She liked smaller parties. She had only come tonight because friends of
her husband had insisted. They were keeping close watch over her for
they knew how jealous Bankton was. It was very amusing, she thought
as she and Holton walked from group to group. Her husband’s friends
watching her now would never suspect what had happened in Florence.
They came to an especially large group, a dozen men surrounding Laura
Whitner.
“Do you want to meet her?” asked Carla, looking at Holton, knowing that
he did.
“You don’t know her?”
“But of course. I know everyone.”
They cut their way through the bewitched men, cut through to the
enchantress herself.
Laura Whitner was dark and slight with full breasts. Her face was as
delicate as a carving in ivory; sallow, too, as old ivory. The lips
were brilliant red and she twisted her mouth in childlike expressions
and her sad dark eyes glittered from habit and not from fire. She
looked unwell, thought Carla.
“Carla Bruno!” exclaimed Laura when she saw them. The two women
embraced with warmth and the enchantment was broken for the admirers
and they began to withdraw from the circle of her spell, smiling as
they departed, leaving her alone in her theater with only two admirers.
“But my tiny Carla, what are you doing in New York? I haven’t seen you
for years, not since Paris.”
“I’m here visiting.”
“But I’m so happy to see you! You know, you’re the last person I’d
expect to run into here.”
“I had to get away from Europe. I hadn’t been to America since I was a
child.”
Laura Whitner looked at her hands. “You’re not married, are you?” Carla
wore no wedding ring.
Carla smiled and nodded.
Laura looked astonished, her scarlet mouth, like a wicked child’s,
twisted with all the emotions she felt and several that she did not.
“To whom? To the little one here?” She motioned to Robert Holton who
had been standing silently watching her.
Carla laughed. “No, Laura, to Bankton in England.”
“The painter?”
“The painter. We’ve been married two years.”
“Are you happy?” There was a dark note in her voice as she said this
and Carla could tell that it was something she wanted to know.
“I am not unhappy,” said Carla, knowing that this was no answer but she
hoped that Holton would grasp her meaning.
“I’m sorry,” said Laura Whitner almost undramatically. “I married
again, you know.”
“I heard you did. Is he here tonight? I used to know him.”
“He couldn’t come, he’s working on a show. Are you going to have
children?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I want one.” She sighed and touched the skullcap on her head with a
hand that was pale and like the claw of a bird, a hand that shook. “If
I’m not too old I’m going to make a child. I think that’s what I need.”
“You must be very happy with him.”
She nodded and said with great sincerity, “Yes, I’m very happy now.
After a long time I am.” And Carla looked into her sad dark eyes and
saw that they had not changed expression.
“Who is this?” asked Laura Whitner, turning to Holton, making love to
him automatically with her face.
“This,” said Carla, “is Robert Holton, an old friend of mine. We knew
each other in Florence during the war.”
“Indeed!” She lifted her thin brows and made her mouth very round.
Holton blushed and Carla wanted to protect him.
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” said Holton awkwardly. “I’ve liked you
in the movies.” Carla remembered then his honesty: the thing that had
attracted her to him. He had always been honest; she wondered if that
was so now.
“Have you really, child? Thank you.” She made a gesture that was
intended for an entire audience but it was still very graceful.
“You must,” said Carla, “call me up and we’ll get together. I’m staying
at the Mason.”
“I shall, of course. Tell me....” At this moment Mrs Raymond Stevanson
appeared to capture Laura.
“Laura, darling, I’ve got the most marvelous Estonian who wants to meet
you. I think he said he was an Estonian. I know you’ll love him. You’ll
excuse me, I know.” She said this last to Carla and Holton.
“We’ll have lunch,” said Laura, calling back over her shoulder as she
was borne away by the conquering Mrs Stevanson.
“What did you think of her, Bob?” asked Carla.
“She’s not as pretty as I thought she’d be.”
“They never are; you must learn that.”
He looked at her and she tried to tell what he was thinking but for
once her intuition was not enough: she had first to examine the years
that had gone by. She had to find some trace of familiar emotion in
him. She had to rediscover the stranger. She had to make him remember
what she remembered. In Florence he had loved her, she was sure of
that. Now it was up to her to reconstruct a passion that had never been
wholly lost. She had cared more for him than he had known then; would
ever know, she hoped. There had been so many nights after he had left
when she had longed to be with him, nights when she could feel again
the warm summer about them as they lay together in the wide bed in her
room. She was determined now to find the lover in the stranger that
stood beside her, who stood looking seriously but remotely into her
face.
“Shall we sit down now, Bob?”
* * * * *
People were beginning to leave. It was eight-thirty and Mrs Stevanson
was glad to see them go. The first two hours were interesting and then
she found herself bored.
On the other hand George _Robert_ Lewis was not bored. He was
slightly drunk and enjoying himself very much. He was usually overcome
by a monstrous _ennui_ during the day which, as evening came, grew
less and less. In a few more hours he would have discovered a reason
for living and this would keep him happy until he woke up the next
morning with a hang-over.
He was glad when he heard that the famous Bankton’s wife was at the
party. She had been pointed out to him but he hadn’t met her yet.
He stopped a waiter and took a cocktail from him. And, equipped for
conversation with a woman, he marched across the drawing room to where
Carla stood talking with a young man, a rather nice young man, thought
Lewis.
“Mrs Bankton?”
She turned and looked at him and he rather liked her brown-green eyes.
“Yes?” She looked at him as though she wanted him to go away. Lewis was
sensitive to such things but not particularly nonplussed; in fact he
was accustomed to being asked to go away.
“I’m George _Robert_ Lewis ... you know _Regarde_, the
_avant garde_ magazine, only it’s so trite now to call anything
_avant garde_. You must have seen it. We did the most splendid
article on Bankton last year. I’ve just loved his work because I can
feel what he’s trying to do: post-surrealism and all that sort of
thing. I’m all for it; in fact, we’re all for people like Bankton who
do things. I just felt I couldn’t help but come over and say hello.”
She smiled at him very nicely. “I’ve heard of you, Mr Lewis. My husband
thinks very highly of what your magazine is doing.”
“He does? Oh, but isn’t that simply marvelous! I always felt I would be
most sympathetic with the great Bankton. Tell me, darling, when do you
expect him in this country?”
She took the “darling” quite well, he thought.
“I’m not sure. I think in a month or so. He’s so busy in London.” “By
the way”, she said, “I want you to meet an old friend of mine, Robert
Holton.”
“Very pleased to meet you, Mr Lewis,” said the young man as they shook
hands.
“_Enchanté_,” said Lewis, bowing from the waist and allowing his
hand to stay too long in Holton’s. Such a nice young man, thought
Lewis, and wondered if....
“What,” said Carla, “is _Regarde_ espousing now?” She spoke
quickly and Lewis could see that she understood him and this pleased
him although, in a sense, they were rivals.
“As always: the advanced, the revolutionary....”
“And the honest?”
“But of course, darling, we are never consciously dishonest, though it
_is_ hard sometimes not being.”
“Perhaps in life but not in art.” She spoke severely. She was a Latin;
he could tell now from her accent.
“You’re not English?” He changed the subject.
“No, I’m a Florentine.”
“But how charming! I have always loved Florence. I spent several
summers there when I was a boy. Let me see ... I was there last in
19.... It’s not important. How I loved those doors, though!”
He saw that the young man named Robert Holton was beginning to look
bored and Lewis hated above all else to be thought a bore even by a
bore.
“And _you_ have been to Florence?”
Holton nodded.
Carla said, “That was where we met the first time. He’s an old friend
of our family’s.”
“How droll that must’ve been for you, finding this charming boy here
at Helena Stevanson’s who, though I love her dearly, gives the dullest
parties in New York.”
“They _are_ dull. I wonder why people come. Why do you come?”
“I’m a creature in constant need of companionship. I go to everything.
I _must_ see a lot of people or I become most dreadfully morbid
and then I write poems.”
She smiled. “I remember you used to write some good poems.”
He laughed, pleased. “You remember then? That was so long ago. I
somehow have gotten all out of the habit.”
“Perhaps you see too many people.”
“That may be right and, speaking of people, you lovely ones must have
dinner with me this evening, otherwise I must eat alone; I’ve been
deserted today by everyone.”
“I’m afraid,” said Carla, “that we can’t....”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Holton much to Lewis’s surprise--to
Carla’s surprise, too. Lewis looked at her and saw she was surprised.
He was amused, wickedly amused. There was something between them.
“You must really join me. I know of the most interesting place in the
Village. I know you’ll love it.”
“Don’t you want to go?” asked Holton, looking at Carla.
“Why....” She didn’t know what to say.
“Certainly you’ll come; three is good company.”
Carla gestured uncertainly with her hands.
“Perhaps I’d better come back in a moment,” said Lewis, smiling
maliciously at Carla. “I so hope I’m not upsetting plans.” He made
bowing movements and retreated into the center of the party.
As he withdrew he could see the long look Carla gave the young man.
* * * * *
The men from Wall Street bored Mr Heywood. He tried to act like them
but from time to time he could not help implying gently to them that he
was a broker through heredity, not inclination. It was so much easier
doing what his father had done than to do something else or nothing at
all. He had a puritanical horror of doing nothing. His family had made
him believe that it was necessary always to work and he rather liked
the work, too. It made him think less about his own uniquely miserable
life.
His wives were a large part of the general dreariness of his life. He
never seemed to marry the right women. They either wanted his money
or wanted to dominate him. He was used to domination by now but it
made him uneasy sometimes to feel that his own will was so easily bent
by others. He was always making stands, erecting firm barriers, but
somehow the barriers usually collapsed. He wondered sometimes if he
shouldn’t collect stamps or have a hobby like that.
Thinking of this, he began now to divorce himself from the group of
Wall Street people. He promised to have lunch with one, to call up
another; he bowed to a third, shook hands with a fourth and then he
floated softly away, a look of quiet happiness on his face: he was now
alone in the midst of a party.
Mr Heywood looked about him to see if there was anyone he might like
to talk to. He would prefer some young woman who looked lonely. His
three wives had all looked lonely at one period of the courtship and
he had married them as much for this corresponding loneliness as for
anything else. He had been mistaken three times but he was, in general,
an optimist.
There seemed to be no lonely-looking young women. He sighed and was
about to leave the party when he saw Robert Holton. He remembered him
clearly; he was proud of his memory. Now he would have to speak to him.
It would be difficult, but then he had always been taught that if a
thing was particularly unpleasant it should be done: character was made
in this fashion and character was more important than anything else. He
proceeded to mould his character. He walked toward Robert Holton.
Mr Heywood approached Holton from behind and he could overhear his
conversation with a dark pretty woman.
Holton was saying, “I think it might be interesting. After all, Carla,
I don’t get out much and if a person like Lewis wants us to go I think
we should.”
“If you want to, Bob.” She was a foreigner, thought Mr Heywood with
interest. “I’d hoped we might have had dinner together and try to ...
to talk of.... I’m not saying this well, I’m sorry.”
“No, Carla....” Mr Heywood drifted between them now.
“Mr Holton?” he asked.
“Oh, Mr Heywood! How do you do, sir?” Robert Holton was impressed as
always with Mr Heywood’s greatness and this both saddened and pleased
Mr Heywood.
“I had thought ...” began Mr Heywood in a barely audible voice.
“This,” said Holton quickly on top of Mr Heywood’s words, “is Mrs
Bankton, an old friend of mine. Mr Heywood.”
The meeting was made and Mr Heywood was rather attracted to this pretty
girl who spoke English so beautifully and yet with an accent.
“I thought I should find you here, Mr Holton. Mrs Stevanson was telling
me about you.”
“That was nice of her.”
“She is a charming woman,” said Mr Heywood, praising an absent person
about whom they all cared very little; it filled the first awkwardness
of a meeting such as this. “You enjoy being downtown?” He was careful
not to associate himself with Holton’s job.
“Oh, very much,” said Holton.
“By the way,” asked the dark pretty woman, “what are you doing now? You
haven’t told me.”
Holton flushed and Mr Heywood was sorry for him. “I’m working in a
brokerage office.”
She laughed. “But how dreadful that must be.”
Holton looked miserable and Mr Heywood, who rather agreed with her,
laughed. “It’s not too terrible, Mrs Bankton. Some of us manage to
survive it. I think a sense of humor is the most important thing.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I had no idea you were also in the same
situation.”
How delightful she was, thought Mr Heywood. “We must all,” said Mr
Heywood in a voice that was like the sigh of a dying man, “do our
appointed tasks. Duty is of such great importance: it is the only
tangible thing in the chaos of living.”
“But I don’t think that’s so at all,” said Carla as gently as he but
with less resignation. “One should always try to do what one wants to
do.”
“In spite of one’s duty to others?”
“People that you love?”
“No, that I ... that one admires and respects.”
“And this makes you happy?”
“Are any of us happy?” asked Heywood in a voice of weary sadness; he
stopped, suddenly remembering that young Holton was there. It would
never do for him to hear these things.
“I talked,” he said casually, “with Murphy about you today. He seemed
most enthusiastic.”
“That’s nice. I like working with him.”
“Perhaps,” said Mr Heywood, looking at a spot somewhere over Holton’s
head, “perhaps you would be interested in working in the jobs that, ah,
come in contact with the public.” He could not say selling: he tried
but he could not. He wondered if maybe a long trip to South America
would give him a new perspective.
“I think that would be wonderful!” Holton was moved as he should be.
An affable young man, thought Mr Heywood who, as a rule, did not like
men at all, especially young men who seemed to be able to get all the
lonely young women they wanted.
“Perhaps,” murmured Mr Heywood, “something can be arranged in the near
future.” He looked at the dark woman beside Holton and he thought her
an unusually real person to find in such a place as this. She was
probably not real, though: only an illusion with long white hands and
silvery nails. He was used to women vanishing.
George _Robert_ Lewis appeared and Mr Heywood experienced a slight
spasm of nausea. He found Lewis hard to be with. Mr Heywood would not
have said that being a broker was a productive life but if, to be an
artist, it was necessary to be like Lewis he had no desire to be an
artist.
“How do you do?” said Lewis, bowing very low and smirking at him.
“And how are you?” inquired Mr Heywood politely, beginning to retreat
slowly.
“Doing marvelously. These charming people here are dining with me,
aren’t you?”
Carla looked uncertain and Holton nodded. Mr Heywood wondered where
Holton had run across Lewis.
“I’m really,” said Lewis in a conspiratorial voice (an old woman’s
voice, thought Mr Heywood, frowning slightly), “just doing a job. Her
husband is one of our idols and I may get a perfectly marvelous essay
out of her. I knew his work so well.” Mr Heywood wondered vaguely why
Lewis was explaining so many things.
“I see,” said Mr Heywood. He turned to Carla. “Delighted to have met
you.” He nodded to Holton. “I shall probably see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir; good night, sir.” Mr Heywood glided away toward the door.
Mrs Stevanson appeared beside him just as he had made up his mind to
leave.
“Do cheer up, Heywood. You look so petulant!”
“I’m not really, Helena, not really.”
“I’m not so sure. Who’re you looking at?” He glanced away quickly but
she saw that he had been watching Carla. “Lovely, isn’t she? I’m afraid
she’s stuck with that Holton boy and, my Lord, George _Robert’s_
got her, too. The poor child and ...” Mrs Stevanson was surprised. “I
do think they’re leaving!”
“After all,” said Heywood soothingly, “it _is_ a cocktail party.
They probably weren’t able to find you.”
“I suppose you’re right, Heywood. Manners change so. She looked rather
unhappy, I thought.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Bankton.”
“Really. I didn’t notice.”
“I don’t suppose you did; men don’t notice very many things anyway,”
said Mrs Stevanson, suddenly exhibiting her bitterness. She controlled
herself quickly. “Except men like you, Heywood dear.”
“Thank you, Helena.” He bowed without movement; he suggested a bow
without actually executing it. “Now I must really be going.”
“So soon, Heywood, so soon?”
_Chapter Ten_
Carla was angry with Robert Holton, angrier still with George
_Robert_ Lewis. She had hoped to have dinner alone with Holton.
She wanted time to recover a past emotion and now she would have very
little time. As they drove through the lighted streets she looked with
dislike at Lewis’s smooth boyish face.
None of them spoke after they got into the cab outside Mrs Stevanson’s
place. Lewis had given the driver an address and they had relaxed, each
thinking of different things: Holton pleased to be seeing life; Lewis
pleased to have secured the wife of a great figure; Carla displeased
with the arrangement, Carla plotting murder.
Robert Holton sat in the middle. Carla had decided that if she had to
spend an evening with Lewis she at least wouldn’t sit next to him.
She looked at Holton as they drove down Seventh Avenue. He was looking
straight ahead. His well-formed, not very strong mouth was set in a
straight line; he was trying to be firm now; he was trying to convince
her that he was right in accepting Lewis’s invitation for them.
She sighed loudly so that she would be heard and understood. Then
she looked out the window and examined the neon signs that broke the
darkness with many colors. She liked the lights.
The taxicab stopped on a side street where a dozen or more signs
advertised night clubs. They got out and Lewis paid the driver.
“Where is it?” asked Holton, looking about him.
Lewis pointed to some steps. “Right down there. I suppose it’s open;
you know, there was some talk that the police might close it but I
don’t think they will. Shall we go in?”
Carla could see that Holton was wondering what he meant when he said
that the police might close it. She understood herself and she was
rather pleased now: it would be a lesson for him, an experience that he
needed.
Lewis led them down the steps and into the night club.
There were two large rooms: one light and garish, with a long bar, many
mirrors and booths; the other was darker, with tables and, at one end,
a small band on a small stage. They went into the darker room. The
headwaiter recognized Lewis and was very polite to him; he showed them
to a table near the stage.
“Isn’t this charming?” asked Lewis. “I think it has a wonderful
atmosphere.” He grinned at Carla. She nodded.
“It’s not too garish,” she said. “So many American places are too
light.”
“Do they have a floor show?” asked Holton.
“A very unusual one,” said Lewis, giggling. “I’m sure you’ll think
it great fun. Hermes de Bianca is the star of the show and his dance
is perfectly magnificent. He is one of the great artists, great
interpretive artists, I mean.”
“Is that right?”
A waiter came to take their order. He was a curious-looking waiter, a
type which Carla recognized but Holton did not. He wore no uniform. She
looked around the room and found that none of the others wore uniforms.
They were dressed casually. This waiter’s hair was long, unpleasantly
long and the front of it had been carefully bleached. He was thin and
moved stiffly, self-consciously, like a woman thinking of rape. On one
of his fingers he wore a large ring with a bizarre stone in it.
“What do you people want?” His voice was irritable and high. He was
looking interestedly at Holton who was looking just as interestedly at
him.
“I’d love something to drink,” said Lewis. “How about the rest of you?”
The waiter looked at Lewis for the first time. His face brightened.
“George, it’s you! How lovely to see you! You haven’t been here in such
a long time.”
“I’ve been dreadfully busy,” said Lewis coldly, disengaging himself
from the waiter’s assumed relationship.
“I think,” said Holton, “that I’d like a highball.” They all decided
to have the same thing and the waiter, with a slight toss of his head,
walked away.
The small band was playing loudly and eagerly. One sentimental modern
song after another was catapulted into the room. Fortunately, after
several minutes the band stopped playing and the musicians departed.
“I’m glad they’re gone,” said Carla. “They make too much music.”
“They aren’t very delicate.” Lewis turned suddenly to Holton. “And you,
what do you do?”
Holton flushed. “Well, I work in a brokerage house.”
Lewis’s eyebrows went up and he elaborately showed surprise and
disbelief. “But how remarkable! You’re not an artist! Surely you must
do something wonderful. You have the hands of an artist. You’re just
working there because you have to. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“No, that’s not it.” Carla admired his courage. “I don’t mind working
there and it’s probably going to be my career.” His jaw got very firm.
She liked him this way.
“How marvelous!” exclaimed Lewis. “A contented Babbitt.” He stopped.
“What a dreadful thing to say: that’s such a Nineteen-Twenty phrase.
Really, I sometimes wonder if art is the answer to our problems.”
“I think it might be to the artist,” said Carla softly.
Lewis bowed. “_Touché_, my dear. Let’s say the dedication to art,
the freedom from conventions. Perhaps this young man’s view is the
saner: to accept the pattern.” He was mocking now but he did not show
it in his face.
“Some things you have to accept,” said Holton, aware of Lewis’s
mockery. “Sometimes there is nothing else.”
“There is always something else,” said Lewis decidedly.
“I think that’s right,” said Carla.
“What?” asked Holton. “What else can you do but that?”
“Run away,” said Lewis.
“Fall in love,” said Carla.
But neither solution was convincing to Holton and Carla could think of
no way to explain herself. There seemed, at the moment, no words to
record her meaning, no bridge to reach him. They were all three quiet,
thinking of questions and answers.
Finally their silence killed the problem and they began to notice the
room they were in and the other people. The people at the different
tables were not, generally, mixed. Several women would sit at one
table and several men would sit at another. Around the room were small
tables for two and here men sat with men and women with women. This was
puzzling to Holton, she could see. He said nothing, though, and she
had a great sudden ache of tenderness for him, a desire to protect his
innocence. But this she could not do. She was a stranger to him and he
had forgotten.
Cigarette smoke veiled the room bluely and everything seemed tenuous
and unreal. The sound of voices and ice clattering, of forks striking
plates and of many people moving and breathing together made an
ocean-like roar in Carla’s ears. The room was hot and the smell of
perfume was strong.