A Little Tea, a Little Chat

by Christina Stead

  When he got to the hotel, he saw the manager, whom he knew well, offered him a box of Max Schwart’s Primadoras cigars, twenty-five, and asked him to let him into the room of K. Karolyi to find his Charvet scarf. He said he had heard Karolyi was out of town, either at Westport or in Florida, he had a bad cold and needed the scarf, given to him by his fiancée. The manager refused the cigars and said that he could not let him in the room. Mr. Karolyi was absent.

  “You can come with me,” said Grant.

  “No, I cannot do this.”

  “Look, I am his best friend. He owed me one hundred and eighty dollars. He’s away. He may not pay his rent, he’s an artist, I’m willing to stake him to it, and I don’t want to see you robbed, whatever it is—if it’s sixty a month, I’ll put up thirty dollars, he’s not around, you might lose money—I want you to know I’m his friend and absolutely guarantee him—”

  The manager refused to do so, however, and Grant went out of the hotel with angry and noble airs, and after some wandering sat down in one of his favorite cafés near Central Park to think what to do. He telephoned his office, the blonde, and his wife. He made, through his son, an appointment with Sergey for the next day. He conducted several small affairs and when five o’clock came, the hour at which the day manager went off in Karolyi’s hotel, he went back there, and walked up to the first floor, found the chambermaid who had just come on, and told her, who knew him well for his frequent visits, that he must wait for Mr. Karolyi in his room. He gave her two dollars and asked her to unlock the door. The maid replied that Mr. Karolyi had been absent, and seemed perturbed, but Grant replied cheerfully that he knew very well, Karolyi had been upset by the death of a stenographer, a faithful old friend from Poland, up in Westport, he had gone to the funeral, and had sent him, Grant, a postcard to meet him here tonight, the two of them would go out to dinner, but to a quiet place, as Karolyi, a romantic man like all Poles, felt very upset.

  “And this is very important for me, as I am his friend and not only that, regard him as a moneymaker, and what he is doing for me is a play, you understand, and I need a pretty girl as chambermaid in the play, someone who knows the job, and I will recommend you.”

  The woman laughed just the same at this flattery, took another dollar, and said she did not know when he would be back, but Mr. Grant could wait a few minutes, she was certain.

  “I’ll leave the door ajar,” said Grant.

  “Oh, he would not mind your being there,” said she.

  A few minutes later he emerged with a satchel, closed the door, and went down the staircase, as he had mounted it. The satchel he had found in Karolyi’s room. He recognized it as a portfolio K. had received accidentally, by airmail, with a pile of MSS. from Hollywood, “therefore to whom does it belong?” and he wore round his neck his own silk scarf, from Charvet, given to him by the blondine. Inside the portfolio was the play, The Subway Princess, in Karolyi’s handwriting and only partly typed, without a title page, simply with acts, scenes, and at the end, the words he was looking for, “The End,” since he had requested this repeatedly of Karolyi.

  Downstairs he met no one. He went to Hugo March’s apartment. There he studied the play for some time by glancing at its pages and writing, not very clear. To his mind, it was very poor. He did not see any of the speeches he expected actors to make. In rage and disappointment, he telephoned the Flacks, asked them to dinner, and said he must show them the play, The Rainbow Girl. In his own script he wrote in this title on the manuscript.

  He was unable to wait for the Flacks, however, who were engaged, until the next day; therefore he telephoned the Goodwins and Dorothea, and asked them to meet him that evening in the apartment. Gilbert would read the play and they would improve it, make it a real play. He had been cheated, he said, by that fellow, and would pay him nothing for these couple of words.

  “There’s no color in it, no one will know what the hell it’s about. I don’t myself and I gave him the idea!”

  On the title-page he wrote,

  BY ROBERT GRANT AND KAREL KAROLYI,

  based upon an idea of Robert Grant.

  He was pleased by this and showed it to Gilbert as soon as he came in for dinner. Gilbert, however, refused to do the reading, said the script was all right as far as he could see, he had experience of such things, said he would not touch the thing, and recommended his father to send it to a play-doctor. This evening, besides, he had an appointment with Celia Grimm, and his cheerful, rosy face showed his feelings. The father heard his son telephoning Miss Grimm. Gilbert was begging her to put off a trip through the South that she was obliged to make. She was an organizer for a league of northern radicals for the education and liberation of the Negro women still in a state of peonage in the lost South.

  Grant came out of the bathroom as soon as the conversation finished and asked his son about this, saying he was sorry to see Gilbert get involved with such a woman, who was no good, and “going native.” Gilbert tried to show his father that the whole interest in the Negroes and in Negro women was only a worthy modern continuation of the northern anti-slavery attitude during the Civil War, and that Celia represented those noble women from Massachusetts and other New England states who went down South in those troubled times to educate the Negro. He indicated to his father the itinerary that Celia would follow next week, when she left to address meetings, and told him of the dangers that awaited her. Had his father, going down to Florida, never seen the strange-looking fellows, like trusties, strung along wayside stations where northern trains stopped, looking for Negroes from the North with too swagger an air, for labor organizers and such? Gilbert told his father of some horrifying incidents, and of organizers maltreated, hunted, killed. “You simply don’t understand, Dad. You belong to the old world where every woman was supposed to be a kitchen and bedroom type. You’re decades, even centuries behind the mind of a woman like Celia.”

  Grant argued rationally with his boy, remained serious and kind, but asked for a further description of Celia’s interesting itinerary and of what might happen to her. He tut-tutted and wagged his head and looked grave, saying, “I underestimated her, had no idea; maybe you’re right, I must have a talk with her, give her some money for the League,” and asked him to tell Celia to telegraph him at any time, from the South, if she needed help.

  Gilbert felt he had misjudged his father, and hurried off joyfully to meet his lady. Grant at once telephoned Flack, pressing him to come and read The Dream Girl—he must, he must; and Flack would get his large cut, together they would edit and improve it. Flack, who never resisted his old friend long, agreed to put off his other appointment. He was to have gone with Edda to a meeting in Madison Square Garden to show sympathy for the anti-fascists suffering in the south of France, in internment camps. Flack said, on the telephone, “At any rate, Edda will go by herself; she has become very interested in this lately, and I am glad. She says, in a time like this, everyone must forget personal horrors and do something for the world.”

  Meanwhile, Betty Goodwin called him to say that she was bringing a friend of hers, a well-known actress, to the reading. This actress was looking for a part: she was a woman once famous, now long past her prime, and even past her scandals, but she felt she could make a comeback with a good vehicle. Grant, that evening, ate and drank prodigiously without noticing what he was doing—for in general he ate and drank lightly in company, as he had been taught by Laura.

  When his friends were assembled, sitting on the valises, on the couch, on a few chairs, he handed out some brandy in a very genial mood. The actress, whom he insisted upon calling “Mrs. Penguin,” although that was not her name, blew in very late, in a gust of fur, frock, and perfume. Her figure was that of a fine woman of her epoch, that of Lillian Russell. Her dressing and coiffure were up to date. She was a powerful, corpulent, vain animal, a sort of Grant in skirts. They sniffed at each other, and liked each other at the first glance. The gross man went up to the gross woman, put his arm partly round he
r waist, and kissed her on the shoulder, “A Polish woman taught me to do that; I was going with her to reconstruct Poland after the war, arrange to supervise spinning and clothes, but she died. You remind me of her.”

  The fat woman gave a great laugh and plumped down in the desk chair, looking around with satisfaction on everyone, but making a fuss, in a moment, about the appearance of the room, the valises. He began again his flattering; and she said firmly, “No more monkey business; let’s get on with the reading—I have only an hour. I have to see my manager at the White Bar at eleven.”

  “My dear lady, wait till you hear My Dream Girl, three acts, five scenes. How do you like The Dream Girl, eh?”

  “Don’t like it.”

  “My dear lady, it’s a selling title. It’ll sweep them into the Atlantic. That’s what every man wants, his dream girl, that appeals to every man’s heart and even his pocketbook, for his dream girl he’d pay out a forchun, just to get the right woman.”

  “You may be a character, but you’re a bad actor. I’ve got no time for this comedy. Let’s get on with it. Do you read?”

  Flack began to read, clearly, very fast, with high-school emphasis. When he reached the fourth interchange, which was,

  BERTIE (to the maid): Let any woman in who is less than five feet four. I advertised for a dream girl. With an innocent air, sweet ways, loyalty. And a waist that can go through a wedding ring!

  Grant, who had been shifting his great haunches in his seat, yelled, “It’s a smash-hit, believe me: we’ll sweep them into the Atlantic. A five-star hit; our name in lights on Broadway. Winchell will give us a write-up for this, we’ll invite him to a cocktail party. Eh?”

  Flack, after waiting a moment, continued with the reading. A few minutes later, Grant called out, “Eh? What do you think? It’s a knockout. It’ll knock out their eyes, it’ll knock out their front teeth. Put in your reservations two months in advance. No standing room. Eh? Eh? Eh? A knockout. See our names in Winchell. What do you think of it?”

  “Shut up, shut your g.d. trap,” said the actress, good-naturedly.

  “Why don’t you listen for a bit?” said Flack.

  “Listen, I been sold before this,” said the actress.

  “All right, go on, go on,” said Grant, with good humor.

  “Listen, bully-boy, don’t let’s have any more of those sweet words out of your big puss. Honeybear, remember I’ve got a black mark against you. Remember the drawers you have to change for me,” said Goodwin with obscene, loutish yells.

  Flack began,

  LULA: It’s a town on the Fall Line. I’m looking for the right man and when I find him, I’ll settle down and forget my ambitions and make breakfast for him.

  Grant involuntarily called out, “Heh? Believe me, put in your reservations two months ahead. Eh? A woman’s feelings. You get the men and get the women. He has a dream girl. She has a dream boy. Eh?”

  Flack laughed, “Say, didn’t you put that in yourself?”

  Grant muttered, “No conversation; Karolyi didn’t do anything. No script, when I got it.” He turned to the actress and said, with a big grin, “Eh? What do you think of it? Is my psychology right? It’ll knock them for a loop. What’s your opinion? You’re a beautiful woman, give me your opinion.”

  The actress, “Can it, O’Toole!”

  Flack burst out laughing, but continued.

  BERTIE: I’ve never been to New Jersey, but I’d love to travel—with you. I’m looking for the right woman and if you are the right woman, then we’ll go when the war is over and reconstruct—

  Flack stopped, burst out laughing again, and said, “When the war’s over we’ll go and reconstruct New Jersey. That’s a radical line for you, Grant. And a radical comes in and says, ‘But why?’ The Hague machine draws the line at murder. No murder. They’re practically leftists. Then you have a political intrigue with Bertie trying to reconstruct New Jersey and the radicals opposing him because they’re supporting the Hague machine. Then, Deus ex machina—”

  Grant frowned, “Don’t put me off. Go on reading.”

  The actress said, “How the hell did New Jersey get into this?”

  “Grant’s been writing in his own view of the dialogue,” said Flack, sighed, and was about to go on reading, when Grant said, “No dialogue; there was nothing there but a couple of words. A couple of words in every scene. The fellow did not give me value. I paid for it and no value. But the idea is mine. Wait till you hear Act Two, Scene Three. It’ll wow them. Sold out, no seats for two months. Eight years’ run. Beat that Tobacco Road, have Cotton Road. Wait and see. Leave it to me. I guarantee you. I bring luck. A smash-hit.”

  “God, he’s terrible and it’s terrible, but let me hear a bit more of this crap,” said the actress.

  “Don’t you like it?” Grant repeated several times.

  “Have I got a waist like a wedding ring?” asked the actress.

  “No—no.”

  “Then where do I come into this picture? Do you mean to say the famous Karolyi wrote this, or how much did you write in with your little hatchet? Go on, go on.”

  “What’s the use?” said Flack.

  Grant roared at him, “It’s got heart-appeal, it appeals to men and women alike. A man is looking for a woman and he can’t find her, he advertises for a fine young woman, healthy, good-looking, intelligent, and she answers. And he has a chance to pick them, but when he sees her he knows she’s the right one. Every man would like to do that. Why does she answer? She’s looking for the right man! But she’s ambitious—”

  “I give up, the man would drive me mad, I give up, I can’t stand it, go away, take him away, he’ll drive me out of my mind,” said the actress. She got up.

  Goodwin at once got up and said loudly, “Sit down, Madame! I respect your talents. Don’t pay any attention to the bully-boy. We’re used to him. If he has no brains, if his puss opens too wide, he’s got money and he can be an angel to you. Listen, Grant, I don’t like you and I’m waiting for you to make good on the pants. I told him, ‘Go and get me a set of drawers, the sort I like, roomy in the back.’ He said he’d get them for me. He gets me a size too large, large enough nearly for his own ——, and I say, ‘Take them back. Listen, bully-boy, you know I’m sick, I can’t do for myself. You do that for me or I’ll upset your apple-cart. I brought these drawers along in a parcel. You take them and see you change them and leave them for me tomorrow morning at the Pickwick. I don’t pay your rent unless you change the drawers.’”

  He went into the details again. The actress planted her hands on her knees, which panted apart, and with a sweating face looked with jovial anger at the company.

  Grant murmured, “I never did, I never did, did you a favor, you told me the wrong size—” At this point he was interrupted by Goodwin, who cried, “You big steer, I gave you all the instructions. I told you to get ’em for me. I can’t do anything for myself. I’m sick. I got a bad heart, bad blood vessels. I told you, ‘Get them for me,’ and, by God, you’ll get them. If you don’t change them, I’ll leave them, I’ll strew them on your hotel steps when I go out. Unless I have your written promise, I know you, you welsher. Now, don’t interrupt any more, I got enough on you. I know you now, you slipped on a pair of drawers. I’m not afraid of you. I got more money than you. You thought you’d get my wife. You sang her your song and dance. You thought you’d wear her drawers. Now you got to buy my drawers. Once you thought I was peanuts, now I got more than you. I got ten safe-deposit vaults. So never mind about defaulting, and a little advice, I know your story and never mind going with my wife and talking it out of her, I’m on to you and if I don’t get those drawers changed by the morning, I’ll write to the District Attorney. I know you, my sweet one. You’re my dream boy. Listen to the dream boy. If you don’t get me new pants that fit round the waist, by ten o’clock tomorrow morning, dream boy, I’ll send you to the District Attorney by special messenger. Now shut up and listen while your sucker over there reads this—” />
  Flack laughed. The actress and the others put in words, trying to calm Goodwin, pretending to laugh, but unnerved. But Goodwin overrode them with a loud voice and imperious air, shouting, “Do you expect to get anything out of this fourflusher? You got to fight for it, like I got to. If he doesn’t change those g.d. drawers by ten o’clock tomorrow, it’s an ultimatum, I go to the District Attorney and tell a sweet story of a honeybear. Then it’s curtains for him, no Act Two.”

  Grant laughed very low and murmured, with a modest blush, “What’s the matter, Alf? I’ll do it, what’s the matter with you?”

  Goodwin said, weightily, “And do it, you’d better. Because if you don’t do it, first I throw those pants all over the steps in your fancy little respectable hideaway, and second, I go to the District Attorney, and third, I go and see the—”

  “I’ll do it, I’ll do it,” said Grant. He smiled at the others there and shook his head. He sat with his shoulders bowed and his face lifted. He flushed like a rose. Meanwhile, Goodwin had drawn out a photograph, postcard size, and was showing it to the actress, saying, “That’s my son, and I’m getting another son in two months, I always hit the bull’s-eye. I’m not a fourflusher like Grant; if I set out to get drawers, I’d get drawers, and remember, I have a serious condition, I can’t do anything for myself, but get sons one after the other, year after year I can do. And I married the daughter of a millionaire, ten million dollars. Not bad, eh? But that fourflusher, that welsher, that poor jerk can’t get me two pairs of drawers the right size. I’ll strew them on your steps tomorrow, you big honeybear, if you don’t change them. Why don’t you go out now, you dream boy, and hunt them up? I don’t want yours—”

  He went off into a mad fantasy about Grant’s clothing.

  At last Flack said, “Well, when do we get back to the reading, or don’t we? What we’ve had here, I admit, is more of a play than The Dream Girl.”