by Gore Vidal
But the old woman was now removing, one by one, her huge old-fashioned diamond rings, a slow and complicated process, for the fingers were bent with arthritis. “I shall also remember you in my will.”
“I trust that when you come to write it you will not mistake a one for a seven like my father.” But Caroline knew that there is no egotism to compare with that of someone old, embarked upon a crucial venture, involving money.
“Blaise has treated you badly. I don’t know why. But I suspect why. I think, somehow, he knows what happened.”
Caroline shook her head. “If he knew, he would have told me long ago. Also, if he knew, he would not, I’m afraid, care at all. He lives only for himself.”
“Your father knew.” Mrs. Delacroix now only heard what she chose to hear. “He never dared to see me, not that I would have spoken to him. He settled in France to avoid me, and what he’d done, what she had done.”
Caroline rose. “I am tired, Mrs. Delacroix. I am also ill-pleased.” In anger, Caroline’s English began to take on a somewhat archaic sound. She longed to burst into a proper French tirade.
“Surely not with me, my dear.” The old lady was now her gracious, formidable self again. She swept her rings into her reticule; and rose. “I have taken you into my confidence because, when I am dead, I want you to tell Blaise the true story.”
“I suggest,” said Caroline, “that you put it all in writing, as part of your will. Let him find out at the same time he gets the money. If you like, I’ll help you put it into French Alexandrines. They are particularly useful for this sort of—theater.”
“It’s not theater, my child. I only want you to—”
“Why want me for anything, since I am the daughter, in your eyes, of so much darkness?”
To Caroline’s astonishment, Mrs. Delacroix crossed herself, and whispered something in Latin. Then: “I believe in atonement.”
“I am to atone for my mother?” Without thinking, Caroline crossed herself, too.
“I think you must. Besides, you and Blaise are all that’s left of the Sanfords, the real ones, that is. So you must make up. This is one of the ways.”
“I can think of less hazardous ways.”
“I am sure you could.” In the falling firelight the small room had taken on a rosy color, and Mrs. Delacroix looked almost girlish, spider’s web erased. “Blaise is in Newport,” said the suddenly young-faced old woman, taking Caroline’s arm. “He’s at Jamie Bennett’s Stone Villa. Poor Jamie’s still an exile in Paris. But, of course, you know all that. Anyway, each year he leases his cottage. Blaise has taken it for August.”
“I’m sorry that I’ve kept him from staying here, with you.”
“No, no. I want you here. He’s close enough.”
“Too close, perhaps, for me.” But Mrs. Delacroix had preceded Caroline from the room.
The next morning Caroline arrived alone at Bailey’s Beach, where she was greeted with a smart salute by the gold-braided field marshal whose task it was to know not only members but their friends by sight. How he was able to discern a member from an intruder was a source of wonder to all Newport. But he was infallible, and the small beach, awash with slimy dark green and dull red seaweed, was the most exclusive patch of sand in the world, as well as, Caroline noted, one of the most malodorous. In the night, an armada of Portuguese men-of-war had attacked Bailey’s, and today their iridescent, bloated, gelatinous shapes were strewn upon the pale sands. Although the field marshal’s helpers—boyish Footstools, as Harry Lehr would say—raked as hard as they could, corpses of the men-of-war still outnumbered Bailey’s members beneath the brilliant sky.
Caroline made her way to the tented pavilion maintained by Mrs. Delacroix; nearby, the Fish house-party was already on the beach, the ladies in morning frocks. There would be no bathing for them this day, but, like a sea-god, Harry Lehr was costumed for his native element. The upper vest of his emerald-green bathing suit had been cut in daring décolleté to show off an alabaster-white chest and neck, while the ruddy face was barely visible beneath a curious sort of burgundy-red sunbonnet which kept the sun from his face as surely as Caroline’s parasol protected hers. The legs, however, gave great joy to the beach. The suit stopped just above two large dimpled knees which were, in turn, covered by sheer peach-colored silken stockings that set off shapely calves that he liked to compare, complacently, with those of Louis XIV. To Caroline, they were more reminiscent of the legs of certain Paris lady circus-riders. In any case, he was a marvel of androgynous charm; and as indifferent to the sniggers of the boyish Footstools as they raked up the gummy jellyfish as he was proud of the true admiration with which his circle regarded him. Harry Lehr was an original, which he proceeded to demonstrate to Caroline, to the chagrin of the Fish party farther along the beach. “Such beauty!” he exclaimed. “All alone at Bailey’s!”
“Yours, Mr. Lehr? or mine?”
“You make fun of me. I love that, you know.” The laugh was rippling, and sincere. Then he sat beside her, cross-legged on the sand. The legs were beautiful, Caroline decided; but then nature always had a habit of mixing things up. Blaise, who dearly wanted a moustache, could not grow one, while Mrs. Bingham, who did not want a moustache, was obliged, each day, with wax, to rip hers off. Caroline would not in the least have minded exchanging Harry’s legs for her own, which were too slender for contemporary taste. At school, numerous references to the taut beauty of Diana of the Hunt had not appeased her. “You could be such a success here. You know that, don’t you?”
“But aren’t I? A success, that is. Within my limits, naturally.”
“Well, you are you, of course, and so you’re a success by birth, and the way you look. Though I’d dress you better. More Doucet, less Worth.”
“Less Worth, more money?”
“What’s money for? I’m like Ludwig of Bavaria. I hate the bareness of everyday life. It withers my soul. But I don’t have money, like you. Like everyone here.” Beneath the sun-visor, the blue eyes narrowed. “So I make my way by amusing others. It’s certainly better than sweating in an office.”
“But harder work, I should think.” To Caroline’s surprise she found herself growing interested in Harry Lehr, as a human case. Was she now falling victim to his famous—or infamous—charm?
“Oh, easier than you might think. Most people are fools, you know, and the best way to live harmoniously with them and make them like you is to pander to their stupidity. They want to be entertained. They want to laugh. They’ll forgive you anything as long as you amuse them.”
“But when you grow old …”
“I shall marry soon. That will take care of that.”
“Have you picked the … girl to be honored?”
Lehr nodded. “You know her, in fact. But you’ll probably think …” Lehr’s concentration was broken by the approach of two young men. One very slender, even gaunt, and the other smaller, more compact, muscular. It was the second youth that caused Lehr to frown. “Would you say his legs are better than mine?”
“Oh, no!” Caroline was all tact. “He has too many muscles, like a jockey. And, like a jockey, see? his legs are slightly bowed, while yours are exquisitely straight.”
“You must be very far-sighted to see him in such detail.” Lehr gave her a mischievous womanly smile.
“Oh, I know nearly all his details. You see, he’s my brother.”
“Blaise Sanford! Of course.” Lehr was excited. “I should have recognized him. So attractive, so elegant.”
“If you like stable-boys from Brittany, he is attractive; I would not call him elegant.”
“Well, the other one is. He’s like a stork but the face is interesting.”
“I’m afraid, dear Mr. Lehr, he is yet another of my brothers. The beach is littered with them today, like Portuguese men-of-war.”
Now the two young men had joined them, and Lehr greeted the bemused Blaise with coquettish charm; and bowed low as he took the hand of Caroline’s oldest half-brother,
the Prince d’Agrigente, known as Plon, who looked twenty-five but was thirty-seven; and separated from his wife, by whom he had had five children, each, it was rumored at the Jockey Club, where everything interesting is known, miraculously his own.
“Plon wanted to escape from Paris. I wanted to escape from New York. So we took old Jamie’s villa. It’s full of mildew.” Blaise added, staring at Lehr as if he were, somehow, responsible.
“The servants don’t air the Stone Villa properly. Because the owner never comes. I must introduce you two splendid creatures to Mrs. Fish—”
“I know her.” Blaise was flat.
“ ‘Fish’ as in poisson?” murmured Plon in his deep voice.
“We have splendid names in America—” Caroline began.
“But not Lehr as in menteur,” said Lehr, taking the lead; and the match. Suddenly, the two young men laughed; and Lehr was able to withdraw in triumph to Fishland.
“We have one of those at Paris.” Plon was thoughtful. “I didn’t know you had one here, too.”
“You must travel more, chéri.” Caroline gave him the sisterly kiss she withheld from Blaise. “We have everything here. Including the most exclusive beach in the world.”
“Is it always covered with garbage?” Plon rubbed his nose, as if the smell might be pushed away.
“Only human,” said Blaise.
At that moment, Mrs. Jack appeared on the boardwalk that ran the length of the clubhouse. She was in what she called “tennis costume”: white tennis shoes, black stockings, white silk blouse and skirt beneath which could be seen—daringly—bloomers; on her head a sailor hat held in place two veils like mosquito netting. When Mrs. Jack saw them, she swept aside her veils so that they could see her. “Caroline,” she called. “Do come here, and bring your young men.” Caroline did as she was ordered. The young men pleased Mrs. Jack, who delighted them when they heard her name, and listened to her imperious nonsense, all delivered in a husky Comédie Française tone. “You are exactly what I want. You both play tennis?”
“Yes, but—” Blaise began.
“Perfect,” said Mrs. Jack. “I gave up tennis for bridge when my husband took up tennis. Now he has taken up bridge again, and is giving a bridge party. So I shall take to the court with you two splendid young men. You are clever, Caroline, to have so many brothers.”
“Half-brothers …”
“Better and better. One needs only to be half-fond of them.” Mrs. Jack was gone.
“We have one of those in Paris, too,” said Plon, “but she’s very old.”
“That’s the Mrs. Astor. This is her daughter-in-law. La Dauphine. She’ll make you laugh. She hates everything.”
“She’s quite good-looking,” said Plon. “Is she … vivacious?”
“This is America. The ladies are all pure.” Caroline was warning.
“I know,” said Plon, glumly. “I shouldn’t have come.”
Half the Astor house-party played tennis, and the other half played bridge. Mrs. Jack took over Blaise as a partner, leaving Caroline with Plon, who was as vague and kindly and impecunious as ever. “When Blaise heard my purse was vide … how you say?”
“Broke.”
“Broke. He offered to pay to bring me over for the summer. So here I am.”
“Looking for a new wife?”
“We are still Catholic. Aren’t we, Caroline?”
“Yes. But there are always arrangements.”
Plon shook his head, his eyes on Mrs. Jack’s elegant figure, and haphazard game of tennis. “Maybe I could give tennis lessons,” he said. “They play very badly here.”
Idly, they gossiped beneath the huge copper beech tree. Occasionally, Colonel Astor would come out on the verandah and gaze, rather bewilderedly, at his wife. He was an eccentric man, with a full moustache and a bald forehead that receded in agreeable sympathy with his chin. He was happiest, it was said, on his yacht, the Nourmahal, away from Mrs. Jack. Since Mrs. Belmont had so fiercely blazed an exciting new path through the wilderness of society, the sword not Excalibur but divorce in her hand, it was now, for the first time, conceivable that even an Astor might get a divorce. Admittedly, the Vanderbilts were still a number of rungs beneath the Astors on the gilded ladder, but what Alva Vanderbilt Belmont had done Ava Willard Astor might also do. “Divorce will become a commonplace.” Caroline was sententious, a habit that was growing upon her now that she was being taken seriously as a newspaper publisher, and general authority.
“Not in France. Not with us,” said Plon. “I like your Mrs. Astor.”
“But only to seduce. You are so French, Plon.”
“You are so American,” said her half-brother bleakly. “I am told that that curious creature with you on the beach …”
“The pretty man?”
“The lovely man … that he sells champagne to these rich Americans. Perhaps I could do that. I know a good deal about wine.” He blinked his dark seemingly depthless eyes, and Caroline realized that she was looking into her dead mother’s eyes. Mrs. Delacroix had inspired her to search for likenesses, clues.
“You have our mother’s eyes,” she said.
“So they say.” Plon was watching for the occasional glimpse of Mrs. Jack’s ankles as she careened wildly about the grassy court.
“What was she like?”
“What was who like?” Plon’s mind was on the court.
“Emma. Your mother. My mother.”
“Oh, it was so long ago. She was American like you.”
“Plon, are you really so stupid or is this your idea of how to charm American ladies?”
The handsome aquiline face was turned toward her; he smiled, and showed good teeth. “Surely, I don’t have to charm a half-sister. Or is there something a trifle Egyptian about this Newport of yours?”
Caroline allowed this tasteless gallantry to go unnoticed. “Do you think Emma might have—”
“Killed the first Mrs. Sanford?” Plon was still staring at the court, where Mrs. Jack had just, for the first time, perhaps ever, scored a match point. “Bravo!” Plon shouted. Mrs. Jack turned, her usual look of annoyance in place, but when she saw the lean admiring Frenchman, she gave a small curtsey.
“You should get at least a cigarette case,” said Caroline sourly, “for attendance.”
“I’m afraid I shall need more than a cigarette case.”
“You’ve heard the rumors?”
“Only what everyone hears. The dull Colonel Astor prefers his boat to his wife. They have a son, so she has done her duty …”
“I speak of Emma!”
“You do have a thing about the past, don’t you? All right. She was, for me, adorable. When I went driving with her, I always hoped that people would mistake her for my mistress. Yes, yes, I know. I am very French. I was also fourteen when she died, and full-grown for my age.”
Caroline tried to imagine the boy Plon and the dark lady of the portraits together in an open carriage, driving through the Bois de Boulogne; and failed. “I was prejudiced, of course, against your father. I thought him very … very …”
“American?”
“The exact epithet I was searching for. He was very American except that he had no energy at all, an impossible combination, we thought. But Maman always did her best to bring us together. She was very weak those last months, particularly after …”
“I was born.”
“Yes. She just faded away. We were sorry, my brother and I, to see her go like that.”
“No more than sorry?”
“Boys are like that. One develops a heart much later.”
“If at all.”
“Maman would never have killed anyone.”
“Then why the rumor, which I’ve just heard, yet again, right here.”
Plon gave a stage Frenchman’s shrug, and crossed his long legs. “Rumors are eternal in our world. No, chérie, if anyone killed the first Mrs. Sanford—which I highly doubt—it was your abominable father, who was capable of anything to get
his way.”
Caroline felt as if she had been given a sudden electric shock. “I don’t believe you,” was the best that she could do.
“I couldn’t care less what you believe.” The dark eyes stared at her, with an expression that she had never seen before. Could this be Emma, she wondered, looking, so directly, into her daughter’s eyes?
“Now you credit him with energy.” Caroline turned away. Plon’s eyes were suddenly neither human nor animal; they were of another order of nature altogether, a mineral that reflected nothing at all.
“He would have had the energy for that.” Plon yawned. “Anyway, it’s all done. It’s very American,” he suddenly grinned, “to think always of the past.”
Caroline was horrified to find herself suddenly unmistakably attracted to the Prince d’Agrigente in a way quite different from the perverse attraction of the golden enemy, Blaise. “I must,” she said, “go in.”
Mrs. Jack had already preceded Caroline into the house. She was removing her tennis veil; the pale face was agreeably flushed; a young plain boy, clutching a nurse’s hand, stared up at her.
“Caroline! This is my son. He’s nine. Say how-de-do to Miss Sanford.”
The boy bowed politely from the waist. “How do you do?” Caroline was as polite as she would have been to the father, whose back could be seen in the drawing room, at one of the dozen bridge-tables, all occupied.
“Is he to be John Jacob the Fifth or the Sixth?” asked Caroline. “Your family is getting like the Hanovers with all their Georges.”
“I’ve broken the line. He’s William Vincent. Frightfully plain, isn’t he?” said Mrs. Jack, as the boy was led away. “It is one of those rare cases when the paternity is absolutely certain. He has Jack’s depressing features, and hangdog eyes. But the maternity’s very much in doubt. He doesn’t look a bit like me. Tell me about that handsome creature, your half-brother.”
As Caroline told her about Plon, Mrs. Jack looked very interested. “We must have him to dinner, with Blaise, too,” she added. “I’ll ask all the Stone Villa, and you, of course, and Mrs. Delacroix, if she doesn’t disapprove of me this year.”