To look at, she was one of those “gentle ray of sunshine” girls—very fair, with almost flaxen hair, the color of pale straw or rough raw silk, big blue eyes, and milk-white skin, bluish, like skim milk; she had a soft, plump chin with a sort of dimple or cleft in it, plump white arms, and a wide, open brow. Some people thought she looked like Ann Harding in the movies, but she was not as tall as Ann Harding. She had taken to wearing her hair in braids around her broad head; she thought it was neater, for the hospital, all coiled around like that. The trouble was, it made her look older. When Priss was having her last miscarriage, in New York Hospital, in semi-private, Polly had stopped in to visit her every day, which was easy for her since she worked there; seeing her in her white coat and low-heeled shoes and those matronly braids, the other patient thought Polly must be at least twenty-six. She had been on the Daisy Chain (that made four in the group—Libby herself, Lakey, Kay, and Polly—which was sort of a record), but Libby had never agreed that Polly was beautiful. She was too placid and colorless, unless she smiled. Kay had cast her as the Virgin in the Christmas pantomime senior year, which she directed, but this was to give her a pickup from having broken her engagement to the boy with the bad heredity. Actually, behind that placid exterior, Polly was rather emotional but very good fun, really a delightful companion, with an original point of view. All the Andrews were original. Polly had majored in Chemistry, thinking that she might be a doctor, but when Mr. Andrews lost his money, naturally she had to give that up; luckily, the college Vocational Bureau had got her placed at New York Hospital-Cornell Medical Center. All the group hoped she would meet some ravishing young doctor or pathologist who would want to marry her, but so far this had not happened or if so no one knew about it. About herself, Polly was very reserved. It sometimes sounded as if she saw nobody but her aunt and those strange inhabitants of her rooming house and other girls with jobs, some of them pretty dreary—the type, as Kay said, that had bulbs of paper narcissuses growing in their windows in a dish from the five-and-ten. This capacity for making lackluster friends, especially of her own sex, was Polly’s faiblesse. The Chem majors at college were a case in point, worthy souls, no doubt, but the science majors as a group (credit Kay for this observation too) were about the lowest stratum at Vassar. They were the ones, as Kay said, you would not remember when you came back for your tenth reunion: pathetic cases with skin trouble and superfluous hair and thick glasses and overweight or underweight problems and names like Miss Hasenpfeffer. What would happen to them afterward? Would they all go home and become pillars of their community and send their daughters back to Vassar to perpetuate the type or would they go into teaching or medicine, where you might even hear of them some day? “Dr. Elfrida Katzenbach is with the Rockefeller Institute—Congratulations, Katzy,” you would read in the alumnae news and “Who was she?” you would ask yourself. Astronomy and Zoology were a little different—Pokey had majored in Zoology and, would wonders never cease incidentally, last year she had up and married a poet, a sort of distant cousin who was in Graduate School at Princeton—her family had bought them a house down there, but Pokey still commuted by plane to Ithaca and was still planning to be a vet. Anyway, Astronomy and Zoology were different—not so dry, more descriptive; Botany too. Next to the Physics and Chem majors in dreariness came the language majors; Libby had narrowly escaped that fate. They were all going to be French or Spanish teachers in the high school back home and had names like Miss Peltier and Miss La Gasa. Polly had her followers among them too, who were even invited up to stay in Stock-bridge, to talk French with Mr. Andrews. Polly was a democrat (all the Andrews voted for Roosevelt, being related to the Delanos), though Lakey used to say that the democracy was all on the surface and that underneath Polly was a feudal snob.
Be that as it might, Libby saw Polly as often as she could and almost always asked her to her parties. The trouble was, Polly, though wonderful company when you were alone with her, did not shine at big gatherings. Her voice was very low, like her father’s, who virtually whispered his mild remarks. If you did not explain her family background (a nest of gentlefolk with a few bats in the belfry; Mr. Andrews’ sisters had all been painted by Sargent), people were inclined to overlook her or ask after she had gone home who that quiet blonde girl was. That was another thing; she always left early unless you gave her something to do, like talking to a bore, to make her feel useful. All you had to do was tell her to go rescue some stick who was standing in a corner, and Polly would engage him in animated conversation and find out all sorts of wondrous things about him that nobody had ever suspected. But if you told her someone was a great catch, she would not make the slightest effort—“I’m afraid I must make my excuses, Libby” (all the Andrews talked like that).
But the minute you started a game, be it poker or “Pin the Tail on the Donkey,” Polly was in her element, delighted to sort chips or cut out pieces of paper or make blindfolds; she was always the court of authority or the umpire—the person who decided the rules and kept everybody in order. That was the Andrews family again. Having lost their money and had so much trouble, they kept cheerful by doing charades and playing games. Anybody who stayed with them in that rambling old farmhouse, with its big fireplaces and attics and storerooms, was immediately drafted to be “It” after dinner and hastily told all the rules, and woe to him or her who was not quick to catch on. Some nights they did charades, very complicated ones, in costumes in the barn with kerosene stoves to keep warm. Some nights they played “Murder,” though that made Mr. Andrews very nervous, they discovered, for it seemed he had had violent spells in the hospital and trembled if he had to do the carving at the table on one of his darker days. Some nights they played “Cache-Cache” which was just the French version of good old “Hide and Seek” with slightly different rules that they had learned in their chateau in France. Or “Ghosts,” which the family had renamed “Punkin” because Mr. Andrews sometimes burst into quiet tears or laughed strangely when he missed a question and had to say “I’m one-third of a ghost”; so now instead they said “one-third of a punkin,” after “pumpkin head.” Then they played “Geography,” which Mr. Andrews was a perfect fiend at, having traveled so much and knowing all the Y’s and K’s like Ypres, which he called “Wipers,” and Yezd and Kyoto and Knossos. And a new version of “Ghosts” that they called the “Wily Austrian Diplomat” game (“Are you a wily Austrian diplomat?” “No, I am not Metternich”). Polly’s family, being brainy, liked these guessing games almost best, next to charades, but they played silly ones too, like “I Packed My Grandmother’s Trunk.” And on rainy days there were chess and checkers and parcheesi; the family had had to give up Monopoly (some kind friend had sent them a set), again because of Mr. Andrews, poor lamb, who was always reminded of his investments. When they had to make a joint decision, like where to send young Billy to college or what to have for Christmas dinner, they would solemnly do the “sortes Virgilianae” in full concourse assembled with Mr. Andrews’ old Aeneid; the idea was that the children became voting members of the family when they were able to construe Latin—think of that! Then the children got up treasure hunts, with homemade pincushions and calendars and a single amaryllis bulb for prizes, to take the place of paper chases, because they could not afford riding horses any more—only a few cows and chickens; one winter they had tried a pig. Polly used to hunt and ride sidesaddle, and she still had her riding habit and boots and bowler, which she took with her down to Princeton when Pokey remembered to ask her (Pokey had her own stables and hunted weekends); she had had to let out the coat, because she was a little fatter now than she was at eighteen, but they said she still looked very pretty, with her white skin and pale hair in the full-skirted black riding costume with a stock. Black was Polly’s color.
Weekdays, she dressed very plainly, in an old sweater and plaid skirt and low-heeled shoes. But for parties, like today, she had one good black crepe dress, with a low scalloped neckline and a fringed sash, and she had two wide-brimmed bl
ack hats, one for winter and one for summer. The summer one, which she was wearing today, was a lacy straw trimmed with black lace. The crepe of her dress was getting a little rusty (black crepe did that, alas), but it set off her full white neck, fleshy chin, and bosom; she had done her hair low on her neck, in a big knot, which was much more becoming. Harald Petersen said she looked like a Renoir. But Libby thought a Mary Cassatt. Libby herself was in high-necked brown taffeta (brown was her color) with topaz earrings to bring out the gold lights in her hair and eyes. She thought Polly, who did not have any good jewelry left, might have worn a white rose in her corsage.
Libby had balanced her guests carefully: a little bit of Vassar, a little bit of publishing, Sister and her husband, who were just back from Europe, a little bit of Wall Street, a little bit of the stage, a lady author, a man from the Herald Tribune, a woman from the Metropolitan Museum. E cosí via; she had not asked anybody from the office, because it was not that kind of party. A rather mixed bag, Sister commented, narrowing her amethyst eyes, but Sister had always been critical of Libby’s aspirations. “Noah’s Ark, eh?” chuckled Sister’s husband. “Bring on your menagerie, Lib!” He never failed to tease her about leading “the literary life.” Libby usually played up to this, but today she had other fish to fry. She wanted Sister and her husband to impress her latest flame. His name was Nils Aslund; she had met him this winter on the ski train. He was the ski jumper at Altman’s and a genuine Norwegian baron! Her brother-in-law, who was getting too fat, nearly choked on a gob of Mr. Andrews’ pâté, when Nils came in, wearing the most beautiful Oxford-gray suit, and bent to kiss Sister’s hand—you only did that with married women, Nils had explained to her. He had the most heavenly manners and a marvelous figure and danced divinely. Even Sister had to admit he was pretty snazzy, after talking to him for a while. His English was almost perfect, with just the trace of an accent; he had studied English literature at the University, and imagine, before he knew Libby, he had read her poem in Harper’s and remembered it. They had the same interests; Libby was almost certain he was going to propose, which was partly why she had decided to have this party. She wanted him to see her in her setting; hence the dogwood, girls. She had never let him come up to the apartment before; you never knew, with Europeans, what they might assume. But at a party, with some of her family present, that was different. Afterward, he was going to take her to dinner, and that was where, she expected, if all went well, he was going to pop the question. Her brother-in-law must have smelled a rat too. “Well, Lib,” he said, “is he gainfully employed?” Libby told him that he was in charge of the ski run at Altman’s; he had come to America to study business. “Seems a funny place to start,” said her brother-in-law, thoughtfully. “Why not the Street?” He chuckled. “You certainly can pick ’em. But seriously, Lib, that rates him socially about on a par with a golf pro.” Libby bit her lip. She had been afraid of this reaction from her family. But she mastered her vexation and disappointment; if she accepted Nils, she decided, she could make it a condition that he find some other work. Perhaps they could open a ski lodge in the Berkshires; another Vassar girl and her husband had done that. And still another couple had a ranch out West. It was just a question of waiting till his father died, when he would go home and run the ancestral estate. …
With all this on her mind, it was no wonder that Libby, at the height of her party, forgot to keep an eye on Polly and see that she was circulating. When things calmed down a bit, what was her amazement to discover her deep in conversation with Gus LeRoy, who had said, when he arrived, that he could only stay a minute. Libby never did find out who had introduced them. They were standing by the window, looking at Libby’s lovebirds. Polly was feeding them bits of strawberry from her glass (the poor birds would be tight as ticks on Liebfraumilch), and Gus LeRoy was talking to her a mile a minute. Libby nudged Kay. Polly’s blue-white breasts were rather in evidence, which was probably the source of the attraction, and her strawy hair, which had a tendency to be untidy, it was so fine, was slipping a little from its pins in the back, at the nape of her neck.
Libby started to tell Kay Gus LeRoy’s history. Her baron was hovering nearby, and she signaled to him to join them. “We’re prophesying a romance,” she explained. Gus came from Fall River, where his family had a printing business. He and his wife were separated, and there was one child, about two and a half years old, Augustus LeRoy IV. The wife taught at a progressive school and was a Communist party member; she was having an affair with somebody in her cell—that was why Gus had left her. Up to now, he had been pretty pink himself but never a party member, and he had brought several important authors who were Communist sympathizers to the firm, but now the Communists were turning a cold shoulder on him because he wanted to divorce his wife and name this other man, which they called a “splitting tactic” or something. “Nils is a Social Democrat,” she added, smiling. “No, no,” said the baron. “As a student, I was. Now I am neutral. Not neuter.” He gave his jolly, boyish laugh and looked sidelong at Libby. The reason Libby had heard all this, she continued, flashing a reproachful look at Nils, was that there was an open Communist right in her office—a very homely girl, built like a truck, with nothing to do but drink by herself in the evenings or go to Party meetings. This girl or woman (she must be almost thirty) knew Gus LeRoy’s wife. “Oh well, homely women!” said the baron, making a disdainful face. “For them it’s like the church.” Libby hesitated. The story that popped into her mind was a bit off color, but it would point a moral to Nils. “I beg to differ, dear sir. You should hear the horrible thing that happened to this girl the other night. Quite another pair of gloves from the Girls Friendly Society or the Altar Guild of St. Paul’s. I had to take over this girl’s work for her till they let her out of the hospital. Four teeth knocked out and a fractured jaw. That was what she got for being a Communist.” “Picketing,” cried Kay. “Did you hear that Harald led a picket march the other day?” Libby shook her head. “Quite another pair of gloves,” she repeated. “This girl—I won’t tell you her name—being a Communist, is very sympathetic to the workingman. Point two: she drinks. You should smell her breath some mornings. Well, one night—actually it was over a month ago; you remember that cold spell we had late in March?—well, she was coming home in a taxi, having had one too many in a bar somewhere, and she started talking to the taxi driver and commiserating with him about his lot, naturally, and they both mentioned how cold it was. She noticed—anyway, that’s how she told the story—that he didn’t have an overcoat or extra jacket on. So, as one comrade to another, she asked him up for a drink, to get warm.” Kay caught her breath; Libby nodded. Several other guests drew near to listen; Libby had quite a reputation as a storyteller. “Maybe she thought being so homely was some protection,” she pursued. “But he had other ideas. And he assumed she did too. So when he had had the drink, he made overtures. She was very startled and pushed him away. The next thing she knew, she came to on her floor, in a pool of blood, with her teeth all over the place and her jaw broken. He was gone, of course.” “Did—?” “No,” said Libby. “Apparently not. And nothing was stolen. Her purse was lying right beside her on the floor. My boss wanted her to go to the police. So did the hospital. They had to wire her jaw together, and it will take her years to pay for the dental work. But she wouldn’t do a thing about it. It’s against Communist principles, it seems, to call the police against a ‘worker.’ And she said, between her clamped jaws, that it was her own fault.” “Quite right,” said Nils firmly. “She was in the wrong.” “Oh, I don’t agree at all,” cried Kay. “If every time someone misunderstood you, they had a right to knock your teeth out …? Or if every time you tried to be nice, it was taken the wrong way?” “Girls should not try to be nice to taxi drivers,” said Nils. “Old Europe speaking,” retorted Kay. “I’m always nice to taxi drivers. And nothing has ever happened.” “Really? Never?” said Sister, looking rather pityingly at Kay. “Well, actually,” said Kay, “once one did try to ge
t into the back of the cab with me.” “Heavens!” said Libby. “What did you do?” “I talked him out of it,” said Kay. The baron laughed heartily; he had evidently caught on to the fact that Kay was an inveterate arguer. “But, Kay, my child, what had you done to encourage him?” said Libby. “Absolutely nothing,” said Kay. “We were talking, and all of a sudden he said I was beautiful and that he liked the perfume I was wearing. And he stopped the cab and got out.” “He had good taste. Don’t you think so, Elizabeth?” Nils spoke of Kay, but he looked deeply into Libby’s eyes with his bright burning blue ones till her knees nearly knocked together.
After that, discussion was general. Kay wanted to tell about Harald’s picketing. “His picture was in the tabloids,” she declared. Libby sighed, because of Sister and her husband. But the story, it turned out, was fascinating—not the usual kind of thing at all. It seemed that Harald had been directing a play for a left-wing group downtown. It was one of those profit-sharing things, co-operatives, but run really by Communists behind the scenes, as Harald found out in due course. The play was about labor, and the audiences were mostly theatre parties got up by the trade unions. “So when Harald found out that these Communists in the management were cooking the books, he organized the actors and threw a picket line around the theatre.” The man from the Herald Tribune scratched his jaw. “I remember that,” he said, looking curiously at Harald. “Your paper played the story down,” said Kay. “So did the Times.” “Because of advertising?” suggested the lady author. Harald shook his head and shrugged. “Go on, if you must,” he said to Kay. “Well, the audience couldn’t cross a picket line, obviously, even if most of the actors hadn’t been in it. So the management had to agree right then and there to show its books every week to a committee of the actors, which Harald is head of. Then they all marched into the theatre.” “And the show went on!” concluded Harald, with an ironical flourish of his hand. “So you won,” said Nils. “Very interesting.” In practice, Kay said, the actors were still only getting $40 Equity minimum, because the show was not doing too well. “But in principle,” Harald said dryly, “‘’twas a famous victory.’” His skeletal face looked sad.
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