“And where’s Mr. Campbell?” Charlie asked.
“Gone to Switzerland. Mr. Campbell’s a pretty sick man, Mr. Wales.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. And George Hardt?” Charlie inquired.
“Back in America, gone to work.”
“And where is the Snow Bird?”
“He was in here last week. Anyway, his friend, Mr. Schaeffer, is in Paris.”
Two familiar names from the long list of a year and a half ago. Charlie scribbled1 an address in his notebook and tore out the page.
“If you see Mr. Schaeffer, give him this,” he said. “It’s my brother-in-law’s address. I haven’t settled on a hotel yet.”
He was not really disappointed to find Paris was so empty. But the stillness in the Ritz bar was strange and portentous2. It was not an American bar any more — he felt polite in it, and not as if he owned it. It had gone back into France. He felt the stillness from the moment he got out of the taxi and saw the doorman, usually in a frenzy3 of activity at this hour, gossiping with a chasseur by the servants’ entrance.
Passing through the corridor, he heard only a single, bored voice in the once-clamorous women’s room. When he turned into the bar he travelled the twenty feet of green carpet with his eyes fixed4 straight ahead by old habit; and then, with his foot firmly on the rail, he turned and surveyed the room, encountering only a single pair of eyes that fluttered up from a newspaper in the corner. Charlie asked for the head barman, Paul, who in the latter days of the bull market had come to work in his own custom-built car — disembarking, however, with due nicety at the nearest corner. But Paul was at his country house today and Alix giving him information.
“No, no more,” Charlie said, “I’m going slow these days.”
Alix congratulated him: “You were going pretty strong a couple of years ago.”
“I’ll stick to it all right,” Charlie assured him. “I’ve stuck to it for over a year and a half now.”
“How do you find conditions in America?”
“I haven’t been to America for months. I’m in business in Prague, representing a couple of concerns there. They don’t know about me down there.”
Alix smiled.
“Remember the night of George Hardt’s bachelor dinner here?” said Charlie. “By the way, what’s become of Claude Fessenden?”
Alix lowered his voice confidentially5: “He’s in Paris, but he doesn’t come here any more. Paul doesn’t allow it. He ran up a bill of thirty thousand francs, charging all his drinks and his lunches, and usually his dinner, for more than a year. And when Paul finally told him he had to pay, he gave him a bad check.”
Alix shook his head sadly.
“I don’t understand it, such a dandy fellow. Now he’s all bloated up —” He made a plump apple of his hands.
Charlie watched a group of strident queens installing themselves in a corner.
“Nothing affects them,” he thought. “Stocks rise and fall, people loaf or work, but they go on forever.” The place oppressed him. He called for the dice6 and shook with Alix for the drink.
“Here for long, Mr. Wales?”
“I’m here for four or five days to see my little girl.”
“Oh-h! You have a little girl?”
Outside, the fire-red, gas-blue, ghost-green signs shone smokily through the tranquil7 rain. It was late afternoon and the streets were in movement; the bistros gleamed. At the corner of the Boulevard des Capucines he took a taxi. The Place de la Concorde moved by in pink majesty8; they crossed the logical Seine, and Charlie felt the sudden provincial9 quality of the Left Bank.
Charlie directed his taxi to the Avenue de l’Opera, which was out of his way. But he wanted to see the blue hour spread over the magnificent fa?ade, and imagine that the cab horns, playing endlessly the first few bars of La Plus que Lent, were the trumpets10 of the Second Empire. They were closing the iron grill11 in front of Brentano’s Book-store, and people were already at dinner behind the trim little bourgeois13 hedge of Duval’s. He had never eaten at a really cheap restaurant in Paris. Five-course dinner, four francs fifty, eighteen cents, wine included. For some odd reason he wished that he had.
As they rolled on to the Left Bank and he felt its sudden provincialism, he thought, “I spoiled this city for myself. I didn’t realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone.”
He was thirty-five, and good to look at. The Irish mobility14 of his face was sobered by a deep wrinkle between his eyes. As he rang his brother-in-law’s bell in the Rue15 Palatine, the wrinkle deepened till it pulled down his brows; he felt a cramping16 sensation in his belly17. From behind the maid who opened the door darted18 a lovely little girl of nine who shrieked19 “Daddy!” and flew up, struggling like a fish, into his arms. She pulled his head around by one ear and set her cheek against his.
“My old pie,” he said.
“Oh, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, dads, dads, dads!”
She drew him into the salon20, where the family waited, a boy and girl his daughter’s age, his sister-in-law and her husband. He greeted Marion with his voice pitched carefully to avoid either feigned21 enthusiasm or dislike, but her response was more frankly22 tepid23, though she minimized her expression of unalterable distrust by directing her regard toward his child. The two men clasped hands in a friendly way and Lincoln Peters rested his for a moment on Charlie’s shoulder.
The room was warm and comfortably American. The three children moved intimately about, playing through the yellow oblongs that led to other rooms; the cheer of six o’clock spoke24 in the eager smacks25 of the fire and the sounds of French activity in the kitchen. But Charlie did not relax; his heart sat up rigidly26 in his body and he drew confidence from his daughter, who from time to time came close to him, holding in her arms the doll he had brought.
“Really extremely well,” he declared in answer to Lincoln’s question. “There’s a lot of business there that isn’t moving at all, but we’re doing even better than ever. In fact, damn well. I’m bringing my sister over from America next month to keep house for me. My income last year was bigger than it was when I had money. You see, the Czechs —”
His boasting was for a specific purpose; but after a moment, seeing a faint restiveness27 in Lincoln’s eye, he changed the subject:
“Those are fine children of yours, well brought up, good manners.”
“We think Honoria’s a great little girl too.”
Marion Peters came back from the kitchen. She was a tall woman with worried eyes, who had once possessed28 a fresh American loveliness. Charlie had never been sensitive to it and was always surprised when people spoke of how pretty she had been. From the first there had been an instinctive29 antipathy30 between them.
“Well, how do you find Honoria?” she asked.
“Wonderful. I was astonished how much she’s grown in ten months. All the children are looking well.”
“We haven’t had a doctor for a year. How do you like being back in Paris?”
“It seems very funny to see so few Americans around.”
“I’m delighted,” Marion said vehemently31. “Now at least you can go into a store without their assuming you’re a millionaire. We’ve suffered like everybody, but on the whole it’s a good deal pleasanter.”
“But it was nice while it lasted,” Charlie said. “We were a sort of royalty32, almost infallible, with a sort of magic around us. In the bar this afternoon”— he stumbled, seeing his mistake —“there wasn’t a man I knew.”
She looked at him keenly. “I should think you’d have had enough of bars.”
“I only stayed a minute. I take one drink every afternoon, and no more.”
“Don’t you want a cocktail33 before dinner?” Lincoln asked.
“I take only one drink every afternoon, and I’ve had that.”
“I hope you keep to it,” said Marion.
Her dislike was evident in the coldness with which she spoke, but Charlie only smiled; he had larger plans. Her very aggressiveness gave him an advantage, and he knew enough to wait. He wanted them to initiate34 the discussion of what they knew had brought him to Paris.
At dinner he couldn’t decide whether Honoria was most like him or her mother. Fortunate if she didn’t combine the traits of both that had brought them to disaster. A great wave of protectiveness went over him. He thought he knew what to do for her. He believed in character; he wanted to jump back a whole generation and trust in character again as the eternally valuable element. Everything wore out.
He left soon after dinner, but not to go home. He was curious to see Paris by night with clearer and more judicious35 eyes than those of other days. He bought a strapontin for the Casino and watched Josephine Baker36 go through her chocolate arabesques37.
After an hour he left and strolled toward Montmartre, up the Rue Pigalle into the Place Blanche. The rain had stopped and there were a few people in evening clothes disembarking from taxis in front of cabarets, and cocottes prowling singly or in pairs, and many Negroes. He passed a lighted door from which issued music, and stopped with the sense of familiarity; it was Bricktop’s, where he had parted with so many hours and so much money. A few doors farther on he found another ancient rendezvous38 and incautiously put his head inside. Immediately an eager orchestra burst into sound, a pair of professional dancers leaped to their feet and a ma?tre d’h?tel swooped39 toward him, crying, “Crowd just arriving, sir!” But he withdrew quickly.
“You have to be damn drunk,” he thought.
Zelli’s was closed, the bleak40 and sinister41 cheap hotels surrounding it were dark; up in the Rue Blanche there was more light and a local, colloquial42 French crowd. The Poet’s Cave had disappeared, but the two great mouths of the Café of Heaven and the Café of Hell still yawned — even devoured43, as he watched, the meager44 contents of a tourist bus — a German, a Japanese, and an American couple who glanced at him with frightened eyes.
So much for the effort and ingenuity45 of Montmartre. All the catering46 to vice47 and waste was on an utterly48 childish scale, and he suddenly realized the meaning of the word “dissipate”— to dissipate into thin air; to make nothing out of something. In the little hours of the night every move from place to place was an enormous human jump, an increase of paying for the privilege of slower and slower motion.
He remembered thousand-franc notes given to an orchestra for playing a single number, hundred-franc notes tossed to a doorman for calling a cab.
But it hadn’t been given for nothing.
It had been given, even the most wildly squandered50 sum, as an offering to destiny that he might not remember the things most worth remembering, the things that now he would always remember — his child taken from his control, his wife escaped to a grave in Vermont.
In the glare of a brasserie a woman spoke to him. He bought her some eggs and coffee, and then, eluding51 her encouraging stare, gave her a twenty-franc note and took a taxi to his hotel.
II
He woke upon a fine fall day — football weather. The depression of yesterday was gone and he liked the people on the streets. At noon he sat opposite Honoria at Le Grand Vatel, the only restaurant he could think of not reminiscent of champagne52 dinners and long luncheons53 that began at two and ended in a blurred54 and vague twilight55.
“Now, how about vegetables? Oughtn’t you to have some vegetables?”
“Well, yes.”
“Here’s épinards and chou-fleur and carrots and haricots.”
“I’d like chou-fleur.”
“Wouldn’t you like to have two vegetables?”
“I usually only have one at lunch.”
The waiter was pretending to be inordinately56 fond of children. “Qu’elle est mignonne la petite? Elle parle exactement comme une Fran?aise.”
“How about dessert? Shall we wait and see?”
The waiter disappeared. Honoria looked at her father expectantly.
“What are we going to do?”
“First, we’re going to that toy store in the Rue Saint-Honoré and buy you anything you like. And then we’re going to the vaudeville57 at the Empire.”
She hesitated. “I like it about the vaudeville, but not the toy store.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you brought me this doll.” She had it with her. “And I’ve got lots of things. And we’re not rich any more, are we?”
“We never were. But today you are to have anything you want.”
“All right,” she agreed resignedly.
When there had been her mother and a French nurse he had been inclined to be strict; now he extended himself, reached out for a new tolerance58; he must be both parents to her and not shut any of her out of communication.
“I want to get to know you,” he said gravely. “First let me introduce myself. My name is Charles J. Wales, of Prague.”
“Oh, daddy!” her voice cracked with laughter.
“And who are you, please?” he persisted, and she accepted a role immediately: “Honoria Wales, Rue Palatine, Paris.”
“Married or single?”
“No, not married. Single.”
He indicated the doll. “But I see you have a child, madame.”
Unwilling59 to disinherit it, she took it to her heart and thought quickly: “Yes, I’ve been married, but I’m not married now. My husband is dead.”
He went on quickly, “And the child’s name?”
“Simone. That’s after my best friend at school.”
“I’m very pleased that you’re doing so well at school.”
“I’m third this month,” she boasted. “Elsie”— that was her cousin —“is only about eighteenth, and Richard is about at the bottom.”
“You like Richard and Elsie, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. I like Richard quite well and I like her all right.”
Cautiously and casually60 he asked: “And Aunt Marion and Uncle Lincoln — which do you like best?”
“Oh, Uncle Lincoln, I guess.”
He was increasingly aware of her presence. As they came in, a murmur61 of “ . . . adorable” followed them, and now the people at the next table bent62 all their silences upon her, staring as if she were something no more conscious than a flower.
“Why don’t I live with you?” she asked suddenly. “Because mamma’s dead?”
“You must stay here and learn more French. It would have been hard for daddy to take care of you so well.”
“I don’t really need much taking care of any more. I do everything for myself.”
Going out of the restaurant, a man and a woman unexpectedly hailed him.
“Well, the old Wales!”
“Hello there, Lorraine. . . . Dunc.”
Sudden ghosts out of the past: Duncan Schaeffer, a friend from college. Lorraine Quarrles, a lovely, pale blonde of thirty; one of a crowd who had helped them make months into days in the lavish63 times of three years ago.
“My husband couldn’t come this year,” she said, in answer to his question. “We’re poor as hell. So he gave me two hundred a month and told me I could do my worst on that. . . . This your little girl?”
“What about coming back and sitting down?” Duncan asked.
“Can’t do it.” He was glad for an excuse. As always, he felt Lorraine’s passionate64, provocative65 attraction, but his own rhythm was different now.
“Well, how about dinner?” she asked.
“I’m not free. Give me your address and let me call you.”
“Charlie, I believe you’re sober,” she said judicially66. “I honestly believe he’s sober, Dunc. Pinch him and see if he’s sober.”
Charlie indicated Honoria with his head. They both laughed.
“What’s your address?” said Duncan sceptically.
He hesitated, unwilling to give the name of his hotel.
“I’m not settled yet. I’d better call you. We’re going to see the vaudeville at the Empire.”
“There! That’s what I want to do,” Lorraine said. “I want to see some clowns and acrobats67 and jugglers. That’s just what we’ll do, Dunc.”
“We’ve got to do an errand first,” said Charlie. “Perhaps we’ll see you there.”
“All right, you snob68. . . . Good-by, beautiful little girl.”
“Good-by.”
Honoria bobbed politely.
Somehow, an unwelcome encounter. They liked him because he was functioning, because he was serious; they wanted to see him, because he was stronger than they were now, because they wanted to draw a certain sustenance69 from his strength.
At the Empire, Honoria proudly refused to sit upon her father’s folded coat. She was already an individual with a code of her own, and Charlie was more and more absorbed by the desire of putting a little of himself into her before she crystallized utterly. It was hopeless to try to know her in so short a time.
Between the acts they came upon Duncan and Lorraine in the lobby where the band was playing.
“Have a drink?”
“All right, but not up at the bar. We’ll take a table.”
“The perfect father.”
Listening abstractedly to Lorraine, Charlie watched Honoria’s eyes leave their table, and he followed them wistfully about the room, wondering what they saw. He met her glance and she smiled.
“I liked that lemonade,” she said.
What had she said? What had he expected? Going home in a taxi afterward70, he pulled her over until her head rested against his chest.
“Darling, do you ever think about your mother?”
“Yes, sometimes,” she answered vaguely71.
“I don’t want you to forget her. Have you got a picture of her?”
“Yes, I think so. Anyhow, Aunt Marion has. Why don’t you want me to forget her?”
“She loved you very much.”
“I loved her too.”
They were silent for a moment.
“Daddy, I want to come and live with you,” she said suddenly.
His heart leaped; he had wanted it to come like this.
“Aren’t you perfectly72 happy?”
“Yes, but I love you better than anybody. And you love me better than anybody, don’t you, now that mummy’s dead?”
“Of course I do. But you won’t always like me best, honey. You’ll grow up and meet somebody your own age and go marry him and forget you ever had a daddy.”
“Yes, that’s true,” she agreed tranquilly73.
He didn’t go in. He was coming back at nine o’clock and he wanted to keep himself fresh and new for the thing he must say then.
“When you’re safe inside, just show yourself in that window.”
“All right. Good-by, dads, dads, dads, dads.”
He waited in the dark street until she appeared, all warm and glowing, in the window above and kissed her fingers out into the night.
III
They were waiting. Marion sat behind the coffee service in a dignified74 black dinner dress that just faintly suggested mourning. Lincoln was walking up and down with the animation75 of one who had already been talking. They were as anxious as he was to get into the question. He opened it almost immediately:
“I suppose you know what I want to see you about — why I really came to Paris.”
Marion played with the black stars on her necklace and frowned.
“I’m awfully76 anxious to have a home,” he continued. “And I’m awfully anxious to have Honoria in it. I appreciate your taking in Honoria for her mother’s sake, but things have changed now”— he hesitated and then continued more forcibly —“changed radically77 with me, and I want to ask you to reconsider the matter. It would be silly for me to deny that about three years ago I was acting78 badly —”
Marion looked up at him with hard eyes.
“— but all that’s over. As I told you, I haven’t had more than a drink a day for over a year, and I take that drink deliberately79, so that the idea of alcohol won’t get too big in my imagination. You see the idea?”
“No,” said Marion succinctly80.
“It’s a sort of stunt81 I set myself. It keeps the matter in proportion.”
“I get you,” said Lincoln. “You don’t want to admit it’s got any attraction for you.”
“Something like that. Sometimes I forget and don’t take it. But I try to take it. Anyhow, I couldn’t afford to drink in my position. The people I represent are more than satisfied with what I’ve done, and I’m bringing my sister over from Burlington to keep house for me, and I want awfully to have Honoria too. You know that even when her mother and I weren’t getting along well we never let anything that happened touch Honoria. I know she’s fond of me and I know I’m able to take care of her and — well, there you are. How do you feel about it?”
He knew that now he would have to take a beating. It would last an hour or two hours, and it would be difficult, but if he modulated82 his inevitable83 resentment84 to the chastened attitude of the reformed sinner, he might win his point in the end.
Keep your temper, he told himself. You don’t want to be justified85. You want Honoria.
Lincoln spoke first: “We’ve been talking it over ever since we got your letter last month. We’re happy to have Honoria here. She’s a dear little thing, and we’re glad to be able to help her, but of course that isn’t the question —”
Marion interrupted suddenly. “How long are you going to stay sober, Charlie?” she asked.
“Permanently, I hope.”
“How can anybody count on that?”
“You know I never did drink heavily until I gave up business and came over here with nothing to do. Then Helen and I began to run around with —”
“Please leave Helen out of it. I can’t bear to hear you talk about her like that.”
He stared at her grimly; he had never been certain how fond of each other the sisters were in life.
“My drinking only lasted about a year and a half — from the time we came over until I— collapsed86.”
“It was time enough.”
“It was time enough,” he agreed.
“My duty is entirely87 to Helen,” she said. “I try to think what she would have wanted me to do. Frankly, from the night you did that terrible thing you haven’t really existed for me. I can’t help that. She was my sister.”
“Yes.”
“When she was dying she asked me to look out for Honoria. If you hadn’t been in a sanitarium then, it might have helped matters.”
He had no answer.
“I’ll never in my life be able to forget the morning when Helen knocked at my door, soaked to the skin and shivering, and said you’d locked her out.”
Charlie gripped the sides of the chair. This was more difficult than he expected; he wanted to launch out into a long expostulation and explanation, but he only said: “The night I locked her out —” and she interrupted, “I don’t feel up to going over that again.”
After a moment’s silence Lincoln said: “We’re getting off the subject. You want Marion to set aside her legal guardianship88 and give you Honoria. I think the main point for her is whether she has confidence in you or not.”
“I don’t blame Marion,” Charlie said slowly, “but I think she can have entire confidence in me. I had a good record up to three years ago. Of course, it’s within human possibilities I might go wrong any time. But if we wait much longer I’ll lose Honoria’s childhood and my chance for a home.” He shook his head, “I’ll simply lose her, don’t you see?”
“Yes, I see,” said Lincoln.
“Why didn’t you think of all this before?” Marion asked.
“I suppose I did, from time to time, but Helen and I were getting along badly. When I consented to the guardianship, I was flat on my back in a sanitarium and the market had cleaned me out. I knew I’d acted badly, and I thought if it would bring any peace to Helen, I’d agree to anything. But now it’s different. I’m functioning, I’m behaving damn well, so far as —”
“Please don’t swear at me,” Marion said.
He looked at her, startled. With each remark the force of her dislike became more and more apparent. She had built up all her fear of life into one wall and faced it toward him. This trivial reproof89 was possibly the result of some trouble with the cook several hours before. Charlie became increasingly alarmed at leaving Honoria in this atmosphere of hostility90 against himself; sooner or later it would come out, in a word here, a shake of the head there, and some of that distrust would be irrevocably implanted in Honoria. But he pulled his temper down out of his face and shut it up inside him; he had won a point, for Lincoln realized the absurdity91 of Marion’s remark and asked her lightly since when she had objected to the word “damn.”
“Another thing,” Charlie said: “I’m able to give her certain advantages now. I’m going to take a French governess to Prague with me. I’ve got a lease on a new apartment —”
He stopped, realizing that he was blundering. They couldn’t be expected to accept with equanimity92 the fact that his income was again twice as large as their own.
“I suppose you can give her more luxuries than we can,” said Marion. “When you were throwing away money we were living along watching every ten francs. . . . I suppose you’ll start doing it again.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I’ve learned. I worked hard for ten years, you know — until I got lucky in the market, like so many people. Terribly lucky. It didn’t seem any use working any more, so I quit. It won’t happen again.”
There was a long silence. All of them felt their nerves straining, and for the first time in a year Charlie wanted a drink. He was sure now that Lincoln Peters wanted him to have his child.
Marion shuddered93 suddenly; part of her saw that Charlie’s feet were planted on the earth now, and her own maternal94 feeling recognized the naturalness of his desire; but she had lived for a long time with a prejudice — a prejudice founded on a curious disbelief in her sister’s happiness, and which, in the shock of one terrible night, had turned to hatred95 for him. It had all happened at a point in her life where the discouragement of ill health and adverse96 circumstances made it necessary for her to believe in tangible97 villainy and a tangible villain98.
“I can’t help what I think!” she cried out suddenly. “How much you were responsible for Helen’s death, I don’t know. It’s something you’ll have to square with your own conscience.”
An electric current of agony surged through him; for a moment he was almost on his feet, an unuttered sound echoing in his throat. He hung on to himself for a moment, another moment.
“Hold on there,” said Lincoln uncomfortably. “I never thought you were responsible for that.”
“Helen died of heart trouble,” Charlie said dully.
“Yes, heart trouble.” Marion spoke as if the phrase had another meaning for her.
Then, in the flatness that followed her outburst, she saw him plainly and she knew he had somehow arrived at control over the situation. Glancing at her husband, she found no help from him, and as abruptly99 as if it were a matter of no importance, she threw up the sponge.
“Do what you like!” she cried, springing up from her chair. “She’s your child. I’m not the person to stand in your way. I think if it were my child I’d rather see her —” She managed to check herself. “You two decide it. I can’t stand this. I’m sick. I’m going to bed.”
She hurried from the room; after a moment Lincoln said:
“This has been a hard day for her. You know how strongly she feels —” His voice was almost apologetic: “When a woman gets an idea in her head.”
“Of course.”
“It’s going to be all right. I think she sees now that you — can provide for the child, and so we can’t very well stand in your way or Honoria’s way.”
“Thank you, Lincoln.”
“I’d better go along and see how she is.”
“I’m going.”
He was still trembling when he reached the street, but a walk down the Rue Bonaparte to the quais set him up, and as he crossed the Seine, fresh and new by the quai lamps, he felt exultant100. But back in his room he couldn’t sleep. The image of Helen haunted him. Helen whom he had loved so until they had senselessly begun to abuse each other’s love, tear it into shreds101. On that terrible February night that Marion remembered so vividly102, a slow quarrel had gone on for hours. There was a scene at the Florida, and then he attempted to take her home, and then she kissed young Webb at a table; after that there was what she had hysterically103 said. When he arrived home alone he turned the key in the lock in wild anger. How could he know she would arrive an hour later alone, that there would be a snowstorm in which she wandered about in slippers104, too confused to find a taxi? Then the aftermath, her escaping pneumonia105 by a miracle, and all the attendant horror. They were “reconciled,” but that was the beginning of the end, and Marion, who had seen with her own eyes and who imagined it to be one of many scenes from her sister’s martyrdom, never forgot.
Going over it again brought Helen nearer, and in the white, soft light that steals upon half sleep near morning he found himself talking to her again. She said that he was perfectly right about Honoria and that she wanted Honoria to be with him. She said she was glad he was being good and doing better. She said a lot of other things — very friendly things — but she was in a swing in a white dress, and swinging faster and faster all the time, so that at the end he could not hear clearly all that she said.
IV
He woke up feeling happy. The door of the world was open again. He made plans, vistas106, futures107 for Honoria and himself, but suddenly he grew sad, remembering all the plans he and Helen had made. She had not planned to die. The present was the thing — work to do and someone to love. But not to love too much, for he knew the injury that a father can do to a daughter or a mother to a son by attaching them too closely: afterward, out in the world, the child would seek in the marriage partner the same blind tenderness and, failing probably to find it, turn against love and life.
It was another bright, crisp day. He called Lincoln Peters at the bank where he worked and asked if he could count on taking Honoria when he left for Prague. Lincoln agreed that there was no reason for delay. One thing — the legal guardianship. Marion wanted to retain that a while longer. She was upset by the whole matter, and it would oil things if she felt that the situation was still in her control for another year. Charlie agreed, wanting only the tangible, visible child.
Then the question of a governess. Charlie sat in a gloomy agency and talked to a cross Béarnaise and to a buxom108 Breton peasant, neither of whom he could have endured. There were others whom he would see tomorrow.
He lunched with Lincoln Peters at Griffons, trying to keep down his exultation109.
“There’s nothing quite like your own child,” Lincoln said. “But you understand how Marion feels too.”
“She’s forgotten how hard I worked for seven years there,” Charlie said. “She just remembers one night.”
“There’s another thing.” Lincoln hesitated. “While you and Helen were tearing around Europe throwing money away, we were just getting along. I didn’t touch any of the prosperity because I never got ahead enough to carry anything but my insurance. I think Marion felt there was some kind of injustice110 in it — you not even working toward the end, and getting richer and richer.”
“It went just as quick as it came,” said Charlie.
“Yes, a lot of it stayed in the hands of chasseurs and saxophone players and ma?tres d’h?tel — well, the big party’s over now. I just said that to explain Marion’s feeling about those crazy years. If you drop in about six o’clock tonight before Marion’s too tired, we’ll settle the details on the spot.”
Back at his hotel, Charlie found a pneumatique that had been redirected from the Ritz bar where Charlie had left his address for the purpose of finding a certain man.
DEAR CHARLIE: You were so strange when we saw you the other day that I wondered if I did something to offend you. If so, I’m not conscious of it. In fact, I have thought about you too much for the last year, and it’s always been in the back of my mind that I might see you if I came over here. We did have such good times that crazy spring, like the night you and I stole the butcher’s tricycle, and the time we tried to call on the president and you had the old derby rim12 and the wire cane111. Everybody seems so old lately, but I don’t feel old a bit. Couldn’t we get together some time today for old time’s sake? I’ve got a vile49 hang-over for the moment, but will be feeling better this afternoon and will look for you about five in the sweat-shop at the Ritz.
Always devotedly112,
LORRAINE.
His first feeling was one of awe113 that he had actually, in his mature years, stolen a tricycle and pedalled Lorraine all over the étoile between the small hours and dawn. In retrospect114 it was a nightmare. Locking out Helen didn’t fit in with any other act of his life, but the tricycle incident did — it was one of many. How many weeks or months of dissipation to arrive at that condition of utter irresponsibility?
He tried to picture how Lorraine had appeared to him then — very attractive; Helen was unhappy about it, though she said nothing. Yesterday, in the restaurant, Lorraine had seemed trite115, blurred, worn away. He emphatically did not want to see her, and he was glad Alix had not given away his hotel address. It was a relief to think, instead, of Honoria, to think of Sundays spent with her and of saying good morning to her and of knowing she was there in his house at night, drawing her breath in the darkness.
At five he took a taxi and bought presents for all the Peters — a piquant116 cloth doll, a box of Roman soldiers, flowers for Marion, big linen117 handkerchiefs for Lincoln.
He saw, when he arrived in the apartment, that Marion had accepted the inevitable. She greeted him now as though he were a recalcitrant118 member of the family, rather than a menacing outsider. Honoria had been told she was going; Charlie was glad to see that her tact119 made her conceal120 her excessive happiness. Only on his lap did she whisper her delight and the question “When?” before she slipped away with the other children.
He and Marion were alone for a minute in the room, and on an impulse he spoke out boldly:
“Family quarrels are bitter things. They don’t go according to any rules. They’re not like aches or wounds; they’re more like splits in the skin that won’t heal because there’s not enough material. I wish you and I could be on better terms.”
“Some things are hard to forget,” she answered. “It’s a question of confidence.” There was no answer to this and presently she asked, “When do you propose to take her?”
“As soon as I can get a governess. I hoped the day after tomorrow.”
“That’s impossible. I’ve got to get her things in shape. Not before Saturday.”
He yielded. Coming back into the room, Lincoln offered him a drink.
“I’ll take my daily whisky,” he said.
It was warm here, it was a home, people together by a fire. The children felt very safe and important; the mother and father were serious, watchful121. They had things to do for the children more important than his visit here. A spoonful of medicine was, after all, more important than the strained relations between Marion and himself. They were not dull people, but they were very much in the grip of life and circumstances. He wondered if he couldn’t do something to get Lincoln out of his rut at the bank.
A long peal122 at the door-bell; the bonne à tout123 faire passed through and went down the corridor. The door opened upon another long ring, and then voices, and the three in the salon looked up expectantly; Lincoln moved to bring the corridor within his range of vision, and Marion rose. Then the maid came back along the corridor, closely followed by the voices, which developed under the light into Duncan Schaeffer and Lorraine Quarrles.
They were gay, they were hilarious124, they were roaring with laughter. For a moment Charlie was astounded125; unable to understand how they ferreted out the Peters’ address.
“Ah-h-h!” Duncan wagged his finger roguishly at Charlie. “Ah-h-h!”
They both slid down another cascade126 of laughter. Anxious and at a loss, Charlie shook hands with them quickly and presented them to Lincoln and Marion. Marion nodded, scarcely speaking. She had drawn127 back a step toward the fire; her little girl stood beside her, and Marion put an arm about her shoulder.
With growing annoyance128 at the intrusion, Charlie waited for them to explain themselves. After some concentration Duncan said:
“We came to invite you out to dinner. Lorraine and I insist that all this shishi, cagy business ‘bout your address got to stop.”
Charlie came closer to them, as if to force them backward down the corridor.
“Sorry, but I can’t. Tell me where you’ll be and I’ll phone you in half an hour.”
This made no impression. Lorraine sat down suddenly on the side of a chair, and focussing her eyes on Richard, cried, “Oh, what a nice little boy! Come here, little boy.” Richard glanced at his mother, but did not move. With a perceptible shrug129 of her shoulders, Lorraine turned back to Charlie:
“Come and dine. Sure your cousins won’ mine. See you so sel’om. Or solemn.”
“I can’t,” said Charlie sharply. “You two have dinner and I’ll phone you.”
Her voice became suddenly unpleasant. “All right, we’ll go. But I remember once when you hammered on my door at four A.M. I was enough of a good sport to give you a drink. Come on, Dunc.”
Still in slow motion, with blurred, angry faces, with uncertain feet, they retired130 along the corridor.
“Good night,” Charlie said.
“Good night!” responded Lorraine emphatically.
When he went back into the salon Marion had not moved, only now her son was standing131 in the circle of her other arm. Lincoln was still swinging Honoria back and forth132 like a pendulum133 from side to side.
“What an outrage134!” Charlie broke out. “What an absolute outrage!” Neither of them answered. Charlie dropped into an armchair, picked up his drink, set it down again and said:
“People I haven’t seen for two years having the colossal135 nerve —”
He broke off. Marion had made the sound “Oh!” in one swift, furious breath, turned her body from him with a jerk and left the room.
Lincoln set down Honoria carefully.
“You children go in and start your soup,” he said, and when they obeyed, he said to Charlie:
“Marion’s not well and she can’t stand shocks. That kind of people make her really physically136 sick.”
“I didn’t tell them to come here. They wormed your name out of somebody. They deliberately —”
“Well, it’s too bad. It doesn’t help matters. Excuse me a minute.”
Left alone, Charlie sat tense in his chair. In the next room he could hear the children eating, talking in monosyllables, already oblivious137 to the scene between their elders. He heard a murmur of conversation from a farther room and then the ticking bell of a telephone receiver picked up, and in a panic he moved to the other side of the room and out of earshot.
In a minute Lincoln came back. “Look here, Charlie. I think we’d better call off dinner for tonight. Marion’s in bad shape.”
“Is she angry with me?”
“Sort of,” he said, almost roughly. “She’s not strong and —”
“You mean she’s changed her mind about Honoria?”
“She’s pretty bitter right now. I don’t know. You phone me at the bank tomorrow.”
“I wish you’d explain to her I never dreamed these people would come here. I’m just as sore as you are.”
“I couldn’t explain anything to her now.”
Charlie got up. He took his coat and hat and started down the corridor. Then he opened the door of the dining room and said in a strange voice, “Good night, children.”
Honoria rose and ran around the table to hug him.
“Good night, sweetheart,” he said vaguely, and then trying to make his voice more tender, trying to conciliate something, “Good night, dear children.”
V
Charlie went directly to the Ritz bar with the furious idea of finding Lorraine and Duncan, but they were not there, and he realized that in any case there was nothing he could do. He had not touched his drink at the Peters’, and now he ordered a whisky-and-soda. Paul came over to say hello.
“It’s a great change,” he said sadly. “We do about half the business we did. So many fellows I hear about back in the States lost everything, maybe not in the first crash, but then in the second. Your friend George Hardt lost every cent, I hear. Are you back in the States?”
“No, I’m in business in Prague.”
“I heard that you lost a lot in the crash.”
“I did,” and he added grimly, “but I lost everything I wanted in the boom.”
“Selling short.”
“Something like that.”
Again the memory of those days swept over him like a nightmare — the people they had met travelling; then people who couldn’t add a row of figures or speak a coherent sentence. The little man Helen had consented to dance with at the ship’s party, who had insulted her ten feet from the table; the women and girls carried screaming with drink or drugs out of public places —
— The men who locked their wives out in the snow, because the snow of twenty-nine wasn’t real snow. If you didn’t want it to be snow, you just paid some money.
He went to the phone and called the Peters’ apartment; Lincoln answered.
“I called up because this thing is on my mind. Has Marion said anything definite?”
“Marion’s sick,” Lincoln answered shortly. “I know this thing isn’t altogether your fault, but I can’t have her go to pieces about it. I’m afraid we’ll have to let it slide for six months; I can’t take the chance of working her up to this state again.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry, Charlie.”
He went back to his table. His whisky glass was empty, but he shook his head when Alix looked at it questioningly. There wasn’t much he could do now except send Honoria some things; he would send her a lot of things tomorrow. He thought rather angrily that this was just money — he had given so many people money. . . .
“No, no more,” he said to another waiter. “What do I owe you?”
He would come back some day; they couldn’t make him pay forever. But he wanted his child, and nothing was much good now, beside that fact. He wasn’t young any more, with a lot of nice thoughts and dreams to have by himself. He was absolutely sure Helen wouldn’t have wanted him to be so alone.
The End
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1
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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grill
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| n.烤架，铁格子，烤肉；v.烧，烤，严加盘问 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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mobility
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| n.可动性，变动性，情感不定 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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cramping
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| 图像压缩 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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24
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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25
smacks
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| 掌掴（声）( smack的名词复数 )； 海洛因； （打的）一拳； 打巴掌 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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restiveness
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| n.倔强，难以驾御 | |
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28
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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32
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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33
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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34
initiate
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| vt.开始，创始，发动；启蒙，使入门；引入 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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37
arabesques
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰( arabesque的名词复数 )；错综图饰；阿拉伯图案；阿拉贝斯克芭蕾舞姿（独脚站立，手前伸，另一脚一手向后伸） | |
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38
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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39
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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41
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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42
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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43
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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44
meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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45
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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46
catering
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| n. 给养 | |
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47
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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48
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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49
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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50
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
eluding
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的现在分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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52
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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53
luncheons
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| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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54
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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56
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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57
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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58
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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59
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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60
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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61
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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62
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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63
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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64
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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65
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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66
judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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67
acrobats
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| n.杂技演员( acrobat的名词复数 )；立场观点善变的人，主张、政见等变化无常的人 | |
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68
snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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69
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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70
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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71
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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72
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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73
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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74
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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75
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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76
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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77
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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78
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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79
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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80
succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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81
stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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82
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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83
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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84
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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85
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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86
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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88
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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89
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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90
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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93
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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94
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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96
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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100
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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101
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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102
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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103
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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104
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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105
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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106
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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107
futures
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| n.期货，期货交易 | |
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108
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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109
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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110
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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111
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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112
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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113
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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114
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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115
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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116
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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117
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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118
recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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119
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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120
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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121
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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122
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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123
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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124
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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125
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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126
cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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127
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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128
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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129
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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130
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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131
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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132
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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133
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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134
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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135
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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136
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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137
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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