The Friend of Women and Other Stories

by Louis Auchincloss

  The book was finished in three months.

  “Of course, I’ve made the case much blacker than it is,” she admitted to Rosina, to whom alone she had submitted the manuscript. “The facts aren’t nearly so bad.”

  “How do you know that? You may have hit them right on the head. But that’s not the point. All the things you describe exist in our society. Like Dostoyevsky you have chosen a dramatic way to drive your point home. Kate, you’ve written a great novel!”

  Kate clasped her hands in ecstasy. She had never imagined such a tide of joy. “But I can’t publish it,” she murmured unconvincingly.

  “If you don’t, I’ll disown you forever!”

  Howard had to be shown the book. She gave it to him on a Saturday morning, and he read it all day. When he joined her that evening for a cocktail and handed her back the manuscript, his face was grave.

  “Well?” she asked with a beating heart.

  “It’s a great story. It’s stunning, really. It almost scares me that you could have written it. It’s a shock for me to discover there’s that much of you I’ve never known.”

  “You mean you’ve married a monster?” She tried to smile.

  “No. That I’ve got a wife who can create them.”

  “And what can I do with my monsters?”

  “You can put them in print.”

  “You mean I should try to publish the book?”

  “You should try and you’ll surely succeed. I miss my guess if we don’t have a bestseller on our hands.”

  “But, darling, what about your firm? How will they react?”

  “Oh, they won’t like it at all. We must face that.”

  “But if it hurts your career…?”

  “It will start yours,” he finished for her. “And yours will be the better one.”

  She rose to hug him. “You’re the most generous man I ever knew!”

  Some successes are years in coming; many come too late. Kate’s seemed to come overnight. Rosina talked a famous literary agent into reading the book; he was immediately taken with it and had no difficulty in selling it to a well-known and enthusiastic publishing house. A happy Kate was checking galleys one morning at home when she had an unexpected visitor.

  It was rare for the older Mrs. Rand to call on her daughter-in-law; the latter was expected to come to her on certain Sunday lunches. She and Kate had never been congenial, but she had had to recognize that Kate had done more with Howard than his mother had been able to and that she had been a good mother. They were formally on good terms. But the grim look the old lady gave her daughter-in-law as she slowly seated herself did not augur a pleasant interview.

  “Howard has told me the subject of this novel you’re bringing out, Kate. He says that it deals with a custody case similar to one handled by his office.”

  “Some of my incidents may have been suggested by the case, yes.”

  “Howard implied there was more to it than that. The reason he told me was that I should be prepared for some trouble at the office. As you well know, it was my brother’s firm, and Mr. Cook has always handled my affairs personally.”

  “Mrs. Rand, there are always going to be people who cannot conceive that a novelist has any imagination at all. They think every character, every incident in a novel is directly copied from something in the author’s own life. If we writers worried about that, there’d be no novels at all.”

  Mrs. Rand’s slightly raised eyebrows implied that this was an eventuality with which she could live. “I asked Howard what he would do if the firm held him responsible for any repercussions arising from the publication of your book.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Rand, they wouldn’t be so petty!”

  “Wouldn’t they? Do you know what Howard told me?”

  Kate frowned. “No. What?”

  “He said he could always resign.”

  “But that’s absurd!”

  “But are you willing to take the chance? Are you willing to risk your husband’s career for the satisfaction of publishing one story? Of course you’re not! You can always write another, can’t you?”

  Kate sat up very straight. She was suddenly ready for the crisis. “It’s not that easy, Mrs. Rand. I may be a one-book author, and this may be my one book. But I’m going to publish it, and nothing is going to stop me. You talk about your son’s career. What about mine? This book is my life!”

  “Then you’re a very selfish woman! Even more than I’ve always suspected!”

  “You call me selfish! You, who have subjected your family to every whim of a malade imaginaire!”

  Mrs. Rand stood slowly. “I got your husband his job through my brother. You will have cost him it through your silly book. Which is the more selfish?”

  And she turned to the door.

  ***

  Kate’s novel enjoyed a critical and popular success. She even sold it to the movies for a sum far greater than Howard could earn in years. This was just as well, as Howard, having incurred the expressed reprobation of his partners over the caricature of Clarence Cook in Kate’s book and the loss of old Mrs. Moberly’s retainer, suffered a nervous breakdown that was certainly a factor in his ultimately seeking early retirement. Kate’s ample earnings from later books adequately supported her family. She was not a one-book author.

  She did not, however, go unscathed. Thelma, her oldest girl, became something of a rebel in her freshman year at New York University. Like many a teenager, she sought in her mother the source of anything in her life that troubled her, and, as her kind father was a vulnerable being, she joined him to herself as victims of the maternal malevolence.

  “You bought your literary fame at the cost of Dad’s happiness,” she threw in Kate’s face. “You walked over his stricken body to grab your laurels!”

  Kate simply smiled. “What a lovely time you’re having, dear. And, of course, what you’re saying is perfectly true. But you leave out the fact that I was fighting for my life. Your father had had his. I wanted mine. And I got it. And at least I have the honesty to make no excuses. I’d do the same thing again if I had it to do over. And like it or not, my dear, there’s a good bit of me in you.”

  The Country Cousin

  A Comedy in One Act

  ***

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  (In order of appearance)

  MRS. NELLIE HONE

  ELIDA RODMAN, her niece

  ALICE, a maid

  CAROLINE HONE, Mrs. Hone’s daughter-in-law

  ALEXANDER HONE, Mrs. Hone’s son

  WINTHROP DELANCEY

  MISS EMILY HARCROSSE

  MISS HARRIET HARCROSSE, Emily’s sister

  ***

  SCENE 1: Living room of Mrs. Hone’s apartment on upper Park Avenue, New York. Late on a weekday afternoon, autumn 1937.

  SCENE 2: Same, one hour later.

  SCENE 3: Same, five hours later.

  ACT 1

  Scene 1

  TIME: Late on a weekday afternoon, autumn 1937

  PLACE: The living room of MRS. HONE’s apartment on upper Park Avenue, New York. It is an old building and an old room. In the center is a threshold with double doors opening into the vestibule. At stage R. is a door leading to the dining room, at stage L. to a den. The wall to the left of door C. is covered almost to the ceiling with bookcases, and masses of books, large, old, presumably valuable, are jammed into their shelves, with magazines and papers stuffed on top of them. On top of the bookcase is the marble bust of a Roman emperor and several bronzes, an Antinous, a satyr pursuing a nymph, a chariot, etc. To upstage R. is a magnificent Sheraton sideboard with silver pitchers and decanters. The wall above it is covered with paintings in heavy gilt frames, a Bouguereau angel, some chess-playing cardinals, Christians in the arena, a girl with her dog. The furniture is a mixture of heavy Victorian with some rather nice Empire and English eighteenth century; it represents, like everything else, accumulation rather than collection. One feels that the owner is sentimental, but not tasteless, that each bi
t of bric-a-brac and each of the framed photographs that clutter the tables cannot be sacrificed.

  AT CURTAIN: MRS. HONE and ELIDA RODMAN are seated opposite each other. MRS. HONE is seated in what is apparently her usual armchair, a huge leather affair near door R., beside a table covered with bibelots, which she idly fingers. ELIDA is reading aloud to her. She is pale and thin, with long black hair, about twenty-nine, and one feels from her tired expression and simple dark dress that she is a sort of dependent relative or companion. MRS. HONE, a large, stout woman, has a round, intelligent, immobile face, the face of a woman of high blood pressure and high temper and pronounced opinions. She wears a pince-nez and is dressed in the commodious, styleless comfort of the semi-invalid.

  ELIDA (Reading): “The men who replaced the Neanderthalers, while using the caves and shelters of their predecessors, lived largely in the open. They were hunting peoples who hunted the mammoth and wild horse as well as the reindeer and bison. Unlike most savage conquerors, who take the women of the defeated for their own and interbreed with them, it would seem that these true men would have nothing whatever to do with the Neanderthalers. They lived on a new and greater level, and with them we trace, on their walls and on their rude implements, the dawn of self-expression.”

  MRS. HONE (Holding up a piece of ivory that she has picked up from the table at her side): It’s from the tusk of a mammoth, you know, Elida. Somewhere in the steppes of Russia in the early Paleolithic. (Dreamily) That early air was the air we were meant to breathe. Alexander and I.

  ELIDA (Looking at the book in her lap): I don’t see Alexander being very happy in Russia.

  MRS. HONE (Sternly): I was speaking prehistorically, of course. He’s a good boy, my Alexander.

  ELIDA (With just a hint of correction): A good son, Aunt Nellie.

  MRS. HONE: How many sons do you know who would go to see their old mother every afternoon of the autumn, winter, and spring?

  ELIDA: Very few, I’m afraid.

  MRS. HONE: Few? Do you know any?

  ELIDA (Giving in): No, I don’t suppose I know any, Aunt Nellie.

  MRS. HONE (Regarding her suspiciously): Every afternoon, rain or shine, on his way from the bank. But perhaps you think it isn’t entirely on my account that he pays his visits. Is that it, Elida?

  ELIDA (Surprised): Why, no, Aunt Nellie. Of course not. Why else would he possibly come?

  MRS. HONE (With a touch of bitterness): Why else indeed? How should I know?

  ELIDA (Shrugging): You surely don’t think he comes to see his old maid cousin?

  MRS. HONE (Reprovingly): You’re too young to speak of yourself as an old maid. I’ve warned you about that.

  ELIDA: It’s a state of mind, not of age. But all right. You surely don’t think he comes to see his mother’s companion?

  MRS. HONE: And I particularly asked you not to speak of yourself as my companion. You happen to be my niece.

  ELIDA: But you pay me.

  MRS. HONE: Of course I pay you. You can’t live on air, can you?

  ELIDA: Your daughter-in-law seems to think so. She treats me like a servant.

  MRS. HONE (Snorting): Caroline treats us all like servants. She always has.

  ELIDA: But it’s different with you. She resents you. We at least respect the people we resent.

  MRS. HONE (Rather pleased): I knew she disliked me. I didn’t know she resented me. Why should she resent me?

  ELIDA: Because Alexander’s so fond of you. I suppose it’s only natural for her.

  MRS. HONE (Sarcastic): Of course! We all have to bow now to the principle that a husband and wife belong entirely to each other. If he happens to like his own mother, oh, that’s bad. That’s domination. (Snorts) Small wonder there’s so much divorce.

  ELIDA: Did I tell you she’s coming in this afternoon?

  MRS. HONE: Who?

  ELIDA: Caroline.

  MRS. HONE (Irritated): But they’re dining here tonight. And you know I have to rest before Tristan. What do you suppose I keep you for, child?

  ELIDA: I’m sorry. She said it was important.

  MRS. HONE: Oh, she did, did she? Now what do you suppose I’ve done?

  ELIDA: I have no idea. But we’ll find out soon enough.

  MRS. HONE (Sighing): Yes. And if I don’t see her, she’ll take it out on my poor boy. That’s the devil of in-laws. They always have a hostage. Well, we may as well get on with the chapter. Perhaps we can finish it before she comes.

  ELIDA (Closing the book with her finger holding her place): Aunt Nellie?

  MRS. HONE: Yes, child?

  ELIDA: Can I ask you something?

  MRS. HONE: Why not?

  ELIDA: Would you mind so terribly if I went home? For a while?

  MRS. HONE (Alert): Awhile? How long a while?

  ELIDA: Well… maybe quite a while.

  MRS. HONE (Hostile): What’s wrong? Don’t you like New York?

  ELIDA: Oh, yes, of course, I love it, and you’ve been terribly kind, but I think Mummy may need me in Augusta.

  MRS. HONE: Your mother need you? With seven other children in that box of a house? Are you out of your mind? She’s tickled to death to have you here.

  ELIDA: But there are all sorts of things I could do. I—

  MRS. HONE (Interrupting firmly): Nonsense. There are plenty of helping hands up there. I told your mother when she married that she might as well have lots of children. In the walk of life that she had chosen they can be assets.

  ELIDA: But you don’t need me, Aunt Nellie. I mean you could get a real companion who would dress you and make up your medicines.

  MRS. HONE (Sternly): A “real” companion? Is this my reward for putting you through college, Elida Rodman?

  ELIDA (Hanging her head): Oh, no.

  MRS. HONE: Is this what I get in return for the checks I’ve sent your mother every Christmas day these past thirty years? Do you know what those checks have meant to her?

  ELIDA: I’m sorry, Aunt Nellie.

  MRS. HONE (Snorting): A “real” companion, indeed! So that’s all you thought of the operas we’ve been to together, the books we’ve read aloud. And I was thinking, like an old fool, that I might have given you at least some inkling of the function of beauty in life, some conception of what—oh, what’s the use? (She breaks off, shaking her head.)

  ELIDA: But you have. Really, you have.

  MRS. HONE: And now you want to bury yourself in Augusta, perhaps even marry a hotel proprietor the way your mother did? (ELIDA says nothing.) Well, go ahead, then! I’m not stopping you.

  ELIDA (Quietly): I won’t go if you disapprove, Aunt Nellie. I know all you’ve done for my family.

  MRS. HONE: All I’ve done! I’ll have none of that, young lady. You’ll pawn off no shabby gratitude on me. Either there’s human love and affection or there’s not, but gratitude, bah! I have no room for gratitude. (Sound of the front doorbell)

  MRS. HONE: Caroline! (Shifting into brogue, with the heavy humor of her kind of eccentric) Oh, me trials and tribulations! Bring me some whiskey, child. I can’t face her on a parched whistle.

  (ALICE, an ancient maid, appears, crossing the hall in back, and a moment later CAROLINE HONE enters briskly. She is thin and chic, but the effect is spoiled by the angularity of her features and the arrogant condescension of her manner.)

  CAROLINE: Elida, I wonder if you’d be a dear and get me a touch of whiskey on the rocks? I’ve had such a day, and tea wouldn’t start to do the trick. Besides, I have a bone to pick with your aunt. (Nods at MRS. HONE with a little smirk) And that takes something.

  (ELIDA moves to the sideboard to get and deliver the whiskey to CAROLINE and MRS. HONE during the following dialogue. CAROLINE crosses the room to sit by her mother-in-law, whom she addresses with the insulting cheerfulness of one speaking to a child.)

  And how are we feeling, Mrs. Hone? All ready for the big outing tonight? Pretty spiky? Oh, I’ll bet you are!

  MRS. HONE (Glaring at her): I’m never spiky, as you
put it, Caroline. There are evenings such as tonight, when the prospect of beautiful music induces me, unwisely perhaps, to venture abroad.

  CAROLINE (Taking off her gloves): Unwisely, fiddlesticks. I’m sure it’s the best thing in the world for you. But I didn’t come here to discuss that, Mrs. Hone. That’s a matter for your doctors, of whom Lord knows there are plenty. But there’s another matter I’d like to take up with you, if you don’t mind. A slightly more serious one.

  MRS. HONE: Bless me! Shall the old be listened to?

  CAROLINE (In a clear, sarcastic tone that nonetheless betrays nervousness): I want to find out, Mrs. Hone, whether you, like myself, have had any reason to suspect that Alexander has recently been finding the company of some other woman more attractive than mine.

  MRS. HONE (Staring): Some other woman?

  CAROLINE (Sourly sweet): By which I am not, of course, referring to yourself, whose company, I well know, he prefers to all others.

  MRS. HONE (Angry): He’s a good son, Caroline. A faithful son. Are you going to make that a fault now?

  CAROLINE: Hardly. That’s a battle I lost years ago. No, I’m referring to a possible girlfriend. A rival of both of ours, if you care to put it that way.

  MRS. HONE (Her jaw forward, still glaring at CAROLINE): I don’t care to put it any way, Caroline. Must you discuss such things before this child here?

  CAROLINE (Throwing ELIDA, who is handing CAROLINE her drinks, a brief glance): Oh, Elida. She knows all our secrets. Don’t you, Elida? I’d like to have her opinion, too. (ELIDA glances around nervously and walks over to the bookcase.)

  MRS. HONE: I should think you’d be ashamed to have others know!

  CAROLINE: Ashamed? Me? And what about your precious Alexander?

  MRS. HONE (Picking up the piece of ivory, again in her dreamy tone): I was showing this to Elida. Before you came in. It’s from the tusk of a mammoth. Early Paleolithic. That’s something you haven’t guessed about us Hones, Caroline. For all your shrewdness.