She waited. Sylvia’s hard breathing filled the little room. Then Mary shrugged and walked out, muttering profanely. Sylvia watched her leave, heard the hard banging of the door.
“Oh!” she cried aloud in anguish. “I—I’ll make him pay for this! I’ll make him pay!”
Edward sat alone in his box for a full ten minutes before he was joined by Padraig, Maggie, and Mary. He stood up slowly while the ladies seated themselves. The actors jabbered listlessly on the stage. The audience yawned, gave up the struggle, and stared at Maggie again. Then even Edward, angered and humiliated though he was at this fiasco, saw that both ladies appeared disturbed. Maggie was pale, though she smiled constantly. Mary was scowling. “Is there something wrong?” asked Edward, mortified at their distrait air.
Maggie took up the cue at once. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I have a terrible headache. And we must catch the early train to Buffalo tomorrow. Six o’clock—in the morning! Perhaps—perhaps Mr. Devoe—”
Padraig rose at once, with an eagerness Edward found more humiliating than ever. “I’ll be glad to take Mrs. McNulty and Madame DelaFontaine back to their hotel,” he said.
Maggie put her hand coaxingly on Edward’s stiff arm and managed to summon a wan expression. “You will forgive us, won’t you, Mr. Enger? It’s been charming—charming—really exciting. One of my own plays, you know. I’ve always loved it. Do tell your sister—the theater is a gem. It’s all been such an unexpected pleasure—”
Edward wanted to pull away rudely, but he restrained himself. “After all, they’re only amateurs,” he said. “I thought, though, that my sister had done pretty well, considering.”
Maggie was distressed. Even in that dim light from the stage she could see the cold inflexibility of his eyes. She hated to hurt anyone; he was offended. But Mary said in a loud and positive voice, “I’m really dying for some sleep.” She hesitated. “Your sister is a genius, Mr. Enger.”
He smiled at her for the first time. “I know,” he said. “It’s just that stupid play.”
Maggie’s mouth opened soundlessly with affront. But Mary said, “I don’t mean about the stage.” She stared at him. “I mean her creations. She could make a fortune, with me.”
She had often heard the phrase “his face blackened” among Maggie’s theatrical friends, and had been mocking about it. But now she knew that it was an actual phenomenon, and it scared her for all her stout spirit. She pushed her chair back, as if preparing for flight.
“You mean, as a dressmaker?” Edward demanded, insulted. “My sister?”
Mary rose abruptly. “My head is aching worse than yours, Maggie,” she said, and the hoarse boom of her voice attracted interested stares from the orchestra.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Edward began.
Maggie smiled at him sweetly and again touched his arm. “Why, of course you didn’t, Mr. Enger. But you will excuse us, won’t you? And give your sister our congratulations? She’s really—” Maggie glanced at Padraig with helplessness, and he helped her rise and put on her sable cloak. Maggie, her warm heart still feeling for Edward, continued, “She’s really a genius, and I should know, Mr. Enger. Thank you, thank you for thinking of us. If your sister ever comes to New York—”
Edward, not standing now though the ladies were standing, looked at Padraig over his solid shoulder. “Call for the limousine,” he said, and his voice was pent. “Then send it back, please, for us, Padraig.”
“I’ve never seen such a brute,” said Mary when they were rolling and heaving over the snow on the way to the hotel. “He’s got that gifted sister of his frightened out of her wits.” She had explained, briefly, her preoccupation with Sylvia.
“No,” said Padraig, sadly, “he isn’t a brute. It isn’t his fault at all. That is, not entirely. I’ve known the family for at least six years now. No, it isn’t his fault. It’s hard to explain.”
“Don’t begin that, too,” said Mary, laughing.
“There are intangibles,” Padraig offered. He was so at ease. He could not remember ever having been at ease before in all those long and twenty years. He had forgotten what it meant to be at peace and the meaning of happiness. He could think of Norah without pain, and could pray for her without agony. It was a long time ago. It was a dream.
“Intangibles, hell,” said Mary, with fervor. “How can you stand him?”
“You don’t know Ed,” said Padraig.
“And I don’t want to. I just want that stupid girl.”
When they reached the hotel, Mary, who knew that Maggie was now committed beyond recall and that Padraig, though “mysterious”—and she disliked mysteries—was a man to win your heart if you weren’t careful, and was all respectability, discreetly retired into the bedroom leaving the lovers alone. She had her own melancholy. She was frustrated and hot with anger against Edward and “that stupid girl.”
She had left her card with Sylvia. One of these days, she was certain, Sylvia would appear suddenly at her salon, and life would become sensible again.
“And now,” said Maggie, in the brown little parlor, and coming at once into Padraig’s arms, “you must tell me how much you love me. You haven’t said a word about love at all, and we engaged to be married!”
“When will you marry me, my darling?” asked Padraig.
“What a ridiculous question. In Buffalo, of course. We’ll be there three days. Father Dougherty will marry us. You’ll have to give him a big fee. He’s building a new parochial school—he’s got an obsession on parochial schools. And you must meet Mother M. Francis. You’ll adore her.”
CHAPTER III
Whistling cheerfully, though his sandy brows were knotted in thought, William MacFadden, purchasing manager for the C. C. Chauncey’s shops, climbed the steps to Ralph Enger’s pleasant little apartment and studio in a pension in the Latin Quarter.
It was a beautiful spring day, and there was nothing like Paris in the spring, in spite of the ominous and uneasy mutters these days in the streets, cafés and restaurants. William had listened to them all, and had understood, and had been concerned. Then he had shrugged. If mankind wanted to die and suffer and be ruined for a bally thing called “markets”—though, of course, markets were never mentioned—then let it commit suicide and be damned to it. America would, perhaps, not be so stupid. Still, you could not discount the long and secret plot of the enemies of men, which had nothing to do with “markets” at all. In any event, it was a bloody nuisance. However, when had men not been stupid? They were conceived in ignorance, lived in ignorance, and died in ignorance. The fact that ignorance was not necessary had nothing to do with the case, tra-la!
A fragrance of delightful herbs and sauces filled the winding and gloomy wooden staircase as William climbed. He sniffed approvingly. This was no poverty-stricken pension, no La Bohème series of garrets; those artists who lived here had plenty of money for good wines, excellent fowl and fish and meats. No doubt they were, in the main, Americans, young dilettantes spending the family fortunes because they were too delicate to earn a living. Not that I consider earning a living the most estimable thing in the world, thought William, though it has its advantages, such as cash in the pockets and plenty of quid in the bank. But if the whole blooming world, without exception, adopted the American perversion about the necessity of everybody working? What, then, of grace, of civilization, of the arts, of the splendor that only unlimited money could give the world in the way of architecture and music? Gold was not merely gold; it had a way of rubbing itself off on men and burnishing them.
Number five. William knocked on the door; he heard, with sly approval; a slight scuffling inside, a girl’s muffled giggle, something upsetting, and then the scrape of a chair. Ah, what it was to be nineteen, in Paris in the spring, and all the money to spend, and an excellent dinner cooking, and flowers, and a nice piece of twist on the side. The door opened, and Ralph Enger, somewhat flushed, his handsome auburn hair disheveled, and carrying a paintbrush ostentatiou
sly in his hand, stood on the threshold. “What?” he said. Then, recognizing William, he smiled a little sullenly and said, “Oh, it’s you again. I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow evening.”
He was tall and plump and he exuded an immense and earthy vitality. His dark eyes were exceptionally quick and restless, his color ruddy, his features a little too fleshy. He was naked to the waist, and his body had a strong pinkish tone and was warmly damp. His body scent, young and lustful, was not unpleasant.
“I have other plans for tomorrow, I found,” said William. Ralph stood aside and William entered the large studio with its north window, its view of roofs and chimney pots and pigeons fluttering, and balconies, and wisps of smoke curling along a chaos of eaves and tiled roofs. Ralph’s studio consisted not only of this room where he painted, but an agreeable living room, a bedroom, and a kitchen, all in precise order—the order, William thought, of a mathematician who detested confusion. There was nothing “artistic” in the studio but the window, the neat stacks of canvases against the walls, the easel, and the young naked girl sitting demurely on a small platform and trying to control a curiously rapid breathing. Trust him not to have a model who’s blowsy or too highly colored, thought William, smiling to himself. This is a neat little piece, compact and clear-cut and well laid out, like a blasted theorem, with no extra flourishes or any scribblings or vagueness or corrections. The girl, small, dark and exquisitely formed, gazed at him from under long black lashes, and drew in generous rosy lips to quiet her impulse to giggle again. Her nose was carved to a pure tilt, her eyes were oval and full of mischief, and her dark chestnut hair was coiled on her nape without a curl to distract its smoothness and order. Even her breasts were trim and distinct, and her legs and arms, though not long, were firmly molded. A sum, well added up and complete, thought William approvingly.
“Mademoiselle Violette Carré,” said Ralph, with some sheepishness. He added, “My model.”
“I didn’t think she was here just for a cup of tea,” said William artlessly, with a pointed glance at the damsel’s nakedness.
Ralph laughed loudly, and the girl tittered. She was utterly at ease. She crossed one leg over the other, and William, with more approval, saw that her knees were dimpled. “All right, honey,” said Ralph to Violette. “Throw something on. She’ speaks English,” he said to William.
“There’s nothing like conducting business in one’s native tongue,” said William, as Ralph helped him off with his English topcoat. He rubbed his freckled hands, smoothed his sandy curls, wiggled his foxy nose, and smiled at the girl with his bright hazel eyes. She was tossing a plain blue kimono over her nudity; she lit a cigarette and regarded William impudently.
“Better see how that ragoût is doing, Vi,” said Ralph, and the girl whisked off behind a curtain into the kitchen. “Go easy on the wine,” he called after her, “and the garlic. Never could stand garlic much, after the shop,” Ralph explained to his visitor. “Old Garlic and Pickles, you know.”
He, too, lit a cigarette. “Finished with your buying in Paris?” he asked.
“Yes,” said William, thoughtfully, “and for a long time, I’m thinking.”
“What? Business bad?” For a moment Ralph frowned.
William pretended not to notice the sudden concern. “Not our business,” he replied. “The world’s business. Where are your bally ears? It’s not been using them, you have. Don’t your professors talk, or are they up to their ears in their dusty books all the time? The students? Drinking too much wine and coffee in the cafés, I’ll wager.”
Ralph scratched his pink cheek and frowned again. “Oh. You mean the rumors of war? Nonsense. What for?”
“Sure, and that’s a good question,” said William, sitting down on a low, chintz-covered sofa, which he suspected had been used diligently just before his arrival. He glanced again around the studio, at its comfortable but not ugly furniture. The casement windows stood open, and a warm breeze blew in, filled with the lovely odors of Paris.
“Who’d fight?” demanded Ralph, belligerently. “And with whom?”
“My child,” said William, in a bored voice, “does that really matter? Perhaps Germany will be fighting somebody, and blasted old England somebody else, and the Balkans are always cheering for a fight, and there’s France itching. Worst of all, there’s Imperial Russia, always Imperial Russia, no matter who squats in the Kremlin. Always Russia, swelling out through the centuries like a bloody, oozing octopus, pulling in with her slimy tentacles and eating like a cannibal. It’s’ not your history you’ve been learning in Paris.”
“I don’t believe any of it,” said Ralph, uneasily. He looked at the tranquil early evening scene beyond his windows. He loved Paris; he loved this sheltered freedom. Here, he could do what he wished.
“My advice to you, boyo, is to clear out as fast as you can,” said William, and he was not smiling. “First boat, bag and baggage. Dust off the heels. Clutching the wallet. I’ve ordered enough tins and glasses to last at least three years, back home, though your brother will not be convinced until it happens. But it’s happening even now in the Bourse and the Reichbank and in London City, and God knows where else.”
“You and your plots and counterplots,” said Ralph. “You’re just an amateur Machiavelli.”
William shrugged. “I’ve given you my advice, laddie. Ease my conscience a bit and at least buy a ticket.”
Ralph sat down abruptly and rested his bare elbows on his knees, and stared at William through the cigarette smoke. “Enger,” said William, musingly. “It’s not a name that’ll long be popular in France. But you’re an American, too, my lad. Clear out. There’ll be a rush for the boats, and you mark my words.”
“What’ll be the percentage if anybody fights anybody?” argued Ralph.
William rounded his eyes in astonishment. “Good God! Why the factories, and the ruddy munitions mills, and the bustling employment, and the profits, and the banks! And the shifting of balances of power. And always the sinful men, waiting, waiting for the past two centuries, to take the world in their bleeding hands and squeeze it to the shape they desire. Laddie, you’ll be seeing terrible things in the world in your lifetime, I’m thinking. It was all planned, a long time ago. And you’ve never read Marx and Engels and the whole blasted tribe?”
“Yes, I’ve read them,” said Ralph, in a sultry voice. “Crazy as all hell. Who’d listen to them? Who ever listened to them?”
“Bismarck did,” said William. “And there’ll be millions listening in the near future.”
He held out his thin freckled wrists, yanked them tightly together; he squeezed up his face; he crouched forward in a desolate attitude; he dropped his head on his chest and groaned. He was a hopeless and abandoned prisoner, with chained hands. He suddenly cowered; he sniveled; he dodged an invisible and crushing blow, caught it on the side of his head, and howled softly. Violette immediately, and in consternation, popped from behind the curtain, her kimono flying open. “It is something wrong?” she exclaimed.
“Only William being an actor again,” said Ralph. But the demonstration had disturbed him. “Go back to the soup, Vi.” He said to William, “We have the International Red Cross, and even if one of your fantasies about war came true, nobody would treat prisoners that way.”
“And who’s been talking of the Red Cross and war prisoners?” asked William, rearranging his tie and shooting his glistening cuffs. “I’m talking about all mankind, boyo. When I spoke to your brother about the Sixteenth Amendment, the Internal Revenue Act, in America, a few years ago, he scoffed. But now we have it. That’s the beginning. ‘The power to tax is the power to destroy.’ And perhaps you’ve noticed that only the great Republic of the United States of America has adopted Karl Marx’s prescription for the liquidation of capitalistic society, the graduated income tax. A fine success for the enemies of America and the world! Socialism rampant. Chains beginning to rattle.” He put his hand behind his ear and took on an alert listening atti
tude. “Damn me if I don’t hear them rattling all over the world this very minute.”
Ralph yawned. “I don’t believe any of it,” he repeated. “Let’s change the subject. You’re giving me the willies.” He paused and stared at William.
William leaned back on the sofa. Then he stood up and went to the easel and gazed at it contemplatively for a long time. He cocked his head, mused, hummed to himself, stepped back, stepped forward, screwed up his eyes. Well, now, a wonderful mathematical painting of the little trollop, perfectly executed. But where were her color, her saucy hussiness, her sparkle, her naughty eyes with their dancing mischief, her living flesh? This was a painted photograph of her, lifeless and unexciting. Good painting, good lines, but only a photograph after all, with no warmth or vibrancy.
“Well, what do you think of it?” asked Ralph, aggressively, as he came to stand beside William.
“What do you think of it?” countered William. “Honestly?”
Ralph bent forward from the hips and regarded his own work. “Everything’s there,” he said, trying for lightness.
“So it is. Just like a calculation in logarithms. But where’s the soul, man? Where’s the girl as well as her flesh? Where’s her light and vivacity? You’ve put everything in, just like a blasted professor teaching mathematics, but you’ve left out the spirit. I am not complaining, for you’re a mathematician. They can call mathematics the Apollonian art, but it doesn’t have Apollo’s blazing light and life-giving heat. No chariots dashing across the sky, no thundering of the horses of the sun, no rays from the shining hoofs, no track of fire. But have we not talked of this before?”
“All right,” said Ralph, impatiently, and his ruddy color deepened. “I’ve trusted you; I’ve told you everything. I’ve been studying at the Sorbonne and paying for it with the measly pocket money Old Garlic and Pickles has been squeezing out to me. I’m a qualified engineer; I can design bridges. I can stop this damned painting.” His voice rose. “Don’t you think I know I’m no real artist?”
The Sound of Thunder Page 31
