The Little Book: A Novel

by Edwards, Selden

  They took their seats, and the festivities began. Weezie leaned in to Wheeler and began pointing out the famous Viennese she recognized: musicians, actors, singers, and dignitaries, including the American minister Mr. Tower. “There is Herr Mahler,” she said, pointing to the left of the speaker. “And look,” she said, pointing to the seats on the floor. “There is my friend Arnauld Esterhazy.” As she pointed, Arnauld turned around and waved. “I think everyone in Vienna is here,” she said jubilantly.

  Mark Twain’s speech lasted only ten minutes. The famous guest cut quite an impression with his characteristic bushy hair and mustache and his formal black cutaway jacket and white tie, as he read what sounded to Americans like elegant German from written remarks he pulled from his coat pocket. When he finished, there was wild applause. “They say in Vienna that Mark Twain is the most famous American in the world,” Weezie said. “That is far more acclaim than he is granted back in Hartford.” There followed a number of musical pieces, then more applause, and the crowd began swarming toward the famous American guest to congratulate him.

  Clara approached them. “Come,” she said to Weezie. “Father will want to see you.”

  They made their way through the crowd and waited their turn, then Clara pulled Weezie forward. “Father,” she called out, “you remember Miss Putnam from Smith College.” The famous American raised his hand and gave a broad open smile, gesturing for the crowd to stand back and let his daughter and her guests through.

  “Miss Putnam,” he said, “I remember indeed. You were eloquent and persuasive.”

  “Father was very impressed with you,” Clara said loudly as the author took Weezie’s hand. “He has called you quite striking, a sterling example why women should be given the vote. I think Father is sweet on you.”

  Mark Twain looked down, surprised by his daughter’s candor, and Wheeler noted that the famous raconteur was blushing.

  “Our children betray our deepest secrets,” he said, making light of his daughter’s frankness.

  And Weezie, oblivious to anything discomforting, said, “It is my honor to see you again, Mr. Clemens.” Then she turned to Wheeler. “This is Mr. Truman,” she said, “from San Francisco.”

  Mark Twain took Wheeler’s extended hand and shook it vigorously, both men looking each other square in the eye in a way that suggested they both knew a thing or two about fame. However it was, suddenly Wheeler found himself in the grip of the most famous writer of the nineteenth century. “Charmed,” Clemens said, regaining his old form. “I have a great fondness for San Francisco,” he said. “I found much naturalness there, to which I was accustomed, unlike some environs that are rich and grand”—he gestured to the room around them—“but lacking in naturalness. ” There was an immediate warmth in his eyes carried over from his welcoming of Weezie. “And how are you adjusting to being in this city of grandness?”

  “It has been something of a shock, I must admit,” Wheeler said a little too quickly, responding to the great writer’s genuineness. “I will admit to feeling a bit like your Hank Morgan.”

  The reference brought an immediate smile. “Don’t we all,” Mark Twain said. “Out of place in a strange land, I know the feeling. But we must not forget that we have certain gifts to bring these people, Mr. Truman. ” He laughed. “Perhaps you are feeling that they are not quite ready for what you have to offer.”

  “I find myself cautious that I might share too much,” Wheeler said. “I sense that you know about that yourself.”

  “I have known that caution for a long time now, and I am comfortable with the role.”

  “Well, I am greatly honored to meet you, sir.”

  “As we are both honored by this remarkable associate you have found.” He looked at Weezie, and Wheeler could have sworn that he was blushing again. “I hope you will honor us again, Miss Putnam,” he said. “Perhaps you and Clara can play music together.”

  On the way home in the cab, Weezie was in a euphoric mood. “It is odd to see so much fuss made over Mr. Clemens.” She shrugged and closed her eyes. “I fear that at Smith College we never took him very seriously as a writer. He writes those boys’ books.” Wheeler had no way of commenting that in her lifetime Eleanor Putnam would see Mark Twain become considered, at Smith College and elsewhere, one of the most significant of American writers, and one of those “boys’ books” come to be considered the great American novel.

  “Well, he seems to have taken you quite seriously,” Wheeler said. “I think his daughter is right. I think he is sweet on you.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him fiercely. “Oh, that is fiddle-sticks, ” she said with passion. “She was hyperbolizing.”

  “He was blushing,” Wheeler said.

  “Oh my,” Weezie said. “I seriously doubt that.”

  “William James calls you introspective, and Mark Twain blushes in your presence. I don’t think you know the effect you have,” he said cautiously.

  “Now, I think you hyperbolize.”

  But Wheeler would not let the observation drop. “You seem to have two highly developed natures. A rational one that is good with reading and numbers and analyzing things. But you also have an earthy side, one attracted to music and painting. That side is very appealing, much more than you are aware of, I think.”

  She looked at him seriously for a moment, about to quip something, but she paused. “You know,” she said, “that is exactly what it feels like. All my life as a girl I was being told to sit up at the dinner table, learn my handwriting, memorize from the Bible. And all the time I felt there was more, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. And you just have.”

  “The Chinese would call it your dual nature, your masculine and your feminine sides. Do you know the symbols of yin and yang?” He formed an inwardly-facing C with either hand and brought them together to form a circle, remembering the Haze’s lectures from his beloved “Little Book.” “They are equal and congruent, dark and light, rational and spiritual. They are a duality at the core of life. That is from Taoism, an ancient religion. Whenever the world is being too much one way for you, just think of the other half of the yin-yang.”

  She reached over and put her hand on his arm. “I love it so when you tell of such things and when you quote me passages from inspired writing. I just want to go right home and write them down.”

  “That would mean leaving here, and I do not wish you to do that.”

  She laughed. “There is so much I must thank you for. You have opened so many doors for me in the past few days. It is as if you have known me for a long, long time.”

  Suddenly, he became serious. “We need to match the exhilaration of meeting the most famous American,” he said. “It is not too late to go waltzing. ”

  For just an instant her Boston reserve brought a frown of disapproval, but she caught herself. “You see, I have this voice inside me that says ‘do not do that.’ ” She stopped and leaned into him. “I would love to go waltzing, to escape into the wild magic of a fast triple-meter.”

  “The rhythm of the wildly cathartic waltz,” he could still hear the Haze expounding, “overwhelmed the careful and reasoned measures of the minuet the way your modern rock and roll has demolished the fox trot. It became the mania of the bored middle class, a whirling intoxication that engulfed the staid quadrille and became an obsession for a whole city.” He loved quoting from a nineteenth-century German visitor who had seen in the waltz an escape into the demonic. “African and hot-blooded, crazy with life, restless, unbeautiful, passionate, it exorcises wicked devils from our bodies, capturing our senses in sweet trance. A dangerous power has been given to the waltz. It stimulates our emotions directly, not through the channel of thought. Bacchantically, it is lust let loose, with none of God’s inhibitions.”

  “It is merely dancing,” Weezie said innocently, after Wheeler’s rendition of the Haze’s diatribe in the carriage on the way to the Sperl in Leopoldstadt.

  Once in the great hall, they were shown to their t
able by a waiter who brought them white wine in a pitcher. “I guess we should get our feet wet,” Wheeler said, leading Weezie on his arm through the crowd of smiling happy people, out to the dance floor. “Usually the Viennese are overly polite,” Weezie said. “Here they seem to bump and jostle without a word of apology.”

  “So it is at a bacchanal,” Wheeler said, readying himself, with his arm around Weezie’s slim waist. The conductor, the successor of both Strausses, father and son, lifted his baton and smiled out at the expectant crowd. Down came the baton, and the music began to swell.

  “Shall we,” Wheeler said gallantly.

  “I don’t know how,” she said.

  “Nonsense. Everyone knows how to waltz. It’s in your fiber, waiting to be released.” Wheeler’s words came directly from an evening long ago. He took her right hand in his left and lifted it, then placed his other hand on her waist and pulled her toward him, holding her for a moment close enough to feel her warmth against his chest, then pulled her after him as he took little steps around the floor. “One, two, three ... one, two, three,” he heard her whisper a few times, then let the gentle rhythm of the steps take over, and they dipped down into the opening motions, at first self-conscious and hesitant, then pulled along by their neighbors into the smiling, joyous whirl.

  “I absolutely love it,” Weezie said, beaming. “It is, I think, the opposite of repression.”

  “How many does one do in a row?” Wheeler said after they had stayed on the floor for at least three.

  “I don’t know,” Weezie said, pulling him off toward their table. “I need something to cool me off before I start up again.” They made their way to their table. “I think the Viennese change partners—” She held tight to his hand. “But I am not sharing you with anyone.”

  “You see,” he said, helping with her chair. “Already you are losing your inhibitions. Take care.”

  “I wish to lose all of my inhibitions. Simply all.” Then she looked serious, a fullness had come into her cheeks, absolutely compelling. “Do you think that is absolutely wicked?”

  “I think it is quite natural.”

  “You know? I feel as if I am three people, and they are at war with each other. I am my aunt Prudence, sitting in severe judgment, and I am an impulsive child always selfishly and impulsively pushing at the edges.”

  “And the third?”

  “I am my mother, the wise and sane adult, trying to find the reasonable and kind way.” Wheeler just looked at her, amazed, as she took a breath. “And I feel you have been sent as my protector,” she said, throwing her head back. “You will protect me from my warring personages, to bring me to—” She didn’t know the word.

  “To wholeness?” Wheeler said, bringing the Cs of his two hands together, and she looked at him in gentle amazement.

  “To wholeness,” she repeated.

  They danced for what seemed to be hours, with no thought of leaving, swept up in the gaiety. “Have you noticed the young women?” Weezie said at a break in the music.

  “I haven’t taken my eyes off you.”

  “No, I mean their lack of decorum,” Weezie said, patting his arm. “They walk through the crowd unchaperoned and don’t mind pushing people out of the way. It is very liberated, I’d say.”

  “Next thing you know, they’ll want the vote.”

  The music started again, and the crowd whirled. “This is what my venerable teacher called Gay Apocalypse,” Wheeler said, looking around in awe.

  “It is wonderful,” she said with a broad, delighted smile. They danced away in the center of the vortex, until the orchestra played its last strains and the crowd began filing out of the great hall. “I feel wild and liberated too.” Her face positively glowed, and he acknowledged in that moment how very much he wanted her.

  Out in the cool night air, they found a cab in a long waiting line. “That was absolutely enthralling,” Weezie said once inside. Her eyes flashed with a new light, and her face was still flush from the exhilaration. “I think this has been the most thrilling night of my life.”

  “I’ve told the driver to take the long way back,” Wheeler said as they left the gaiety of the Sperl. “I hope you don’t mind.” He looked over at her in the dim light from passing streetlamps. Outside he could hear the clip-clop of the horse’s shoes on the cobblestone streets and feel the gentle swaying of the carriage. Her eyes looked back at him with a depth that went beyond gratitude or even respect. The press of her arm against his seemed to transfer a warmth that filled the interior of the cab.

  “You know, I did think you a sorcerer in that awful moment when I fled. I felt you pulling me down to a dark world.”

  “And how do you think of me now?”

  “No change,” she said with a lascivious smile. “But I think that I am meant to be here with you, that you have been sent as my guide.”

  He took both her hands in his and looked deep into her eyes. “I will not guide you where you do not wish to go.” Then he paused, still looking into her eyes. “I need to tell you something directly,” he said.

  She did not budge from his gaze. “You are the most direct person I have ever met.”

  “Well, in that spirit of directness, I must tell you that when you left, I was devastated. I had pushed too far and driven you away, and I found the results devastating.” She began to offer an explanation, and he stopped her. “I have been deeply touched in this glorious city where we have found ourselves, this city of music.” She took in the words and released a gentle sigh. “And I must tell you that I have found in your presence a peace and comfort that I have waited for a lifetime. I have wanted to be your guide, and yet you have guided me. I do not want to go too far or too fast, but I am the one totally enthralled, and I wish—”

  “We both wish,” she said, now stopping him, meeting his gaze and leaning forward ever so slightly.

  Without taking his eyes from hers, he matched her forward movement, as if to examine more closely the glow that the evening bacchanal of music had placed within them. And then his lips met hers and he felt their welcoming softness, and he lost track of time or space, being drawn to her by a strange and powerful force that began to surge within her, matching his own. “This time, we will go very slowly,” he whispered. “Slowly and surely.”

  “Remember, small steps,” she said once again, this time as a full commitment.

  Together they rose with the strains from the imagined music, and suddenly, almost without knowing it consciously he was with her, again driven forward by the inviting vitality and warmth, riding the wave of mutual passion to the crest, then together crashing in each other’s arms. “Slowly,” Wheeler repeated.

  This time no one ran away.

  39

  Coming Together

  Wheeler had gone back to the cabinetmaker in the heart of the inner city, this time to replace the wooden Frisbee he had given the woman in black. “Let’s go out to the woods,” he said to Dilly, holding up the wooden disk. “This is our meal ticket. I want to show you how it works.”

  They took the train out of the city and found an open spot in the trees in the fabled Vienna Woods, the Wienerwald, and Wheeler gave his father his first lesson in the fine art of Frisbee. “Try to release it level,” he said, as his father looked at a disappointing toss that tilted and sank to the ground just a few yards from his feet, one of only a few awkward moves Dilly Burden had ever made in his life. “And flick your wrist,” Wheeler said patiently, standing close by. “Put as much spin on it as you can.”

  Dilly tried again, and this time it thudded to the ground just short of Wheeler’s outstretched arms. “I’ll get the hang of it,” he said with gusto, always up for an athletic challenge.

  “You’ll get it,” Wheeler said, sending the disk floating back to the younger man with a deft flick. “It’s all in the wrist.”

  Soon, the two men were standing fifty feet apart, flipping the wooden disk back and forth. “It could be very satisfying,” Dilly said, still conc
entrating too hard to smile. “Yours seem to hover in air. Mine sink like pewter plates.”

  “Wasted hours of working at it,” Wheeler said.

  Wheeler had brought some cheese, wine, and bread, and a blanket. They sat in the Vienna Woods and talked for hours, relaxed and far from the cares of worlds that now seemed far, far away in time and place.

  “Tell me what you did after Harvard,” Dilly said.

  “I stayed in Boston and studied at a music school. It wasn’t there in your time. I studied guitar and played with my band nights. We were called Shadow Self, and we developed quite a following.”

  “Married?” Dilly cut a slice of the rich yellow cheese and laid it on a chunk of bread.

  “Never married. There were a number of women in my life then.” He looked at his father warily. “The life of music concerts discouraged monogamy. Things had changed pretty much in terms of sex, and people had many relationships. It was supposed to make you more open and developed. But there was one woman. We saw each other serially. She was a student at Radcliffe, Joan Quigley was her name, from an old Boston family, and serious about school, although she is really the one who encouraged me to go with music and drop out of Harvard.” He looked off into the distance, remembering. “She broke me in, freshman year, when I was green and wet behind the ears. For years after that, when my band started doing road trips, she would show up in one city or another. She was married to a stiff and successful lawyer in Pittsburgh, very prominent, who became a federal judge. I don’t know how she got away. It was pretty easy to find me in those days. The band was famous, I guess you would say, sort of like Glenn Miller or even, dare I say, Benny Goodman.”