Letty Fox

by Christina Stead

  We went back to the Norman hall. Mrs. Headlong, before our early bedtime, said, “Perhaps you will be nervous in such a big house, all alone, the first night, so I think I will show you over it. You will know where everything is, and will not be afraid.”

  I said, with a blush, “I have already explored those parts near me.”

  “Yes, I know. I heard you walking about.”

  We went upstairs, and, by the gallery, entered a suite of rooms used by Mrs. Headlong’s half-grown children, all away at schools, their nurse and governess; linen closets, toy cupboards. From these rooms an easy staircase went down to the playroom, from which three doors led, one to the kitchens, one to the coffee room, and one to an outdoor dining room. There was a wooden gallery outside the great kitchen, from which stairs led down to the garages and the men’s quarters. Still another exit from the kitchen led to a foyer in which was a powder room, and this again led to the entry in which I had first found myself. Yet, because all these were grouped round the great hall and were divided into wings, everything was clear.

  “I shall not be afraid now,” I said.

  Mrs. Headlong took me to my room, showed me where the books were, and, in her elegant boarding-school style, bade me good night. I drew the heavy curtains over the windows, both sides, and sat down. I heard faint movement upstairs. Not long afterwards, Mrs. Headlong came down the inside stairs, in her tailored negligee, and said we must leave the door open to the stairs so that I could use it, and that I must come at any time of the night. I said I really wasn’t such a coward as all that.

  I read for a long time and then put out the light. The windows in steel frames could not be entered from outside, and there was nothing but starlight, very faint over the woods. Laurels and hollies grew near the house. It seemed very stuffy, but I was afraid to pull back the curtains from the windows. I lay in bed under all that stone in the thick silence and laughed at the lavish hospitality, the great house. Yet I was oppressed. The spirit itself stifled. Not far away was an insane asylum. What did the servants do at night? Did they creep down all those staircases? I felt they hated Lucy Headlong. But why? She was kind—indeed. I had never heard such stillness, and asked myself if it had something to do with the Fall Line. Here, the land was truly under the influence of the last ice. I knew that on the other side of the Line, the bush bloomed soft, round and green, and rustled and sang all night. Here, the northern silence murdered all sound. All the things round the house I had seen had been smothered, and would come back in the morning, vampires, to deceive with a fair show.

  I started as just outside my window two voices began, a man’s baritone and a woman’s light, hurried speech. The woman said something nervously, and the man assented. The conversation went on. I got up and looked out. Anything better than the thumping heart, the thickness of the room’s night. It was rather clear now, a moon was visible. The sounds were made by frogs. My glance traveled over a boulder, a rock garden, a roof, the dip of the hill, and swam in the innocent mute lake lying down there, and becoming lighter with the moon. It is simply, I said to myself, the absence of noise. I’m one of those town lunatics, like they have on the Grand Concourse, who can only sleep with four radios blaring out “Three Itty Fitties,” at two in the morning. I drew the curtain to welcome the wood light into the room. The walls took on faint flesh and I settled myself to sleep. I could not sleep. I became lighter in spirits. At intervals throughout the night I switched on my light to read. I read natural history, the latest best-seller, anagrams, anything that they had in the room; but could not keep my attention fixed and would soon turn off the light again. Mrs. Headlong was not sleeping, for when I rose I noticed, after a while, light from above falling through curtains. A nervous night.

  For a long time the frogs went on talking, “It’s eerie here! It’s eerie here!” and the bullfrog, after a meditative silence, “I know! I know!” Then the nervous frog again, “It’s eerie here—it’s eerie.” The bullfrog seemed to consider it, when he answered consolingly, “I know—I know!”

  Later in the night, when I had ceased putting on my light (for I saw that when I put on mine, Mrs. Headlong put on hers, no doubt to comfort me), later, I leaned against the bed head and listened to soft sounds in the moon-washed grass; animals, scurrying feet, ghosts of animals, animals the Indians had known? But harmless, gentle, slipping by. The night passed. I got up early and it seemed to me I had not slept.

  “Did you sleep?” asked Mrs. Headlong, when I came out in my borrowed land-girl suit, feeling quite fresh.

  “But did you?” I asked, “I saw your light,” and I went on to declare that there were gentle ghosts about, rustling like spring leaves. This pleased her very much.

  The day passed uneventfully, but as easily as the night had. We took a long ride through that dull, wooded country with its sunken roads and lakes. We visited an elegant farmhouse or two where we had drinks. Mrs. Headlong pounced about, full of glee, making a grand, aristocratic clatter. It seemed to me that these people were all stuffy and snobs, for they were quite cool to me. I could not help my uneasy feeling that this week end was a kind of mistake, and that, no doubt, all these people thought I was a poor girl sponging on a rich woman.

  The evening was dull, but agreeable, for this same boisterous and bold woman, who handed out insults when it pleased her, in a royal way, had also a cordial art, and could behave, even to me, a girl of no particular charms, moneyless, as a sweet and humble friend.

  “If you do not sleep tonight,” said Lucy Headlong when she took me into my room and unobtrusively arranged things for me, “come and tell me; you will get an aspirin.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t disturb you for the world.”

  “I rarely sleep,” she said, with a nervous but earnest air.

  This night was like the one before. The frogs conversed; the moon rose, a little brighter, the airy hours scuttled past. Animals swarmed up and down the slopes of the mound, but delicatefooted, so that, quite entertained and friendly, I looked out of both windows endeavoring to see what kind of animals they were; but I saw nothing. I lay awake, but not uneasy, and rose frequently to look out the windows at the woods, hopping strangely, very lightly, full of girlish bliss, from one place to the other.

  The room this night was bathed in dry, pale light, for I had left the curtains wide. I knew, now, no one was about. I would throw myself on the sheets for a while and would take pleasure in trying to seize the unseizable fancies in my head, and again get up, even trying to read by moonlight. At many hours in the night, I saw the poor woman’s light on, falling through the slit of the curtains.

  It was the third day that was strange. To fill in time, Lucy Headlong said she would paint my portrait. I had not slept, and yet felt lively and delightfully childish. I behaved in a confiding and childish way.

  We went out into the home woods where, some hundred yards away, in a clearing, breasting another mound, we found a building with stables in the lower part, and a loft; and above that, a studio. A large sheet of canvas was spread on the hill between staves to throw the light into the room. Above, the roof was partly glassed. There was an alpine balcony and sliding doors on one side. She kept most of her supplies and canvases in closets in the walls and on a high gallery, reached by a narrow, carved stair. A door led to a wall closet. A small window looked out over the undulating country. On the balcony was a bed covered with a native rug.

  When I came down, she brought out some of her canvases for me, including several self-portraits. One showed an exceptionally fresh and enigmatic girl, in a Velasquez court costume.

  “This is you—what beauty!”

  “I was not bad-looking once.”

  “This is simply a beauty! Much better looking than I am,” I said.

  She smiled slightly, “You are all right, Letty, and you are young— whatever you may be later on, now you are perfect. I am not good-looking any more.”

  “You are very handsome.”

  She made a face, pulling her jaws
slightly apart, with a beastly rictus, so that she looked both insane and dead. A fierce light shone in her eyes and her skin showed all its yellow; one could see the hundreds of fine wrinkles in her delicate, but aging skin and flesh. Gross persons have great wrinkles; these beauties who are taking on the clothing of contempt they will wear in old age, have these fine webbed crow’s-feet, an infinity of small wounds. Now she pulled her face another way, with her fingers, she thrust her face close at me; I had a moment of terror, staring at this face with eagles’ eyes. Then she drew off, and turned her back. Without seeing any more, I felt that she was frenzied by her age. A painter knows better than another how she looks. It took her some time to calm herself; then she turned back with her usual, ladylike smile.

  “Sit you here, my little Letty,” and she arranged me so that the light from the canvas on the hill fell on me. As soon as she had taken up her post at the easel, she was occupied by her craft, but I was conscious of her unsought, tender, thoughtful friendship, and a soft air of gratitude and affection, I am sure, was moving from me to her, much of this morning.

  “Speak, speak,” she said to me, explaining that I must speak about anything, so that my face would be naturally animated and my gestures natural.

  “Don’t lose the pose, though.”

  It surprised me to find how easy it was to monologue by the hour. It was delicious. If I stopped, after a moment or two, she would say, “Go on, Letty; tell me something; I need the animation,” and when I had started up again, her gaze traveled back and forth in the same busy way.

  What was my conversation about? At first, it strayed. Then perhaps, because she abstractedly said, “Who was he?” I began to talk about the men I knew. My father—she said, “You’re very fond of your father, aren’t you?”—my handsome cousin, Templeton Hogg, now an aspiring Little Theatre actor, hoping for Hollywood—in a quarter of an hour I had arrived at Clays Manning.

  “Go on, go on,” said Mrs. Headlong. “And he is in Spain still?”

  There was something soothing in the morning and our occupation and I was light-headed through not having slept, although by no means sleepy. I began to confess. Soon Mrs. Headlong knew all of the Manning affair, and became vividly interested in Manning. Her face lighted up, she cast sympathetic smiles at me, and said, “Well, such things can happen to anyone—anyone,” and her teasing eyes danced.

  “Well, go on,” said she, “and now you are waiting for Clays?”

  My late misfortunes kept me silent for a time. She noticed this, put down her brushes, surveyed her work and me and then, putting out her hand, “Come, little Letty! We’ll go and have drinks and lunch!”

  She again made a quantity of cocktails, which she brought outside to the stone terrace, on the lake side; and we sat in summer chairs under the tall walnuts.

  “What a contrast,” thought I, “with Grandmother Morgan’s rowdy-dowdy out at Green Acres.”

  Here, not a thought, not a word, not an action that I did not want myself; silence, and great wealth, beauty, peace, and singular admiration. Mrs. Headlong watched me, “You like it here? And yet you don’t sleep! Shall we go and visit this afternoon, so that you can sleep, or shall we just stay here and relax?”

  “Let’s take a ride and visit!”

  “Anything; anything you like,” she said at once, cheerfully, “and if you miss your little Jacky, I’ll telephone or send a telegram for her.” She leaned forward, “Shall I send for Jacky, dear? You’re lonely.”

  I laughed outright.

  “I miss Jacky? I miss anyone? I do not miss even Clays. I’m ashamed to say it. Of course, I’m restless, lonely, in a way, all the time. I need men, and then when I have them, they’re unsatisfactory. I don’t know what I want, of course. But I’ve lost the taste for men my own age. And when I look at older men, I have my doubts— what is it, exactly? It’s difficult to make a start in life.”

  She became more serious than I was. She began to tell me about her affairs. Her life was famous, romantic, adventurous. She had been everything a woman should be—an artist, a radical, had lovers, husbands, children, money, philanthropy, doctrines, follies; a woman who did not despise any kind of life.

  I went on, with “Luke Adams—”

  “Luke Adams!”

  “Oh, yes, you knew Luke Adams!”

  “What could a girl like you have to do with him?”

  But although everyone admired this gallant and rather strange artist, man of many adventures and loves, brave, poor man, she blackened with spite.

  “Little gutter rat from the slums! Mad with vanity! Only thinks of the size of his fan mail. Yes, I know a good deal about Luke Adams!”

  But it was clear that none of what she knew she had known in love. She said viciously, spitting the words out one by one, “He’s a little upstart; he’s made a name for himself by coddling the prejudices of the half-hewn and the lame-brains. Is it an honor to be born in the working class? I mean, not in socialism, just now. He pretends it is. Richard III had the decency to regret that he was a misshapen brat—he hated his mirror—but not that ugly monkeyfaced wizened brat, that Bowery lambstew tosspot.”

  I said, amused, “Oh, I rather like Luke Adams, he’s a friend of my father.”

  “Solander and Persia Fox should have more sense.”

  Persia Fox! Never had I heard her called that till now. I looked with surprise at this woman, without prejudice, and thought, There’s a great side to her nature. She’s been through stormy loves and halfruined lives. She’s milled finer, perhaps, than I. A second later I asked myself if it wasn’t just her money working on me, for I’m not in the habit of thinking others better than I. It’s a weakling idea. No, even a millionaire of the persuasion feminine is not better than I, I thought. I smiled babyishly, in my malice, “They say he has many women loving him “

  “No doubt he tells it himself.”

  It was mere kittenishness. I passed on. I noticed she criticized many men—I suppose a talented woman does, not obliged to flatter their image. Or is it money? I remembered the truth about her— she was paying an allowance to a previous husband. Naturally, she had not a particularly dependent view of men. Though her present husband suited her well, a successful town intellectual of good tone and welcome everywhere, people still laughed at him if she so much as bought him a bottle of wine.

  “Lucky for him to be kept so well,” they said, “talking on his wife’s money; I could do that.” The men were jealous of Adrian Headlong.

  She went on with her affairs, eagerly, baring her life to me, “My first husband was a Hungarian, a fatal man. I can’t look at him now without qualms and he’s been married twice since. I got tired of him, and I determined not to be under his thumb. Palyi was irresistible,” she said delightfully, “it cost me a lot to divorce him. I went to Mexico City to do it. He came down there and wheedled round. When I went back to New York I went to see him, against my better judgment. His room was in a hotel near Central Park. He was living on my money then. Why not? I gave it to him. I didn’t like Palyi to live miserably. A delightful creature like him. Soft, insincere, but charming as a girl. On his wall were etchings, all indecent naturally, and to the point—you know, the only thing that interested his direct mind. Direct action was his way. I said to him, ‘Palyi, that’s mere tiddlywinks. Casanova had a patent armchair that tilted back and had arm-grips.’

  “He at once pulled a long face, and his irresistibly melancholy brown eyes slid about, ‘Lucy, I can’t afford the exotic.’ ”

  She laughed, “Palyi, Palyi,” she murmured. “Terrible for me, bad for my peace of mind, and my morals. I danced after him for a year or two, think of it. I remarried him. Think of it! He wasn’t so pleased. He became morbid. He sat in his room and was depressed. He cried. Naturally, I wouldn’t let him have his etchings on the wall. He sat at the window and waited for me when I went out. He dropped flowers on my head when I came in. That was the town house—you know it—Fifty-fifth—he sat on the second floor and dropped
petals on my head. When I got upstairs, he’d throw himself on the couch and look at me, ‘Oh, I’ve been waiting all day for you.’ How cunning he was!”

  “Was that cunning?”

  “Of course,” Lucy Headlong cried irritably, getting up and taking strides. “He knew I couldn’t stand that kind of mamamouchi. He just wanted me to get rid of him again and to get back his allowance.”

  “Where’s Palyi now? I don’t know his other name!”

  A shadow crossed her face for the first time; “He’s married again, of course,” she said, without a smile.

  After a moment, she came back and poured me a drink, “If it’s too watery, tell me. But the one you remind me of, Letty—well, not exactly, you’re strictly feminine, you know—not exactly, just something about the foreheads—you have a fine forehead, and then—no, it must be the forehead; everything about you is distinctly not male. The hair? Perhaps that too!”

  She sat down, and told a fine-drawn story of her second marriage, and the man I reminded her of—her phrases transparent, broad, natural and clean, new cambric. I understood as the story went on that it was not a marriage by law, yet, it was in fact, of her senses and inclinations. Then came Adrian; and now, “I’m a prisoner of his kindness.”

  Her small face had become tragic, the eyes sunken. She ran her hands through her hair. I remembered having seen my mother do it, but here, I thought, Oh, here is the queen; my mother is just an actress; Lucy Headlong is the firebird. Down she comes and drinks up men’s souls and bodies like milk and nothing puts out the fire. But I looked at her composedly and mentioned the birds settling in the trees. I was slowly learning not to give myself away in any company except that of a man, and as for that, foolish as it was, it was my business. The lean, wary game in sex was not mine, and I despised it. I smiled artificially at my hostess and she went on in a low tone, to tell me who it was, the one who had maddened her with love, two years ago. It was a famous man, one of the best known in the world.