Herma

by MacDonald Harris

“You sound as though you have a certain affection for him.”

  “I just ply my trade. Once I was an actress, and now I do this. It’s not much of an existence. Do you suffer from myopia,” she asked him, “or is there something wrong with the front of my dress? Perhaps I’m coming unbuttoned?”

  “No, worse luck,” Fred managed to mutter.

  Up to now she had been chattering away without, apparently, paying him very much attention. Now she seemed to study him for the first time. A little smile gradually formed, quite contrived—the smile of an actress.

  “I imagine you’ve already been taken on the obligatory tour of Mr. Larkin’s possessions?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Still, I imagine there are one or two you haven’t seen. And I’m sure they would interest you.”

  From the bodice of the white gown she produced an object and held it up in her hand.

  “What’s that?”

  “The key to the Cottage. However,” she cautioned with a mock grave expression, “that is only for Presidents and very important persons.”

  They stood up, and she led the way out the door into the dark. It was only a short distance around the pond and across a stretch of lawn to the pretty bijou-like house with its elaborately carved ornaments. The moon had set now and it was very dark. The white-painted Cottage gleamed as though it were phosphorescent, or in some way exuded light of itself.

  Ernestine opened the door in the dark, then lighted a single oil lamp with a rose-colored shade. Perhaps it was all part of the stagecraft; at least the lamplight did wonders for her complexion. Then she turned without a word and folded him in her arms. He felt himself sinking like a shipwrecked mariner into the world’s most magnificent bosom. Hardly knowing how it had happened, he was surrounded by silk, softness, and warmth. He was no longer conscious of standing on his feet. Perhaps he wasn’t standing anymore.

  He began negotiating in a muffled tone. “There may be a misunderstanding here. This is all very pleasant, but really the only reason I am visiting Mr. Larkin is to serve as Mademoiselle Herma’s manager.”

  “And so?”

  “You see, Mademoiselle Herma wants to sing in an opera company, and an opera company is precisely what Mr. Larkin has.”

  “Then everything is fine.”

  Fred had two difficulties. The first was that he was being held so tightly that he couldn’t breathe, and the second was that Ernestine’s mouth pressed constantly onto his own in a way that made conversation difficult, “The trouble is,” he managed to get out, “that Mr. Larkin can’t seem to keep his mind on business. His attention strays,” he explained, “onto other things.”

  “Leave it to me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I guarantee it.”

  Fred, breaking out of the encompassing white silk, came to the surface and drank of a heady air containing perfume. They fell together onto a large sofa of baby-blue velours, decorated with ostrich plumes and bird-of-paradise feathers.

  The white gown soared into the air like an egret. Fred too divested himself, if not so dramatically yet still with an equal skill. After that the drama proceeded rapidly from exposition through climax to denouement. In spite of his youth, Fred already knew a good deal about the art of pleasing women. He was diligent, he had sensitivity, and he appreciated the feminine point of view. “Bravo, Fred!” cried Ernestine.

  II. SAN FRANCISCO

  1.

  Herma woke up only very slowly. She chose deliberately in her sleep to do so, in order to savor every detail of the delicious sensations she knew she would find surrounding her as she awoke. First of all, there was motion. She lay in a medium-sized bed with yellow satin sheets, but the whole room and everything in it was dashing across the landscape at a dizzying pace, smoothly, with only a faint hum and a sound of rushing from the air going by outside. Now and then there would be a series of rapid little clicks, as though from a friendly insect, then silence again except for the hum and the faint rush of air.

  She opened her eyes. The ceiling overhead was of hammered gold and silver, embossed with a design of morning glories. The room was paneled in satinwood, inlaid with ebony, gold, and amaranth. Directly before her eyes, facing the foot of the bed, was a mirror with beveled edges, only faintly gray in places where the silvering had begun to tarnish a little. On one side was the door to the corridor; on the other a window with a curtain drawn over it. The curtain was the same canary yellow as the bed sheets, embroidered in a fine gold thread. On the wall next to the window was an oval portrait of Madame Modjeska, and opposite it on the other wall was a kind of medallion with an intricate letter M and morning glories twining around it.

  Pushing down the canary-colored sheet, she put her legs out onto the floor and stood up. On the carpet by the bedside with a leopard skin. The head was still attached to it and it looked a little like Mr. Paderewski. On the whole it was a friendly-looking leopard. Standing on the luxurious, slightly scratchy pelt, Herma looked into the mirror at the other end of the room.

  She saw a girl in a long white nightgown that came to her ankles. The light cambric was translucent enough so that a pair of small, slightly protruding dots were visible on her chest, and the faintest hint of a little triangular shadow between her legs. There was a strawberry-colored ribbon worked into the neck of the gown, and the ends of the sleeves which came a little below her elbows. With the curtain drawn over the window, the bedroom was illuminated in a dim golden light reflected from the sheets and the canary-colored carpet. The face in the mirror, with its short hair and its frank and open, slightly amused glance, was tinged with this same gold. With the light from below the eyes were shadowed and slightly mysterious; they seemed older than the rest of her. The shoulders and the rest of the body were narrow; the gown fell straight to the ankles without touching the flat boyish hips. Herma smiled. She thought: if I were a man I would fall in love with this girl. Then she thought: no, if I were a man, I would be a beast like the rest of them, and I would only desire her. She smiled again.

  She pulled the nightgown off and flung it onto the bed. Then she went into the bath, through a tiny door so narrow that you almost had to turn sideways to pass through it. The tub was carved from a single piece of Carrara marble. The washbowl and other fixtures were of this same rich and mottled, slightly iridescent stone. Herma sat down and tinkled—as Mama always called it when she was a child—into the Carrara toilet. Then she splashed water onto her face and hands and dried them on a pale gold Turkish towel with an HM monogram in the center. The elegant cut-glass vial by the marble basin, held in a silver ring so it wouldn’t fall when the train swayed, probably contained cologne. Women who were no better than they ought to be used it, she knew, to arouse the lower instincts in the opposite sex. She applied a little, here and there. Then, totally naked and smelling like a magnolia, she went back into the bedroom to dress.

  She chose a modest blouse, a long tubular skirt, and a strawberry- colored scarf tied loosely at the side with the points resting on her shoulder. Although the car rushed along smoothly with only a pleasant clicking from underneath, it did sway a little. Standing up after putting on her shoes, she almost fell and reached out to steady herself. Next to her hand was a brass plate with two white buttons, one marked “Butler” and the other “Galley.” She pushed the first.

  In only a few seconds there was a discreet tap.

  “Come in,” she said as though it were a game.

  The door opened, revealing a portly middle-aged man with a bald head and gray sideburns. He was elegantly clad in a morning coat with a striped waistcoat showing under it. He said not a word.

  “I would like some breakfast.”

  He inclined his head very slightly and gestured with his hand to show the way. Herma followed him down the corridor. In the parlor the place was already set at the small mahogany table. Everything was monogrammed: the linen cloth, the china plate and cup, and the silver service. In the center of the plate was a fin
e linen napkin in a silver ring chased in gold.

  The butler spoke for the first time. His accent was English, authentic as far as Herma could tell.

  “What would you like for breakfast, Miss?”

  Herma felt she was being tested. “What would you recommend?”

  “I would recommend smoked salmon with scrambled eggs, black coffee, and toast with quince preserves.” As Herma considered, he added, “This is what Madame always takes.”

  Herma inclined her head, in the same discreet way. She could hardly keep from smiling. They were both behaving perfectly. She, Herma, had played her part at least as well as he had. He disappeared, leaving Herma to regard various replicas of herself in the mirrors which seemed to fill every part of Madame’s private car which, Herma now remembered, was called Arden like her ranch. There was also a hand-carved piano to match the rest of the ornate woodwork, and a couch with satin pillows. Here in the parlor the curtains were opened and the sunlight flooded in. There were four windows, with ornamental etchings in the glass depicting the four seasons. Through these decorations the outside world penetrated only with a certain amount of distortion. Herma made out a grassy pasture rushing by, and some hills in the distance. But why concern one’s self with the world outside, when what was inside regaled the senses so exquisitely? The ceiling overhead was the same hammered gold and silver as the one in the bedroom. Its design portrayed four nymphs, trailing scarves, being pursued in a circle by four shepherds similarly clad. A gold chandelier hung from overhead on a chain, and in some mysterious way was made not to swing as the train swayed its way around curves. At the end of the room, by the door to the galley, was another portrait of Madame Modjeska by Sargent, this one life-size and depicting her in her well-known role of Rosalind. Surrounded by the monograms and portraits, catching herself reflected in the dozen mirrors, Herma felt that there was perhaps a tiny trace of egotism in Madame. Still, she was very kind. It was probably simply a trait of actresses. Herma was uncertain whether she ought to guard closely against the appearance of this trait in herself, or encourage it in order to become like the others. She inclined toward the second idea. Very gravely, watching the images in the mirrors, she imitated the expression in the portrait: arch, slightly arrogant, the chin lifted a little.

  In the middle of this pantomime, in place of the butler there appeared the cook himself with the breakfast. He was a pleasant black man, clad all in white, including a starched and immaculate chef’s toque which for some reason he removed and set on a side table before he served the breakfast. The eggs and salmon were so hot they were still steaming, and so was the coffee.

  Herma felt it was necessary to declare her independence a little from Madame, and from the butler, as polite as he was, by varying the breakfast slightly.

  “I don’t really care for black coffee. I’d like some cream.”

  “All right, Miss.”

  “And instead of quince preserves, some strawberry.”

  “Very good, Miss.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My name Morton, Miss.”

  “Is that your first name or your last name?”

  “That both my first name and my last name.”

  “And what’s the butler’s name?”

  “The butler’s name is Mr. James. That his first name.”

  “You may call me Miss Herma.”

  “Very good, Miss. That your first name, Miss?”

  “That’s both my first name and my last name.”

  They both smiled at this. The cook grinned. Pouring the coffee, he inspected her sideways. “Madame,” he said, “she sure can pick the lookers. All the young girls she let ride in this car, they could win prizes. The gentlemen,” he said, “they not lookers quite so much. They incline to be older. They important gentlemen of various kinds. Some of them Polish gentlemen. The young girls, they in a different category.”

  “Does Madame let very many young girls ride in this car?”

  “You the first.”

  They both laughed. Then there was a silence. Herma said, “So you think I could win a prize?”

  “I was the judge, you could. Eat your eggs now fore they get cold.”

  “Do you have a lady friend, Morton?”

  “I have two. One in Oakland, and one in Los Angeles.”

  It was one of the oddest conversations that Herma could remember having. On the one hand he retained the respectful and considerate manner called for by his condition, on the other hand he seemed to fall effortlessly into this intimacy as though they were old friends. After a moment, refilling her coffee cup, he inquired, “Do you have a gentleman friend, Miss Herma?”

  “No. Or rather, yes,” said Herma, a little confused. “That is, he isn’t exactly a friend …”

  “I understand perfectly,” said Morton, although this could hardly be so. When Herma didn’t quite understand it herself! But Morton, pressing a little way into her personal life and encountering this fluster, showed no sign of wanting to push further. He was the soul of discretion, in spite of his questions which would have been quite indiscreet in anyone else. “Reason I have a lady friend at both ends,” he said, going back to his own life, “is that way I keep two persons happy. That very generous of me. Don’t you agree, Miss Herma?”

  “I would think,” she told him, “that a person would be very fortunate to be your lady friend, Morton.”

  He had no comment to make on this. Perhaps she had been untactful. “We now passing through San Jose,” he said. “You better hurry and finish up your breakfast, so you have time to spruce up a little fore we get to Oakland.”

  This remark, including its mild admonishment, he delivered with extreme politeness too, but in another manner. It was a fatherly manner; that was the only way she could think of it. He was advising her. He knew that young ladies are often dilatory, and she ought to be looking her best when she stepped off the train. She dug into her scrambled eggs and salmon, which were still warm, and finished them rapidly. Then she sighed with content. She looked around. Morton was still waiting to see if she wished anything else.

  “How much more time do I have?”

  “Half an hour. ’Cluding your sprucing up.”

  “Send Mr. James to me.”

  “Very good, Miss Herma.”

  Mr. James appeared and inclined his bald head as before, in his slightly superior way.

  “I would like a glass of wine and a cigar. A Fine Hortelano,” she added.

  “Wine, Miss?”

  “Champagne.”

  “Very good, Miss. And a Fine Hortelano.”

  He withdrew, returning in only a moment with a silver tray on which was a single goblet sparkling with pale amber fluid, the cigar, and a folded napkin. He showed no surprise. Perhaps he was used to such eccentricities. She had the impression that he would have behaved the same if she had ordered, perhaps, a leopard on a leash and a pipe of opium. He set the glass on the table, lit the Hortelano for her, and withdrew again with a bow.

  The wine before Herma trembled faintly with the motion of the train. She drank only a little of it. It was not important that she should drink it. It was important only that she should sit this way, with the landscape unrolling behind the etched windows and draw at the cigar while the wine before her vibrated in its fragile tulip of crystal. It was not even necessary for anyone to see her. She saw herself, a little girl standing on the platform of the station in Santa Ana, gazing in dumb and hopeless admiration as this same railroad car had passed and disappeared down the track, scattering autumn leaves in its wake. As a matter of fact no one was paying any attention to her. It was rather early in the morning and the train was passing through San Leandro, a rather dull suburb of Oakland. Herma finished the cigar, stubbed it out in the saucer, and went off to her tiny bedroom to spruce up, as Morton put it.

  2.

  Exactly on time, the train drew in to the dim barnlike terminal out on the Oakland flats and stopped with a gassy wheeze of its brakes. Herma stepp
ed down onto the platform in her neat skirt and blouse, with a light cape around her shoulders. After her came Mr. James carrying the portmanteau and the horsehide suitcase.

  But Herma now saw a disadvantage to traveling in a private car. Since Arden had its own observation platform at the rear, it was necessarily at the end of the train. The ferry waiting in its slip was far off at the other end of the platform, beyond the engine. Mr. James kindly carried the two bags down to the head of the train, although this made him perspire in his morning coat and waistcoat. There he set them down, looking uncertainly at the ferry which was rocking in its slip and already half full of people. He seemed to have lost a good deal of his aplomb and calm command of the world once he left his own domain of the private car. In the sooty light of the train shed his morning coat was a little ludicrous; most of the other men were in work clothes, or in shiny serge suits and derbies.

  “I’m sorry to say, Miss, that the train will be leaving in only a few minutes, to go off to the car barn where we’ll be uncoupled. So …”

  “I can do quite nicely from now on,” Herma told him.

  “Are you sure, Miss?”

  She was quite sure. He left her, with a final little bow, and hurried back down the train. But after he was gone she was not so sure. She stepped between the two suitcases and tried them. She could lift them, but it was a kind of athletic feat. The muscles in her slim arms bulged like walnuts, and her knees showed signs of bending. She doubted whether she could take a step. She began to realize that in order to do so one had to remove the weight from one foot or the other, and this resulted in all the weight being transferred to the other leg, the knee of which crumpled.

  “Help you with your grips, Miss?”

  It was a young man, a rather nice-looking one, she observed with a second look, wearing the local costume which seemed to consist of a blue serge suit, a white shirt with a celluloid collar, a gold watch chain, and a derby. He had a bony face with a milky moonlike complexion. When he spoke he bent slightly forward, as though to bring himself an inch or two closer to her, all the while regarding her fixedly. His whole person was osseous and sinewy. There was something lightly sinister about him, in fact, although Herma could not quite lay her finger on what this was. In every outward way he was a pleasant enough person, and quite polite.