Letty Fox

by Christina Stead

  During the brawl that followed, my mother ran to the phone which was in the entry. The entry, fortunately, could be reached by a door into the kitchen which was whitewashed and usually kept bolted. She telephoned the first person that came into her head. That was Balan Froggart, an old friend, an actor who had risen to fame, who had sent her a bouquet this same morning. He said he would come at once, taking a taxi because he had a benefit performance in the evening and had to sleep a little.

  When she came back to the room Philip had disappeared, for with a dramatic talent suitable for this kind of situation only he had, after stamping about, holding his hands to his ears, kissing all the girls in turn, offering to help them with their valises to the taxis, turning his pockets inside out (to show that he had no money and no tickets), and pulling out his handkerchief to wipe his sweating forehead, this attractive young fellow had suddenly rushed to the door, pulled it open, said, “Fight it out amongst yourselves,” pulled the door to, and disappeared. The girls had too much sense to follow him and were seating themselves to have a good cry when Mother came in. She opened a package of chocolates, most acceptable always, and saw them disappear under her eyes.

  Scarcely fifteen minutes later, while she was herself helping them to an understanding of her brother Philip, the prepotent, irresistible, beetle-browed figure of Balan Froggart appeared. He got them around him, like a crowd of autograph-hounds, kissed my mother, offered them drinks in his apaitment and free theater tickets, told them to be good girls, told them that if they had been good girls, they would never have got into this jam, sang the “Jamb on Jerry’s Rocks,” told them he was himself an eligible, if unreliable bachelor, and rushed them out of the apartment into a taxi which he declared was waiting, and left a last message for his friend, Solander, which was, “Tell Sol, Philip had the right idea; only ladies should live under a king. Come on, girls.”

  13

  My father was at the boat, and for one night took us to the Strand Palace Hotel, a resort of Americans in London, where you could then get bed and breakfast for nine-and-sixpence a night, baths free and breakfast up till eleven in the morning. Breakfast consisted of about eight courses; those taking it were able to economize by doing without lunch. There were three or four hotels run on this attractive system by the same concern.

  My father had engaged, for the week only, board and lodging at a respectable red brick pension near Hampstead Heath. The air, he said, would be good for my mother and for us. Mother cried at being left there like a widow or divorcée, and asked how she would ever explain it, saying they would think she was a mistress or a deserted wife. Father said that he had already explained to the woman that he worked permanently in London, lived in chambers, and that Mathilde Fox, his wife, had shortly to return to the U.S.A. for the opening of school. “And that is true, Mattie, isn’t it?” he asked; “I cannot afford this living in separate quarters and do not want the children educated here.”

  At first he would not tell my mother where he was living, but then gave an address and asked her not to call upon him there. There was no telephone and never anyone there in the daytime.

  “She is there,” said my mother.

  My father at first denied this, but afterwards agreed that Persia was there.

  “Why do you do nothing but lie to me?” cried my poor mother. “It is all built on sand; I have no one to turn to.”

  “I lied to you to save you pain.”

  “I have no one in the world to turn to,” said my mother, pacing up and down. “You brought this girl over here, but not me. You don’t give me a chance.”

  “She is looking about for another job. She’s very ambitious and is studying to go to France or Belgium to work. Montrose offered her a job here with me.”

  “Montrose! He said nothing about it to me; he told me— everyone is against me! As soon as her husband leaves her, everyone insults a woman and lies to her; they seem to think she’s a two-year-old child. Really, they don’t care—she is dead to them. What a position to be in! Dead to society! How can a dead woman like me bring up your children? Soon you’ll want to give them to that woman. She’s a concubine, but she’s alive. People are interested in her. She has power. That’s what they’re interested in. I understand everything, but too late! But I never had any luck!”

  My mother, crying, sat in a corner of the room on a straight chair, placed there beside a tall green and yellow pottery vase, painted and fluted like a waterlily. It was about three feet high and held a stick and an umbrella. Everything in the room was, to us, beautiful and strange: the Nottingham lace curtains, starched stiffly so that they almost stood up by themselves; the lace doilies on chair-heads and armrests; the two hassocks, one lemon-colored velvet, one red plush with a basket of flowers; the marble clock with gold pillars holding up a dome upon which a Cupid stood on tiptoe. China ladies and gentlemen in flowered clothes stood beside it. There was a tall mirror reaching to the ceiling, and the mantelpiece, broad as a reredos and very much like one, had carvings, shelves, niches, openwork; and in a glass corner cabinet was a collection of fine, tiny things in china.

  While this conversation was going on, Jacky and I were spread flat as weeds in an aquarium, against the glass of this cabinet. There was an old woman on a chair, a night stool, a guitar, none more than an inch long, and a collection of china dogs, all the size of fingernails; much more beside this. Our father came toward us, his pale face lighted up by his large, gentle eyes, and said, “It was on account of those little dogs and that child in the swing that I took this room, I tell you; I knew you kids would be nuts about them.”

  We laughed loudly and tried to open the cabinet. My mother cried and said, “And you won’t stay here even tonight, Sol?”

  “I cannot; there is no room here,” he said in despair; “perhaps we will make some other arrangements before you go back, but you must go back soon, Mattie. I cannot keep you all over here. You know what I am getting. Montrose paid for my fare, but he took it off my salary and I ended up the first week twelve pounds in the hole. And now your trip—such a wild thing to do—why didn’t you write to me? You take your mother’s advice, Phyllis’s advice, Pauline’s advice, but they don’t pay your fare, I notice.”

  “I spent nothing,” said my mother, weeping; “as you see, the children have nothing new. I am ashamed to take them down to dinner.”

  My father laughed, “I think they can compete with the English and so can you.”

  “They all think Americans are so rich and we look like beggars.”

  “Rich Americans don’t stay here.”

  “I do think Mrs. Montrose could have asked us out for just one night or two,” said my mother desolately; “she asked Phyllis and Pauline, but not me. It is ill-mannered. And as for Montrose, he came to see me several times and brought candy for the girls, and now I find that he was only interested in Phyllis. Probably that’s the whole story!”

  My father laughed, “Oh, Joe’s not a bad fellow, but he expects some return for anything he puts out. That’s the usual thing, you know. Your own mother, Mattie, is not far from that class herself.”

  “I’m the Cinderella,” said my mother.

  “No, you’re married to a pauper not a prince,” said my father, tenderly. “Maybe Mother Morgan could do better next time.”

  “It’s no laughing matter.”

  “Do your hair and fix your collar, Mattie. Go down to dinner and I’ll come and see you for dinner tomorrow night. I’ll arrange to have my dinners here.”

  “Oh, what will they think, then, Sol? I had better say you’re my brother.”

  “What a poor thing,” said my father, coming to my mother and kissing her; “what a coward, and what a silly, timid woman.”

  “I have no home, nowhere to turn,” said my mother, putting her head on his chest. “Sol, what will I do? You’re all I had. You understood me and now you have left me. Life is so uncomfortable now.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow for dinner,” said my fathe
r, suddenly.

  He kissed Mother and then us, and smiling his great smile and making several codfish, salmon and toad faces for us at our request (for he was very good at frogs and fish), he left quickly, leaving with us an impression of black and white, a plump comforting waist, small coins in dark pockets, and love. If Sol did not love Mathilde, he loved us. I felt a faint disdain for my mother, no doubt. She often said we did, when she complained.

  We stayed in this place for two weeks, and by that time Joseph Montrose had made the following proposition to my father: that Pauline, Mathilde, Phyllis, and the two little girls should take a large flat he had found. There was some furniture in the flat and he would provide more. Pauline and Phyllis were to have four of the six rooms, and we were to have two. When my mother returned to the U.S.A. Montrose would take over the whole flat and pay for it all, unless my father had any other suggestion. As my father would have very little rent to pay under this arrangement, my mother would do the housework and cooking, but as she would have company, and be able to receive visits from my father without having anything to explain, everyone agreed to the idea.

  Mrs. Montrose felt it very respectable that the sisters should live together, and Mr. Montrose explained to her that he hoped to reconcile the separated husband and wife. He explained this to my mother, too. My mother was reconciled to Joseph Montrose, although she scolded him for having deceived her, “Why didn’t you tell me, Joe, that woman was living with him in London?”

  “Wasn’t sure myself—didn’t enquire—give you my word, Mattie, never knew for certain,” and he smiled, pressed her knee.

  “But you gave her a job, and all the while you were pretending to be my friend.”

  “Look, little girlie, she came to London; she’s used to my business, and I like to do a good turn. I’m giving her a good salary so that she can learn languages and get to the Continent as she wishes. I’m really helping you.”

  “Why can’t you tell him to leave her?”

  “Well, you know my respect for you, but—”

  We saw a great deal of Joseph Montrose. Mrs. Montrose came once only, seemed pleased with the flat, and went away giving vague invitations to dinner. She did not care for Jacky or myself, that was plain. But Pauline and Phyllis were invited to dinner at their house the very next week, and came home, gracelessly roaring with laughter over the house, the way dinner was served, and the manners and conversation of beauteous Mrs. Montrose. She was beautiful, but dead. Her dinner was dead, all drowned in water. She had a butler and two sons, all dead, with etched British accents.

  The following week Joseph Montrose visited Phyllis and Pauline, but not us, to my mother’s surprise and mortification. After this, Pauline and Phyllis went out a good deal with Montrose, and at times Pauline would come to my mother and say, “Joe is coming this afternoon to see Phyl; I think we’d better give Phyl a chance to talk to him alone, don’t you? She is so good with men.”

  This went on for some time. We would shut our door. Pauline would go out. Montrose would come and hold long conversations with her, and also short silences, for Montrose was a hurried man. He was a bull-necked but fair-skinned and clear-eyed man at this time, about thirty-eight, broad, stubby, muscular, with a jutting chin; the nose a solid promontory over a slender, pretty, but manly mouth; a sweet flitting smile; the face of a hasty, egotistic sensualist.

  It was not long before Aunt Phyllis began to think of marrying him; and then, when Pauline was in, we would be called in for a conference with them. Sometimes we all sat there on the chairs and divan, Pauline, Mathilde, and two little girls, and we listened breathlessly to the love dialogue of the previous day as told by Phyllis. He said Ada, his wife, had never made him happy, but kept a sour, dull home, had never loved him, and had nothing to say; she was always asleep. He was looking for a wife and would make Ada divorce him; he was madly in love with Phyllis.

  “He talks about nothing but love. He’s very passionate.”

  “Does he really know anything about it?” asked my mother. “He’s always so quick—”

  “He said he never loved before; this is the first time. He says I have hooked him. He says I am the oasis in a Sahara.”

  On other days Montrose seemed far away; Phyllis doubted his truth. What should we all do? Montrose was paying for Phyllis’s education, but he was mean, Phyllis thought. He wrote to Grandmother Morgan asking to be repaid, every month regularly. Phyllis had already slept with him many times; she saw no way out of it. He was not her first lover. She did not love him, but she liked him. It was entirely a question of whether he was to be trusted, and whether he would divorce his wife. If he did so, he would be able to give Phyllis all that she wanted. Mrs. Montrose herself had diamonds, furs, silks that she never used, plate that she never used, a big house in which she never entertained.

  “I’d be very different; he’d enjoy life with me.”

  “Perhaps he’s afraid of the expense, after all,” said Mathilde; “he’s a wise child, and you say yourself—”

  Pauline had one piece of backward wisdom, “Phyllis should not have slept with him so soon.”

  Pauline never was able to follow this advice herself. Pauline said further, “He took me in a taxi this very week to buy the bracelet for Phyl, and I’ll be honest with you, he made me a proposal in the taxi.”

  “What sort of a proposal?” asked Phyllis, merely with curiosity. “What sort do you think? Not to get married!” Pauline laughed. “I said I was your friend.”

  None of us believed this, of course, but I could see Mother and Phyllis had no feeling against Pauline. They sat thinking Montrose over as a marriage proposition.

  “He has this weakness,” said my mother; “he is a Don Juan. You’d never have a moment’s peace.”

  “What would I care, really?” said Phyllis. “All I want is to get married, then I’ll manage very well. I expect him to leave me free, too, after all. He’s already quite old for me; I’d have a good time.”

  “I don’t think you ought to go to her for dinner,” my mother said heavily.

  “Wouldn’t it look funny if we refused? She quite likes me and she loves Pauline. Pauline has ingratiated herself.” Phyllis laughed, “Besides, don’t you realize I don’t really want her husband? I’m just looking for someone eligible. I’d be very pleased to get someone else.”

  Pauline approved of this; my mother, herself, did not see how she could turn down Mrs. Montrose’s rare invitations. Mrs. Montrose pitied her for her misfortunes, and had many hard words to say about my father leading a wicked, wanton, adulterous life. But my mother’s cold sorrow did not please her. Mrs. Montrose preferred the two lively women, Phyllis and Pauline. Mrs. Montrose loved to turn her old dresses, boasted to Joseph of her thrift. Pauline saw it infuriated him, and she helped Mrs. Montrose to remake several old gowns, in order to help on Phyllis’s chances.

  Grandmother Morgan had sent over a few checks to reimburse Montrose, but now felt she must come over herself to see how her investment was going. Mother, following Pauline’s advice, had lied, saying she and Solander were living together and asking for money for household furnishings; the money had not come, but Grandmother Morgan cabled suddenly that she was coming to London on her way to Paris before the opening of the new season, and this was followed by a short, lively, and ill-spelled letter, in which Grandmother advised Phyllis to keep Montrose at arm’s length and told my mother that Grandmother would try to mend her marriage for her. She also wanted to get away from Mr. Porlock, who was pressing her to name the wedding day; she added a postscript:

  I’m tired of Eddie (Porlock). He isn’t a real sport. I couldn’t settle down with him. He doesn’t see I need life. He talks about Darby and Joan which means old people living old. Not for me. Also, what is always the case, there’s another man, that opened my eyes to Eddie. The boys are against this new man, Sid, and I want to see what you think, Pauline, with your experience. Love to Mattie and Sol. Cissie Morgan.

  My mother at once
telephoned my father, and told him that to save her face he must at least live with her for a few weeks; Grandmother was coming over, and expected to see the family reunited. Eventually my father promised to see what he could do. Another cable arrived, giving my grandmother’s sailing date, and Mother, feverishly, in tears, begged my father to have a home for herself and us, if even for the few days her mother would be in London.

  Cissie Morgan had one lover after another, begging her to marry him; Phyllis looked after herself, and what would she look like—worse than even Stella, the old maid. And, said my mother, if my father wished to avoid endless family discussions, even if he did not want to live with her, the best thing would be for him to pretend to live with his real wife for a few days. And then she said, sobbing, he could go back to the woman who suited him so well.

  My father agreed to take some rooms in a central London hotel for a few days. Since he was not rich, and had to send money to his mother, pay for our rent and expenses and keep a home for Die Konkubine going, he could not afford more than two rooms in the hotel; one was for us, and one for Mother and himself. Nevertheless, he did not join her when it came to the point; they parted each night after long discussions which lasted till three or four in the morning.

  My mother was never able to lie, and when Grandmother arrived in a new outfit, with new furs, and when Grandmother had completely thrashed out the Phyllis-Montrose situation, with Pauline and Phyllis, my mother began to cry (in our new hotel rooms, and while my father was away at business) and told the whole story, that she had lied and that even this was a facade, a sham for Grandmother.

  “Does he sleep with you?” asked my grandmother at once. My mother was weeping.