part of the
city. The child a boy. That was good, for eventually he could care for
himself. He would not need her. The new paint shop was near
another cross business street, near another moving-picture theatre.
And boys and girls here as elsewhere—on the corners—going arm
in arm—and herself again at home cooking, sewing, cleaning as
before. And with Mrs. Zobel as reserved and dubious as before. For
after all, had she not made a mess of her life, and for what? What
now? Here forever as a fixture? And even though Zobel, in spite of
his grimness, was becoming fond of the child. How wretched, how
feeble life really was!
But far away King Lake Park and the old neighborhood. And
thoughts that went back to it constantly. She had been so happy the
summer before. And now this summer! And other summers to come
—even though perhaps some time—once little Eric was grown—
there might be some other lover—who would not mind— But, no—
no, not that. Never! She did not want that. Could not—would not
endure it.
And so at last of a Saturday afternoon, when she had the excuse
of certain things needed for Eric, a trip to presumably the central
business heart—whereas, in reality, it was to King Lake Park she
was going. And once there—the little boats, the familiar paths—a
certain nook under the overarching bushes and trees. She knew it so
well. It was here that she had demanded to be let out in order that
she might go home by herself—so shocked, so ashamed. Yet now
seeking it.
The world does not understand such things. It is so busy with so
many, many things.
And then dusk—though she should have been returning. Her boy!
He would miss her! And then a little wind with a last faint russet glow
in the west. And then stars! Quite all the world had gone to its dinner
now. The park was all but empty. The water here was so still—so
agate. (The world—the world—it will never understand, will it?)
Where would Edward be? Would he be meeting her somewhere?
Greeting her? Would he forgive,—when she told him all—could she
find him, perchance? (The world—the busy, strident, indifferent,
matter-of-fact world—how little it knows.)
And then a girl in the silence, in the shadow, making her way down
to the very spot that the nose of their boat had nuzzled but one short
summer before. And calmly stepping into the water and wading out
to her knees—to her waist—her breasts—in the mild, caressing
water—and then to her lips and over them—and finally, deliberately
—conclusively—sinking beneath its surface and without a cry or
sigh.
The world does not understand such things. The tide of life runs
too fast. So much that is beautiful—terrible—sweeps by—by—by—
without thought—without notice in the great volume.
 And yet her body was found—her story retold in great, flaring
headlines. (Ida Zobel—Girl Slayer of Hauptwanger a Suicide.) And
then ... and then ... forgotten.
 VIII
THE OLD NEIGHBORHOOD

H E came to it across the new bridge, from the south where the
greater city lay—the older portion—and where he had left his
car, and paused at the nearer bridgehead to look at it—the eddying
water of the river below, the new docks and piers built on either side
since he had left, twenty years before; the once grassy slopes on the
farther shore, now almost completely covered with factories,
although he could see too, among them, even now, traces of the old,
out-of-the-way suburb which he and Marie had known. Chadds
Bridge, now an integral part of the greater city, connected by car
lines and through streets, was then such a simple, unpretentious
affair, a little suburban village just on the edge of this stream and
beyond the last straggling northward streets of the great city below,
where the car lines stopped and from which one had to walk on foot
across this bridge in order to take advantage of the rural quiet and
the cheaper—much cheaper—rents, so all-important to him then.
Then he was so poor—he and Marie—a mere stripling of a
mechanic and inventor, a student of aeronautics, electricity,
engineering, and what not, but newly married and without a dollar,
and no clear conception of how his future was to eventuate, whereas
now—but somehow he did not want to think of now. Now he was so
very rich, comparatively speaking, older, wiser, such a forceful
person commercially and in every other way, whereas then he was
so lean and pathetic and worried and wistful—a mere uncertain
stripling, as he saw himself now, with ideas and ambitions and
dreams which were quite out of accord with his immediate prospects
or opportunities. It was all right to say, as some one had—Emerson,
he believed—“hitch your wagon to a star.” But some people hitched,
or tried to, before they were ready. They neglected some of the
slower moving vehicles about them, and so did not get on at all—or
did not seem to, for the time being.
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