“What name will you use this time? Margaret Peel or Elizabeth Whiffleton?” Sally was trying to smile, to sound encouraging, but her depression only increased.
“I don’t know.” Mrs. Peel’s excitement died away. Then she remembered the bath which was still running upstairs, and she dashed from the room. She called back, “Depends on who gets control of the novel. But I’ll put up a good fight this time.”
“What fight?” Prender Atherton Jones asked, as he came out of his bedroom. He had been thinking, longingly, of a well-cooked luncheon digesting in his well-exercised, pleasantly bathed, and freshly dressed body. “Margaret, I’ve discovered the most amusing book. But can you tell me what on earth this inscription means?”
But Mrs. Peel, not even stopping to look at the book in his hand, only said, “My bath! The library ceiling!” and rushed on frantically.
But, fortunately, she found there was still a couple of inches to go before the bath-water would pour down into the library. The water was half-cold, for Prender had enjoyed a very good bath indeed. She felt in such a Stoic mood, however, that she scarcely said, “I knew it,” and she stepped in for almost a minute.
19
HARMONY AND DISCORD
Prender Atherton Jones went on his way downstairs. He would show Sally his discovery in literature. It was a kind of period piece, true to the romantic escape of the nineteen-twenties: the era when green hats and sheiks and Constantinople sleeping-cars all vied with Huxley and Mencken and e.e. cummings. Not to mention Prohibition, Mayfair parties, raccoon coats, exiled Tsarists, and Dada.
He looked at the book with a smile. The Lady in White Gloves, by Elizabeth Whiffleton. He must have read it before— probably had only glanced into it: it had been one of those best-sellers—for he remembered he had included it with some other popular novels in a witty review he had written at the time. But now it had the most peculiar fascination for him; it awakened a nostalgia, as if he were looking at a collection of old photographs, fantastic perhaps, horrible in some ways, and yet reminders of an age when life had been young and gay and very brave-new-world. Even if the twenties had roared more with the hysterical rush of an express train than with the majestic dignity of a lion, they had had their charms in retrospect. They had been almost peace, compared to which the thirties had been a mounting nightmare. And the nineteen-forties—a fitful slumber of exhaustion, tormented by memories of delirium?
Ah, he thought, that’s good, that’s very good. He halted at the foot of the stairs to take out his little note-book and record it.
He found Sally in the sun-porch, but Grubbock and Koffing were with her—Grubbock sitting in a rocking-chair, inappropriate but comfortable; Koffing standing at the long wall of window, looking at the mountains with a frown on his face. They were in the middle of an argument about horses.
Atherton Jones cleared his throat. Sally looked round.
“Earl and Karl are invited to go with the cowboys on a round-up. And we were discussing—” she explained. Atherton Jones interrupted her with an amused exclamation.
“You don’t have to go, do you?” he asked the men.
“We’d like to,” Earl Grubbock said, with a grin. “Why don’t you come along? Plenty of scenery. We are sleeping out in the mountains for a couple of nights.”
Prender Atherton Jones smiled pityingly.
They went on with the discussion, forgetting Prender entirely. Something to do with Karl’s horse and Jim Brent’s advice that Karl should stick to his own horse until this trip was over. “I can see his point that you are better off with a horse you know on a trip like this,” Sally was saying. And Earl Grubbock was agreeing with her. “What’s all the rush, Karl?” he wanted to know. “This trip tomorrow will be difficult enough, perhaps, without worrying about a strange horse.”
“Yes,” said Sally, “or having a horse worry about a strange rider.”
Horses, Atherton Jones thought angrily, as he turned on his heel and left the room, they made everyone equally stupid. Horses, dogs, and babies should be banned from all conversation.
He went into the library and made himself a Tom Collins. (Margaret had listened to his humorous comments on the evils of Prohibition, and had set up a tray for emergency thirsts.) Ah, well, he thought grimly, he had become accustomed to the selfish egotism of youth in these last weeks. It was true that you had to live with people to find what they really were. The little things about them, which amused you when you only met them once a month or so, became absolutely intolerable when you were in constant contact with them. Margaret Peel was the only person here who was at all sympathetic. It was a pity her mind was so slow and her reactions so simple. Still, as Koffing had pointed out, she was the product of her environment: her life had been an easy and comfortable one, no worries, no work. As for her little experiences in occupied France, they probably existed mostly in her imagination. (Sally hadn’t even mentioned them.) What would seem normal to most men would seem highly exciting to a non-adventurous woman. Margaret Peel wasn’t the Mata Hari type. The truth was she needed someone to look after her.
He sat down in the most comfortable chair to wait, partly for luncheon, partly for Margaret Peel. If you had discovered an amusing book and amusing phrases to describe it, then it was a pity to let them go unused. Margaret Peel was the perfect audience.
He stretched his long legs, admired them, looked round the pleasant room; and in that moment of wellbeing he felt the charm of the whole house. It wouldn’t be a bad life to have a place like this—nearer New York, of course, where one would have an equally comfortable apartment. As a pied-à-terre, naturally. For there was Paris. Margaret had had a flat in Paris and a villa in Italy. Did she still own them?
It was in moments like these that he regretted his return to bachelor life, although he had welcomed its freedom on the death of his second wife. A man needed a woman to take care of the bothersome details of existence. Perhaps it was that discovery which had almost driven him into a third marriage: Mimi would have been the perfect ornament for his home. But she would have been demanding and self-centred. He saw that clearly now. The Mimi Bassinbrooks were delightful to have around, but not to marry. Unless they had some money of their own to take care of all their expensive tastes. Otherwise their husbands became hacks to support them. As a man got wiser, what he wanted was comfort and peace of mind so that he could live as a civilised being and have the leisure to write his books. It was all very well to have fame as a talker, as an encourager of the arts, but words had a way of vanishing if they weren’t enclosed between the covers of a book. Mimi would have indeed been a grave mistake. He complimented himself on the perspicacity and solid good sense which had kept him free of her.
Then, thinking of Mimi, he somehow thought of Dewey Schmetterling. And he opened The Lady in White Gloves to read the puzzling inscription again. It was definitely in Dewey’s writing. The book must have belonged to Dewey, and he had left it in the library by mistake, and Mrs. Gunn’s niece had just jammed it into any shelf. (Prender had found it tucked inappropriately among a row of Dickens’s novels.)
Dewey had written on the flyleaf, “To the modest author from one of her unconscious public—a token of his esteem.” Prender, the expert on Dewey’s prose style, diagnosed a play on the word “unconscious.” And there was a peculiar twist to the phrase “a token of his esteem,” for the novel was a battered old copy, coming apart in several places, with the name of a very small town library stamped across the pages at ruthless intervals. Dewey must have intended to give it to the authoress, and then, in the excitement of his unexpected departure, had left it behind. Elizabeth Whiffleton... Prender searched his memory. No, he didn’t know her. In fact, no one ever seemed to have known Elizabeth Whiffleton. Except Dewey. Trust Dewey to find out...
This new idea took away much of the charm of the book. Dewey had discovered it first. Prender Atherton Jones frowned, hesitated, and then went over to the bookcase where he had found the novel. He had lost intere
st. Dewey would no doubt write to ask for the book (he would treasure it highly), once he was beyond his present stage of forgetting everything for the sake of two little golden pigtails and tight pearl-grey frontier pants. Ah, Dewey... He smiled. He must start writing his letters this afternoon.
* * *
When Atherton Jones had left the sun-porch Earl Grubbock interrupted his argument with Karl Koffing to say to Sally, “Whose idea was it, by the way, that Atherton Jones should move into our cabin?”
Sally was startled. “Not ours,” she said hastily. “You mean he tried to get you both to move out as soon as Dewey left?”
“It was implied that you’d like it that way. However, we had a few doubts about that. So we stayed where we were.”
Sally shook her head in amazement as she marvelled over Prender.
Grubbock looked at Karl Koffing. “See?” his eyes seemed to say. Then he spoke to Sally again. “Dewey Schmetterling wasn’t a particular friend of yours, was he?”
“Not very.” She smiled at her understatement.
“And Esther Park isn’t here because you happen to know her family?”
“No.” This time Sally was angry.
“Now I’m beginning to get things straight.” He looked at Karl again.
“You must have a poor opinion of Margaret and me, Karl,” Sally said. She tried to make a joke of it, but she was hurt.
“Well, why do you have people you don’t like?” Karl Koffing asked accusingly.
“We didn’t have Dewey. He came, and he stayed. What can you do? I mean, if you are a woman?”
That obviously didn’t seem any answer to Karl. He shrugged his shoulders and turned to look out of the window again.
Grubbock smiled. “I see. A man could tell Dewey Schmetterling to get the hell out. A woman—well, what does a woman do?”
“Worries. Gets cross,” Sally said. She laughed. “And Karl, if you have any ideas how we can ask Miss Park to leave, without hurting her feelings, we’d be very grateful to you.”
“I don’t think my ideas interest you much,” he said, facing her. “You never see my viewpoint about anything—not even in this matter of Jim Brent and his precious horses.”
“I do see your point of view, Karl. Only I see the other points of view too. And I choose whatever I think is best, and that becomes my point of view. Of course, I may be wrong often enough. None of us is perfect.”
Earl Grubbock’s eyes were amused. “But didn’t you know that Karl’s ideal State is going to make everything and everyone perfect?”
“That’s a tall order,” Sally said.
Karl looked at Grubbock angrily. Then he turned on Sally. “It’s easy to laugh if you prefer injustice and intolerance.”
“Hey!” Grubbock said. “Wait a minute! What makes you think you have cornered the market in justice and tolerance?”
Sally said gently, “You know, Karl, there are people who may think quite differently from you but who want these things too.”
“But do they work for them, fight for them? They talk. They are shams.”
“You aren’t being exactly fair to your country’s history,” Sally said.
“Well, look at it!” he said bitterly. “Republicans and Democrats have been shaping this country for almost two hundred years, and what have we got?”
Sally glanced at Grubbock. She said with a touch of irony, “We haven’t done too badly, compared with most other countries.” Then her voice became serious. “And I’m not talking about one small group in our population. I’m talking about the average man.”
“So you don’t think changes are necessary? It’s all just perfect for you?” he asked mockingly.
“No,” she said, trying to keep her temper. “But I’d admit what was good in our country, and go on with reforms from there.”
“You’re afraid of change,” he told her. “You want to patch up an old system to keep it from falling to pieces.”
“And what new system do you suggest?”
“In—” He stopped. You had to be careful nowadays not to say “in Soviet Russia.” Two years ago you could have used it as a powerful argument. Four years ago everyone—except for a few crypto-Fascists—would have applauded. But now they’d look at you, call you a Communist.
“In fact, there isn’t a new system,” Sally said quietly. “Even Communism has been tested for thirty years. And I’m sure you couldn’t possibly suggest that the system that suited Russia thirty years ago would suit America in 1948? Or even what suits Russia today would suit us?”
“And what do you know about Russia today, except what you read in the capitalist Press?” he asked. That started him off.
Ah, me! thought Sally, and I brought this on myself. The same old arguments, the same old phrases and political clichés, the sweeping generalisations, the half-truths presented as whole truths. Even the use of words in a foreign way, such as lackey. (When, in America, had a lackey served dinner or opened the door or driven your car?) Karl was convinced and sincere about what he said; so convinced that she watched him and wondered if he had followed these arguments to their logical conclusion.
She felt cold. She shivered in the warm room.
Grubbock had sensed something of her emotions. He rose suddenly. “Look, Karl,” he said abruptly, “leave implementing your ideology, and get this question about your horse straightened out. We leave early tomorrow on this trip. Are you going to take Brent’s advice or aren’t you?” He glanced at his watch as if to excuse himself. “It is almost lunch-time, and there’s your mail to be collected.”
“If Brent’s afraid for his property I wouldn’t want to worry him. The greatest sin of the twentieth century is an attack on property. That’s unforgivable. Human beings can be underpaid, starved, overworked. But don’t let anyone destroy property. You can be arrested for that.”
“That’s a good exit line,” Grubbock said, trying to make a joke of the fact that Karl was already half-way to the door.
“No one would arrest you for breaking a horse’s leg, Karl,” Sally said quietly. “So stop hamming. The worst that might happen would be that you’d have to shoot the horse. Wouldn’t that worry you?”
She looked after him unhappily. She said to Grubbock, “But what else could I say, there? If I told him he’d probably break his own neck or smash his thigh—which could happen very easily on the kind of horse he wants to ride—he wouldn’t have listened. He’s proud of being brave.”
Grubbock shrugged his shoulders. But he admitted to himself that he had been noticing that too in those last weeks.
“He’d be fine,” Sally said, “if he stopped straightening other people out, and attended to himself for a change. But he’s probably gone away thinking the same about me.”
Grubbock had to laugh. Karl would be doing that all right.
* * *
“Well, that was a wasted hour,” Koffing said, as he and Grubbock reached the cabin. “We might have got some work done. Instead we listened to a frustrated woman’s ideas on a world where the possibility of any change terrifies her.”
“If she were frustrated,” Grubbock said quietly, “it’s possible she’d welcome any change. Hell, where’s the whisky? I feel thirsty after all that.” He searched for the rye. The bottle was empty.
Karl said, “Forgotten last night’s party? Carla and Mimi; and Esther Park arriving uninvited?”
“Now that was a wasted hour or two. All Mimi wanted was to talk... Hell, what has Brent got that we haven’t?”
“Thirty, or was it fifty, thousand acres.”
“Look, Karl, they may have helped to start her off on him. But Mimi’s far beyond that stage now. I was sorry for her last night. She’s trying to hide it, she thinks. But she’s serious all right.”
“With that stock character? He’s too busy counting his steers to notice anything else. He’ll probably realise she was here a year from next Christmas.”
“How do you know so much about him?” Grubbock asked evenl
y. His own guess had been that Jim Brent was handling a difficult situation in his own quiet way.
“He doesn’t take much knowing. What makes you so curious?” The two men eyed each other, outwardly still friendly. Karl’s brown eyes were smiling. Earl’s face, with its broad cheekbones and snub features, looked as placid as ever. But there had been a slight edge to these two last questions.
“Just wondered how you get people straight so easily,” Earl said in his easy, lazy way. “Must make novel-writing a cinch for you.”
Koffing said nothing. His eyes weren’t smiling now.
“It’s time we were getting down to some real work,” Earl went on. “When we get back from this trip I’m going to start a routine. Less talk; fewer parties.”
“Better get Norah to leave then,” Karl suggested. “In this last week you drop everything the minute you see her.” His voice was bitter.
“Sure,” Grubbock said ironically. “Let’s blame it on everyone except ourselves. And what’s making you so goddamned bad-tempered today? I saw O’Farlan’s manuscript lying on Sally’s table, too.”
There was a short silence. Then they both smiled. The quarrel which had been edging nearer for days wasn’t going to come off.
“At least, you’ve started writing,” Karl said.
“What’s stopping you?”
“I don’t know,” Karl said worriedly. “I’ve got stuck with my damned characters.”
“Well, if they bore you throw them out. Get yourself some new ones.”
Karl’s annoyance returned. “I’m not bored by them. I’m writing what I am writing, and no woman is going to change my ideas.”
“I haven’t changed mine,” Earl said, equally sharply. “I haven’t changed a damned bit. Except—”
“Except?” Karl asked derisively.
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