Will made friends easily. Perhaps it were better to use the word
"acquaintances." At any rate it was not long until he received more
invitations than he could accept. He was called on to give his services
for charitable purposes, but I noticed these hostesses never received
him in their homes. It must be said that Will rarely accepted an
invitation which did not include me, though I often realized I was
invited as a necessary evil. After supper the guests invariably played
poker, and I knew nothing about cards. The late hours sapped my
strength, and my boy always wakened early in the morning. Sometimes the
suppers were held at a well-known restaurant, like Rector's or Martin's.
I had not the proper clothes for such occasions; it was imperative that
Will dressed well, and I did not want it said that his wife was shabby.
The other women wore wonderful gowns and much jewellery.
After a winter's round of these parties, I was able to distinguish one
particular set from another. There is a smart set, a fast set and a
loose set which, though none of them can be said to be strictly "in
society," form a kind of brass-band appendage or fringe to it and differ
one from the other only in their gradations--or degradations--of moral
laxness. It is the loose set to which the actor is drawn, or inclines.
One finds in this particular stratum the artist, the journalist, the
divorcee and semi-detached woman whose name is legion. The lady who
maintains a handsome apartment and entertains lavishly is probably a
"kept" woman with an ambiguous past. Occasionally one finds a multiple
divorcee with money, playing at patroness to some impecunious
song-writer or handsome actor with more brawn than brain. But the "kept"
lady predominates. She is ubiquitous. She dresses a la mode, she is an
habituee of the smart restaurants, an inveterate first-nighter. Her
"particular friend" may be a married man of the "my
wife-don't-understand-me" brand, or he may be one of the "get-rich-quick
floaters" who joyride across the financial horizon into oblivion. It is
to this set the stall-fed woman of the leisure class turns to whet her
jaded appetite. And a hostess' Sunday AT HOME is highly suggestive of
the "obit" of a Town Topics. Individually and collectively they are
rotten. Mistaking the sex-heat aroused and stimulated by cocktails and
other alcoholic beverages for real love and passion, they wallow in the
erotic mire to their heart's content. Nobody criticizes; nobody cares;
the faster the pace the greater the joy.
It was upon this subject that my husband and I encountered our first
real rift. He had commented rather flippantly on the moral tone of a
recent supper party. We fell to discussing the players' status in
society. I had observed that with one or two notable exceptions the
actor is not received by "our best people." To be sure there are a few
cities outside of New York where quite respectable families, bored by
the drab routine of conventional society, entertain the actor as a kind
of _sauce piquante_ to their monotonous lives. But this is the exception
and not the rule. Wholly misinterpreting my motive, Will defended his
profession with a blind prejudice. After that he did not ask me to
accompany him to the various functions. It became quite a common thing
for him to telephone me from the Club that he would not be home until
late that night. I was sorry that I had expressed myself so plainly to
Will; if only I could make him understand that I wanted him to be true
to the best that was in him.... It hurt me to hear him speak lightly of
the women with whom he associated, and still continue to go among them.
Miss Burton was now a frequent visitor at our home. She adored the boy
and never failed to bring him a present when she came. She took upon
herself to lecture me for not going out with Will, declaring I was
spoiling him, and that I would make him selfish. I thought over what she
said, and resolved that I would go with Will when next he asked me. Also
I began to formulate a little circle of my own. There was a sculptor to
whom I was particularly attracted. He was a Western product, and was
preparing to go abroad to study. I had always had a fondness for
sculpture, and during my enforced retirement I amused myself at moulding
with clay. A baby's hand I had made attracted his attention one day he
had called on Will. He advised me to continue my efforts. Miss Burton
sent me a wonderful outfit and I took up my work of sculpturing in
earnest. My sculptor friend brought other friends with him, and it
became a regular thing for me to receive my friends on Sunday afternoon.
I saw that Will enjoyed my little parties, though they were simple and I
made no pretensions.
One day--it was at Christmas time--Miss Burton sent me a beautiful gown;
with the package came a characteristic note: she begged me to accept the
gown and not to feel hurt, that she was dead broke and could not afford
to make me a "decent" Christmas present. The gown, she said, had been
spoiled by the dressmaker, who had made it much too tight, and it would
make her happy if I would accept it with her love....
It was so pretty--all creamy white and fluffy, and there were little
pink flowers scattered over the net. I put it on ... and, as I looked at
myself in the mirror, I felt quite pleased with the reflection. White
was always becoming to me.... I did not tell Will about my present, but
the next time he casually mentioned an invitation to dinner I accepted
with an alacrity which surprised him.
When Sunday came, I dressed with the excitement of a conspirator, and
when Will called me to help him with his tie I walked into his room
with an air of unconcern worthy of a star. Will was delighted with my
appearance.
When we entered the house of our hostess I no longer felt the desire to
hide myself; instead, I felt quite mistress of myself. It's wonderful
what a difference clothes will make in one's feelings. Miss Burton told
me once that, whenever she was down on her luck and felt depressed, she
forthwith went on a sartorial debauch. She bought everything in sight.
Her new clothes re-established her self-respect, and somehow, some way,
a good engagement came along and helped her to pay for her prodigality.
We were a little late in arriving, and when I came down from the
bedroom, where I had left my wrap, the second round of cocktails was
being passed. Will was standing at the foot of the stairs talking with
his hostess. A large nude figure carrying softly shaded lights decorated
the newel-post, and screened me from view of the woman who was talking
to Will.
"You handsome dog!" I heard her say. "What have you been doing to Alice?
She's gone clean off her head--threatens to leave her husband, and is
drinking like a fish!"
"I haven't done anything," Will began, but at that moment our hostess
saw me and nudged Will, who joined me and we entered the drawing-room.
I felt Will's questioning eyes on my face, but I did not look at him;
instead, I gave my hand rather impulsively to my sculptor friend who was
standing alone, and I did not notice the returning pressure until my
wedding ring cut into the flesh, and made me wince. I was wondering who
"Alice" could be and what Will had to do with her. Our hostess's
"friend" was present. He was a middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion,
iron gray hair and a closely cropped moustache. I had once seen him at
the Horse Show in one of the boxes, and he had been pointed out to me as
a prominent railroad man. He greeted Will noisily.
"Hello, Hartley," he yelled, "you're late on your cue. I suppose you
wanted to make an effective entrance!"
At the table I sat next to the sculptor; on my other hand was a dentist
who had leaped into fame by having been expelled from a certain European
country where he had set up a successful practice. A _liaison_ with the
wife of a man close to the throne had led to his downfall, and he had
returned to his native land to be received with open arms by the set in
which we were now travelling. He had a face such as I imagined Moliere
conceived for his Tartuffe; his voice was caressing and made me sleepy.
Opposite me sat a well-known star. He was famous for his magnetism.
Although I could not discern it, there must have existed something of
the sort, for every leading woman who engaged with him, sooner or later,
succumbed to his charm. I myself knew of one girl whose life was almost
ruined when he took up with another woman who had joined his Company to
play a special engagement. This girl was one of the prettiest I ever
saw; she was "chaperoned" by a complaisant mother. This irresistible
gentleman was married, but his wife refused to live with him and made
her home abroad. For the sake of the children she refused to divorce
him.
A comic opera singer sat beside the hostess. The dentist, assuming that
I knew the situation, asked me, _sotto voce_, how long I thought it
would be before "papa took a tumble to himself." When I confessed my
inability to follow him, he proceeded to enlighten me. The hostess was
infatuated with the singer, who was as poor as Job's turkey, and while
her protector was absent--(he was married and had several grown
children)--the lady consoled herself with song. This easy,
matter-of-fact way in which these topics were discussed, the utter lack
of restraint between the sexes, no longer shocked me. I was on the point
of asking my purveyor of illicit news whether he could tell me who Alice
was; instead, I turned to the bored man at my right, and by degrees I
got him to tell me of his ambitions, his work and his ideas of life. I
found we had much in common.
While we were talking, there was a noisy argument going on at the other
end of the table.
"I wouldn't stand it for one minute!" rang out the voice of our hostess,
and I saw her shoot a meaning glance at the singer.
"Ask an actor's wife! Ask Mrs. Hartley!" bellowed the host. "Mrs.
Hartley?"
"Yes?" I responded, not knowing the subject of conversation.
"Pardon me for interrupting so interesting a conversation, won't you,
Calhoun," he said, addressing my sculptor friend with exaggerated
courtesy. "I'll give her back to you in a minute.... Mrs. Hartley, the
ladies want to know how it feels to watch your husband make love to
another woman?"
I caught Will's eye. At another time I should have been embarrassed.
To-night, however, I felt a strange self-control.
"Oh dear, what an old chestnut!" I answered flippantly. "I believe
that's the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time I've answered that
question this season." I noticed that my voice took on a bored tone.
"Well, tell us!" urged mine host.
"To tell the truth," I began, "I never give it a thought."
Will's eyes twinkled; he was seated at the far end of the table between
two stall-feds.
"It's a part of the business," I continued, "just as dictating to his
typewriter is a part of the routine of a business man. Does every wife
suspect her husband's stenographer?"
"Yes! yes!" came the chorus from the curvilinear gentlemen at the other
end of the table.
I shrugged my shoulders. "Very well, then, it seems to me, since you
gentlemen won't behave, that it is up to the women to see that you do!"
I sat down. I felt ashamed of my vulgarity. Our host suggested a toast
and scrambled to his feet. "Here's to our wives and sweethearts--may
they never meet!"
There was more laughter. The dentist murmured something about moss-grown
jokes, and the hostess asked why husbands and lovers were excluded. I
felt my mouth drawing down at the corners, and I buried my lips in the
American Beauty rose the sculptor had purloined from the centre-piece.
It was probably the frequent replenishing of the wine glasses which led
the doctor-dentist to level all his batteries of fascination upon me. He
moved nearer and closer, until even the hostess noticed his efforts; she
thought it funny. Finally, he slipped his hand beneath the table and let
it rest upon my knee. I arose and asked the sculptor to exchange seats
with me. I think he understood, for as I passed him he said to me in a
low, intense tone, "Is that beast annoying you?" I did not answer. In my
confusion I upset a glass of wine, and the wine-agent across the table
told me he was sorry I didn't like his wine.
As the dinner progressed some spicy stories were exchanged. The time we
lingered at the table seemed interminable. Mr. Calhoun told me I should
take a drink of brandy, for I was growing quite pale. He could not, of
course, realize that at that moment I had suddenly noticed that Will's
companion was dressed all in black and wore gardenias. A moment later
the hostess had called her "Alice." ... She leered at Will with
wine-shot eyes, her breath coming in quick, short gasps, and I noticed
that his right and her left hand were under the table....
As we left the table I had asked Mr. Calhoun what time it was. When he
told me it was after eleven I ran quickly up the stairs to the room
where I had seen a telephone. It was my habit to awaken my boy at
half-after nine every night to give him nourishment. He was put to bed
at five o'clock, and the period between that and morning was too long to
go without food. I wanted to ask my maid whether she had remembered my
instructions. The telephone was in a kind of closet off the hostess's
bedroom; beyond the bedroom was her boudoir, reached by a door from the
corridor. I had finished with my message, and was about to go
downstairs, where the singing had begun, when I heard someone enter the
boudoir beyond. I stopped and drew back, why, I do not know. A moment
later there were footsteps on the stairs, and Will entered the room. He
came quickly and began speaking at once.
"My dear Alice," he said, "this thing can't go on. You are making a fool
of me and of yourself. The first thing you know your husband will get on
to it and there will be the devil to pay!"
"That's right! Make it harder for me," the woman answered. "Why do you
always bring my husband into the conversation? You know how it is
between us. We haven't lived as man and wife for years. He's never
understood me and I can't go on with him any longer. I won't--that's
all!"
There was a pause before Will spoke again.
"Come on, don't go on like that; everybody will know what's happened.
You'll spoil your eyes."
Another pause. I think these silences were the hardest to bear....
"You had no right to let it go this far if you didn't care," the woman
went on resentfully.
"This far? How do you mean? There has been nothing that you need be
ashamed of--nothing that you couldn't tell your husband if it came
right down to it," answered Will.
The woman laughed angrily. "Is that so? I suppose you count a few motor
rides and a few suppers on the side nothing. I suppose you wouldn't mind
telling your wife that you had held me in your arms and kissed my eyes
and my hair...."
"Good Heavens! neither of us meant anything wrong! We were just carried
away for a few minutes--you're a fascinating devil--and the wine helped
some.... Now, don't do that, don't do any of that foolish business with
me...."
What was she doing, I wondered? Did she intend to kill him or kill
herself? I almost started to Will's rescue, then--she laughed.
"Powder your nose and let's go down. Somebody will notice our absence."
Evidently she obeyed, for there was another pause.
"You needn't worry about your wife," she said. "The giant from the West
is keeping her busy. Better keep your eye on him."
Will did not reply. My eardrums seemed on the point of bursting from the
surging of the blood to my head.
They came out into the corridor. At the head of the steps she stopped.
"I suppose it amuses you to make women love you," she said.
"My dear woman, you don't love me; I don't flatter myself to that
extent."
She laughed sneeringly.
Would they never go?
"Kiss me good-night and good-bye," she half whispered.
"This is the last one," he answered, "the last, remember."
There was a stifled cry as she clung to him, and I saw Will release
himself and run down the steps. A few minutes later she followed. I
found my way down the servants' stairs and entered the dining-room from
the butler's pantry. When Will came to look for me I was drinking brandy
frappee with the wine merchant.... That night I slept on a couch beside
my boy's crib.