“That’s not true. I was simply interested in your wel …”
“Answer yes or no. You only wanted to come here if you felt sure I wouldn’t find out about it. Yes or no?”
“Yes, you little beast, yes, yes, yes!”
“Alex put you up to it, didn’t he? Didn’t he?”
“Yes,” she whispered, always happy to share the blame.
“In fact, you and Alex have been sniffing around each other all year, haven’t you?”
“If you persist in degrading me this way, I shall have to leave your room, Patrick.”
“Go right ahead. Don’t let me stop you.” From the talking and scuffling outside, I knew the guards had worked their way down to my floor. Auntie Mame made no attempt to leave, so I went on. “You and Alex have been playing footie all spring.”
“That’s both vile and insulting. I’m interested in his mind.”
“Balls! Alex hasn’t got a mind, as he’d be the first to tell you.”
“All right!” she cried. “Maybe I was having a silly little flirtation with him. He amused me.”
“And so you thought it would be just too, too amusing to sneak down here and caper around with all the rest of the gay young college girls.”
“I happen to be a college woman myself.”
“You certainly were: Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts, Summa Cum Laude, Class of 1917.”
“What of it? I was years ahead of myself in school. Almost a child when I graduated.”
“Sure you were,” I mocked, “just a babe in arms. And since the year you graduated from college happens to coincide with the year Alex was born, you thought it would give you a common bond—the ideal excuse for you to come whooping down here and hell around town with your squirt gun.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” she said halfheartedly.
“I’m talking about you—the poor man’s Fanny Ward—just a girl of forty-five …”
“Forty-four!”
“Aha! Just a girl of forty-four, getting run in by cops for soaking half the campus with a squirt gun.”
“I wish I had that squirt gun right now,” she said between clenched teeth, “filled with sulphuric acid.”
There was an officious knocking at the door. “Open up. Open up in there. This is a house check!”
“Oh, God,” Auntie Mame breathed.
“Rest your bustle, Lillian Russell,” I said nastily. “After all, you’re only my old aunt, even if it is after hours.” I opened the door wide. “Yes?” I said.
Old Casey, a night watchman of unnumbered years, stood shyly in the doorway. “Sorry ter bother yez, Misther Dennis, but we gotta make a thero inspection. Dean’s orders.”
“Come right in,” I said. “As you can see, I have a woman in my room, but it’s only my Aunt Mame. I had a sick spell early this evening and she came over from Professor Townsend’s to nurse me through it. But I’m much better now, so if you want to search the room go right ahead.”
Old Casey squinted into the room, his bushy white eyebrows working up and down. His face lighted up at the sight of Auntie Mame. “Landa hope an’ glory, if it ain’t Miss Dennis! Sure, I seen you around the school a lot, these last coupla years. An’ before then, too.” He cackled reminiscently. “Lord, don’t I remember her when she was a girl an’ comin’ down here to all the parties. Musta been back in ’fifteen, ’sixteen. Pretty as a picture she was, an’ a wild one, too.”
Auntie Mame murmured a noncommittal unpleasantry.
“Lordy, Lord, Miss Mame, them were the days, weren’t they? Well, I guess time don’t stand still with any of us, do it? I ’spect you’ve got daughters of yer own comin’ down to the dances.”
Auntie Mame uttered a little gasp.
“Oh, no, Casey,” I said quickly. “Both of Mrs. Burnside’s daughters are married and settled in Akron, Ohio, with daughters of their own. She’s a grandmother now. Aren’t you, Auntie Mame?”
She nodded her head miserably.
“Do tell,” the old codger cackled. “Well, that’s what makes the world go ’round. We all gotta get old sometime. Well, I’m pretty certain the young chippie I’m lookin’ for ain’t likely to be in the same room as a dignified New York sassiety woman who’s got grandchildren. But if yuh see a fast young piece answers ta the name o’ Bubbles, gimme a call. Happens every year this way—some poor, dumb kid gets mixed up with one of them whoor-girls, you’ll pardon me, ma’am, an’ there’s all hell to pay. Ye’d think the boys’d know better, havin’ a college ejication an’ all. Well, hope yuh feel better. G’night, ma’am, it’s been a real treat ta see yuh after all these years. Almos’ makes me feel young again.” He doddered off.
I didn’t have the heart to look at Auntie Mame. She sat dumbly on the sofa, clutching her empty glass. I dressed swiftly and said, “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“Back to the hotel?”
“Oh, then you’re not really staying with the Townsends?”
“No,” she said quietly.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’d planned to take you all the way home. New York.”
“But my clothes,” she said dully.
“I’ll get them Monday. I have a lot of things to pick up around town, anyhow.”
I hung her cape over her shoulders and held the door open. We walked quietly down the stairs.
In the harsh light of the vestibule, Bubbles, her elaborate varnished coiffure flying stiffly, her garish red and gold dress hanging on her wrinkled and torn, was standing with Repulsive Remington clad only in a T-shirt and his pumps, surrounded by the entire regiment of watchmen.
“ … but this perfeckly strange fella practic’lly ki’naped me. Honestagawd, I didn’t know where I was, he musta slipped me some kinda drug in my punch cup. Firs’ thing I knew, I was in his room and he was makin’ ovratures at me. Belie’ me, I’m not that kinda gull.”
“Pipe down, now, young lady,” Old Casey was saying, “I seen enough o’ yer kind in the fifty years I worked here. As for you, Misther Remington, the Dean …”
“I think we’ll just slip out the side door,” I said tersely, taking Auntie Mame’s arm and walking a lot faster. “It’s closer.”
“There he is!” Bubbles screamed. “There’s the gennlemun that brought me. That’s him! Dennis is his name, Patrick Dennis. Pat, honey, tell ’em, tell ’em you brought me. Honey, I love ya, I’m sorry I was so snooty at the dance. Baby, can’tcha heah me?”
“Now you shut up, missy,” Casey said. “Yer wakin’ up the whole place. What would a boy like Misther Dennis here with his old auntie be doin’ with a fly-up-the-crick like you?”
“Honey!” Bubbles yelled. The door closed behind us.
“So!” Auntie Mame said, her eyes blazing with the fire of malice. “So!”
“You keep your mouth shut and so will I,” I said quietly.
In silence we drove back to New York.
Chapter Eight
and My Punctured Romance
The time inevitably comes in the Unforgettable Character’s life for the foundling to finish school, find love, and get married. And what did the spinster do then, poor thing? Naturally it was something of a wrench for her to be torn apart from the person who meant everything in her life, but she was a game old girl. As always, she thought of herself last, swallowed her pride, smiled—although her heart was breaking—and went out to meet the girl’s parents and see that everything went according to Hoyle. That seems typical of her, doesn’t it?
But Auntie Mame could be typical, too. In fact, too typical. She did all the proper things pursuant to an engagement, and she did them with a flair that has made her unforgettable to more people than me. I mean, either do these things right or don’t do them at all. Auntie Mame did everything up brown.
By the end of my senior year in college I’d grown up a little. Fred Astaire ceased to be my idol. I even manag
ed to get on the Dean’s List. And I was in love.
Love and youth and beauty—all of them were Gloria Upson. She was very young—just nineteen. She was very beautiful—a slim, curvacious honey-blonde with a deliciously petulant lower lip. I wrote her every day, telephoned her every night, spent every week end near her. During Commencement Week I proposed.
“Oh, angel, yes,” she whispered, stirring softly against the upholstery of my car. “You know I want to say yes. But how can we? How could we exist? You haven’t even a job yet, and when you graduate …”
“But I have some money. It’s no great fortune, but we could count on something to live on until I get going. It would keep us.”
“Angel,” she sighed, “that’s wonderful. Of course we can do it in that case. Daddy will surely say it’s all right, and maybe he’ll even help out a little.”
“We don’t need any help from anybody,” I said.
“Well, silly, if he offers, you certainly won’t say No. I realize that money isn’t everything, but then, angel, I don’t want to be a burden to you before you really get started.”
And so it was settled. I had only to grab my diploma, see Upson Père, buy a license and a ring.
My interview with Father Upson was arranged for a warmish night in June. I dined with Gloria and her family at their apartment in that graceless canyon of dying grass, carbon monoxide, and bad architecture that is called Park Avenue. The Upsons lived the way every family in America wants to live—not rich, but well-to-do. They had two of everything: two addresses, the flat on Park and a house in Connecticut; two cars, a Buick sedan and a Ford station wagon; two children, a boy and a girl; two servants, man and maid; two clubs, town and country; and two interests, money and position.
Mrs. Upson had two fur coats and two chins. Mr. Upson also had two chins, two passions—golf and business—and two aversions, Roosevelt and Jews.
We dined humidly at a table that was almost Chippendale and Mrs. Upson said three times, “We’re usually in the country house by this time, but it’s been so damp this year that I just didn’t want to move out too soon.” After a rich and wholly indigestible dessert involving fruit, brandy, macaroons, nuts, ice cream, and hot caramel sauce, Mrs. Upson coyly excused herself and Gloria and said, “I know you boys want to talk.”
“Shall we go into my study, Dennis?” Mr. Upson said.
I shuddered, cleared my throat, and followed him manfully. We passed through the living room where Gloria and her mother quickly feigned an interest in back issues of Town and Country, marched into Mr. Upson’s lair, and he shut the door.
“Well, sir?” he said, after I’d refused a cigar.
“Well, sir, I’ve known Gloria about six months now, we’re in love, and we want to be married. That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, I don’t know very much about you, Dennis. You seem to be an upright young fella, from what Glory tells me; fulla piss and vinegar, stood high in your class, nice manners. But a wife costs money, and Doris and I have raised Glory with the very best. And nothing but the best is good enough for my little girl. She’s had the best clothes, gone to the best schools, mixed with the best people. She don’t belong in some little one-room flat doing her own cooking and washing, and what’s more, we wouldn’t want to see her doing it. Break Doris’s heart. Just what sort of work do you do?”
The discussion covered money, the more spiritual aspects of young love, money, my family background, Auntie Mame, what schools I’d gone to, money, my religious and political affiliations, insurance, and money.
“Well, sir,” he said after an hour’s interrogation, “I can honestly say what very few fathers can: I’m proud and happy to have you as a husband for my little girl. You’re a fine young man with a good head on your shoulders, a good background, a good education, private means—all the things my little Glory expects and deserves from life.” With a heavy hand, he propelled me out to the living room, where Gloria flew ecstatically into my arms and Mrs. Upson shed a few unbecoming tears and kissed me wetly. And so we were engaged.
Aghast with love and happiness, I walked the whole way from the Upson flat down to Auntie Mame’s house on Washington Square. She was in her big gold bed sticking pins into a war map of Europe when I floated up the stairs.
“Is that you, my little love?” she called.
“Yes, Auntie Mame,” I said, peering in. “Are you awake?”
“Of course not, darling,” she said, “it’s my custom to sleep sitting bolt upright with a map in my lap and all the lights burning. It’s so Napoleonic.”
I tiptoed into her room and sat down on the edge of her bed. “Auntie Mame, I’m engaged. I’m going to get married.”
She dropped the Balkans, and her big tortoise-shell reading glasses slid down her cold-creamed nose. “Married!” she cried. “You? Why, you’re still a child!”
“I’m twenty-two,” I said, “I’m out of college, I have my own money, and I’m in love.”
“But darling, this is so sudden, as they say. Who is this girl? It isn’t Miss Bubbles, is it?” she said maliciously.
“It’s a girl I met last Christmas. Her name is Gloria Upson.”
“Why, Patrick, as I live and breathe. You’re really serious, aren’t you, darling?”
“Never more serious in my life. We want to get married right away. Before I’m drafted.”
“But darling, who is she? Why haven’t you told me about her? What’s she like? Do you have a picture of her?” I went into my room and got the unimaginative Bachrach photograph Gloria had given me. “My, but isn’t she stunning!” Auntie Mame said. “Hmmm, kind of a mean mouth …”
“Auntie Mame!”
“Well, darling, it’s undoubtedly just the photograph. Believe me, if you’re really serious about her, and if you really love her, I’ll be the happiest woman in the world—honestly I will. I just hope you’re sure.”
“I’m just as sure of her as I am of my own name,” I said. “Everything’s attended to. I talked to her father tonight.”
“Darling, you might have told me. I must call on them.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why, because it’s customary. The young man’s family always calls on the girl’s family. After all, I am your family.”
“Oh, that’s a lot of nonsense,” I said.
“Of course it’s a lot of nonsense, darling. Oh, will I ever forget that steady stream of young men’s parents who called on poor Daddy during the years I was getting engaged.”
“This isn’t like that,” I said angrily.
“I’m sure it isn’t, my little love, but still, I must call. You wouldn’t want your future in-laws to think that you sprang from some ignorant old recluse who doesn’t even know the fundamental niceties of betrothal. Fetch me that box of paper and I’ll write this minute. What did you say their name was?”
Auntie Mame was nothing to be ashamed of. Yet I was a little worried about her first encounter with the Upsons. The whole afternoon preceding her call, she tried on first one dress, then another. “Now, darling,” she said, “be perfectly frank with me. I’m just as new at this mother-of-the-groom business as I can be, but I do want to do you proud. I don’t want to look dowdy, but on the other hand, it would be just as grave an error to be too stylish. What’s this Upjohn woman like?”
“Upson,” I said.
“Upson. Yes. What sort of things does she wear?”
“Oh, just clothes,” I said.
“I scarcely expected her to appear in a smart apron of banana leaves. Darling, you know what I mean. Is she chic?”
“Rather,” I said. “Kind of faded. Her figure isn’t as good as yours.”
“Why, darling!” Auntie Mame cooed with pleasure. “I had thought of wearing this Schiaparelli print, but then, it’s last year’s, so that won’t do. Then there’s the lavender voile, but that’s a trifle junior miss for my matriarchal p
osition. Or, I might wear that white crepe, except it’s hot as a crotch.”
“Now, there’ll be no talk like that tonight!” I roared.
“Why, Patrick, did you think for an instant that I, who’ve hammed my way through three Papal Audiences and a Court of St. James’s presentation, wouldn’t be able to conduct myself?”
“I’m sorry, but the Upsons just aren’t like us.”
“Now, that black sheer. Black’s always so safe. That’s what’s the trouble with it. Or the navy silk …”
At nine o’clock Auntie Mame, in shades of toast, a flattering but forthright hat, and a magnificent pearl necklace, settled herself delicately in my car and we drove to the Upsons. “I feel as though I were going to open a bazaar,” she kept saying.
The evening was brief and successful. Auntie Mame sat decoratively on a Louis XIV love seat and discussed the heat, the humidity, how the climate was changing from year to year in New York, how pretty Gloria was, what a really nice boy I was, how it really looked as though America would get into the war.
I gave her a look which she correctly interpreted to mean Stay Off Politics, and she said what a shame it was that, with all of Europe at war, we couldn’t go abroad for our honeymoon.
I noticed Mrs. Upson giving Auntie Mame’s hat, dress, furs, and jewels a sidelong and approving appraisal, and while Mrs. Upson was out of the room rounding up baby pictures of Gloria, I watched Auntie Mame’s eyes sweep the conventional Park Avenue drawing room. She smiled at a heavily framed Nineteenth-Century Landscape, shook her head slightly at an oil painting of Mrs. Upson executed in about 1927, twiddled the fringe on a lamp shade, and positively snickered at the Tiffany clock set on the mantel. I cleared my throat sharply. She started, and then turned all of her most gracious attention to Mr. Upson, who was saying, “… all right for a visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. Those French spot an American and they’ll rob you blind. And as for the English, I wouldn’t raise a finger to help those limeys if …”
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