House Party

by Patrick Dennis

  "I'm not making a mistake, Mother. Really I'm not."

  "Good! Now go to bed, darling. It's late and you'll be up ‘til all hours tomorrow night. You have terrible circles under your eyes anyhow."

  "All right, Mother," Kathy said, kissing Mrs. Ames. "And I'm sorry I was so nasty. It's just that I've been terribly worked up and I want you to like Manning—to know him as I do."

  "I'm sure I will, darling. I like men, anyhow—most of them. And Kathy?"

  "Yes, Mother?"

  "Please try not to drink so much tomorrow."

  "Oh, Mother!" Kathy snapped and stomped out of the room.

  With a sigh, Mrs. Ames returned to Les Faux-Monnayeurs, determined to read to the bottom of the page. The type swam before her eyes. She felt old and miserable. Her head began to nod. There was a tap at the door.

  "Lily, dear girl, are you awake? Do let me in, dear girl, I have something too delicious to ask of you."

  "Very well, Uncle Ned," Mrs. Ames sighed. "Wait 'til I put on my bed sacque."

  "Ah, don't bother for me, Lily child. I recall only too well your dear pink derrière when you were being bathed as a baby,"

  "Well I'm not being bathed right now, Uncle Ned," Mrs. Ames called. "Come in."

  The door opened and Uncle Ned burst in, carefully unkempt He wore rose silk pajamas, patent-leather mules, a black ciré satin dressing gown with rose-quilted lapels and cuffs. In one hand he carried a pad of foolscap and a gold pencil; in the other, a long ebony cigarette holder.

  "Ah, Lily dear, I have come to ask a few salient facts about your late father for my memoirs. You know how an old man's memory sometimes plays tricks on him and my publishers want me to recreate all the fabulous people of the fabulous times in which I have lived."

  "Who are your publishers, Uncle Ned?"

  “Yes, dear girl. Ah! I see you're reading the immortal Gide's immortal Les Faux-Monnatjeurs. How I envy you being able to read it for the first time. This is your first time, isn't it?"

  "Yes, Uncle Ned."

  "Ah, dear André—he'd be just my age if he were still alive. I recall once saying to him: 'André,' I said, 'I don't like your lips. They are straight, like the lips of those who have never lied. I will teach you the art of lying to the end that your lips become beautiful and voluptuous like the lips of an antique mask.'"

  "I thought Oscar Wilde said that to him, Uncle Ned "

  "Ah, poor, unfortunate Oscar. Perhaps he did, but he got it first from me. I was never stingy with a bon mot for those writer-fellows. They needed every penny, poor devils—Oscar most of all. How well I remember one particularly brilliant season in Algiers. I was staying aboard La Sirene with Billy and Dolly Mantis—poor Dolly, a drunkard's grave for her—when who should be rowed out in the dinghy but dear Oscar and Bosie Douglas. What an imp that Bosie was, but a beauty, Lily, a beauty! Well, Paul Cambon—later ambassador to the Court of St James—happened to . . ."

  Mrs. Ames lay back on her pillow. Uncle Ned had come not to question her but to talk. She had been lured into his labyrinth of anecdota to wander, lost, for eternity.

  ". . . which recalls to me an enchanted fête champêtre high up in a tree house at the Restaurant Robinson. It was the summer of twenty-six, as I look back. Grace Moore was in Paris dickering with Charpentier for Louise and the Sulgrave sisters—exquisite little Bessie and Minnie—were . . ."

  Dead, dead, Mrs. Ames thought helplessly. The poor old thing knows only corpses. It's like having a ghoul in my room.

  ". . . but of all of darling Elsie's brilliant parties, perhaps her Soir du Cirque on that heavenly night in . . ."

  And the awful thing is that poor old Uncle Ned probably bored them all to death years before their time.

  ". . . and that calls to mind a delicious soirée I once gave in 1930 when I'd leased Edith Wharton's villa near Versailles. Edith—Pussy Jones, she was—was very strait-laced and quite the grande dame by then, you know, and hadn't wanted to let the place to me at all. Well, be that as it may, Radclyffe Hall was still alive then and so in her honor I thought I'd have a transvestite evening and the invitations—now listen to this Lily—said 'Mademoiselle Edward Pruitt'—you see, Lily, I called myself mademoiselle . . ."

  "I see, Uncle Ned."

  "So I said, 'Mademoiselle Edward Pruitt vous prie d'assister a un "drag party" le Samedi 18 Juin, a partir de . . .' "

  Dear God, please let me keep my eyes open, Mrs. Ames prayed silently, please don't let me be rude to Uncle Ned. This would all be very interesting to anyone who hadn't heard it a dozen times before. Really it would, she thought with little conviction.

  ". . . never was a hotel like dear, dead old Shepheard's, Lily, run down as it was. When Fuad I was on the throne of Egypt, I recall so well a trip down the Nile with . . ."

  "Uncle Ned," Mrs. Ames said abruptly, "what was it you wanted to ask me?"

  "Ask? Oh, yes. When was it that my late lamented brother built this house?"

  "1885."

  "Oh. As early as that? Ah, Lily, 1885, there was a year. I remember distinctly being in Newport with my tutor—I was still that young when . . ."

  "Uncle Ned," Mrs. Ames said, "it's after three. I've got to get some sleep and so should you. I know it's going to be a perfectly wonderful book. You've done so much and been so many places and known so many great people. Promise you'll show it to me."

  "It's very nearly finished now, dear girl. Just a bit of polishing here, a bit of pruning and pointing up there. My publishers are terribly keen on it. And you shall be the first to see it, my dear, I promise. And speaking of books, did I ever tell you of the time when I met Ouida in . . ."

  "Good night, Uncle Ned," Mrs. Ames cried desperately. "Good night."

  The door closed and there was peace.

  Removing her bed jacket, Mrs. Ames gave her pillows a listless poke and let her book slide to the floor. The night had grown cool and she had just reached down to pull the comforter over her when there was another knock at the door. This time it was Paul.

  "Are you alone, Mother?"

  "Momentarily, Paul." He came in and closed the door behind him. "Really, Paul, you should be in bed—all of you—I've never seen such a house of prowlers. It's like . . ."

  "Mother, I'm getting married!"

  "Right now? Darling, I'm not dressed for it."

  "Please don't make fun of me," Paul said.

  "Darling! I'm not. I take it Miss Devine is the woman of your choice?"

  "Yes. Yes, it's Claire. You do like her, don't you? She's a wonderful girl." Paul was on the bed beside his mother clutching at both her hands. My, he was strong for so thin a boy!

  "Why, why Paul, I thought she was very attractive. Great Style."

  "I knew you'd love her, Mother. I knew you'd understand!"

  "B-but Paul, what is there to understand? After all, you're twenty-seven years old. It's time you thought of marrying." Mrs. Ames was playing for time. Of all her children Paul was able to plumb the lowest depths of her maternalism. He was so vulnerable that he made her vulnerable, too.

  "And Mother, now I know what I want to do! I'm going to get married, quit my job at Rabadab's, and move out here to the country."

  "Paul! Wait! Not so fast.”

  "No, Mother, I've made up my mind. I can't go on wasting my life on those Rabadab rabbit warrens any longer. I've got to make the break now."

  "Well, Paul, I agree. They're horrid apartments, although I'd rather like to have one myself. But really, Paul, you can't ask your wife to support you."

  "Oh, no! I want her to quit work and start having kids right away."

  "Paul! Are you to become wards of the state?"

  "No, Mother. I've got it all worked out. I was just thinking about it in bed and then I saw your light and . . . Mother, we'll live in the gatehouse. I can fix it up myself and Claire and I can paint it and fit it out with some kind of furniture—anything. Claire can run the house and I'll start a firm of my own to build decent country places for people who w
ant to get out of town and raise their children in . . ."

  "Have you discussed this with Claire?" Mrs. Ames asked incredulously. The picture of Claire Devine with paint brush and plaster trowel did not come readily to mind.

  "No, but of course she'll do as I want."

  "Are you quite certain, Paul? I received the distinct impression that she was terribly wrapped up in her work, that . . ."

  "Well, she is, but naturally she'll see the wisdom of my plan."

  "If she does she's a better woman than I. Where are you going to get the money to do all this? Naturally you're more than welcome to the gatehouse for as long as you want to use it. There's a bathroom there, of sorts, and a kind of kitchen, and if the termites don't mind your moving in, I'm sure I don't. But, darling, where are you going to get the money to start your own architect's office?"

  "Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

  "Oh." Now she had the sinking feeling of a mother about to fail her child.

  "Mother, do you happen to have any loose money kicking around?"

  "No, darling, I don't. Every penny of income goes into this wretched house and a lot more besides. Oh, I've got some bonds that aren't much good and my jewelry but . . ."

  "Well, isn't there any way you could help me get at my own money?"

  "Paul, that money's in trust! Your grandfather planned it that way, and besides it's only five thousand dollars a year. A tidy little sum, to be sure, but not enough to be of any real use in establishing a . . ."

  "But what about the principal? Couldn't I get hold of that?"

  "No indeed, Paul Ames, you certainly could not. That money's in an ironclad trust. You'll get it in easy installments between your thirtieth birthday and the day you die and not a minute longer. That's the way dear Papa left it. Dear Papa was not a very pleasant man, but he was certainly no fool when . . ."

  "Say! Kathy's going to be thirty right away. Couldn't I borrow something from her?"

  "Well, you could ask her, dear, but I rather think that your sister Katherine will be needing every cent she inherits and what she earns. She's planning matrimony herself."

  "Kathy?" Paul breathed.

  "So she said, not an hour ago."

  "Kathy getting married? To who?"

  "Whom, darling."

  "All right, whom?"

  "Why, to Manning Stone, dear, I thought you knew.”

  "Manning Stone? That's impossible!"

  "Your sister didn't seem to think so. I believe that he and I are to have an interview sometime this weekend. He may be waiting outside the door right now. It wouldn't surprise me one bit."

  "Mother! Talk sense! You can't allow it. You've got to put your foot down."

  "If I could only put my head down."

  "But Mother, you can't think of letting her marry him. He's no good. He's a real phony."

  "I wasn't aware that you'd met him before."

  "I haven't. I didn't need to. One look was all I needed. He's the kind of man other men don't like . . ."

  "Uncle Ned adores him."

  "He'd make poor old Kathy miserable. He's a lecher."

  "He seems attractive to a great many women," Mrs. Ames said carefully.

  "Mother, what do you know about men?"

  "Well, I slept with one in this very bed every night for twenty-five years. Can you say the same?"

  "I don't mean men like Dad! You women are all the same. You see some walking sex-trap and you lose all the sense you ever had."

  "Isn't that funny, darling, we women have been saying that about you for centuries."

  "Mother! We don't know one thing about Manning Stone."

  "Well, we'll have a good long time to find out, won't we, Paul?"

  "For Christ's sake, Mother . . ."

  "Your language, dear."

  "Well, I mean how can you just sit there and talk that way, as though Kathy . . ."

  "At this hour, darling, I'm amazed that I can speak at all."

  "Well, I'm going to have a good talk with Kath; tell her some facts."

  "That's going to be rather difficult, Paul, since you don't know any facts about him. And Kathy may disapprove of your marriage just as much as you . . ."

  "Mother, what are you talking about? How could she help liking Claire?"

  "Paul, I simply offer this as a remote possibility. I also offer the even more remote possibility that we might all go to bed and mind our own business until after breakfast. It's late darling—nearly four—go to bed!"

  "Mother, you re not making any sense."

  "I so rarely do. Go to bed."

  "But Kathy's so damned innocent."

  "We girls are never as innocent as you boys think we are. Go to bed."

  "I’ll bet his name isn't Manning Stone any more than . . .”

  "Right now I don't care if it's really Plantagenet. Go to bed.”

  "But you can't lie there and kid about this. Kathy and I have always been so close that . . ."

  "Too close, perhaps, Paul. Go to bed."

  "Mother, Kathy has got to . . ."

  "Paul, if you'll just promise to go straight to bed, I’ll go to the vault first thing next week and dig out a nice, big, old diamond for Miss—for Claire. She'd like a big diamond, wouldn't she? She'd like it much better than that old signet ring of dear Papa's."

  "She hasn't said anything about it. But Kathy . . ."

  "Somehow I rather think Claire would. Run along now."

  "How can you . . ."

  "And I'll talk to the lawyers about getting something for you. Maybe you could turn the gatehouse into an office and live in the old gardener's cottage. Go to bed, Paul!"

  "Oh, all right, but . . ." Paul sniffled loudly and gnawed at a fingernail.

  "Paul, darling, this is supposed to be the happiest night of your life! Don't look so awfully glum. Now kiss Mother and go."

  As the door closed behind her younger son Mrs. Ames heaved a deep sigh and reached wearily for her lamp. The clock said ten minutes to four. The light went out and she sank leadenly against the pillow. "At last," she breathed.

  The door flew open and Violet burst in.

  "Lily." Violet whispered through the darkness, "I've waited hours for you to be alone. Really, I've never seen such a procession of people."

  "Neither have I, Violet."

  "But I felt that I simply had to talk to you and so I sat in that dark hall waiting and waiting and . . ."

  "Everyone in Suffolk County must have felt that way tonight, Violet. Won't it keep till morning?"

  "No, Lily, I must tell you." Violet switched on the light and perched on the edge of her sister's bed. She was wearing a robe of clipped white plumes which made her look like a skittish polar bear. "Oh, Lily, don't you remember how we used to whisper and giggle up in the nursery after we were put to bed. La, the larks we used to . . ."

  "Yes, Violet, but those clandestine confidences took place around sunset. It's now almost time to get up and I've been holding a marathon levee since . . ."

  "But Lily, what I want to tell you about is so terribly romantic. Two things, really, and both just drenchingly sentimental."

  "I'm sure they are."

  "First is about Felicia. Well, last night I was creaming my face and I just happened to look out of the window and guess who I saw down in the rose garden?"

  "Peleas and Melisande."

  "Oh, Lily, be serious! No, I saw Felicia and Mr. Burgess! They were down there for the longest time. Of course I didn't mean to peek . . ."

  "Of course!"

  "And then tonight, right after the dance, Felicia more or less inferred to me that she and Mr. Burgess had come to a definite agreement about . . . Oh, Lily, to think that at last my little girl is going to have a husband who deserves her!"

  "What a dreadful thing to say about . . "

  "What, Lily?"

  "I said, Violet, doesn't it ever seem to you that the mating urge is bigger than you are?"

  "Oh, but Lily, young love in . . ."


  "And don't you ever get just the tiniest bit sick of being a mother?"

  "Lily Ames! I never heard such talk! Why, I'd lay down my very life for Felicia. If she so much as . . ."

  "Well, of course I have to spread my mother love a bit thinner than you do. Now, why don't you just slip off to your room and . . ."

  "But, Lily," her sister pouted, “I want to talk to you. I've been meaning to tell you how very fascinating I find Kathy's new beau. I can't think where she ever met such a man."

  "Neither can I, but if you find out, I wish you'd . . ."

  "And Paul's little friend, so chic and . . ."

  "Violet Clendenning, it's almost four and . . ."

  "But, Lily, I haven't told you the other romantic thing. Oh, it's just silly and not nearly as important as Felicia's news, but I think General Cannon likes me."

  "I'm sure he does, Violet. Now you must be awfully tired and . . "

  "He danced with me again and again and again!"

  "I know he did, Violet. I was terribly relieved."

  "And he told me about how lonely he'd been not having an understanding woman around the house and being both father and mother to that rude girl. You know, Lily, there's something about those big, masterful military men that I just adore. And I said . . . Lily, did you hear a noise?"

  "Only you, Violet."

  "No. Listen. There it goes again."

  From the garden below came the first bar of the "Leavenworth Cavalry Gallop."

  "Lily, that's a nightingale! How incredibly romantic!"

  "Nonsense, Violet," Mrs. Ames said nervously, "we don't have nightingales out here."

  "Well then what sort of bird is it?" Violet said truculently. The whistle came again, louder.

  "I'm sorry, but I don't happen to have my bird log at hand." Again the whistle. Mrs. Ames glanced at her clock and saw that it was four. Then she saw the note from General Cannon. No, she thought, no, I couldn't do it. It would be too mean!

  "Somehow, Lily," Violet said, moving toward the window, "I think it's a Spanish troubadour come to serenade his love. Isn't that silly of me? When it's undoubtedly just some old bird out there . . ."