The Golden Cup

by Belva Plain

  I broke off last night and am finishing this letter now; then I’ll write no more.

  I have to tell you that Joachim truly shocked me last night. We were sitting on the balcony with a group of German men. Freddy had gone inside to read, because they were all speaking German and he was left out, so I was a minority of one. It seems these men all belong to the Pan-Germany League, whose slogan is: The world belongs to Germany. They had reams to say about German culture and German blood and German everything else. Every empire has its day. England is going downhill, as did Rome, and now Germany is rising. That’s how they were talking. I didn’t say a word until they had gone in, and then I remarked to Joachim that they were absurd, that the Kaiser was an idiot with his talk of “my army” and “I am the government.”

  I told him that the Kaiser was a dangerous man. He really stiffened up. He almost rose on his heels to tell me that “we” don’t talk like that about “our” Kaiser; he’s the head of state and knows what he’s doing. I saw that he was really angry, so I apologized and said I probably should mind my own business, that I understood how he felt (but I don’t) and hadn’t wanted to offend, et cetera. I wanted to ask him how welcome he thought he was in Prussian circles, and I remembered my Herr von Mädler—“Of course, I don’t mean you, Herr Werner!”—but decided it wouldn’t be any use. So we parted for the night with a friendly slap on the back.

  Yes, it’s a beautiful country, but I’ll tell you, I don’t like it. The German myth has corrupted Germans, even decent people like Joachim. All their endless philosophizing just covers up the truth, that they want England’s colonies and control of the seas. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. And they will pull the whole world down, themselves included, unless something stops them.

  So, farewell to Germany and Cousin Joachim. I’m glad we met and will keep contact, with no hard feelings, so that our family story may continue for more generations.

  The train leaves early tomorrow and on Friday we pick up the Lusitania. See you soon in New York. Love,

  PAUL

  PART TWO

  Paul and Anna

  1

  It was good to be back. There was something astringent, clean, and wholesome in the American atmosphere, in contrast to old, scheming, cynical, luxurious, and sensual Europe. America was more simple and sensible. His judgment might be naive, but if it was, he couldn’t help it. At any rate, he was glad to be home, and to be welcomed back by a dear American girl, with her straightforward ways, so different from the arch and subtle charm of the European women.

  Mr. Mayer was in his library reading the Times when Paul knocked on the door.

  “I wonder whether I could have a few minutes, sir? There’s something I’d like to ask you.”

  He had rehearsed this scene, hoping it wouldn’t be awkward, and wondering whether he would be stiff and embarrassed. He was none of these.

  Mr. Mayer laid the paper on his knees. “I believe I know what it is, Paul. I’ll be very pleased if it’s what I think it is.”

  Paul felt the smile spread over his face. “About Marian—Mimi—and myself. We’ve been—”

  “In love,” said Mr. Mayer. “And the answer is yes, of course, yes, and God bless you both.” The man’s eyes were moist. “Only one thing, Paul. I’d like to wait till Marian’s birthday in the spring to announce the engagement. We’ve a tradition in our family. We like our women to be twenty-one before we make things official. Then after that, you can have the wedding as soon as you like. Does that suit you?”

  “It will have to, sir,” said Paul, who thought it an unreasonable tradition. “After all, it’s only a few months away.”

  “Well, now, let’s go find the ladies and open a bottle of champagne.”

  Mrs. Mayer kissed him and Mimi gave him the first public kiss, with her parents smiling their approval. They made him stay to dinner, during which Mr. Mayer discussed investments, sought Paul’s opinion, and gave confidences exactly as if he were already a son of the family.

  After dinner, the parents announced that they were going out, leaving Paul and Mimi in the parlor, for the first time really alone together.

  Mimi laid her head on Paul’s shoulder.

  “I’m so happy, darling. Paul, it’s going to be wonderful. A whole lifetime! I’m glad we’re still so young.”

  He picked up her hand. The fingers were long and weak; soft pity ran through his veins at the sight and feel of them.

  “You must start thinking of a ring, Mimi. Why don’t you look in at Tiffany’s and see what you like? Then I can order it and be sure to have it on time.”

  “I’d like you to go with me.” She spoke shyly. “I don’t know what to look at, how much to spend.”

  “Spend whatever you like! A ring that you’re going to wear for the rest of your life has to be perfect. But you’re right, we’ll go together.”

  He drew her closer, resting his cheek on her hair. Such a fine girl she was! A girl to be cherished.

  The lamplight glowed. The exquisitely convoluted petals of a solitary white rose in a vase on the desk caught his eye; it was the most extraordinary flower he had ever seen. Under the mantel a small fire crackled gently in the quiet room. A peace of absolute well-being contented him.

  One Saturday, Paul came home unexpectedly before noon. A dustcloth lay on his bed, the carpet sweeper was propped against the wall, and the new maid was reading. She had spread open one of his art books on the desk and was engrossed in it, quite unaware that he had come in.

  She had a pretty expression of pleasure, clear even in half profile; her lips were parted as if she were about to exclaim. He had naturally noticed—as what man would not?—that the latest housemaid was remarkably attractive; her profusion of dark red hair would catch anyone’s attention.

  “She’s Jewish, you know,” his mother had said.

  That was unusual. One was accustomed to Catholic peasants, whether Irish or Slavic, but not, for some reason which he had never bothered to examine, to either Jews or Italians. But he had thought no more of her. Maids came and went. Only Mrs. Monaghan, the cook, was a permanent fixture; young ones got married and vanished.

  He stood for a minute now, watching her, until she felt his presence and started.

  “Excuse me! I’m sorry, I—”

  “That’s all right, that’s all right, Anna. What are you looking at?”

  “This.” She faltered.

  “Oh, Monet.”

  A woman in a summer dress sat in a walled and fruited garden. The picture was green and gold; a breeze blew through the fragrant morning air; you felt how cool it was there.

  “That’s a lovely one, isn’t it? You enjoy paintings, Anna?”

  “I have never seen any, except in these books.”

  “Well, this city is filled with museums and galleries. You ought to go. It doesn’t cost anything.”

  “Well, then, I think I will.”

  There was an instant of silence, during which Paul felt clumsy. Then he asked, “So you like my books, Anna?”

  “I look at them every day,” she admitted.

  “You do? They make you happy, then?”

  “Oh, yes! I like to think there are places like that in the world.”

  The simple statement touched him. “I’ll tell you what. You don’t have to come in here and rush through the books. Take some to your room. Take your time over them, and any ones you want.”

  “You wouldn’t mind? Oh, thank you.”

  Her hands were trembling, he saw, when she left with a book in one hand, while the other pushed the carpet sweeper into the hall.

  He mentioned the little encounter to his mother.

  “A very nice person,” she said complacently. “I had my doubts about her working out because she’s had no experience, but she’s intelligent and learns fast. Goodness knows how long she’ll last, though; she has a young man who comes for her on her days off.”

  Paul wondered who the young man might be, what sort of man wo
uld appeal to her. He felt now that he knew something about her, and yet was conscious that this feeling was inappropriate; after all, he had had just five minutes’ worth of conversation with the girl!

  At breakfast, which Paul and his father took in the dining room while his mother had hers on a tray in bed, his father made weak attempts to be friendly with Anna.

  “Well, is it cold enough for you today? They’re expecting an early winter, you’d better get your earmuffs out.” Or, “Well, did you dance your feet off last night, Anna?”

  Paul kept his eyes on his plate. There was something in this jocularity that seemed patronizing, as if, in spite of what his mother had said about her, the girl was not quite intelligent.

  He felt uncomfortable. Surely she felt this too? He found himself wishing he might come across her again, if only to make up for his father’s foolish manner.

  And then, coming home early again one Saturday and finding her in his room with the dustcloth and carpet sweeper, he behaved just as foolishly.

  “And how is your young man, Anna? My mother says you have a very nice young man who comes to see you.”

  “Oh,” she said, “only a friend. It would be too lonesome without some friends.”

  “It surely would. Do you see him often?”

  “Mostly on Sundays. He works most Wednesdays when I’m off.”

  He knew he was asking too many questions, but curiosity drove him.

  “And what do you do on Wednesdays, then?”

  “I’ve been going to the museums since you told me about them. Mostly the art museum on the other side of the park.”

  How very strange! To have lived in the same house for months with a human being who served you at meals and cared for your possessions, and not to know a thing about that human being, to have found out only accidentally— He interrupted his own thought.

  “We never talked until that day last month! Isn’t that strange?”

  She had a little half smile. “Not when you think about it.”

  He understood. “Because it’s my family’s house and you just work in it. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, that’s wrong. People must judge others for themselves, not because of the work they do or the people they know—” He stopped. “I don’t make myself clear,” he said.

  “But I know what you mean.”

  Her eyes were candid. Of course she knew. He felt the heat of embarrassment.

  “I’m hindering your work. Excuse me, Anna.”

  “No, I’m finished with this room. I have to go downstairs now.”

  Odd, he thought again. Very odd, the whole business, and poignant. She wants beauty and has likely seen very little of it.

  He found, coming home now and then on an early half-day, that he was anticipating her being still at work in his room. They began to have brief conversations; so he learned about her parents—dead in Poland—her brothers in Vienna, and her first months in America.

  Then it crossed his mind that perhaps he was waiting for these conversations, looking forward to them. Good Lord, Paul, what can you be thinking of?

  He liked to walk through the park on Sundays, crossing to Mimi’s house on the East Side. On a certain Sunday between winter and spring, Mimi having gone with her family to visit a relative in the hospital, he took his walk alone.

  He walked without aim except to feel the freshness of damp air and the vigor of his stride.

  He was full of thoughts. It was funny how the mind was never idle, even when asleep, according to Freud. Just now, he was thinking about justifying his existence.

  After what he had learned in Europe, nothing seemed more important than to work against war. He wrote well; perhaps he could write pamphlets for the peace movement. Hennie would know.

  His memory of the Civil War tales told by his grandmother had imbued him with a special horror of bloodshed. Sickened by the trophies hanging on the walls of the Adirondack lodge, and the pathetic head of a slaughtered deer slung over the hood of a car, he had never been able to hunt. War was like that, magnified a million times, and the dead, drooping heads were human. So he would go to the peace meetings and give of himself as was needed. He’d give money, too, and give generously. He thought wryly that Dan wouldn’t be able to say he was niggardly.

  He had almost reached Fifth Avenue when he saw a woman walking rapidly some yards ahead of him. Her height, for she was tall, and a glimpse of red hair, were familiar, and he sped to catch up with her to make sure.

  “Well, Anna! And where are you going?”

  “To the museum.”

  “All by yourself on Sunday?”

  “My friend couldn’t come today.”

  “Do you mind if I walk a little way with you, then?”

  “No. Please. I mean, yes, walk.”

  “Well,” he began, “have you been enjoying the art books?”

  “Oh, yes! I’m sorry, I take too long. I will return them tomorrow.”

  Poor little soul! He supposed she felt self-conscious, and felt sorry that she did.

  “I didn’t mean that, Anna! Take as long as you want.” Where the next impulse came from, he never knew. “As long as we’re walking, maybe you would like to go with me to the Armory Show this afternoon?” And he hurried to explain. “It’s a very interesting exhibit of modern paintings, mostly from Europe. You may not like them. But everyone is talking about it and since you like pictures, you should see it.”

  “Well, I—”

  He interrupted. “It’s really worth seeing. At least, I thought so.”

  “You’ve seen it? Then you won’t want to go again.”

  “On the contrary, that’s just why I do want to go again. It’s quite marvelous, exciting and new.”

  Still, the girl hesitated. The blush, which had receded, rose again, flooding her pale skin.

  He understood. “If we should meet anyone we—know, I’ll say we met by accident, which will be the truth. Come. There’s no harm in it, Anna.”

  They turned toward Lexington Avenue.

  “It’s at Twenty-fifth Street, a very long walk. We’ll take the trolley.”

  “Can’t we walk? I don’t mind how far. The air is good. And the sky. So beautiful.”

  He looked up into the watery blue, which was high and cold above shredding clouds; yet it held a subtle promise of spring and a stronger blue to come. Then he looked down at her, not very far down, for she was almost his height, and caught her upward glance.

  “I’m in the house so much. I like to be outside,” she said, and added quickly, “not that I mind, it’s such a fine house, and I am so glad to be in it.”

  The little apology made him speak very softly. “Are you enjoying New York? Seeing much of the city on your walks?”

  “Oh, yes, I go everywhere. From Grant’s Tomb to the Woolworth Building.”

  “You don’t waste any time. They’ve only just finished the Woolworth Building.”

  “The tallest office building in the world!” she cried. Her eyes were amazed.

  This amazement was both amusing and refreshing. She marveled at passing cars, at a florist’s window filled with tulips, and at a huge fawn-colored dog.

  “That’s an Afghan hound,” Paul told her. “Very rare.”

  At the Armory, she exclaimed over the long line of automobiles, then at the vastness of the hall and the splendor of the fashionables who were inspecting the sculptures and the paintings.

  “Look here, Anna. This is a famous American artist, John Sloan. The Realist school. You understand?”

  “That he paints what is real? Of course. Girls Drying Their Hair,” she read. White laundry flapped in the breeze on the roof of a tenement house. It was sunny on the roof. “Oh,” she said, “yes, I know how they feel. Glad to get out of the dark rooms. It’s true. I know all about that.”

  They moved through the hall, on to Van Gogh, Matisse, and Cézanne.

  “The Poorhouse on the Hill,” Anna said. She
spoke so softly that he had to bend to hear her against the background of crowd noise. “The beautiful earth! Round hills. It was flat where I came from in Poland. I should like to see hills someday.”

  Why did she make him feel so moved by her simple wish? He was suddenly curious. “Come over here, I’d like to show you something.”

  A small crowd obstructed the view, so that they had to maneuver for places from which to see.

  “Marcel Duchamp, a Frenchman. It’s called Nude Descending a Staircase,” Paul explained.

  Behind them, people were laughing.

  “Idiotic! Not worth the price of the paint and canvas.”

  “Not even decent. They should be ashamed of themselves for showing such trash.”

  “Tell me, Anna, what do you think?” Paul asked.

  She hesitated, frowning a little, while he stood watching her.

  “Do you hate it or like it, Anna?”

  “I don’t know. It isn’t beautiful exactly, all those lines and squares, but—”

  “But what?”

  “Well, it’s what—what do you say—original? I mean, nobody has ever done anything like this before, I think.”

  “It’s original, all right. And it’s called cubism; what you called ‘squares’ are ‘cubes.’ ”

  “Oh, yes, like little boxes. Over and over. But it moves, doesn’t it? It’s very strange! You look away and then you want to look again, to see her going down the stairs.”

  “I agree with you. The critics here make fun of it because America isn’t ready for it yet. But it will be.”

  A few days ago he had stood in the same spot with Mimi.

  “That,” she had declared, “is the most stupid thing I’ve ever seen in my life. An ugly scrawl. A child could do it. It’s hardly what I call art.”

  It’s only fair to admit, Paul reflected now, that most of the art critics and no less a personage than Theodore Roosevelt shared her opinion.