by Thomas Wolfe
Dressed now, except for necktie, picks up necktie, suddenly observes it, a very gay one with blue polka dots, and drops it with dilating nostrils, muttering a single word that seems to utter volumes:
"Women!"
Then searches vaguely on a tie rack in his closet, finds a modest grey cravat, and puts it on. So, attired now, picks up a manuscript, his pince-nez glasses, opens the door, and walks out in the narrow hall.
His wife's door closed and full of sleep, the air touched subtly with a faint perfume. The Fox sniffs sharply, with a swift upward movement of his head, and, looking with scorn, mixed with compassion, pity, tenderness, and resignation, inclines his head in one slow downward movement of decision, and says:
"Women!"
So, down the narrow, winding staircase now, his head thrown sharply back, one hand upon his lapel, the other holding manuscript, and reaches second floor. Another narrow hall. Front, back and to the side, three more closed doors of sleep and morning, and five daughters----
"Women!"
Surveys the door of Martha, the oldest, twenty, a----
Woman!
And next the door of Eleanor, aged eighteen, and Amelia, just sixteen, but----
Women!
And finally, with a gentle scorn, touched faintly with a smile, the door of the two youngest, Ruth, fourteen, little Ann, just seven, yet----
Women!
So, sniffing sharply the woman-laden air, descends now to the first floor, enters living-room, and scornfully surveys the work of----
Women!
The carpets are rolled up, the morning sunlight slants on the bare boards. The chairs, the sofas, and upholstery have been ripped open, the stuffing taken out. The place smells of fresh paint. The walls, brown yesterday, are robin's-egg blue this morning. Buckets of paint are scattered round the floor. Even the books that lined the walls have been taken from the tall, indented shelves. The interior decorators are at their desperate work again, and all because of----
Women!
Fox sniffs the fresh paint with sharp disgust, crosses the room, mounts winding steps, which also have been painted robin's-egg blue, and goes out on the terrace. Gay chairs and swings and tables, gay-striped awnings, and in an ash-tray several cigarette-butts with tell-tale prints upon them----
Women!
The garden backs of Turtle Bay are lyrical with tender green, with birdsong and the hidden plash of water--the living secret of elves' magic embedded in the heart of the gigantic city--and beyond, like some sheer, terrific curtain of upward-curving smoke, the frontal cliff of the sky-waving towers.
Fox sniffs sharply the clean green fragrance of the morning, sea-pale eyes are filled with wonder, strangeness, recognition. Something passionate and far transforms his face--and something rubs against his leg, moans softly. Fox looks down into the melancholy, pleading eyes of the French poodle. He observes the ridiculous barbering of the creature--the fuzzy muff of kinky wool around the shoulders, neck, and head, the skinned nakedness of ribs and loins, wool-fuzzy tail again, tall, skinny legs--a half-dressed female creature with no wool at all just where the wool is needed most--no dog at all, but just a frenchified parody of dog--an absurd travesty of all the silly fashions, mannerisms, conquettishness, and irresponsibility of a----
Woman!
Fox turns in disgust, leaves terrace, descends steps to the living-room again, traverses barren boards, threads way round the disembowelled furnishings, and descends the stairs to the basement floor.
"What's this?"
In entrance hall below, a lavish crimson carpet where yesterday there was a blue one, cream-white paint all over walls to-day, which yesterday were green, the wall all chiselled into, a great sheet of mirror ready to be installed where yesterday no mirror was.
Fox traverses narrow hallway, past the kitchen, through the cloakroom--this, too, redolent of fresh paint--and into little cubbyhole that had no use before.
"Good God, what's this?"
Transfigured now to Fox's "cosy den" (Fox wants no "cosy den"--will have none!), walls are painted, bookshelves built, a reading lamp and easy chairs in place, the Fox's favourite books (Fox groans!) transplanted from their shelves upstairs and brought down here where Fox can never find them.
Fox bumps his head against the low doorway in going out, traverses narrow hall again, at last gets into dining-room. Seats himself at head of the long table (six women make a long table!), looks at the glass of orange juice upon his plate, does nothing to it, makes no motion towards it, just sits there waiting in a state of patient and resigned dejection, as who should say: "It's no one but the Old Grey Mule."
Portia enters--a plump mulatto, nearing fifty, tinged so imperceptibly with yellow that she is almost white. She enters, stops, stares at Fox sitting motionless there, and titters coyly. Fox turns slowly, catches his coat lapels, and looks at her in blank astonishment. She drops her eyelids shyly, tittering, and spreads plump fingers over her fat mouth. Fox surveys her steadily, as if trying to peer through her fingers at her face, then with a kind of no-hope expression in his eyes, he says slowly, in a sepulchral tone:
"Fruit salad."
And Portia, anxiously:
"What fo' you doesn't drink yo' orange juice, Mistah Edwands? Doesn't you like it?"
"Fruit salad," repeats Fox tonelessly.
"What fo' you always eat dat ole fruit salad, Mistah Edwahds? What fo' you wants dat ole canned stuff when we fixes you de nice fresh orange juice?"
"Fruit salad," echoes Fox dolefully, utter resignation in his tone.
Portia departs protesting, but presently fruit salad is produced and put before him. Fox eats it, then looks round and up at Portia, and, still with no-hope resignation in his voice, says low and hoarsely:
"Is that--all?"
"Why, no suh, Mistah, Edwahds," Portia replies. "You can have anything you likes if you jest lets us know. We nevah knows jest what you's goin' to awdah. All las' month you awdahed fish fo' brek-fus'--is dat what you wants?"
"Breast of guinea-hen," says Fox tonelessly.
"Why, Mistah Edwahds!" Portia squeals. "Breas' of guinea-hen fo' brek-fus'?"
"Yes," says Fox, patient and enduring.
"But, Mistah Edwahds!" Portia protests. "You know you doesn't want breas' of guinea-hen fo' brek-fus'!"
"Yes," says Fox in his hopeless tone, "I do." And he regards her steadily with sea-misted eyes, with proud and scornful features, eloquent with patient and enduring bitterness as if to say: "Man is born of woman and is made to mourn."
"But Mistah Edwahds," Portia pleads with him, "fokes don't eat breas' of guinea-hen fo' brek-fus'! Dey eats ham an' aiggs, an' toast an' bacon--things like dat."
Fox continues to regard her fixedly.
"Breast of guinea-hen," he says wearily, implacably as before.
"B-b-b-but, Mistah Edwahds," Portia stammers, thoroughly demoralised by this time, "we ain't got no breas' of guinea-hen."
"We had some night before last," says Fox.
"Yes, suh, yes, suh!" Portia almost tearfully agrees. "But dat's all gone! We et up all dere was!...Besides, you been eatin' breas' of guinea-hen ev'ry night fo' dinnah de las' two weeks, an' Miz Edwands--she say you had enough--she say de chillun gettin' tired of it--she tol' us to get somep'n else!...If you tol' us dat you wanted guinea-hen fo' brek-fus', we'd a-had it. But you nevah tol' us, Mista Edwahds." Portia is on the verge of open tears by now. "You nevah tells us what you wants--an' dat's why we nevah knows. One time you wanted cream chicken fo' yo' brek-fus' ev'ry mawnin' fo' a month...Den you changed roun' to codfish balls, an' had dat fo' a long, long time...An' now it's guinea-hen," she almost sobs--"an' we ain't got none, Mistah Edwahds. You nevah tol' us what you wanted. We got ham an' aiggs--we got bacon--we got--",
"Oh, well," says Fox wearily, "bring what you have, then--anything you like."
He turns away full of patient scorn, enduring and unhoping bitterness--and "aiggs" are brought him. Fox eats them with relish; toast, too, three brown sli
ces, buttered; and drinks two cups of strong hot coffee.
Just at half-past eight something entered the dining-room as swift and soundless as a ray of light. It was a child of fourteen years, a creature of surpassing loveliness, the fourth daughter of the Fox, named Ruth. It was the Fox in miniature: a little creature, graceful as a bird, framed finely as some small and perfect animal. The small, lean head was shaped and set exactly as the head of Fox, the dark blonde hair grew cleanly to it, the child's face was of an ivory transparency, the features and the sensitivity of expression were identical with those of Fox, transformed to femininity, and the lines of the whole face were cut and moulded with the exquisite delicacy of a cameo.
The shyness of this little girl was agonising; it was akin to terror. She entered the room breathlessly, noiselessly, stricken, with her head lowered, her arms held to her side, her eyes fixed on the floor. The ordeal of passing by her father, and of speaking to him, was obviously a desperate one; she glided past as if she almost hoped to escape notice. Without raising her eyes, she said: "Good morning, daddy," in a timid little voice, and was about to duck into her chair, when Fox looked up startled, got up quickly, put his arms round her, and kissed her. In answer to his kiss, she pecked her cheek towards him like a bird, still keeping her eyes desperately on the floor.
The face of Fox was illuminated by a radiant tenderness as, in a low, deaf, slightly hoarse tone, he said:
"Good morning, darling."
Still without looking at him, stricken, desperate, she tried to get away from him, yet, even in the act, her affection for the Fox was eloquent. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer, her eyes went back and forth like a frightened fledgling's, she wanted to vanish through the walls, dart out of doors, turn into a shadow--anything, anything, if only she could utterly escape notice, having no one look at her, pay any attention to her, above all, speak to her. So she fluttered there in his embrace like a dove caught in a snare, tried to get away from him, was in a state of agony so acute and sensitive that it was painful to watch her or to do anything that would in any way increase the embarrassment and desperate shyness of this stricken little girl.
Fox's embrace tightened round her as she tried to escape, and he grew full of solicitude and anxiety as he looked at her.
"Darling!" he whispered, in a low and troubled tone. He shook her gently. "What, darling?" he demanded. "Now what?" he finally demanded, with a touch of the old scorn.
"But nothing, daddy!" she protested, her timid little voice rising in a note of desperate protest. "Nothing, daddy!" She squirmed a little to get free. Reluctantly Fox let her go. The child ducked right down into her chair, still with her eyes averted, and concluded with a little gasping laugh of protest: "You're so funny, daddy!"
Fox resumed his seat and still continued to regard her sternly, gravely, with alarmed solicitude, and a little scorn. She shot a frightened look at him and ducked her head down towards her plate.
"Is anything wrong?" said Fox, in a low voice.
"But naturally--not!"--a protesting and exasperated little gasp of laughter. "Why should anything be wrong? Honestly, you're so strange, daddy!"
"Well, then," said Fox, with patient resignation.
"But nothing! I keep telling you, there's nothing! That's what I've told you from the feerst!"
All of the children of the Fox say "feerst" for "first", "beerst" for "burst", "theerst" for "thirst". Why, no one knows. It seems to be a tribal accent, not only among all of Fox's children, but among all of their young cousins on the Fox's side. It is almost as if they were creatures of some isolated family, immured for generations on some lonely island, cut off from the world, and speaking some lost accent that their ancestors spoke three hundred years ago. Moreover, their tone is characterised by a kind of drawl--not the languorous drawl of the deep South, but a protesting drawl, a wearied-out, exasperated drawl, as if they have almost given up hope of making Fox--or someone--understand what ought to be obvious without any explanation whatsoever. Thus:
"But nothing, daddy! I've told you that from the f-e-e-r-s-t!"
"Well, then, what is it, darling?" Fox demanded. "Why do you look like that?"--with an emphatic downward movement of the head.
"But look like what?" the child protested. "Oh, daddy, honestly"--she gasped, with a little strained laugh, and looked away--"I don't know what you're talking about."
Portia brought smoking oatmeal and put it down before her, and the girl, saying timidly: "Good morning, Portia," ducked her head and began to eat hastily.
Fox continued to look at the child sternly, gravely, with a troubled expression in his eyes. Looking up suddenly, she put down her spoon, and cried:
"But, daddy--wha-a-t?"
"Are those scoundrels going to be here again to-day?" said Fox.
"Oh, daddy, what scoundrels?...Honestly!" She twisted in her chair, gasped a little, tried to laugh, picked up her spoon, started to go on eating, then put her spoon down again.
"Those scoundrels," said the Fox, "that--you women"--he inclined his head with scornful emphasis--"have brought in to destroy my home."
"But who are you talking about?" she protested, looking round like a hunted animal for a means of escape. "I don't know who you mean."
"I mean," said Fox, "those interior decorating fellows"--here his voice was filled with the dismissal of an unutterable contempt--"that you and your mother have imported to wreck the house."
"But I had nothing to do with it!" the girl protested. "Oh, daddy, you're so-----" she broke off, squirmed, and turned away with a little laugh.
"So--what?" said Fox, low, hoarse, and scornful.
"Oh, I don't know--so--so stra-a-nge! You say such funny thi-i-ngs!"
"Have you women," Fox went on, "decided when you're going to let me have a little peace in my own house?"
"Let you have a little pe-a-ce?...What have I done? If you don't want the decorators, why don't you speak to mo-o-ther?"
"Because"--Fox inclined his head with a slow, ironic emphasis upon the word--"because--I--don't--count! I'm only the--Old--Grey--Mule--among six women--and, of course, anything is good enough for me!"
"But what have we done? We haven't done anything to you! Why do you act so p-e-e-r-secuted?...Oh, daddy, honestly!" She squirmed desperately, tried to laugh, turned away, and ducked her head down towards her plate again.
Sitting back in his chair, one hand clasped upon the arm, his whole being withdrawn, remote, in an attitude eloquent of deep, unhoping patience, Fox continued to regard the child gravely for a moment. Then he thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled his watch out and looked at it, glanced at the child again, and shook his head in a movement packed with stern reproach and silent accusation.
She looked up, quick and startled, laid her spoon down, and gasped:
"Now what? What are you shaking your he-a-ad for? What is it now?"
"Is your mother up?"
"But naturally, I don't kno-o-w!"
"Are your sisters up?"
"But, da-a-dy, how can I tell?"
"Did you get to bed early?"
"Ye-e-e-s," in a drawl of protest.
"What time did your sisters get to bed?"
"But, of course, I have no way of kno-o-wing! Why don't you ask the-e-m?"
Fox looked at the watch again, then at the child, and shook his head once more.
"Women!" he said quietly, and put the watch back into his pocket.
The child by now has finished with her oatmeal--all she wants of it. Now she slides out of her chair and, with face averted, tries to glide past Fox, out of the room. Fox gets up quickly, puts his arms round her, says in a low, quick, worried tone:
"Oh, darling, where are you going?"
"But to sch-o-o-ol, of course!"
"Darling, stay and eat your breakfast!"
"But I've e-e-a-ten!"
"Oh, you haven't!" whispers Fox impatiently.
"But I've eaten all I wa-a-a-nt!"
"You haven't eaten anything!" he
whispers scornfully.
"But I don't want any more," she protests, looks desperately about, and struggles to free herself. "Oh, let me go-o-o, daddy! I'll be late!"
"Then be late!" whispers the great watch-watcher and head-shaker scornfully. "Stay and eat your breakfast!"--punctuating these decisive words with slow nods of emphasis.
"But I ca-a-n't! I've got to read a pa-a-per."
"A--what?"
"A t-e-e-r-m paper--for Miss Allen's class--it comes at nine o'clock."
"Oh," says Fox slowly, "I see." In a low, almost inaudible tone, "On--Whitman?"
"Ye-e-e-s."
"Oh...Did you read the book I gave you--the one with his war diary and notes?"
"Ye-e-e-s."
"Astonishing!" whispers Fox. "Isn't it astonishing? You can see just how he did it, can't you? He--he got right up on everything," Fox whispers, "just as if he were the thing itself--as if it were happening to him!"
"Ye-e-e-s." She looks desperately around, then with averted eyes blurts out: "You were right about the other thing, too."
"What other thing?"
"About night--how there's so much night and darkness in himhis--his feeling for night."
"Oh," Fox whispers slowly, his sea-pale eyes misted with reflection. "Did you tell about that, too?"
"Ye-e-s. It's tr-u-e. After you told me, I read him again, and it's tr-u-e."
Shy, desperate, timid, stricken as she is, she nevertheless knows it's true when it's true.
"That's fine!" Fox whispers, and shakes his head sharply with immense satisfaction. "I'll bet it's good!"
The girl's ivory features flush crimson. Like Fox, she loves praise, yet cannot stand to have it spoken. She squirms, is terrified, is hoping against hope----
"I don't kno-o-w," she gasps. "Miss Allen didn't like the last paper I wrote--what I said about Mark Twain."
"Then," Fox whispers, low and scornfully, "let Miss Allen not like it. That was a fine paper," he whispers. "What--what you said about the River was just right."