“That would be a lovely idea, Art,” Mrs. Hertime said.
“Well, it’s a deal,” Mr. Hertime said. “We’ll get you a drawing room for Thursday night. How about it, Tom?”
As it happened, he had no real chance to answer because Arthur Higgins spoke immediately.
“Of course they’ll come, Art,” he said. “The play will be entirely set by then.”
Thinking of it in retrospect, there was always such a thing as a quid pro quo, and Arthur Higgins could not be blamed for using them as currency.
“But I haven’t any summer clothes,” Rhoda said.
The wine was working, wine and the excitement.
“It’s all right, Rhoda,” Tom said, “I’ll get you some tomorrow.”
“But Tom—” she began.
“It’s all right, Rhoda,” he said, “they’ll keep—you can use them later.”
“Besides, it’s off season,” Mrs. Hertime said. “We all of us just camp out off season.”
He did not know that a door to yet another world was opening, a fateful world for him and Rhoda, the unexplored land of the very rich. He could never see the glamour of that world as Rhoda had, and it was possible to ask what would have happened to him and Rhoda if the Hertimes had not asked them there. What if they had only stood at the gate looking in instead of stepping across the threshold? Yet they would have stepped across the threshold eventually. Rhoda might have hesitated, but his insatiable desire for new experience would have moved him.
“Thank you very much, sir,” he said to Mr. Hertime. “Rhoda and I would appreciate a rest, and we’ve never been to Florida.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir,’” Mr. Hertime said. “Call me Art. It will be an enormous pleasure to have you with us, Tom.”
Later, when from experience he could draw finer distinctions than he could then, he knew that the Hertimes, if they were not top-drawer in the way the Bramhalls were, were not in a lower echelon. Wealth, like good Burgundy, needed maturing, and a consciousness of inherited wealth could not be acquired in a single generation, and Mr. Hertime’s grandfather had founded the Hertime Smelting Company.
“They always know what they’re doing,” Rhoda had said, “and somehow you and I never know. I mean, we’re never sure.”
“That’s right,” he said, “we can’t afford to know.”
Rhoda had actually described the boundaries of that world. It cost a lot to afford to be sure, in money and in character, more indeed of either than he had ever possessed.
He might let his thoughts wander, but in memory he was still in the Higgins apartment recalling the sharp uncertainty that had possessed him. When young, you were always uncertain, and there were different uncertainties later, like those of a physical checkup in a hospital. There you could wait in an antiseptic room, reading an antiseptic book, knowing that in a little while you might be told in a nice way that your life span was drawing to an early close, but there was no vanity in life and death, no fear of artistic failure. It was only your fault in an academic way if your liver or gall bladder had gone wrong. On the contrary, you were entirely to blame if your play became a flop.
He had eaten one slice of Virginia ham and one slice of Tennessee smoked turkey and a little mixed green salad, and had drunk four cups of coffee, and a considerable amount of champagne, but he was thinking all the while of the tumbrels moving to the guillotine. They could all blame him, Higgins and the players, and the champagne did not help. He was the French aristocrat waiting for the knife to fall, but the end came somewhere around one in the morning. It was Simeon, from the accounting department, who brought the news. Simeon, who was pale, redheaded and aggressive, arrived unnoticed until he approached Arthur Higgins. Then there was a collective sigh because Simeon was carrying proofs from the New York Times and Herald-Tribune. Although Simeon must have read them earlier, it was not his place to register delight or disappointment. This was the function of Arthur Higgins, one which he had performed many times before.
It was possible still to re-create Arthur, who had put on his horn-rimmed spectacles, holding the limp strips of paper while Mort Sullivan read over his shoulder. Silence had spread over the apartment, like the voices of conscience. It was possible still to see the faces, but perhaps anyone else could recall as vividly as he the details of a first dramatic triumph. He could remember the choking dryness in his throat and his frantic effort to look composed. Arthur Higgins had raised his voice to draw everyone’s attention, but speaking skill was unnecessary at the time since everybody was waiting.
“I have never read reviews out loud,” he said. “I can only say these do not surprise me in the least, and I will read a headline. ‘New Genius on Broadway’—and it is not ironical. You had better look at these yourself, Tom, and then let everybody see them.”
Actually, he never fully read those first reviews and afterwards he developed a mental block which prevented his carefully reading any reviews of his work, but the words and phrases still leaped at him. “Youthful yet mature.” “A finely faceted, dramatic diamond.” “Heart-rending in its sheer simplicity.” “Luminous and deep.” “A companion piece to They Knew What They Wanted, though told in its own brave style.” “Will take its place with the best of contemporary theatre.” The words in his memory sounded hackneyed now, like the quotes of all reviews, but in that moment a new assurance and a new power came over him that he never entirely lost.
“Here,” he said, “read them, Rhoda.”
Then Mort Sullivan spoke to him.
“Boy,” Mort said, “how does it feel?”
Tom was glad that he had told the simple truth.
“Frankly, it feels fine,” he said.
He never could believe in Mr. Kipling’s thought that triumph and disaster were two imposters that should be treated just the same. He preferred triumph to the other, and he still believed that anyone who was not a fool, including General Washington, had doubtless given triumph special treatment within limits. He had never been ashamed of feeling fine.
“Tom,” Rhoda said, and her voice was insistent above all the other voices, “Tom, they don’t say this about everybody, do they?”
“No,” he said, “not as far as I know, Rhoda.”
“Then it means,” she said, “that everything’s all right, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said, “it looks that way.”
“Can’t you be sure?” Her voice had risen. “Is there any catch or anything to it? Does it really mean we won’t have to worry any more about this?”
“Yes,” he said. “I rather think it does.”
“Well,” Rhoda said. “Well!” He saw that the color had drained from her face and that her knees were sagging.
“Rhoda,” he said, “are you all right?”
“I will be in a minute,” she said. “Just put your arm around me. I don’t need smelling salts or anything, but I feel a little faint.”
“You mean—” he began.
“I don’t mean that at all,” Rhoda said. “Don’t be so silly. A baby doesn’t worry you to death. It really is all right, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said.
She looked better, and he doubted whether anybody had noticed.
“Here,” he said, “take a drink of this.”
“Darling,” she said, “it doesn’t seem possible, does it? I mean Palm Beach and everything.”
Then her voice was lost among other voices, since everyone was speaking. In the turn of a second hand he had become a Figure in the Theatre. Only the other day he had read on the dramatic page of the New York Sunday Times that he was a Figure in the Theatre, and he still did not know exactly what it meant, because he had never been able to cultivate an interest in the critical arts even when he had been a subject. He could see, intellectually, the value of criticism, but he never had felt at home with the men who wrote it, because their compulsions ran on different tangents from his own. Their ideas were to his mind inaccurate, even when they offered praise. Praise was o
ld to him now, but it was new that night. In fact, so new that he allowed himself to take pleasure in it when he and Rhoda were riding alone in a taxi back to the Bulwer.
“Frankly,” he said, “I’m feeling fine. Are you feeling fine, Rhoda?”
“Yes,” she said, “but it’s awfully hard to stop worrying just in a single minute.”
“Anyway,” he said, “we’re going to have champagne for breakfast. We’ll give it to the room clerk to keep on ice.”
“Is that why you asked Arthur for those two bottles?” she asked. “Gosh, I never thought of having champagne for breakfast.”
“Then think about it now,” he said. “Rhoda, do you love me?”
He had nearly dropped a bottle getting out of the taxi, and he had twisted his ankle as he recovered himself. He was limping when he gave the bottles to the night clerk at the Bulwer.
“Well, Mr. Harrow,” the night clerk said, “how does it feel to have a real hit on your hands?”
That was what they always asked—how it felt.
“Boy,” he said, “it feels fine. Doesn’t it feel fine, Rhoda?”
“Yes,” she said, “it does, but I wish you could think of another way to say it.”
Later on he had tried to think of other graceful ways, but there was no other sensible way to say it. He had wished many times later that he could feel that way again, relaxed, which is why he had twisted his ankle getting out of the taxicab, free, so much in love with Rhoda, so elated and so sleepy, or so full of wit and humor, so shot through with good ideas—but then, that sort of thing could happen only once.
XXI
King Midas Would Have Understood Palm Beach
The ancient Greeks, he often thought, were people he would have liked and understood better than the Romans of the Augustan age. The Greeks produced better dramatists, and their mythology had been a source of delight to him ever since he had encountered Bulfinch in the Judge’s library. No wonder the Freudians had turned to the Grecian myths in their endeavors to explain the subconscious mind. Although it was a pity, perhaps, that Greek mythology should have gained popularity due to the efforts of Dr. Freud, it proved its appeal had touched the heart of the Great Interpreter from Vienna. It was startling to hear words like Oedipus and Narcissus tossed drunkenly about at Westport week ends and used by Emily, who had never read Oedipus Rex; but King Midas, as far as he knew, had not as yet been turned into a medical symbol, perhaps because a king had been seemingly interested more in money than in sex, although, according to Nathaniel Hawthorne, he had loved his daughter, but not in a way to interest.
He had thought of King Midas upon awakening in the Hotel Bulwer next morning. It was half past ten in the morning; it was amazing how soundly he and Rhoda had slept then without the aid of any sedation except champagne. The telephone in the other room was ringing. His ankle gave him a twinge when he got up to answer it, and his pajamas looked unaesthetic. It was a time for silk pajamas now and silk lingerie for Rhoda if they were going to Palm Beach. The call was from the Higgins office. There was a queue in front of the box office about ten blocks long, an exaggeration, but it conveyed the idea that advance orders were coming in so fast they were sending three more men over. The show was in, and how did it feel, Mr. Harrow, to have a hit on your hands?
“Boy,” he said, “in spite of everything, it still feels fine.”
Then he called the dining room. There was no room service at the Bulwer, but he told the captain there that he would give anyone five dollars who brought up his champagne in a bucket of ice, with two pots of black coffee. Rhoda must have awakened while he was talking.
“What’s that,” she asked, “about champagne and coffee?”
“Just something to pick us up,” he said, “before we go out and start spending money. How are you feeling, Rhoda?”
“It doesn’t seem right after everything,” she said, “but I’m feeling fine.”
“You’ll feel better after the champagne,” he told her. “They just called up to say there’s a line buying tickets at the Empire ten blocks long.”
“Ten blocks?” she said.
“It’s only a figure of speech,” he said, “but it’s long enough so we’ll get some cash from the Higgins office after the champagne. And then I’m going to see you get dressed from the skin right out, and no maternity dresses, either. Remember, we’re going to Palm Beach, and then maybe we’ll go to Cartier’s.”
“Cartier’s?” she said.
Midas would have understood, or Pandora. Rhoda’s hair was unbrushed, but it looked beautiful.
“Tom,” she said, “you sound as if you were making something up.”
In spite of the pain in his ankle, and even before the champagne arrived, he thought she looked like Venus on the Ludovisi throne. She had the same true simplicity as that bas-relief, the same scorn for illusory adornment. The truth was she did not need illusion, or make-up, or anything that morning.
“I know what you mean,” he said, “but I think we’ll get used to it by degrees.”
He should have said he was afraid they would get used to it, and he would have been right to fear. The times that were best in living were always the times in which one did not believe.
He could grant that he might have experienced too many things with time, but still he believed he was right in being shocked by the appearance of Palm Beach the last time he saw it as compared with the autumn of 1928 when he had been there with Rhoda. Lake Worth had become a septic tank, and the great American odor of potatoes, popcorn, and fish frying in vegetable oils penetrated almost to the shops on Worth Avenue. And what of the Ocean Boulevard? The Joe Davieses might still be there, and maybe the Kennedys, but why did all the houses look like frosted cakes, and the palm trees and the pigeon plums and the Spanish bayonets and the hibiscus bushes appear grotesque? They had not looked so when he and Rhoda had seen them. And surely the people had been different. Surely the people had not been so dull when he and Rhoda had been there, or was it that experience simply blunts every novelty? What was it that made his blood pulse fast at Palm Beach once?
“It doesn’t seem real, does it?” Rhoda said.
“That’s right,” he said, “and let’s hope it never does.” But then, eventually it did. To hell with palm trees now. To hell with the softly sweet tropic scent of Southern waters, and mimosa. But things were different once—the first bougainvillaea, the first scent of Southern seas, the first glimpse of all those interesting people whom one had read about but never seen.
The Hertimes’ limousine, a replica of that mythological Packard, was at the station to take them to the Hertimes’ house on Ocean Boulevard, and he had never felt so wide awake, so susceptible to new impressions. Mrs. Hertime had been full of information. They were all good friends after the journey, although Mrs. Hertime was still timid with him. As she had said herself over drinks the previous evening, when they had all dined together in the Hertimes’ drawing room, she had never seen anyone before who talked just like a witty story in the Saturday Evening Post, and she hoped he wouldn’t be bored with them and that it was selfishness to take him down before the season had started, but there were people who loved to be there before the season, when it was quiet.
“Now, everybody who first comes here,” Mrs. Hertime said, “always wants to know the names of trees. Now, that over there that’s all over the place is a banyan tree. I think it comes from India.”
“It must have,” he told her. “Mowgli would have liked it.”
“Who is Mowgli?” Mrs. Hertime asked.
“Oh, come,” Mr. Hertime said. “He’s in that Jungle Book you used to read the kids.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Hertime said.
“And I know what those trees are,” Tom said, “they’re palms. I know it from Palm Sunday.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Hertime said, “nobody told me you were a Catholic, but Ralph can drive you over to early Mass.”
“He needn’t bother,” he said. “I’ve only seen the palms
outside of church.”
“He hasn’t been inside one since we were married,” Rhoda said. “That was the First Congregational, and it scared him half to death.”
Rhoda had never been in a Packard limousine before, but she looked as though she had ridden in one always. In fact, in the traveling suit he had bought for her, she seemed as if she had always been at Palm Beach. She might, in fact, have been “Miss Palm Beach” in a much more emphatic way than any one-piece bathing girl. She was born to exist in places like Palm Beach, and the reason must have been that Palm Beach spelled then and still spelled the securest sort of solidity that he had ever known.
“It’s dreadful that so much is closed,” Mrs. Hertime said. “You see, the hurricane season is hardly over.”
He could admit the phenomenon of the hurricane, of which he had read in juvenile fiction and in Joseph Conrad, but he could never believe—news to the contrary, and in spite of Sodom and Gomorrah—that God could let loose a hurricane on Palm Beach without giving most serious thought to the possible repercussions; and the Hertimes, in their maroon limousine with its bicycle-spoked wheels, also seemed hurricane-proof. As things turned out, Mr. Hertime had been so firmly rooted to the rocks of financial reality that he died, in the mid-Roosevelt Thirties, as Mrs. Hertime had assured Tom once, just a little richer than he had been at the end of 1928, which only went to show that this sort of thing was a gift.
Tom had never had that gift, and perhaps Rhoda had already begun to realize it. In spite of her new trousseau, in their new pigskin suitcases, the suspicion may have been dawning that he was not quite the man she had believed he would be. She must have learned in the Hertimes’ Packard, even before the butler and the second man came down the front steps to get out the luggage, that a thousand dollars wisely spent at Bergdorf’s and a clip from Cartier’s could not buy the pedestrian wizardry of the Hertimes. They had some other magic gift. Presley Brake, to whom Rhoda was now married, had it, and Rhoda must have learned part of the secret herself, in order to have found Presley. But no one had told him what the secret was, and now the truth was dawning upon him, that old dogs could only seldom learn new tricks.
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