The best of the show was reserved until after the theaters let out, when the place became crowded. Many people ate their principal meal of the day then, and paid the highest prices for the fanciest foods. There would be a great deal of drinking and excitement, and now and then a row, which was handled swiftly and efficiently by experts. Shootings were rare, and if you thought otherwise it was just because they got the headlines. Mostly it was what New York called fun, and it went on until the small hours of morning; free and easy, promiscuous, and democratic in the sense that if you had the “mazuma” you were as good as anybody who had no more. It was “cafe society,” and in the public eye and in public esteem it had entirely replaced the old, dignified, and exclusive “Four Hundred” of pre-war days. The latter kind still existed, but no one paid any heed to it; its members might as well have been so many mummies in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Lanny, who knew life in France, now observed it in the land of unlimited possibilities. He remembered how he had met Olivie Hellstein, daughter of a great Jewish banking-house; what formalities had been necessary, what careful inquiries had been made. But in New York he might have been introduced to the heiress of the Barnes fortune by almost anybody in a night club. If he had had the nerve he might have come up to her and said: “Hello, Irma, I’m Lanny Budd—don’t you remember me?” She couldn’t be sure whether she remembered him or not, for she met so many young men, and if one was handsome and presentable it would be too bad to hurt his feelings. Any young man who had the right clothes and could make witty remarks might become a cafe celebrity, and have no trouble in finding some lady who had money to burn and would be glad to have him tend the fire. And it wasn’t only in New York; it was said that there wasn’t a town of ten thousand inhabitants in the United States that didn’t have a night club.
Lanny’s duty as the guardian of the seed was to see that Irma ate the proper food and didn’t drink too much. Also it was advisable for him to be right there at her side, leaving no space for any other male to slip in between. If he danced with some other girl, right away some agreeable youth would take his seat and begin what was called “making a pass” at Irma. Unless he was drunk, he wouldn’t say anything offensive; on the contrary, he would be as charming as possible. He would make joking remarks about marriage, notoriously a tiresome and trying affair, a theme for banter on stage and screen; he would try to find out whether Irma was in love with her husband, or whether she was disposed to play with the idea of an adventure. If she showed herself reserved, all right, he would move on to the next young matron. Nobody took offense, for it was a game that all were playing. What was your money worth, if you couldn’t have any fun?
IV
Lanny and his bride would return to their royal suite at two or three in the morning, and sleep until ten or eleven. Then they would have their baths, and have breakfast brought to them, also the morning papers. They would look first to see if there was anything about the show, and themselves as part of it; after that they would read about their friends in the society columns, and about the figures of stage and screen whom they had met or were planning to meet. Irma would want to know about the line-up for several of the football games in which friends were playing; and that would be all for her. Lanny would have liked to know about the war in China or the senatorial election in France, but it would be hard to find out without being rude, because Irma wanted to talk about the people they had met the night before, especially the dashing young man of fashion who had made a “pass” at her. If Lanny didn’t listen, she would begin to think that the jokes about marriage had some basis in reality.
“Feathers” would come—that was Miss Featherstone, the social secretary—bringing a list of appointments made and requested. Then it would be time for the dressmakers and the marchands de modes—an urgent matter, since Irma had fallen behind on account of having eloped, and being on a yacht, and visiting at Newcastle. The urgency was the more extreme because the changes in style were so drastic. There was a great deal of complaint about them in the newspapers, and among the so-called intellectuals, who had fought hard for the emancipation of women and now saw them slipping backward. Some were saying they wouldn’t stand for such absurdities; but the makers of fashion smiled, knowing that women would wear what they were told to, because there wouldn’t be anything else in the stores.
But could you imagine that, ten years after women had got the ballot, after they had established their right to smoke in public places, to have their hair cut in men’s barber shops, and to drink in men’s bars—they would be going back to wearing skirts that touched the filthy sidewalks? And a thing called a “bertha,” a deep lace collar, almost a cape, sewed to the neck of one’s dress and hanging down to one’s elbows! And “stays,” a polite name for corsets, tight at the waist and restricting one’s breathing! Up to recently a woman’s whole summer costume might weigh as little as twenty-two ounces; but now there were going to be bows and ruffles and “princess slips,” and eleven yards of material to a gown instead of four. Hats were going to be large, gloves long—and hair also. Back to Queen Victoria!
Most women went to their dressmaker, but not the heiress of the Barnes fortune. The “creator” whom she favored had a living model as much like Irma as possible, and fitted the “creations” on her. The work had begun as soon as Irma reached home, and now couturier and model would come to her hotel, and the finished product would be put on the model, and Irma would recline on a chaise-longue and survey the effect. It cost money to get your clothes that way, but it saved time and it got you the best. Each costume had a name of its own: Antoinette, Glorieuse, l’Arlésienne, and so on; each was sold with a guarantee that it would be unique. Of course others would steal the idea as soon as Irma appeared in it, but that wouldn’t matter, for by the time that duplicates could be made, Irma would be done with hers and have passed it on to her subordinates.
It would have been unkind if Lanny had failed to assist in these habilitating ceremonials. He had such good taste, and so much experience at that kind of thing, ever since he was a small boy. He didn’t approve of the new styles, but it was no good trying to fight them; if you didn’t wear them it meant that you hadn’t been able to afford new things—that was what “styles” were for. The steamroller passed over Lanny Budd again, and in the evening he escorted to the Detaze show room a lady with an elaborate lace train which compelled all the picture lovers to stop looking at pictures and look at her—if only in order to keep from treading on her train!
Such was the life; and Lanny was settled in his own mind that they were going to get out of it. He had the excuse of her pregnancy; surely she couldn’t expect to wear “stays” after this fourth month! Later on, he would try to get her to nurse the baby, as Beauty had done with Marceline. But what after that? She wouldn’t go on having babies indefinitely, not even to oblige the president of Budd Gunmakers. Would this crazy cabaret world continue to draw her like a moth to a candle-flame? He saw how excited she was over it, what pleasure she got from the spotlight, from seeing people turn their heads to stare when she entered a hotel lobby or any public place. She enjoyed giving interviews, and he saw that she was toying with the idea of having ideas; she would ask her husband: “Do you think I ought to say that people attach too much importance to money?” He advised her to go further and say that people were drinking too much, and that she herself was ordering mineral water. In her innocence she mentioned a certain brand, and Uncle Horace was amused, and told her that the manufacturers would pay her several thousand dollars for permission to publish that statement. A funny world to be in!
V
Lanny Budd, desiring to be known as a proper and dignified husband, satisfactory to Budds, Barneses, and Vandringhams, guarded his words and actions carefully. But he was living in a pitiless glare, and in spite of his best efforts he was drawn into a disagreeable bit of publicity. He escorted Irma into her favorite night haunt, and when they entered, a man sprang up from a table and came to them, cal
ling Lanny’s name, and then Irma’s. At first Lanny didn’t know him, but then realized that it was Dick Oxnard, the society painter whose villa he had visited on the Riviera and found inhabited by so many fair ladies. Nearly six years had passed since then, and it was hard to imagine such a change in a man; the fair blond giant no longer looked young and godlike, he looked middle-aged and decayed; half his curly hair was gone, and his face was bloated—he evidently had been drinking heavily.
But he still had the charm of manner, the gay laugh, and the prestige as a member of one of New York’s old families. Everybody loved him, because he had been so generous and kind. “Well, well, Irma!” he exclaimed. “So this is the lucky fellow!” He caught her by the hand—evidently he knew her well, perhaps since her childhood. He caught Lanny with his other hand. “You lucky young devil, I spotted you for a winner, and now you’ve drawn the grand prix! Come over to my table and meet my friends!”
It was a public scene; the spotlight was on them. Lanny might have withdrawn his hand and said: “Excuse us, but we have other guests.” It happened, however, that they didn’t, and Irma appeared quite ready to go with her friend, drunk or sober. The husband followed, and came to a table well supplied with liquor, though it was decorously poured from a teapot into cups. There were three young ladies seated at the table, refined in appearance and elegantly dressed—but that didn’t mean much. Was this free-and-easy painter intending to introduce Irma to some of his tarts? If he had said “Mary, and Jane,” and so on, in his offhand manner, Lanny was prepared to lead his wife away. But no, all three had proper names. There was a vacant chair alongside the host’s, but when Irma started to slip into it he exclaimed: “No, don’t sit in that. Gertie has wetted it, the little bitch!”
Such was conversation among the smart set in their teacups. Lanny flushed with annoyance; but evidently Irma was used to the vagaries of the boys when they were “well lit up”; she laughed with the others, and a waiter hurriedly pulled the chair away and put another in its place.
“Why haven’t you been to my studio?” demanded the painter, of Lanny.
“Have you a studio in New York?”
“A fine way to treat your friends! Tell him, Irma, have I a studio in New York?”
“Indeed you have, Dick; a grand one.”
“I have painted some screens that will put your eyes out.”
“I’ll come,” said Lanny, “as soon as the Detaze show is over.”
“I’ve been meaning to get around to it. But there’s so much they call art in this damned town. Irma, have you heard about the new bathroom I’ve painted for Betty Barbecue?”
“No, tell me.”
“I’ve made her the finest sunken bath in the modern world. You’re in a grotto at the bottom of the sea that seems made of precious enamel, all turquoise-blue and Nile green. Brilliant sea anemones grow up from the floor, and the crimson starfish and spiny sea creatures swim or crawl on the walls—by God, when the hidden lights are turned on it takes your breath away!”
“Well, I surely want to see it if she’ll let me in.”
“She’s got to let you in! It’s part of the bargain; she has to let anybody see it at any time.”
“Even when she’s in the bath?”
“She doesn’t get in the bath. Would she take the risk of splashing the finest piece of interior decoration in New York?”
Oxnard was all right while he talked about art, and all right while he talked about Lanny. He made a joke of the fact that Irma’s husband had come to his home and been so shocked that he never returned. He told Irma that if a good moral boy was what she wanted she had got him; the prettiest little blondine you ever saw had tried to ride off in his car and he had turned her down cold. Irma looked at Lanny affectionately and was glad to have this excellent report.
But then matters became less pleasant. The unfortunate female creature who went by the name of Gertie showed up at the table, which apparently she had left in a hurry. Dick Oxnard was in the midst of quaffing a cup of champagne when he espied her, and he set down the cup with a bang. “You dirty little bitch, get out of here!” he shouted. “Go on home to your kennel and don’t come out till you’re house-broke!” The poor child—she was little more than that—flushed in an agony of humiliation; tears came into her eyes, and she fled, followed by a stream of the foulest language that Lanny had ever heard in English. He knew a lot of it in Provencal from having played with the fisherboys; but he assumed that Irma didn’t know it in any language, and being a good moral boy he didn’t care to have her learn it.
He rose from the table and said: “Come on,” and took her by the hand and led her to a remote part of the room. It meant that he had to summon the head-waiter and ask for a table; a conspicuous action, and a blow in the face of his host.
“Disgusting!” he exclaimed, when they were alone.
“Poor fellow!” said Irma. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s drinking himself crazy, and nobody can do anything for him.”
“Well, we couldn’t stay there and let him drag us through such scenes.”
“I suppose not; but it’s too bad we have to do it in such an open way. He’s furious about it.”
“In the morning he won’t know it happened,” said the husband.
VI
They were seated, and ordered their supper, and Lanny was prepared to put the alcoholic unfortunate out of his mind. But Irma was so placed that she could watch him, and she said: “He’s just sitting there glowering at you.”
“Don’t let him see you looking.”
Their supper came, and they were supposed to eat it, but Irma had lost her appetite. “He’s still not doing a thing but just sitting there.”
“Pretend you don’t see him, please.”
“I’m afraid of him.”
“I don’t think he could do much damage in his condition.”
A minute later the girl exclaimed: “He’s getting up, Lanny! He’s coming over here!”
“Don’t pay any attention to him.”
It took some nerve to sit with one’s back turned and pretend to be eating supper, but that was what Lanny thought the situation called for. When the glowering blond giant was within a few feet of him, Irma stood up and put herself between them. Of course that made it necessary for Lanny to rise, too.
“So you think you’re too good for me!” exclaimed the painter.
“Please, Dick, please!” pleaded the woman. “Don’t make a scene.”
“Who made a scene? Haven’t I got a right to send a little bitch away from my table if I want to?”
“Please don’t shout, Dick. We’re old family friends and we don’t want to quarrel.”
“You were my friend before you ever met that damned little sissy. You come back to my table and let him stay here.”
“Please, Dick, he’s my husband.”
“A hell of a husband!”
“Please be a gentleman and do what I ask. Go back to your own table and let us alone.”
A critical moment. Some men would have pushed a wife aside and let the fellow have one on the point of the chin; but Lanny was sorry for this wreck of a man, and didn’t wish to forget that he was or had been a genius, and had given Lanny a beautiful and valuable painting which was hanging in Bienvenu.
The drunken man raised his arm as if to push Irma away; and of course if he did that Lanny would have to stop him somehow. But at that moment Providence intervened in the shape of two husky gentlemen, one on either side of the belligerent painter. Some such form of deus ex machina has to be at hand in places where liquor is sold; in fashionable night spots they are immaculately clad, and never do any more damage than necessary, but they are capable, and the bulges of their shoulders are not cotton stuffing.
Lanny was relieved, and said: “Will you kindly ask this gentleman to leave our table and stay away?”
“Please, Mr. Oxnard, come back to your own table,” said one of the “bouncers.”
“So the little s
kunk has to holler for help!” exclaimed Oxnard. The men began to impel him, gently but firmly; apparently he had sense enough to know that he had to do what they told him—doubtless he had had experiences of the sort before. He made just enough noise to let the diners know what he thought of Lanny Budd, but not enough to cause the bouncers to “give him the works.” They escorted him to his table, and one seated himself alongside and continued to speak soothing words. That was better than throwing him out, because he had many influential friends—and also he owed a considerable bill.
It was the thing known as a “scene.” The spotlight had not been turned on it, but many people had watched it. The general opinion was that Lanny hadn’t played a very glorious part, and so it appeared in the tabloids and the radio gossip. He tried not to let it worry him, and was satisfied that Irma appreciated his self-restraint. His comment was: “I wish we didn’t have to go to those places.” Furthermore he said: “I’ll sure be glad when we return to Bienvenu and can get to bed before morning.”
VII
Letters came to Lanny, reminding him of the life which he had lived, and which now seemed far away. Bess wrote, telling him of their rather stormy voyage and enclosing the program and press notices of a concert at which Hansi had played the Mendelssohn concerto with great eclat. “Hansi says he was playing it at Juan when Uncle Jesse came in and made a Red out of him!” How many ages ago had that been?
Rick wrote to say that he had found a small publishing-house that was willing to bring out his unorthodox book. He reported that Marceline was thriving, and enclosed a few lines from the child. Rick and Nina promised to come to Juan after Christmas as usual. Continuing, Rick referred to an event of the date on which he was writing: Ramsay MacDonald, for the second time Prime Minister of Britain, was sitting on a log in a camp at Rapidan, Virginia, discussing peace and disarmament with President Hoover. Rick said he hoped they were getting somewhere, but he was losing faith in politicians. Even if Ramsay knew what to do, would Herbert let him?
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