the happiest part of his day. The warm water gave him a feeling of
security, relaxing him; the world fell into a genial perspective. He
finished bathing reluctantly and dressed quickly.
Finally he stood in front of the mirror again and combed his hair. He
was glad to see that he wasn’t losing his hair. Sometimes he thought he
was; at other times he knew he wasn’t.
He wasn’t displeased with himself. He wasn’t pleased either but he knew
that he was acceptable. There was no use in worrying, anyway. He wished
sometimes that his nose could have been more aquiline. He would like to
look more impressive. Perhaps his face would get that way as he grew
older. He turned away from the mirror.
He looked at the picture on the wall and wondered for the hundredth
time why the painter had made everything look so blue. The painter had
made one of the apples almost sky-blue and Robert Holton had never seen
an apple that color before and he found it hard to believe that there
was much advantage in so misrepresenting things. Perhaps in certain
parts of France the apples were blue.
He was dressed and ready now. He looked at his watch and saw that it
was a quarter to seven: he would have to hurry. Robert Holton looked
around the room to see if there was anything he wanted to take with
him. There wasn’t. He put on his trench coat, turned out the light, and
left the room.
The elevator boy wanted to know if he was going to a party.
“Sure, I’m going to a big party.”
“Lots of girls, I bet.” The pale thin elevator boy was interested.
“A whole lot of them.”
“Boy, I wish I was going out to something like that. This night work is
getting me down. I ain’t getting much relaxation.” He winked to show
what he meant by relaxation and Holton smiled sympathetically.
Robert Holton stopped by the desk.
“I’ll be back pretty early,” he said to the clerk. He always told them
when to expect him, told them from force of habit because no one ever
wanted to know.
“Yes, sir,” said the clerk. “Nice night tonight,” he added.
“Nice fall night,” agreed Robert Holton.
They discussed the evening politely. Then Robert Holton left the hotel.
It was darker now and cooler. The night was refreshing and he felt
suddenly strong and contented. The depression of the office left him
and he was becoming alive. He prepared himself for the party and for
the evening ahead. He walked briskly down the street and, to emphasize
his mood of sudden power, he hailed a taxi and rode in it happily,
without regret for the money he was spending.
2
NIGHT
_Chapter Nine_
The party seemed to be going well. Although Mrs. Raymond Stevanson
hated cocktail parties, finding her own almost as bad as other
people’s, she still felt she had to give them and she worked very hard
to make them outstanding.
Several hundred well-dressed people wandered about her large apartment,
looking at the furniture, each other, and the five different paintings
of Mrs Stevanson. There were no traces of Mr Stevanson in the
apartment. He had died early in her career, leaving her his money and
four race horses. She had sold the horses and she had saved quite a bit
of the money. Now, at fifty-five, she was a famous hostess and somewhat
overweight.
“Good evening, Helena.” Mrs Stevanson turned around and saw the thin
malicious face of Beatrice Jordan. They were contemporaries.
“Beatrice! How marvelous!” They touched cheeks with slight frowns, then
came apart again with affectionate smiles.
Beatrice stood back a moment and looked at Mrs Stevanson. Beatrice was
extremely nearsighted but much too vain to wear glasses. To see clearly
she was forced to tuck her chin down and look upward, a habit which had
given her an undeserved reputation as a coquette. She did this now.
“Helena, you’ve lost weight! How?”
Mrs Stevanson was pleased. “Does it really show?” She patted her
cement-hard corseted buttock.
“Not so much around there,” said Beatrice, thinking for a moment. “More
around here.” She touched her own meager breasts.
“You think so?” Mrs Stevanson was irritated and angry with herself
for allowing Beatrice Jordan to say such a thing. Mrs Stevanson was
proud of her breasts. Several of the famous painters had called her
voluptuous.
“It’s been lovely seeing you, Helena darling. I’ve got to join my
escort now. I came with Clyde.”
Beatrice said this triumphantly but gained no victory.
“You came with Clyde. How wonderful! I’m dining with him tomorrow.”
“Indeed?”
“Is he here now?”
“He’s in the other room.”
“Do tell him to see me before he leaves. There are _so_ many
people here.”
“I will, darling. Lovely to see you.” Beatrice smiled, showing her
artful white false teeth and Mrs Stevanson smiled back showing her own
artful white false teeth. The two women parted.
Mrs Stevanson was annoyed but she had found that the older she got the
less interested she was in what people said. It was well known anyway
that Beatrice Jordan was a cat.
Mrs Stevanson walked now from group to group. The groups unfolded for
her like flowers before the sun. She would disappear for a moment into
the heart of one and then it would unfold again, release her and
become tight and compact once more.
Certain groups contained people more important than other groups. In
these she lingered longest, smiling the most attractively, saying her
superlatives.
In the dining room a buffet had been set on a long table. Three footmen
(hired for the evening only) guarded it from the hungry-looking guests,
betrayed it to the superior ones who were not hungry.
Twenty or thirty people were gathered here and they looked rather
self-conscious as she approached. Somehow everyone felt rather guilty
to be caught eating heavily (they _were_ eating heavily, she
noticed) at a cocktail party.
She moved heartily about the dining room, demanding that they eat more,
suggesting they try something they had not already tried. And then, to
show she was mortal, she ate a piece of white bread with Virginia ham
on it.
The dining room under control, Mrs Stevanson marched back through the
drawing room, accepted greetings and homage with a tiny smile that one
of her lovers (he was dead now) had said reminded him of La Gioconda.
Mrs Stevanson, among other things, believed in art. Tonight she had
invited several writers, a few painters, one sculptor whose name she
couldn’t remember, and a half-dozen actors whose names everyone knew.
She had also invited George _Robert_ Lewis. For some obscure
reason his middle name was always Gallicized, legitimatizing the Lewis.
He had been born and raised in Alabama. Unfortunately for his family
he had very early shown a passion for the artistic as well as a marked
tendency toward Socratic love. When he decided that the thing he most
wanted was to go to Paris and become an artist, his family did not
object; in fact, his father had suggested that if he wanted to live the
rest of his life in Paris it was all right with him. Lewis lived there
in the Nineteen-Thirties. He returned in the Forties.
Mrs Stevanson thought him cute and she was in the habit of telling her
friends that, although his habits were shocking, he was still quite
charming and so _advanced_. And then he was marvelously decadent
and the decadent was becoming popular now that the artificial virility
of war was safely past.
George _Robert_ Lewis was also an interesting person to know
because he was the editor of _Regarde_, a magazine which had been
called _avant garde_ before that phrase became old-fashioned.
Under his editorship the magazine had advanced all new things in the
hope that one of the new things thus championed would be a success. So
far none had but he still was championing and, though Mrs Stevanson
seldom understood a word he said, she felt he was awfully brave to say
the dreadful things he did about people and morals, especially people.
Lewis was talking to a small brown man whom she didn’t remember
inviting.
“Dear Helena,” said Lewis as she approached, “you look wonderfully
well-preserved.”
“George, you’re a devil,” said Mrs Stevanson, secretly pleased.
Lewis embraced her in much the same way Beatrice Jordan had. “What mad
things have you been doing, Helena? Something naughty, I’m sure.” His
innocent blue eyes sparkled as he spoke. He had the expressions of a
child.
“Nothing that you couldn’t equal. It was delightful of you to come.”
“I was so bored, darling, I felt that if I stayed home another moment I
should go completely out of my mind.”
“Poor thing.” They talked this way with each other, talked with the
casual rudeness of people who have met each other at many parties. He
was an amazing person, thought Mrs Stevanson, looking at him carefully.
He was slim and not very tall, with a pretty feminine face and, except
for the small bitter lines about his mouth, he looked as if he were
still in his twenties. His actual age was unknown. Mrs Stevanson
thought he was forty.
“And whom have we here?” asked Mrs Stevanson, turning to face the small
brown man beside him, a social smile on her face.
“Why, don’t you know ... this is....” He said the name quickly. It was
something foreign and difficult. She would have to call Lewis up the
next day and ask him. She shook hands with the little man and saw that
he was impressed with her. She smiled as George _Robert_ Lewis
explained him. He was a Greek and a professor and he knew a lot about
poetry.
“_But_ Helena, he has the most fabulous philosophy. I really think
it’s never been done before. What was it again, Timon?” Mrs Stevanson
knew his first name now.
“I’m sure Mrs Stevanson wouldn’t be interested.” As a matter of fact
Mrs Stevanson wasn’t interested but she encouraged him.
“I should love to know,” she said. How like an earthenware pot he
looks, she thought as he began to tell her his theory.
“You see it is based on the legend of the Golden Fleece. I have
substituted the artistic ultimate in place of the fleece and, to carry
the myth to its final parallel, I envisage all artists as traveling
upon an Argosy....” She listened politely, carefully to the sound of
the words, ignoring their meanings. She glanced up and down the large
white-paneled room. No one was drunk.
“Isn’t it stimulating?” asked Lewis when the Greek named Timon had
finished.
“Wonderful,” murmured Mrs Stevanson.
The Greek flushed happily. “I don’t think the Argosy’s ever been
interpreted quite that way before.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t,” agreed Mrs Stevanson. She was becoming impatient
now. Her own Argosy would have to begin again. More guests were
arriving.
“Have you seen the new ballet?” asked Lewis suddenly.
“No, I haven’t seemed to have had the time.”
“It’s dreadful. But the boy ...” Lewis made little motions with his
hand, with his mouth, with his body. His eyes glittered their blue
innocence, their cheerful pleasure. He described the boy to her and in
great detail he told her how he was going to arrange a meeting.
“You’re too clever to stay alive, my pet,” said Mrs Stevanson. She
hoped that none of her other guests were overhearing this. Most of them
were quite worldly but a few weren’t and it would never do to have them
hear him.
“I must ...” began Mrs Stevanson moving slowly away.
“So nice to have met you,” said the small Greek named Timon.
“The pleasure ...” murmured Mrs Stevanson.
Lewis waved to her. “I shall see you later, Helena.” Mrs Stevanson
wondered irritably why fairies had to have such unpleasant voices.
Several new arrivals were in the foyer. She recognized Mr Heywood
immediately. He was passively allowing one of the footmen to take his
overcoat away from him.
“Heywood dear, it was so nice of you to come.”
“It’s nice to be here, Helena.” He looked unhappily at the footman,
retreating with the overcoat.
“And where is your lovely wife?” Mrs Stevanson knew perfectly well they
were no longer on speaking terms.
“My wife?” Heywood became dreamy, vague and distant. “Oh, she’s not
well at all.”
“Really? Do tell me what’s wrong. I’ve a very good doctor, you know.”
“It’s nothing, really. She has trouble with her head. I think it’s her
head.”
“Migraine,” said Mrs Stevanson firmly, leading Heywood now into the
drawing room. “I’ve been a martyr to it myself. You know,” and she
lowered her voice, “I think it’s due to change of life.”
“Really, Helena!” Heywood was gently shocked. He made a restraining
motion with his white limp hairless hand. “I’m sure she’s much too
young for that.”
“Well, you never can tell,” said Mrs Stevanson who knew Mrs Heywood’s
exact age.
“What a lot of people,” sighed Heywood. “So many people.”
“There _are_ a lot,” said Mrs Stevanson proudly. “As usual I don’t
know half of them.”
Carefully she cut Mr Heywood away from her, allowed him to float
unprotected through the groups of people. He looked back at her sadly
but she had no pity for him and, finally, a group of Wall Street people
swallowed him up and she saw him no more.
Several people were entering the drawing room. They walked slowly with
the carefully controlled uneasiness of people who didn’t know the
hostess well.
She recognized one of the newcomers and she greeted him joyfully:
Ulysses returned to Ithaca, as the small Greek named Timon might have
said.
The man she knew introduced her to the others. Most of them were
English and she had a great admiration for the English. It was not
particularly fashionable to like them now but she still was fascinated
by them because they could talk without moving their lips. It
_was_ rather wonderful.
“And this,” said the man she knew, “is Mrs Bankton.”
“How do you do,” said Mrs Bankton in a low voice. She was not English;
Mrs Stevanson could tell that right away.
“We’ve met before, I think?” A hint of question was in Mrs Stevanson’s
voice.
“I don’t think we have.”
Mrs Bankton was definitely not English. Her accent was French or
Spanish or Italian. Mrs Stevanson could never tell one from the other.
“Mrs Bankton’s husband is the artist,” said the man she knew slightly.
“Of course,” said Mrs Stevanson wondering who Bankton was. “Certainly,
I know. But you’re not English, my dear?”
“No, madame, I’m not English.” Mrs Bankton smiled at her and made no
further admissions. Mrs Stevanson looked at her with dislike. She
liked to find out about people quickly. Life was too short to have
them hold back important facts and, ultimately, confidences. People
always confided in Mrs Stevanson, knowing that she was not sufficiently
interested in them to repeat what she heard.
“I do hope you’ll enjoy yourself,” said Mrs Stevanson more cordially
than she would have done had she liked the person.
“Thank you,” murmured Mrs Bankton. They bowed slightly to each other
and parted. Mrs Stevanson watched Mrs Bankton as she walked across the
room with her party. She looked very exotic in a short black lace dress
and a red rose in her hair. What slim ankles, thought Mrs Stevanson
disagreeably, thinking of her own heavy legs, practical legs one artist
had told her, voluptuous legs an even better artist had said.
Mrs Stevanson turned, setting a smile on her lips. She faced the
largest of all the groups: over twenty people talking all at once to
each other. Holding her breasts high she approached them and, as she
was recognized, their voices lowered and smiles appeared all about her
and she was accepted into the center of the group and there devoured.
* * * * *
Robert Holton was received by a butler. His coat was taken with
ceremony and he was moved easily out of the black marble foyer into the
drawing room.
He had never visited Mrs Stevanson in her New York apartment. He was
greatly impressed and he tried to retain a mental image of what he
saw: he was constructing a dream world and such an apartment might be
material for it.
The drawing room was large, formal and very light. Three chandeliers
hung from the high ceiling. The walls were paneled in white wood with
gold-leaf decorations, like the palace at Versailles. Paintings hung at
regular intervals about the room: portraits mostly, portraits of Mrs
Stevanson. There was one large painting of a countryside which Robert
Holton could tell immediately was done by Rembrandt or someone like him.
The floor was thickly carpeted and tables and formal chairs furnished
the room. A few people sat; most of them, however, preferred to stand,
to move about gracefully, searching.
He stood blinking in the light, drugged by the high noise of voices,
hypnotized by the odor of many flowers drenched over the women who
stood talking to men.
He walked slowly, uncertainly toward the center of the room. He knew no
one in the room. He looked for familiar faces, though; there were none.
Then he saw Mrs Stevanson and he walked toward her. She looked at him
and he could tell she was puzzled. Then she recognized him; she came
toward him and they met beneath a portrait of her holding lilies.
“You’re little Bob Holton, aren’t you?” A strange description, he
thought.
“Yes, Mrs Stevanson, you remember we met last year and....”
“Of course we did. How _is_ your father?”
“Fine, just fine.” His father hated her.
“I’m so glad to hear that. I think you look more like your mother, you
know. She was such a lovely woman.”
He mumbled thank you.
“Your mother was one of the most charming women I ever knew. She had
such a wonderful way of doing things, so original.” Like marrying my
father, thought Holton. “She was always full of surprises. I used to
enjoy her so much.”
There was an awkward silence. Robert Holton never found it easy to talk
about his mother and Mrs Stevanson had decided, obviously, that it was
the only thing she could discuss with him.
“It was very nice of you ...” began Holton.
“Think nothing of it, my dear. I don’t know if there are many younger
people here. You might look round, though. I suppose you’ll know
everybody. There’s Laura Whitner over there.... You know her of
course.” He looked and saw a dark little woman wearing a skull cap.
“I’ve seen her act,” he said accurately.
“Oh, yes.” Mrs Stevanson looked around the room. He could see that she
was preparing to leave him alone.
He was wrong. “You must,” she said, “meet some friends of mine. They’re
foreigners and they’ve only just arrived. They don’t know anyone....”
She was going to say “either” but did not.
She led him over to a small group of men and women. Mrs Stevanson
didn’t know their names but she acted as if they were her dearest
friends.
“This young man is Robert Holton. His mother was a great friend of mine
and you must be nice to him.” She was cute. “He’s just gotten out of
the navy.” She looked up suddenly with a magnificent gesture, looked
as if someone had hailed her from across the room. “Oh, I have to go!
Please excuse me.” She moved away in a swirl of silk, her bright blue
hair bouncing on the back of her thick white neck.
“How do you do,” said Holton, shaking hands with a dark man. Then he
shook hands with a light man, with a short heavy one, with a thin
blonde girl and finally he shook hands with Mrs Bankton.
“How do you do,” said Robert Holton.
“How do _you_ do,” said Mrs Bankton. Her voice startled him. It
was deep and foreign and she had said the “you” as though she had
really meant him.
“I’m very well,” he said and he looked at her. Her hair was dark. Her
eyes were greenish and bright and shining. He looked at her mouth,
red and curved, elfinly shaped. He stammered, “I know you. I know you
but....”
“But who am I?” She laughed and gestured with her long white hands.
“Yes, who are you?”
“Carla.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“You’ve changed. I....”
“And so have you. I think you look younger out of uniform.”
“But....”
“You’re surprised to see me? I’m just visiting this country. My
husband,” she paused, “my husband is in England and I think he’ll be
coming to join me soon.”
“Then you’re married?”
“But of course! And very well.” She smiled at him, smiled gently and
he felt embarrassed because she acknowledged an old relationship so
easily; that she was so unmoved, so unguilty.
“I’m very happy to hear that.” He didn’t know what else to say.
“Thank you. Let’s get out of this crowd.” She looked about her. She
pointed to a corner of the room, an alcove containing a window. “Let’s
go over there.” They walked through the crowd and sat down on the love
seat beneath the window.
“You’re surprised, aren’t you?” She spoke softly.
“A little, I guess. I don’t know. I have to get used to the idea. I
always associated you with ... with Florence and....”
“You felt that was behind you?”
He was surprised. She must have known him very well, he thought
suddenly; he had forgotten how well she had known him. “No, I didn’t
think that,” he lied.
“I have very warm memories,” she said lightly.
He blushed and hated himself but there was nothing he could do or say
that would make it better. “Mine were pleasant, too. I ... I liked
Florence quite a bit.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did, and you liked Fiesole, and the nights and
summer days. I suppose you liked them all.”
“I liked them all.”
“And that was what you liked, all that you can remember?”
“No, I _remember_ more. I ... I didn’t know if you’d want to talk
about that; being married and....”
She was surprised. “But I knew you first, after all. That counts for
something and then I remembered, too. It hasn’t been so long.”
“Several years.”
“It doesn’t seem that long to me. You remember those nights at our
place in Fiesole? We used to go out and sit on the ledge and look at
the lights of the city.” They both looked out the window then, looked
at the glacier-bright squares of light.
“It was very pretty.”
“You Anglo-Saxon!” She laughed at him, not maliciously but gaily. “You
say it’s pretty. You say it’s nice. It was beautiful and you know it.
That was a beautiful time.”
He felt her warmth suddenly, began to remember her warmth, began to
remember much that he had forgotten. “Yes,” said he, warmed by her,
“those nights _were_ beautiful.”
“Good, I wanted to hear you say that. I wanted you to say,” her voice
became so low that he could barely hear her, “I wanted you to say much
more but I think you’ve forgotten.” She looked out at the towers of the
city, at the glittering webs of light. She was embarrassed now and he
was not. No, she was not embarrassed; he realized that with a sudden
vision; she was sad and he didn’t want her to be sad.
“You know ... I can say more. I didn’t think you wanted to hear it.
That was so long ago. You’re married and....”
She turned around and faced him, her face alive and gay; her moods
changed so quickly, he remembered: he had always been baffled by her
changes. “You got interested in someone else. I know what you soldiers
are like. Italians are just the same in Italy.”
“No, there isn’t anyone else.” This was the wrong thing to say and he
tried to withdraw the words from the air but they were lost to him now.
“No one else? No one...?”
“Well....”
“How strange.” She looked at a painting of Mrs Stevanson and at that
moment she looked as if this painting were the most important thing to
her. Finally she said, “I think I’d like to drink some whiskey. Shall
we go to the bar?”
“Certainly, Carla.” He was glad that he had said her name naturally.
* * * * *
Carla felt uncertain. The cold glass that a footman had given her
was chilling her hand. She wondered if she should put it down on the
dining-room table. They were standing near it and Robert Holton was
looking hungrily at the food; she could see that in a moment he would
have enough courage to eat.
“What a dreadful room,” said Carla.
“What?” He looked at her as though she had not been there. “Oh, yes,
it’s sort of forbidding.” He glanced at the dark wood-paneled walls and
the ornate chandelier.
“I don’t know why these people must have everything so heavy inside,”
said Carla. “The buildings in New York are so tall and light.”
“Some places are more modern.”
“I suppose they are.” The glass of whiskey in her hand was becoming
much too cold to hold. She put it down on the table.
“You don’t like it?”
“I think I’ve had enough for now. You remember how little I used to
drink.”
“Yes, you never needed it.” He looked at her directly and smiled. She
was happy then because it was the first time he had looked at her eyes.
He was losing his fear of her, this strange and, to her, inexplicable
fear.
“Let’s find some place to sit down,” she said.
“I thought you wanted to walk around.”
She laughed. “All right, we’ll do both.” They walked around.