The Golden Cup

by Belva Plain

  Still, the judgment was not all wrong.…

  “It won’t happen again, this sort of thing,” he murmured.

  “That’s no business of mine. I have my homework now,” she told him.

  “Yes, go ahead. And thank you, Leah. You’re a good person,” he repeated humbly.

  Then he went to the parlor, took up the evening paper, and tried to calm himself with the news. But the words merely flew past his eyes. Presently he realized how he was sitting: bent over, huddled, with every muscle contracted and even his face contorted. He straightened them and stood to flex his arms and rub the hard knot at the back of his neck.

  Not worth it, he thought. To risk my darling Hennie’s trust and love! I always truly knew it wasn’t worth it. But the glutton knows what he’s doing to himself and so does the drunkard. And they keep on doing it.

  Some of them do learn, though, and stop, and stay stopped.

  Leah’s door opened. He heard her go through the hall into the kitchen and open the icebox. He heard the double clink of the milk bottle and the cookie jar. A child, he’d said of her; yet there was nothing childish in her compassion for Hennie or her furious indignation on Hennie’s behalf. For these, he thought now, I thank you, Leah, from my heart.

  Something happened to him. At once he recognized it, the old familiar surge of resolve. And he brushed a hand across his eyes as if to clarify a vision of himself that had been soiled and dulled. He knew exactly what he must do, what he wanted with all his strength to do, and the knowledge cleansed him.

  From the desk he took a sheet of writing paper and sat down. “Dear Bernice,” he began. Clearly, kindly, and firmly he told her that they had come to the end. He hastened the pen down the sheet, signed his name, and sealed the envelope.

  Done. Finished with her, the last and final. Finished with them all, so help him God.

  11

  June 17th, 1912

  Dear Hennie and Dan,

  We’ve been here in the country for almost a week. I still have a few days’ worth of meetings in London and clients to see, but the Warrens, good old friends that they are, wouldn’t hear of me not giving them some time at Featherstone, which is what they call their place.

  So here we are, Freddy and I, and it is lovely, there being no season quite as lovely, I think, as an English summer, so fresh and moist.

  Freddy and I share a room, since the house is full. There’s a fair assortment of guests, cousins, aunts and uncles, one of them a vicar straight out of Oliver Goldsmith. Five or six very young boys and girls (I lose count since they all seem to look alike) and Mr. Warren’s nephew Gerald, who, by some good chance, is exactly Freddy’s age.

  That will soothe my conscience when I return to finish up in London, leaving Freddy here. They’ve invited him, I suppose, because he’ll be company for the nephew, and, of course, he wants to stay. He’s “seen” London, the Tower, the palace, Harrods, the changing of the guard—the whole wonderful business. They say about Rome that you can see it in three days or three years, and the same is true of London. Freddy’s had two weeks of it, so I’ll let him just enjoy this countryside.

  Anyway, he’s enchanted by everything that’s English, I’m afraid! It has been a case of love at first sight. Last night he sat on the side of his bed, pulling his socks off, and then suddenly, just halting as if he were caught in a dream, sat there holding a sock in midair and said to me, “You won’t believe me, but I could stay here forever.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, he looked so stunned. I told him I was glad he was feeling the atmosphere and that that’s how you should feel when you travel.

  Of course he hasn’t met the other England, the unemployed and homeless sleeping on the benches along the Embankment near Westminster, the same sort of scene you can unfortunately find at home. Such things must be seen with the traveler’s other eye, after he has satisfied himself with the picturesque.

  Speaking of the picturesque, right now there’s a flock of sheep ambling down the road, being guided by three busy dogs. I always like to watch the way these clever dogs can maneuver a hundred sheep. It’s a scene out of past centuries, timeless, peaceful, and somehow comforting.

  Yesterday morning we went riding. Freddy has never been on a horse, as you know, so I was somewhat nervous about taking him along, although they got the gentlest mare in the stables for him. Still, I was nervous. Shouldn’t want to get stuck in Europe with a broken arm or leg, and the rest of the summer still to go! But Freddy was game and took instruction very well. There were no mishaps and we are going again tomorrow. There go Freddy and Gerald to the tennis court. I’m supposed to play doubles with them and one of the other houseguests, a man about sixty years old who plays as vigorously as we young ones. He, like Gerald, is a type that’s almost uniform here: tall, lean, and fit.

  I’ll stop now, they’re waiting for me, and finish this letter tomorrow and get it off to you. I know you are anxious to hear about your boy.

  June 18th, 1912

  … continuing from yesterday: it’s pouring this morning, that English rain you’ve read about, so that the countryside drips green. Everyone is either sleeping late or reading or writing letters in his room. Freddy is writing in his diary, while I write this.

  I really think this trip is wonderful for him. Last night he entertained—no, that’s not the right word, I should rather say “enthralled”—everyone by his playing. He wasn’t a bit shy, as he usually is, about playing to the group after dinner and even made a nice little speech before starting about how he was going to play an American piece by Edward MacDowell, who studied with César Franck, et cetera. Then, by request, he played some Chopin, perfect fare for a summer night in the country. I’ve never heard him play so well. It seems to me that he could be a truly great artist, and I don’t understand what holds him back. People were absolutely still. They have all, older people especially, taken to him, attracted by his modest ways, and, of course, delighted by the way he expresses his feeling for England. Again, I am so glad you agreed to let him come with me.

  On Monday, I go back to London for a few more appointments, after which Freddy will join me there and we’ll be off to Paris.

  All my fondest wishes to you both,

  PAUL

  June 22nd, 1912

  The pages in my travel diary are filling up, which will please Grandmother Angelique. The book looks like her, impressive and expensive, with my name in gold: Frederick Roth.

  Here I am in deep country. The house is Elizabethan; they say Cromwell slept here. The lintel in the bedroom is so low that I bump my head every time I walk in. Sparrows are racketing in the ivy that covers the house. It’s thick and old, must be a hundred years’ growth. I stood at the window a while ago, watching the dew burn off and a horse and wagon creep up the hill. Like a scene out of Constable! It couldn’t have looked different in his time, except for the telegraph poles, which I try not to see. I think I could stay here and never go home.

  Gerald has been taking me all over the countryside, on foot, on horseback and bicycle. He’s the most wonderful companion. I’ve never known anyone like him and feel that I’ve always known him. How can he know so much more, and still be only my age? He’s reading history at Cambridge; what they call “reading” is what we call one’s major. He’s got so many interests, knows flowers and animals, plays cricket and rides. He got his first pony when he was three years old. What’s so appealing is that he’s so quiet and unassuming. That’s probably the best definition of a true gentleman.

  June 26th, 1912

  First time in almost a week that I’ve had time to jot down anything, which I regret because I want to get it all down before I forget things.

  I like the manners and the kindliness here. I surely haven’t seen much of them in New York, at least where I live! The farm laborer tips his hat to the man on horseback and the man returns the compliment. I often see a carriage full of ladies toiling uphill, while the ladies get out and walk to spare the horses. I l
ike that, too.

  We passed a huge estate belonging to Lord Somebody-or-Other. We kept on passing his land; one couldn’t see the house, which, Gerald said, is almost a mile from the gates. It has four hundred rooms. In addition, this lord owns fifty thousand acres in Scotland and a winter place in the south of France. All we could glimpse were some yew hedges around the gatehouse and topiary, clipped like crenelated castle towers.

  We had a small adventure while we stopped to admire the topiary. A heavyset man on an equally heavy horse came riding up the lane, and prepared to turn into the estate. With his long, grizzly beard, bald head, and ruddy face, he looked like a farmer out of Thomas Hardy, but it turned out he was the brother of the owner.

  He greeted Gerald, asked about the family, would have tipped his hat, I’m sure, if he’d been wearing one, and trotted on up the splendid drive toward the house. Maybe it’s childish of me, I know Paul thinks it is, but I was really impressed by the fine simplicity of the man. Noblesse oblige, I guess.

  June 30th, 1912

  I’m staying up late, rethinking the day. I have an impulse to write a poem and have been trying to start a few lines, but nothing happens. Gerald has talent. He’s read me some of his poetry and it’s rather good, goes straight to the heart. He reads poetry aloud very well, too, and read me some beautiful stuff I’d never heard before. I copied one in particular by A. E. Housman that also went straight to the heart. It’s about soldiers, very brave and sad and moving.

  “For the calling bugles hollow,

  High the screaming fife replies,

  Gay the files of scarlet follow:

  Woman bore me. I will rise.”

  July 1st, 1912

  Gerald has a girl. He showed me her picture. She’s not as pretty as Leah. He talks about Daphne a lot. He says she’s the real thing, not like other girls he’s had, but deeply spiritual, a real love.

  I can see how a girl would be in love with Gerald. He’s so clean and manly. Last night I had a dream that left me terribly upset. I was in love with Gerald and he was a girl; then suddenly he was himself again. I’m ashamed to write down what we actually did in the dream. Crazy, all mixed up, the way things are in dreams.

  It’s like the way I sometimes dream about Leah; she’s doing things, offering me—like that night by the pond at Uncle Alfie’s—and in a way I want to, I want to feel, she’s so pretty; yet I don’t feel.

  July 2nd, 1912

  Paul calls me an Anglophile. I can’t tell whether he likes it or not. I think he finds me a trifle foolish. Young, wet behind the ears. So be it. I think the world of him all the same, and can’t thank him enough.

  I wish I could talk more to Paul about these feelings, the way I feel about Leah and Gerald, but I can’t. I don’t know why, we’ve always been so close. Maybe it’s because he never talks intimately to me, never says anything about Mimi, for instance, even though they’ll surely be married. You’d think he’d want to talk about her. But he’s reserved, very private. I suppose I am too.

  July 3rd, 1912

  We saw an owl last night. I’d never heard one, much less seen one. We were sitting out-of-doors on the lawn after dinner when we heard him hoot, and there he was, not twenty feet away, on a low branch, staring at us out of his great yellow eyes.

  Afterward, when it grew chilly, we went inside and they asked me to play again. I played “Eine Kleine Nacht Musik.” This is a group that would cherish Mozart, rather than music with bravura flourishes. Mozart is so pure, so subtle, it is music at its purest. I remember once my father said it very well, that Mozart is simple as truth is simple, and then he said something about science and art meeting and being one. Very beautifully put.

  I know my father is disappointed in me … in more ways than one, I’m afraid. That’s why it has become so hard, almost impossible, for me to play in his presence. I have some very uncomfortable thoughts, certain memories, when he’s there … not always, but sometimes. He hopes—or I suppose by now has given up hope—that I will do what he wasn’t able to do, sit down before a huge audience and let my soul flow out through my fingers. Then take my elegant bows. Absurd! I’m good, but I’m not good enough. And that’s almost worse than being no good at all.

  July 4th, 1912

  Tomorrow is the last day. Then I meet Paul in London and we leave for Paris. I want to go, yet I feel sadness at leaving here.

  Yesterday we traveled to Glastonbury, Gerald and I, with two of his friends from Cambridge. We looked down on the Vale of Avalon, once a sea, they say, where on the Isle of Avalon, King Arthur was taken by boat to die. It gives you chills, thinking of it. The Great Abbey is in ruins, with only the arch of a tower remaining, and grass growing on the base of what were once tall towers. It’s said that Arthur and Guinevere are buried there. We stood listening to the silence. The only sound was the wind on the hill. It was awesome. I felt the ancient dignity and grace.

  It’s almost as if I had an English heritage, these old, old villages seem so familiar, with the peaceful fields around them. It’s worth fighting a war, if need be, to keep it all like this.

  Gerald and I had a long talk all afternoon. We talked about everything: Daphne, Yale, Cambridge, his home and my home. It was hard to describe mine. A good home, surely! But how to describe my parents? He wouldn’t like them because he’d sense they didn’t approve of him, and I know they wouldn’t. Too traditional, they’d say. I can hear them, especially my father, say it. He’d scoff. Too refined, he’d say. He thinks I am, too, I know. Oh, he’d resent everything here, the servants especially.

  I asked Gerald whether he thought I should become a medievalist or a classicist. I’m sure I will specialize in history. Gerald says it’s too soon to tell, that I should give both a chance before I decide.

  This visit has been a great influence on me. I have found a lifelong friend, even though there’ll be an ocean between us. I’ve never had this feeling before, this swift, immediate understanding, as if he were, in some unfathomable way, the other half of myself.

  Paris, July 9th, 1912

  Dearest Mimi,

  We arrived here two days ago and this is the first chance I’ve had to write. Father had a list of appointments that began the moment we got off the boat train.

  The trip is almost at the halfway mark, and fine as it all has been, I am impatient to get home. I hope you can guess why! I started to miss you on the ship coming over. There were so many little incidents, interesting types, and conversations heard and overheard (you know how curious I always am), that I would have liked to tell about, to hear your comments and opinions, or maybe just have you listen to mine, which you do so well. You’re a perfect listener. Yes, I miss you. I suppose that’s really what loving is, if you want to put it at its simplest: just being at ease together, wanting to be together.

  I happened to speak on the telephone this morning to the wife of one of our clients, a Madame Lamartine, whom you may possibly remember. You met her when you were here with your parents a few years ago. Well, she remembers you!

  “And how is ‘la chère petite Marian?’ ” she asked, and called you “a delightful child.”

  So you see what an impression you make wherever you go! You couldn’t have been more than twelve either, as I figure it. She was very pleased when I told her, in absolute confidence, that we were going to be engaged very soon. I hope you don’t mind my spilling the beans.

  Tomorrow I plan to take a little time off to see something of Paris besides offices and banks. I want to visit some of my favorite places, have lunch at Pré Catalan in the Bois, watch the sidewalk artists in the Place du Tertre and roam through the bookstalls on the Left Bank. Someday, I hope, we’ll see all these together.

  Right now it will be fun to show it all to Freddy. He’s so enthusiastic, such a nice kid. But I must say I am really glad to have gotten him out of England. He pines for it, or at least for that tiny part with which he seems to have fallen in love.

  What rot they all talk there! I’m thinki
ng of one night in particular, one wonderful summer night, and the picture those boys made in their white flannels, sprawled out in white wicker chairs, with the white lime blossoms overhead. And what do you think they were talking about, young Gerald and his Cambridge friends, while Freddy took it all in with his mouth hanging open? They were talking about how “the society has gone effete” from too much prosperity, and—believe it or not—too long a peace! It’s time for sacrifice, they said; one needs to sacrifice for noble causes; we need new heroes like King Arthur’s men. Absolute rot! I only listened, trying to figure them out. The crazy thing is, Freddy has been infected. He talks like an heir to British glory, poor boy. I feel not six years older than he, but sixty. I see war looming in Europe and so do all these bright young men; but while I dread it, they actually welcome it! I’m frightened for them, fantasizing about a lost old world of honor and beauty that never existed except in their imaginations. They’re all muddled and don’t see themselves.

  Of course, it’s hard to see oneself. Maybe in some way I’m muddled, too, although naturally I don’t think I am! (I have a suspicion that your father, even though I know he likes me, thinks I’m rather a radical, which I am not.)

  I don’t know why I am writing and rambling so long tonight. The moon is so bright that I could almost do without the lamp. The rue de Rivoli looks silver between the streetlights and the moon. Maybe it’s all this light that’s keeping me awake, but I don’t think so. I’m feeling lonesome, and that’s a fact. Lonesome and nostalgic. My mind goes back to those summers when we used to meet on the beach in front of my grandparents’ house. Do you know, they used to make me be “nice” to you? Yes, when you were ten years old you really were a nuisance! Then I remember how, suddenly one day when I was the age Freddy is now, getting ready for college, and you were fifteen, how I looked at you—and looked again. You were so lovely! I looked for an excuse to come over that night and help you with your math, do you remember? All in one day, you grew up in my eyes. And in my ears.