These were undoubtedly the Rawul, the Rani, and Crishi. Even though the family who owned Propinquity—after all, we hadn’t yet signed it over—were still there, the three of them completely overshadowed us. The Rawul had exchanged his English suit for white leggings worn under a high-collared coat of white silk and jeweled buttons. Stout and handsome, he looked what he was—an Indian prince. The Rani wore a kind of Parisian adaptation of the North Indian costume of long shirt over trousers, in heavy silk with elaborate gold embroidery over her bosom. The two of them did not move around among the guests; it was left to Crishi, lithe as a ballet dancer in velvet pants and silk shirt, to lead them up to the royal couple, who generated, besides their glamour, grace and benevolence.
The Rawul considered the occasion a great success, achieving everything he had aimed for. As he had explained to me one morning, when he and I had again been alone at the breakfast table, what he especially valued in using our house as his headquarters was that it placed him right at the heart of American society, at the very center of those traditions he wished to merge with his own. He was right, in a way. The guests who came to his Fourth of July party were the inheritors of those traditions—the interior decorators who had bought up and refurbished the big houses, and the antique dealers who sold and resold their contents. There were the traditional local people, like the Pickles family, who had lived here for over two hundred years and had once been prosperous tenant farmers. Nowadays they proliferated in a variety of jobs as cashiers at Shopwell and counter hands at Dunkin’ Donuts; and there was Mrs. Pickles, who cleaned some of the big houses, including ours, and had eight children, of whom six had emigrated to jobs in California and Florida, leaving only the younger two, one of whom was deaf and dumb and the other slightly retarded.
Mrs. Pickles herself came, dressed very smartly in a pastel-colored pants suit; other guests included Ernest and Robert, who had bought the van Kuypen estate; and Tom and Stanislav, who ran a mail-order business from the Old Mill; and Henry and Lucy Rabin, whose antique business in their restored historic house could be visited by appointment only; and jolly Mr. McKimberley, who gave out loans at the bank; and the painter Kenneth Lyon and his friend Jerry; the poet Meriel Pitts; the two potters Pete Davidson and Jenny Fine; and many others who milled around the grounds and around the shining figures of our royal family. These three cast their radiance on all alike; and to them everyone probably was alike—not individuals but the populace who were there to be won over to the Rawul’s cause. This was certainly how the Rawul regarded his guests, as he beamed on them. One could be less sure of the Rani and Crishi, for while they too beamed, they were not as open as the Rawul, and it was not possible to guess what they were really thinking.
In their way, Lindsay and Manton were almost as royal as those three—in the sense of as remote. Lindsay never particularized anyone either; she chattered away or was silent, as it suited her. Since she never looked at or thought of anyone except herself, it didn’t matter to her whether she was addressing Mrs. Pickles, Mr. McKimberley, or Meriel Pitts; she spoke to each in the same way—that is, in the girlish tone and idiom she had used with her mother’s guests. And Manton too did not discriminate as to the recipients of his social manner; as on every such occasion, he turned on the tap of his charm and left it running. Michael and I always hated this characteristic in both our parents but realized that it was as natural to them as its opposite was to us. For us, every person we encountered was so individual, made so strong an impact that, far from having too much manner, we had none whatsoever and remained frozen with shyness. I guess that was how we got our reputation of being cold and aloof, arrogant too, and were contrasted unfavorably with our parents, who were, everyone said, so warm and friendly.
I don’t know if everybody would have agreed with the Rawul that the party was a great success. He probably never noticed that many things were going on that had nothing to do with his movement but were just our own self-centered emotions. Although everyone, both from the Rawul’s family and from ours, was expected to turn out and contribute to the success of the day, there were two among us who wanted nothing to do with it—Barbara and Jean. They didn’t even come out of their rooms, except at one point Jean could be seen making her way determinedly through the crowd on the lawn to where Lindsay was in a little group around the Rani. I was alarmed when I saw Jean; and one couldn’t help seeing her, she was conspicuously not dressed up for the party but in her everyday jeans and crumpled shirt; and she was frowning too, and looked miserable. I tried to get to her before she could get to Lindsay. Other guests stopped her on the way—the people from the neighborhood who liked her for a decent, nice person. Even now, though obviously overwrought, she was decent and nice and made the right responses to Mrs. Pickles, who told her about someone permanently paralyzed from having been given the wrong injection in the hospital, to Lucy Rabin, who had been successful at an auction with an eighteenth-century pair of fire tongs, and to Mrs. McKimberley, who invited her to join a tour, with picnic lunch, of a newly restored ex-President’s house. With all these people Jean did her best, in spite of her swollen eyes, to be her usual caring self—until she got to Lindsay, and then she hissed “Come inside,” and gripped her arm.
I saw Lindsay remove her arm—as though it were held not by a person but had got caught accidentally in something. Her attention remained stubbornly fixed on the Rani, who was making conversation to the circle that surrounded her. There was this about the Rani’s conversation always—it didn’t matter what she said; one felt how kind it was of her to say anything when she really didn’t have to, when everyone was quite happy just to be near her, within her aura. But there she stood, with her arms folded over her gold-embroidered bosom, talking about—could it be?—yes, about her hairdresser, who apparently was wise and witty though what she reported sounded quite flat. Nevertheless, the Rani was smiling as she quoted him, and everyone else was laughing, obsequiously, as they eagerly listened to her. When Jean asked her to come inside, Lindsay laughed more deliberately, and that made Jean catch hold of her arm again. At that moment, Manton, who was also in the circle around the Rani, looked over at her and, waggling his fingers in greeting, called “Why hello there, Jean—where have you been? We’ve missed you, darling.” He was smiling across at Lindsay and Jean, as if he knew just exactly what was going on and was both anticipating and hoping for some misbehavior.
Lindsay went with Jean as far as the porch, and there she stopped and turned on her: “You leave me alone. Don’t you dare come near me. Because I hate you. You’d better know that.” She delivered these sentences with the force of body blows, while her icy eyes glared into Jean’s face. Jean glared back at her. They were about the same height and age—this somehow made them appear like two little girls who had got into a fight, and one almost expected them to start kicking each other’s shins, and pinching. And, in fact, their fights did sometimes have this nursery quality. The first time I saw one, I was appalled; later I got used to them and took no notice, especially as I knew they would make up very soon.
To emphasize her contempt for her friend, Lindsay swung away so violently that the impact accompanied her down the porch steps, making her hips swing, as well as her hair, which she kept long, blond, and young. Jean was left standing there, breathing heavily, frustrated in midfight. I think she would have liked to go running after Lindsay and physically stop her, and it wasn’t decorum that prevented her but age: for there is one thing about these sort of fights, these sort of strong emotions—you need to have stamina for them, and Jean obviously didn’t. She sank into a chair on the porch, and when I went up to her, I found her panting and swollen with a rush of blood to her face. She asked me to go up to her room for her pills. I went running through the empty house, through the hall and up the stairs—and as always, when it was deserted like this, empty of all its inhabitants, when it was just itself, it was so beautiful, so still and yet breathing with its own accumulated life, that I loved and wanted to keep
and possess it forever. However, on my way down, I realized it was not entirely empty, for Barbara appeared at the door of her room, looking tousled and upset. She called to me, but I was in a hurry with Jean’s pills.
I sat with Jean after I gave them to her. How could I leave her? When I touched her, it felt like pulses were pounding inside her, and for a moment she held her head as if afraid it might burst. From where we sat we could see the guests on the lower lawn by the lake, and unfortunately we also had a good view of the Rani with her circle of admirers, which Lindsay had rejoined. I tried to get Jean to come inside, but she wouldn’t; she wanted to sit there and continue to watch Lindsay with the Rani. After a while, she said “Why do we do this?” She spoke calmly, and I think she was calmer, anyway physically; probably her pills had begun to work. I said “I don’t know why you do it.” And I didn’t—Jean was a sensible, intelligent woman, she had had a career and business of her own, everyone liked and respected her; whereas Lindsay—I don’t want to say anything about Lindsay because she was what she was and perhaps couldn’t help it. I knew other women like her, both of her generation and of my own—from that class; I mean the one that hadn’t had to work for a living for several generations: utterly, utterly selfish and self-centered and yet with a nervous fervor to improve themselves, literally to become better, which was a sort of saving grace in them and made people like Jean love them.
Jean said “Don’t talk about it. There’s nothing left to say; nothing that I haven’t said to myself a hundred times over.” She was right: They always had the same fights; sometimes Jean packed her bags, but she always unpacked them again, and Lindsay allowed herself to be coaxed into forgiving her.
“You mustn’t agree to give the house, Harriet,” Jean suddenly said. She wouldn’t look at me—perhaps she was shy about having to appeal to me, or perhaps she just wanted to keep her eyes fixed on the Rani’s group. “Lindsay’s irresponsible—I don’t have to tell you how she is—if tomorrow she feels like turning it over to the circus, she’d do that.” Actually, this was not quite accurate: Lindsay did irresponsible, impulsive things, but they had never before involved her in giving something of her own away. So there was a difference.
“She’s infatuated,” Jean said. “That’s all it’s about. You think she cares a hoot about the Fourth World? Or about the Rawul or any of them except his wife, if that’s what she is. You have to be firm, Harriet; you have to hold out; if you don’t agree, there’s not a thing they can do about it, she and Michael.”
“You think Michael’s infatuated too?”
She hesitated, unwilling perhaps to hurt me by talking about anything I might not be aware of. So I went on speaking calmly, to inform her I was aware: “I know how he feels about Crishi, but I’m sure it’s not the only reason he’s willing to give the house. And actually, Jean,” I added truthfully, “I’m not all that sure that Lindsay’s only reason is the Rani.”
“Oh poor Lindsay—as if she could hold two thoughts together in her poor head at the same time; or think beyond the next meal she’s going to eat, or the next person she’s going to have an affair with.” She tried to sneer, but her mouth trembled; I didn’t want to continue our conversation.
A figure had detached itself from the crowd on the lower lawn and was approaching the house. It turned out to be Crishi. I hadn’t expected him to come and join us on the porch but that was what he did, and it even seemed that he had deliberately come to seek out both or one of us.
“What’s up?” he said. He saw at one glance how Jean was feeling and drew up a chair close to her. He scanned her face intimately. “Don’t you want to come and see the Rawul hoist the flag? You wouldn’t want to miss that, Jean: It’s an historic event. And in your house,” he said, now raising his smiling eyes to me.
“What flag is he hoisting?” Jean asked—his warm manner drying up her tears.
“What flag? Yours, of course. Isn’t it one of your big days today? Independence Day or some big deal like that? I’d think you’d want to do something patriotic. Both of you,” he said, glancing at me again—but then looking beyond me, and when I turned around, I saw Barbara had come out of the house and stood there, wearing a short robe. “All three of you,” he included her, exuding good cheer to us all.
No one could look as sullen, when she wanted to, as warm, dimpled Barbara; and she wanted to now. She had a fleeting “Hi” for Jean; she disregarded Crishi completely; and she said to me, “Come in for a minute, Harriet. I want to say something.”
“Hey! No!” Crishi protested and became very active. He took Jean’s hand and made as if to pull her up. He also waved getting-up gestures at me and motioned his hand at Barbara to come on, let’s get going: “The Rawul’s waiting—he says where are those three daughters of the American Revolution—I can’t hoist the flag without them, it wouldn’t be proper.”
“What flag?”
“Ours,” Jean replied; she was wiping her eyes, was amused.
Not so Barbara: “Ours? Our flag? You mean he’s actually going to fly the American flag? I can’t believe it. Who is he to fly our flag? You wouldn’t let him, would you, Harriet? The Stars and Stripes—on the Fourth—in your house? Yours and Lindsay and Michael’s house?” She was really sincerely deeply shocked. I was amazed; I had no feelings of that kind and would never have dreamed she had. Now I saw that Jean was beginning to look a bit shamefaced; she too assumed a serious expression and murmured “It’s not right.”
“It’s outrageous,” said Barbara.
Crishi lowered his eyes; he bit his lip. “I’ve put my foot in it. I don’t know how but I’ve done it.” He looked up again, from Jean to Barbara and back, appealing to be forgiven for whatever it was he had done wrong.
But Jean, sitting there heavy and blowsy, had begun to look grim; so did Barbara, though pink and disheveled and still wearing her baby-doll robe. Both seemed formidable matrons at that moment, upholders of virtue and tradition: making Crishi, standing between them, elegant and foreign, throw up his hands in a good-natured, giving-up gesture. He turned to me: “You’d better come. Michael wants you.” This, spoken straight, was far more personal and intimate than the wanting-to-please tone he had been using; and it put me in his camp immediately—I didn’t have to think a moment, didn’t have to choose, I simply accompanied him without a glance at Jean and Barbara.
Two flagpoles had been erected between the barns and the lake, and all the guests had assembled there, to watch and to listen to the Rawul’s address. Now that everyone was assembled in one spot, they formed a sparse and straggly group: probably because the grounds were so large, with the lawns and tall trees; and the old barns, almost as tall as the trees; and the lake with the sky reflected in it, making both sky and water seem twice as deep and full of light. It turned out there were two flags to be hoisted—the Stars and Stripes, and the flag of the Fourth World. Before the ceremony the Rawul gave a little address, which wasn’t in content different from what he said every evening under the tree. He seemed to be very moved—not that he wasn’t always moved when he spoke of his Fourth World, his high Idea.
He said it was a great moment in history when the two flags were for the first time to fly together over American soil, for the first time to flutter freely here in the clear pure air of this land of freedom. His audience listened in silence; it was difficult to know how he was being received—they were such a diverse group, it was impossible to think of them as united in anything. Certainly, everyone stood very still—there was no fidgeting, no movement at all anywhere except for the light breeze fluttering around among the tops of the trees. The local people looked solemn the way they were used to looking in church and at other Fourth of July or generally patriotic gatherings. Great principles were nothing new to them. What was surprising to me was the sight of my parents. Not by design, I’m sure, but accidentally, in the forming of the group, they had got next to each other. They both stood very straight—both had fine, tall figures—and with their chins raised, th
ey looked ready to dedicate themselves to something higher than themselves. Their eyes—and these, in spite of everything they had done or left undone, had remained very clear—were fixed on the Rawul; or it may have been on the Rani, who stood a few paces behind him. She too looked solemn—in a practiced way, as though she were used to putting on this expression whenever necessary.
Three followers carrying instruments struck up as the Rawul hoisted the two flags. The music must have sounded strange to everyone except the Rawul’s party, for it was a most original mixture of baroque, Oriental, and atonal. Its main purpose was to stir and rouse, and it certainly did that to the three players themselves. I had seen them often but never noticed them much: two young men and a girl, pale, blond, undernourished—I would have said anemic, but there was nothing bloodless in the way they played. One strummed, one blew, one played a kind of drum—all three of them giving it everything they had, pouring themselves into the music as they swayed and swung and bent and rose with it; and when the flags went up the staff, they seemed to go with them—actually rose on tiptoe: until it wasn’t possible to go up any farther, and the music stopped in that abrupt way a certain kind of music does, as if recognizing its own limits. Complete silence followed, except for the birds in the trees, which carried on as usual, and everyone looked up to see where the two flags—the Stars and Stripes and the wheel-within-the-diamond of the Fourth World—had taken off in the breeze and flew together side by side. It was the perfect gesture or symbol the Rawul had intended—or would have been if it hadn’t been slightly marred by those two unhappy figures in the distance, Jean and Barbara, watching the proceedings from the porch and making them seem dubious.
Three Continents Page 5