Letty Fox

by Christina Stead

  At this time the U.S.A. was being overwhelmed by a new polite language, a sophomore neo-Latin, which my father called acadamese, and which concealed everything unpleasant in terms pseudoscientific, generally pseudo-psychological. This was partly the effect of translations from persons writing in German, e.g., Freud and Marx, whose works were translated by verbal-parallelists (not translators) into an astounding polysyllabic jargon.

  In the so-called sociological sphere, English words were built up in the German fashion to conceal things. For example, this was the time when the poor and hungry began to be called the underprivileged and the rich, the overprotected. Radical views on the part of the poor were called maladjustment; the use of the imagination was escapism.

  Thus Dora, a liar and fraud, everyone called, rather tenderly, a mythomaniac. It was partly anger. Philip, no doubt, had an ulterior motive in marrying her. He had always been seriously interested in women apparently able to keep him and themselves. He had always had bad luck. Now Dora had given up all thought of business, thrown away her talent, and devoted her unusual energies to tormenting Philip.

  Dora at once tried to insinuate herself into Grandmother Fox’s sympathies by patting her waist, as I say, speaking of her dear children far away, and of Philip’s wickedness, “But you always told us, dear Mother Fox, that men are like that and I did not listen to you. Oh, I know better now, dear Mother.” They sat at tea in the back room in the St. George Hotel that Grandmother would occupy for one night with Edie. Edie, at a loss, casting round, blabbed to us about everything; she looked to us, without trusting us, for some support. I do not think she ever trusted any American. Dora told how Philip would shortly go to jail for alimony and leave them destitute, so that she would be thrown entirely upon the charity of Grandmother Morgan and her relatives by marriage. Mr. McRae, her uncle, had gone on a world tour, a thing she regretted, since he was surely using up the money which she so much hoped (and what was wrong in such a hope, in a mother?) would come to her own dear little ones. This made Grandmother Fox thoughtful. She said, “To put him in jail is not nice; a father should work for his children. Idiot! Does she think he can earn money in jail?”

  Dora beamed, “How kind you are, Mother Fox! You understand me so well. Philip has not used me properly, but, after all, he is my husband, and I will allow him to work for me and dear Bernard and Cissie and Tony, so far away from me, and the new one I carry; I am not vengeful. I will take him back. I know what he has done to me, dear Mother Fox, using me and then using other women, just as it suits him, and often I thought to myself, Better he should be in jail, he’d be away from them and he’d have a chance to think over what he’s done with his life! But, after all, I must think of my little ones too, I am a mother, now; I must not consult my own feelings of revenge. A girl can do that; a mother not. No woman can understand how things really are, till she is a mother.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Grandmother Fox, in a worried voice, “no doubt, no doubt.” She suddenly became irritated, “For God’s sake, how could she? Eh? How could she understand? You expect my little Letty or Jacky to understand things like that? Thank God they don’t. Youth is for enjoyment.”

  Dora laughed lightly, “How right you are, Mother Fox! How true!”

  There was a silence. Dora continued, nonchalantly, “But he likes living in England, doesn’t he? Oh, I don’t think Solander would ever come back here. I do not think he would ever live here again. And then he has all his friends there, all his friends—”

  Grandmother was silent for a little while; then she murmured politely, “Do you like it very sweet?”

  “Not too sweet.” “Oh, dear! Perhaps it is too sweet. Taste it, my dear.”

  “No, it’s all right.”

  “Are you sure it’s not too sweet? I can put in more tea.”

  Impatiently Dora said, “No, no, I like it this way.”

  “Well,” said Grandmother, “much ado about nothing, as Shakespeare would say.”

  Clink, clink, went the spoons. Dora said thoughtfully, “Poor Mrs. Bowles! You know Gideon Bowles’s mother? They are expecting her to die.”

  “Who is Gideon Bowles? Who knows all these things?”

  “Gideon Bowles is that dear old friend of Mathilde’s from when she was in the theater.”

  “The theater—I don’t know—” said Grandmother crossly.

  “Poor Mrs. Bowles is dying now—”

  “Is her son with her?”

  “No, he is in California.”

  “What is the matter with her?”

  “She got a stroke.”

  “If she is healthy, she will linger,” Grandmother said fretfully. Dora said, “Philip went to see her. The daughter is very good to the mother. Gideon Bowles visited Mathilde, but they say he is very good also to his mother. But they say the daughter is better.”

  “Really good? Is she? I cannot tell you this, my dear. I never saw any of them.”

  “Gideon was very good to Mathilde and she is so lonely.”

  Grandmother, after a silence, said, “Too sweet is no good for me.” Dora said, “Thirty-five! Think of it, a man that age who hasn’t a girl friend; do you think that is natural?”

  There was a long silence; then Grandmother said thoughtfully, “You see, Dora, I don’t like this material. It fades. Very, very natural—a daughter, a mother—oh, a stroke you say! Well, she may linger for years. And the daughter—nice, nice—and the son, he loves his mother, he cannot marry. You see, my dear, I knew a case, five sons, they loved their mother, they did not marry.”

  Dora said, “Ah, I heard all about it; and if you ask me, that daughter is not so well either. He is fond of his sister, they say. Good, very good. I do not think she has been well for years, that girl. She had two kinds of operations and got hurt internally. They say she had one she lost—she wanted to lose, of course—and I think she was operated on once mysteriously—she does not look well, she looks nervous, that girl. Too much devotion to the mother is not good either. They cannot marry. Yes, twice a week Gideon Bowles was calling upon dear Mattie; a woman is glad of some company.”

  In the silence, they drank. Dora reflected and in a maudlin voice began, “Since Letty came back to America, she is not the same child at all. I think Mathilde wishes she would be more attentive to her mummy. Then living in the Green Acres hotel—she learns bad manners; and is quite spoiled. And Jacky is getting too much attention. But then she is an invalid. Poor, poor child.”

  Grandmother remained silent. Dora pursued, “And Jacky reads so much. She hurts her eyes so much. And not a good scholar, either. Reads, reads, reads. All the time. I told her not to. She needed care. A brisk talking-to. Mathilde—you know, Mathilde—Mathilde wished Letty and Jacky were nicer to their mummy. And Andrea— dancing, pulling up her skirts—”

  Grandmother seemed to be dreaming; she murmured, “No, because if they go to a nice school, they will meet the right children; but so, in hotels—yes, they are very naughty—”

  Dora said, “That little Letty loves to go to the movies too, every day, and to the theater—I never saw a child so spoiled—”

  Grandmother became entangled, out of loyalty to her grandchildren, “It is—because, you see—if she reads too much, it is because—you see—yes; yes, they are clever, but naughty! Hotel life is no good. Andrea—oh, mm, mm, really a little beauty—well, what do you—well, let them be.”

  “That Madame Gouraud,” said Dora soulfully, “there was a good manager! How she kept those girls in order; and even Mathilde— even a good influence for Mathilde.”

  “She is a very practical woman and a good manager,” said Grandmother, suddenly wide awake.

  “And what do you hear Solander is doing? Mathilde heard he might come here.”

  Grandmother sighed, “He may be long away—it is no joke—all alone—”

  Dora said, “You can be worse than all alone; Philip is not a good husband, and he is there in the house with me.”

  Grandmother gabbled sud
denly, “You never know a person if you do not live together. There are plenty of people very nice and very clever because, you know, a too clever man may make a very bad husband. Yes, yes, I know whereof I speak. You should never pick a man who is too clever. I know. Because those men are spoiled by women. Yes, my dear, entirely spoiled.”

  “Philip had so many women.”

  “I could not tell; I could not. No, my dear. A sealed chapter, as they say. Some change; some never change. They change, yes; but when? When they can do wrong no longer. Don’t tell me—once, yes—”

  “Yes, they are converted when they are old men.”

  “You know even the famous, wealthy author, Tolstoy. He was a military man, a Russian officer. He had women.”

  Suavely Dora now egged Grandmother on, “Ah, you mean to say a woman-chaser then?”

  “Woman-chaser! Woman-chaser!” scolded Grandmother. “He could not remember them all. He had plenty of legitimate. As for the others! Then he wrote against children when he was old. A nice crook. A famous man, indeed! Too clever by half! So do not trust men, my dear,” said Grandmother in the gentlest voice, “they are all the same. When I was young. Oh, dear! He was very independent and clever! And what he said! But you could not put your trust in it. Sometimes they are clever too, the innocent children; but if they are boys, you cannot trust them. First, what is it? Only a boy, only a child. Ah! what nonsense. It wastes your time. Yes, none so blind as who will not see. I see. I have a lot of experience, my dear. A fine talker, a fine man Tolstoy, indeed! Shakespeare, too! Thoughts are cheap. Words are cheap. All women, or most, are fit for marriage, but no men, very few. A sad, sad waste, yes, indeed; I know.”

  Dora’s voice became rascally, “Yes, after all, you should not try to control one individual, should you? If they do not want you, you should go on and live your own life.”

  Grandmother responded to this with a cautious silence. Dora continued in the same voice, “Now Philip’s mother, you know, she liked to have a good time. She is not dyeing her hair now; it is all pure white. But once, I hear—and why was that? Well, we know.”

  “Oh,” said Grandmother, dubiously, “I don’t like that, do you?” “You know there are many women at Green Acres who dye, and you know they like a good time.”

  Grandmother hurried on, “I don’t dye; if I don’t please people, I can’t help it.”

  “This is not a good influence,” said Dora.

  “If you see an elderly woman with blonde or brown or black hair, you can bet your life it is artificial. Bad taste. They must take me as I am,” said Grandmother.

  “And others who do not like a good time,” pursued Dora, in a firmer voice, “are sometimes, under everything, very selfish. They have a selfish life. Or they are weak. They waste themselves on their own troubles. Everyone has troubles.”

  Knowing that this referred to Mathilde, Grandmother remained silent. After a moment, Dora sighed, “Poor Mathilde, she does not feel fit for looking after a house and those spoiled children; not their fault, but a fact is a fact.”

  Grandmother murmured vaguely, “Will you eat this? No? Then I’ll put it away. It keeps better.”

  “If she puts him in jail again,” said Dora composedly, “what will I do? Where will I be? For him it will, no doubt, be an improvement. I have no home for my little ones. I am the sort that never cracks. My business training, you see, keeps me at it. I sit straight; I don’t lounge. I’m in the best of health, and not even morning sickness, just a little fatigue.”

  “Morning sickness,” muttered Grandmother, with distaste, “well, everyone has it.”

  “So why not let me stay with her, if he is not coming back?” Grandmother, who understood the whole plan in this moment, murmured, “See this nice little box? I’ll keep it for wheatenas.”

  “Yes, very nice. I will have a roof over my head, no extra rent, and when baby comes, it will have a home. And I can do everything for Mathilde. She has let things slip. The same rent covers us both. And think of the advantage—she will have no trouble at all. I will look after her, after those three girls now. They need it.”

  “I don’t know,” murmured Grandmother; “she does not like company.”

  “So I wrote to Solander, you see,” said Dora, with composure; “and I am waiting to hear what his reaction will be. And believe me, if he agrees—for it will save him money too, you know—”

  “How save him money?”

  “Well, you know Mathilde cannot see my little ones starve, and she helps us out, and so she is obliged to get extra from Sol. This is only because Philip is a bad father and does not work. You see, I would never beg. I can work. I know my way about.”

  Grandmother had become a trembling, old leaf standing on end in the dark room. She pottered to the window, and waved at a little boy across the court. He was peering from the dark bedroom opposite. She smiled and then frowned, “Sweet; yes, but when he grows up—another one—” She had mastered herself and came back to Dora, “You see, my dear, I know nothing about all this. I am all alone. No one bothers about me. They tell me nothing. I cannot advise you.”

  Tactfully, she got the conversation away from Mathilde and Solander. But as soon as the corpulent, red-headed woman had gone, Grandmother began to shake all over; for she had been hoping all along that Mathilde would ask her to live with her, and that she could send Edie, the English girl, to a hostel. She muttered as she arranged her pillows for a sleepless night, “I am dying, on my last legs and she, a stranger, Mrs. Nobody-knows, from Nowhere, she is to stay there.” She continued, “I’ll leave my money to Jacky and Letty, and what will happen to it? She will grab it. Mathilde is asleep on her feet. Sol is away—a fine rogue he is to me—I’m all alone—Lily Spontini—an idiot—she hopes too, she hopes, she’s hanging on for it—pooh! I’m too old for such disgusting people. I see everything. None so blind as him who will not see. I see.”

  After a quarter of an hour, she hurriedly pulled on her outer things, took the bus, and arrived after dinner at Mathilde’s. There she had a serious talk with Mathilde. She found her daughter-in-law in a weak state of mind; “I can’t look after them,” she said fretfully, “why shouldn’t Dora? I hate her; but she’s strong and capable. And I owe her something, because Philip’s my brother.”

  “All she wants is my money. What am I talking about? What money have I? Just nonsense—I’m getting old. But suppose Solander comes back! He will say, You don’t want me! He does not care for this woman. She’s a thief!” suddenly cried Grandmother, twisting her hands in a frenzy. “She told me, Sol can give his money to me and you can give your money to me, I’ll manage it for the whole family.”

  Mathilde stared at her superciliously. Meanwhile, the poor old woman, in her decline, went on imagining fresh terrors and giving them utterance.

  The doorbell rang, and I admitted Aunt Dora, who gave a flash of triumph at the two uneasy women sitting in the lamplight. She cried, “Dear Mother Fox! You should be tucked in by this. The world traveler! What a brave little woman! But you wanted to see Mattie about something!”

  “About what? I have no business; I am too old,” exclaimed Grandmother. It was easy to see that Grandmother Fox was bent upon protecting our five thousand dollars. But Dora Morgan was not upset. She said, “Where are you going to live, dear Mother? A woman of your age cannot live in a hotel. You’re so used to your own home and your own things.”

  “I don’t know,” said my grandmother, most worried, and looking askance at Mattie. “What does Edie know? She doesn’t know anything about this city. I can’t go anywhere. She’s used to a fine home.”

  “I will find you a place,” said Dora; “naturally, I shouldn’t be running about too much, but I carry well, very well. I never have morning sickness; I’m made to have a dozen children, Mother Fox. I love them, I love children. And a woman’s made to bear children. I feel nothing, not a qualm. And the last one, darling Tony—only one hour labor pains! Just born for it, eh? So it won’t upset me at all to l
ook for a place for you. Now why don’t you stay with dear Mathilde for tonight, and I’ll ring Edie, and by tomorrow we might have found you a place; and if not tomorrow, then the next day. And I promise you, dear Mother, I won’t overstrain myself, at all.”

  Aunt Dora then handed Grandmother over to my mother, who was put out of countenance, for she could not say no, and bustled away to work on, or with, Edie.

  The next day she had really found an apartment suitable for my grandmother’s resources (she had a little money from Solander and Edie was willing to pay something weekly). It was up in the new district of George Washington Bridge, in Audubon Avenue.

  My grandmother, who hated slums and suburban areas, and would have preferred above everything a flat in Times Square, was not at first displeased. Everyone said this area leading to Jersey would develop and become very modern. Nevertheless, the place she had was a miserable affair, on the ground floor (of which she was very much afraid), unfurnished, and looking upon the street, without an areaway intervening, and upon a court in the back, so that it was easily accessible to burglars.

  Grandmother became quite crazed with fear, and muttered continually. She could see that her neighbors were poor and lived from Saturday to Saturday. They were blowsy women, about twenty-eight to thirty, already quite settled in housewifery, poverty, and the mixed ribald-moral views on life with which such unhappy creatures comfort themselves. Mothers, wives, decent women—yes; but Grandmother Jenny Fox was unhappy with them. They were often of Italian, German, or Jewish origin, and they did not even understand her culture; and what is more, she only now realized that to them, to all women, she had suddenly become old, a rag of flesh, carrion, on the dump heap.