At Solander’s and Persia’s I met, among others, a young advertising man by the name of Gallant Stack, a radical from Kentucky, who made part of his fame by ridiculing southernisms. He was a bold, political radical certainly, and exposed himself very consistently; but a lot of people disliked him without cause. He was handsome, powerful, blond, gay, and reckless. He gave the impression of being a slob without being unclean; perhaps it was the loose-neckcloth idea of elegance in him. He was both a country boy and a gentleman, and successfully cultivated the pose of a Southland Squire. He had other idiosyncrasies: he told wonderful stories, some original, and boasted about the size and power of his male parts, with much joviality and good nature. He would relate how he told stories in small-town living rooms, while wives shifted and fanned themselves and glued their eyes on his extremities, the while, in fact, he felt the disseminator showing all its unusual dimensions, for this was the effect of wine, ladies, and fun upon him. When someone (a woman) would laugh with him, he would say instantly, rising and coming to stand over her, with boorish good-nature, “When do you want me to come and see you?” If the husband or brother were there, he thought it very gallant to say, “When will your husband (or brother, or friend) be away? Any evening you are lonely, let me know, and I will not disappoint you.”
This bouncing rustic gallant was so direct that at first I was obtuse, for I could not believe he was saying what he said; it was the drift of his stories that enlightened me further. I had always considered myself an indiscreet person (although an excellent and consistent liar), for, on occasion, if annoyed by a person, I might blurt out his characteristics to himself; but I certainly had never blurted out my own characteristics, failings, and misfortunes to others, as did Gallant Stack.
It was my father’s forty-second birthday on this occasion I describe, and there was quite a gathering, chiefly of men. There was Gideon Bowles, the old family friend, a tall, strong man of forty-odd now, with thick black hair, clear hazel eyes, and red lips. He had been thin and a black-and-white dresser. Now a few visits to the Californian coast and to Mexico had shirted him in pink, red, or blue; and his suits had noticeable checks or stripes. He was an architect. He had built a Camelot castle on one corner of a crossroads in Beverly Hills, and a Riviera dream in ice-cream pink on the other. He designed fountains, gates, paths for these houses with the liberality of a dope fiend. For years he had been a modest, crushed, thoughtful man with darned socks; this was during his mother’s lifetime. She had recently died and now he was bumptious, tipsy, and coarse; and his affairs, which had been kept hidden, now came out in all their misery. He was such a grand, tall, simple fellow in appearance, and spoke so of his mother, that the girls believed in him. Now one of his girls was with him, a tall sawney called Alice, who had been his mistress for a long time. She had a terrific lust for life and slept with anybody almost—priests, organizers, salesmen, stewards on boats—but was succulently jolly on her best days. She should have known better, but now she hankered after this Gideon. I was a wise child and knew my mother was sorrowful too, because she had thought he was her best friend. Sex is a mystery to me still.
There was also a rowdy goose-fleshed blonde who had had three husbands, who never smiled, and shouted commands at people; and Luke Adams, a pinched, nut-brown man with a monkey face and thick black hair. This man Adams was taller than he appeared to be. He stooped and shuffled, and he appeared to be careless of his body, in mind devious, silent, resentful; but he at times also seemed sharp, humane, passionate. When one came nearer, one saw that his clothes were clean; they were simply poor and did not fit. He believed in bargains and would shop for days for a cheap shirt on the East Side, or in some godforsaken hole in Jersey or in Brooklyn, rather than get the same thing round the corner. He had this gift: when he stood near a person and wished, at that moment, to express good feeling, a gust of heat was felt. If it was a woman, she was simply scorched by him, for women he was an open hearth; his eye lengthened, melted. He was a well-known trade-union organizer, a cartoonist and pamphleteer. At present, I looked at him from the outside, with curiosity, respect, and timidity. I had certainly not yet got over my timidity with men, and the experience with Clays held me back.
My father, who should have been secret, in a short time began to laugh, gesticulate. He lost control of himself in his earthy good humor, and told them all about Clays. “Letty’s bound to marry into the English aristocracy! When she went to school, only eleven years old, she used to bed down with a duke, but that was in the daytime, and I saw her as the future Duchess of Greenshire, the Duke liked her very well—”
“He liked nearly all the girls very well,” said I, with unusual modesty.
“The Duke was fourteen then,” said my father, “and I thought if I kept Letty around there a few more years, I would be father-in-law to a duke. But now, I’m going to be father-in-law—and in point of fact, illegally am father-in-law—to the relative of a knight-baronet, and knowing the incest committed by the English upper classes, note I mean social and financial incest, Miss Paula Fitz-Broke marrying the Birthday-Honored Sir Oodles Lucre and the sister of Sir Oodles marrying Mr. Maudlin Degree, who is first cousin of the Duchess of Handmedown, whose son will marry Miss Angela FitzBroke—since this is the system, in England, I expect in a very short time, after the Spanish Civil War and all that, or even before, to be related to almost everyone in Burke’s Peerage and the Cabinet. I don’t know whether you know that there is a rule in England that at least fourteen members of any Cabinet, if you trace them out, are really first cousins or first cousins of first cousins. It’s impossible to avoid it; and if they’re not first cousins, they sit side by side, in the administration of industries, and eventually become brothers-in-law. Thus, when Clays Manning does his duty by my daughter and makes her an honest woman—I regret to say it is now necessary—”
“Papa!” I cried.
“Well, my dear,” he said, “if you stayed all that time with Clays and you are still a virgin, I should be very much surprised,” and he laughed.
“Jesus, Solander,” said the slow, thoughtful voice of Luke Adams, “you ought to give her a break!” And he turned on me his secret smile.
“Is it true, kid; is it true?” cried Gideon, in his whisky baritone. “Are you married, or thereabouts? Let’s celebrate this. This calls for a drink. Let’s all drink to Letty—what’s his name? Manning. And will you be Lady Manning?”
“He is not a baronet,” I said. “He’s just a tramp; a red. Of course, the family forgives him, because in England they allow Oxford boys to champ their wild oats a bit and be reds for a couple of years. They think they’ll coax them round. Clays—” But with this name on my lips, in this company which had just heard all these details of my private life, I could say no more, and blushed deeply.
Luke Adams smiled and came impulsively to my side, putting his arm round my shoulders. “Jesus, Letty,” said he, “congratulations; what’s he like? I’m glad. What are you going to do while he’s in Spain? Gee, I’m sorry—it’s a pity.”
Meanwhile, Gideon had routed out glasses and got a bottle from Persia and was pouring out drinks all round, rummaging ice from the icebox, and splashing water into the glasses. He poured his own drink last, made it strong, and this he raised for a second, “Well, good luck, Letty!” And he downed the drink.
They had been talking mostly about politics, collective security, whether France or the U.S.A. would intervene in Spain in any way, the hopes for Russia’s intervention, food for the people, new books; but now they became gay and got on to stories and conundrums.
Gallant Stack said, “Do you see any resemblance between a constipated owl and a soldier? Well, there isn’t a real resemblance; the soldier shoots and shoots and sometimes hits. I knew a woman, this is true,” he continued smartly, “she kept a call house; later she got married, and came in to see me, when I was in her town again, all fluttery, and showed me her ring. I said, ‘Well, Mamie, I suppose you’re keeping your business on
.’ She flushed angrily and said, ‘He ain’t no pimp; I’m retiring. He’ll run it.’ ”
Gideon Bowles laughed loudly and slapped his knee at everything, making rude noises in his hands and mouth, and washing it down with liquor all the time. He now horned in with one of his horse stories going about town.
“A man down in the streets of Louisville, or Frankfort, Kentucky, near the big Derby track, that is—this man is going along the street on Derby Day, or else during the morning sprints—have it your own way, and the man hears, ‘And to think I used to be at even money right there!’ He looks round, but the street is empty except for a milkcart with an old horse in it. He takes another step and hears, ‘To think I used to start from scratch and get to the post first every time!’ And with it, a heartbroken sigh. The man starts, looks round, and the horse says, ‘Yes, it’s me. To think I used to be a coming wonder as a two-year-old!’ The man, aghast, stands by, and when the milkman comes out of the house, he says, ‘Say, your horse can talk!’ The milkman says, ‘Oh, him! You can’t believe a thing he says. Has he been at you with his lies?’ ”
He continued, “Say, do you know this one? A man with a dog goes into a stable to saddle a horse for riding. The horse says, ‘Oh, let me alone; I’m too tired to take you out this morning.’ The man says, ‘Can you talk?’ The dog says, ‘Yeah, he really don’t talk bad for a horse; it’s kinda wonderful, ain’t it?’ ”
A woman from Washington, a polite miss in her forties, stared at the crowd now laughing at this incomprehensible local joke. They went on with their horse stories.
Gideon slapped his knee and shouted, “Two zanies meet each other and one cups his hands and says, ‘Guess what I have in here.’
“Zany No. 2: ‘Brooklyn Bridge.’
“Zany No. 1 looks at his fists, and then, ‘No! Ha-ha!’
“No. 2: ‘Woolworth Building?’
“No. 1: ‘No. Guess again!’
“No. 2: ‘National City Bank?’
“No. 1: ‘Na!’
“No. 2 goes crazy, but finally says: ‘Six race horses?’ “
Zany No. 1 looks carefully in his fists, and then says, defiantly: ‘What color, though?’ ”
They shouted with laughter. The Washington secretary looked very much surprised and a cloud of anxiety shifted over her face.
“An Irishman goes into St. Patrick’s,” shouted Gideon, “and he says, ‘Give me a whisky-and-soda!’
“Priest: ‘Shh! This is a church!’
“Irishman: ‘Give me a whisky-and-soda, I say!’
“Priest: ‘Shh, shh! This is a holy place.’
“Irishman: ‘I don’t care what place; I take a drink anywhere,that’s me.’
“The nuns pass two by two.
“Priest: ‘Look, man, see where you are, see where you are! Shame on you!’
“Irishman: ‘I don’t care about your floor show; give me a whisky-and-soda!’
“Priest: ‘I’m ashamed of you. Aren’t you a son of the Church?’
“Irishman (ashamed): ‘All right, I don’t want you to think bad of me; set ’em up for the girlies too.’ ”
The Washington miss, who wore a pretty old-fashioned straw hat wobbling on her head and a dark thin veil over her ears, so that she looked rather like an old Italian painting, now said, with timid eagerness, “That’s very good. Do you like limericks? We go in more for limericks in Washington.”
“Go on, Miss Oaker,” said Persia.
Miss Oaker straightened herself and recited,
“There was a young girl called Bathsheba,
Who passionately loved an amoeba;
The affectionate creature
Had little to teach her
As it tenderly muttered, ‘Ich Liebe.’ ”
Gallant Stack laughed romantically into Miss Oaker’s eyes and said, “That’s a honey, but do you know this one?
“There’s something gone wrong with Papa;
He shows tastes both odd and bizarre;
He brings home bears and camels
And other large mammals
And leaves them alone with Mamma.”
Miss Oaker laughed tremulously and leaning forward toward the handsome grass-gallant, she cried, throatily, “Oh, I know some really good limericks.
“There was an old sinner named Skinner
Who took a young girl out to dinner …”
She continued her Washington limericks for some time, her cheeks becoming pinker and her eyes prettier all the time. She had a trusting girlish manner as she leaned into the pool of floor out of which grew the company’s legs.
“You don’t mind if I go to the bathroom for a breath of fresh air?” asked Solander hilariously.
Luke Adams and I sat there mute. The three-husband woman hurled loathsome obscenities into the company from time to time, but without laughing; and the corn-haired girl told a joke or two which had the appearance of having been peeled out of one of Gideon Bowles’s pockets, full of tobacco crumbs and old papers.
“But I, just the same,” said Gallant Stack, after looking at Luke Adams, whom he enormously respected, “am a romantic. At home, when I was a grown man, I used to go out for walks at sunrise with a little girl aged seven who simply loved the sunrise. She’d wake up an hour before dawn just to see it coming into her room and she was always down there waiting for me. The fields there are wet and green; and only cows and hedges about, mostly. And I used to go for moonlight walks at the University of Virginia with a very old lady who was the mother-in-law of one of the profs. She was infinitely charming. ‘Under this tree, as a young girl of sixteen,’ she would say, ‘I had a romance; and on this little bridge, after I had played the harp, I stood pretending innocence, while I waited for a very flushed young man to find me and tell me he loved me. I was quite cool and unruffled. I thought myself a queen then. I used to think of the opera, you know, and the love stories of queens, and think, That is I!’ There never was a sweeter woman than this old woman; she was one of the most beautiful women in the world. Do you realize, the most beautiful woman in the world becomes very aged?”
Meantime, Gallant Stack, by standing up, boxing the compass, courteously ogling the girl, and by changing his position with one excuse and another several times, had placed himself next to the woman from Washington, Miss Oaker. He took her hand, and said to her, “Did you hear in Washington about the forgetful bee who forgot where he laid his honey?”
When the company had stopped its roaring, he continued, “But I am more interested in romance; I am really a romantic. A knight went to the Crusades (that’s an old legend), and came home after many years, weary and broken. As he neared his liege lord’s castle, he saw a little bird on the path with a broken wing, in the way of his horse’s hooves. He got down, picked up the bird, and put it in the tree. It turned into a lovely fairy, who said, ‘Noble knight, well hast thou lived up to thy knightly vows, to succor all tender and weak things, and, though thyself tired and famished, scarce able to mount thy steed, yet rememberest thou thy promises made before the altar of thy liege lord’s chapel and in the Holy Land, etc. And I will grant thee one wish; think well, for it can be only one.’ Said the knight, ‘I have no need to think about it. I am old and tired but have a great lust for life. I want to be in one respect (which he mentioned) like my horse.’ Granted,’ said the fairy; and the knight perceived that it was so.
“He arrived at the castle. They were overjoyed to see him. He advanced to kiss the king’s hand and was allowed to kiss his cheek, while the cooks went out to kill all the shoats and bull-calves available. Thereafter, for three days, there was much merrymaking. The knight observed that during his long absence many pretty maidens had come to the castle, or perhaps they had just grown up; and he went round chucking them under the chin as was correct in these old-fashioned days. They responded nicely, and in due time, it was noticeable that they were very much attached to him, so as to neglect the other knights in the castle. Even the queen was much interested, if not, as rumor ha
d it, positively infatuated. Enquiries were made, but no answer was forthcoming that seemed satisfactory. In the end the king came to the queen and said, ‘My dee-ah, do you know what makes the Chevalier so interesting to women? No weaving has been done in the women’s rooms for a brace of weeks.’ Yes,’ she said. ‘What is it, my dee-ah?’ ‘Well, of course, I know only by report,’ she said, ‘but I hear that he could not be better hung, my dee-ah.’ ‘But this is quite a new thing,’ said the king. ‘Yes, only since his return from the Holy Land.’ The king then proceeded to the knight’s chamber, where he found him sleeping vociferously; and after assuring himself that the thing might well be as reported, he shook him and spake thus, ‘Sir Knight!’ ‘Darling,’ muttered the knight. ‘Awake, Sir Knight, it is your king,’ said the king. The knight threw himself from the bed to his bended knee, a commonplace feat in those days, and which the knight had practiced regularly since he had come home, though not strictly with the king in mind. ‘Cavalier,’ said the king, ‘tell me whence come your marvelous powers.’ The knight related to the king all that you know.
“This amazed the king; and he thought, And this place is not more than a few hours’ ride from my own castle, and not in the Holy Land. Though, ’slife, I should be willing to start even for Jerusalem. Well, just after midnight, he steals from the castle, saddles his horse in the dark, gets things on somehow, and sets forth, in higgledypiggledy array, true, but still he’s riding. He travels four hours, the sun gets up, he travels all day, gets tired, turns back, is exhausted with looking, and when nearly home, there on the ground he sees a little bird. He throws himself from the horse, puts the bird in the tree, and the fairy appears with, ‘Noble and gracious king, thy most kingly action, etc.,’ and he can hardly wait till she gets to the end of it. As soon as she gives him a wish, he says, ‘I want to be like my horse.’ The fairy looks surprised and says, ‘Are you certain?’ Yes. ‘Granted,’ she says; and the king rides home. The knight and the king then lived happily ever after, and the ladies went back to spinning and carding.”
Letty Fox Page 39
