And in addition she had, of course, herself. It had been her only dowry, and until some six months ago she had never seriously attempted to draw upon it. “What a pity,” her golden-haired Uncle Victor—elder brother of her father and the last successful one of his generation—had remarked of her when she was eight, what a pity that Arietta wasn’t male, for she seemed to have all the Minot talents, including a marked facial resemblance to the founder of the line. Victor had died, from an overdose of his patron’s pheasant and Lafitte, at the minimal age of eighty, spared from knowing that it was even more of a pity that she wasn’t a nineteenth-century male. But here she was, and she was neither. The room where she sat now was the petit salon that held the conglomeration of family pictures, and without turning to look at that descending gallery of honorable rogues, she could trace in them not only the decline of the private patron—of which all the world was aware—but of his factotum—small, tragic, sub-dominant theme that the world had ignored.
Above the mantel was Yves, done on ivory, full-length too, which was unusual for the medium. Legend had it that he had insisted on this because, knee-breeched to the end of his life, he had declared a man to be incomplete without a show of calf; certainly their japing angle went with the face above. It was a triangular face in which all the lines went up, a minstrel face whose nose, long for its tilt, must have moved, as hers did, with speech. The enamelist had even managed to indicate in couleur-de-rose those same crab-apple bumps of cheek she had when she smiled. Next to him was the Dutch wife, shown in conventional oval to the waist, of which there was much, a great blonde, serene in all but her stays. Beneath the two, depending on lengths of velvet ribbon in the tree of life, were their heirs direct and collateral, daguerreotype to Brownie, spilling from the mantel to the side walls. As a curious phenomenon, one could see one or the other of the two progenitors always recurring, often with such fidelity that there had long been family slang for the two types—“the beefies” for the Dutch ones, and “les maigres” for those mince creatures who were true Minots. Although there had been no intermarrying, one type had usually managed to marry the other, and his children tended to be his opposites as well.
Yes, it is all very interesting, thought Arietta—we are a fascinating lot, rather like the green and yellow peas in Mendel—and her father had often dined out on that story. In time, if there was time, she might dine out on it too. Meanwhile, brooding on the three pictures between Yves and the wedding portrait of herself and Carolingus Fay, deceased, she traced a history much more in Gibbon’s line.
Beneath Yves came his son Claude, a “beefy,” of whom it might have been said (as Henry Adams had said of himself) that “as far as he had a function in life, it was as a stable-companion to statesmen, whether they liked it or not.” In Claude’s case they had. Next came Louis, her grandfather, who had switched to railroad barons—a light sprig of a man who had passed on, full in years and benefices, while accompanying home the equally aged body of his baron, on the Union Pacific somewhere between Ogden and Omaha, in a private car. Under him, in the sepia gloss of the eighties, were his sons, beefies again: her father in his teens, in the deerstalker’s cap so prophetic of his later years, and Victor, already a man with a beautiful Flemish jowl. Victor had already been with “munitions” at the time. At the minimal age of eighty he had died (her father used to joke) not of pheasant but of pique, because his patron’s son, seduced by the increasingly corporate air of Delaware, had entered Victor’s exquisitely intangible services on a tax sheet, had actually tried to incorporate him. If so, it had still been death in the high style, and of it. But with her father, the long descent, gradual as the grime on her bric-a-brac, was clear. He had still had the hereditary talent, but he had been fifteen years younger than Victor. Patrons herded in groups now instead of carrying on singly, and preferred the distressingly plebeian admiration of the many to the fine, patrician allegiance of the one. And gaiety, the mark of the personal, was suspect in a sociological world. Ergo her father. When a Minot was stripped of his devotion and of the truth-telling that was its honorable underside, when he was reduced to picking up crumbs of “contact” wherever he could, to making public show of his charms like anyone else, then he did so in the only way he knew. Her father had become a diner-out. It was some consolation that, under many lambent chandeliers and between many long-stemmed rows of pink and tawny glasses, he had dined so well.
She glanced at her wrist, remembered that she no longer had a watch, and looked at the river, estimating the seasonal angle of light on the opposite shore. Still too early to walk the short distance to the Lampeys, who, much as they adored her company, touted it, still preferred their guests to arrive, sharply gala, at eight. And these days Arietta aimed to please, had in fact aimed so steadily these past months and so far from her usual haunts, the shabby Saturday night parties of the real denizens of these hills, that it was no wonder if these were already remarking how unexpected it was of Arietta—slated one would have said for years yet to the memory of Carolingus—to be openly hunting a husband, and in such circles as the Lampeys, too. How surprised they would be if they knew that all she was hunting was a job. A job, to be sure, for a Minot—a sinecure not for sloth, but for the spirit. With, of course, perks enough to feed a healthy nine-year-old boy.
She rose and went to the mantel, staring up at Yves—one “maigre” looking at another. She was four velvet ribbons removed from him, and—except for Roger, who would be nothing for years yet—the last hope of his line. If from his vantage point he could have approved the resemblance, would he have expected her, a female, nevertheless to do something in his line? Being female, what she had done was, twelve years ago, to marry Carolingus Fay. After Vassar had come a year in Italy with one of the daughters of her father’s three friends; the girl had married there, and Arietta, after attending her in a horsehair hat, had returned home. Next, the second girl, married to an Englishman who farmed in Nigeria, had invited her there. Against her father’s wishes—it was not cautious for a woman to become too déracinée—she had gone, and in her lightsome way had enjoyed it, but marooned there, she had missed much of the war and most of the eligible men. In any case, esprit, or whatever it was she had, was difficult in a woman if it wasn’t so much accompanied by looks as contributed to by them. Returning home, with her laugh-lines baked deeper than they should have been for her age, and with some knowledge of cacao and palm oil added to the magpie lore of her clan, she had vegetated in the Hudson Valley for a few restless months—her father’s profession so seldom left him home to be cooked for—and then had gone to Baltimore to visit an old cousin.
And there she had met Carolingus. Eighteen years older than she, he had still seemed a man whom many might be glad to marry—a very fine “beefy” with proconsular manners and profile, and all his curls. Actually he had been a cliché, poor dear Carolingus—old Baltimore French, old poor, old hat—and he had been very glad to marry her. For, by heredity, and unfortunately nothing else, he was a patron—an even sadder case than hers. They had recognized each other, or loved—in time it seemed the same thing—at once. The only way he could afford to retain her was to come live in her house, which he did, to her father’s delight—their mutual recognition too was a touching affair. Carolingus had been too shy to dine out (he had only the dispensing talent), and in time, with her and her father’s full acquiescence, the house and what it held might have been taken by any casual guest to be his. At eighty her father retired, and the two men could not have been happier, jogging along in a life of aristocratic pattern gone native, shooting over their two acres for rabbit instead of grouse, and serving up the game with an excellent dandelion wine. And in their contentment Arietta had been happy too. It was so difficult for a Minot not to be happy, not to see, in whatever dried facts and kernels of incident the day provided, the possibility of a soufflé. Even when Carolingus had not long survived her father, she could not avoid thinking that he was better so, just as she could not help seeing, as t
he long, curlicued, taupe coffin went down the front steps, that it looked exactly like the éclairs of which he had always been so fond.
And then of course, it had become her turn—to dine out. She had let no one know her real situation; she would have been plied with all usually offered an untrained widow—“rent your lovely rooms to teachers; become a nursery school aide”—all the genteel solutions that would trap her forever. No, she was still child enough of her race to risk all on its chimera: that somewhere there was a post where one might exercise an airy, impalpable training which could never be put down on any resumé, somewhere even in this taxable world.
So far, her efforts to renew her father’s contacts in New York had shown her only how faded they were, and how even those old and well-bred enough to remember the breed she sprang from, its always delicate aims, tended to misinterpret when the diner-out was female, however plain. These last months she had been looking about her in the Valley, among people like the Lampeys, whose kindness had the practicality which went with money still fresh in the till. Tonight, for instance, they were having her in to meet a Miss Bissle from Delaware, who was devoting to a state-wide program of hedge roses and bird sanctuaries her one-twenty-fifth share in a great-grandfather’s fortune in explosives, and whose secretary-companion had just died. The Lampeys, drawing Arietta out for Miss Bissle’s benefit, would no doubt ask her to repeat the story they particularly loved—about the time a zebra, a real zebra, had appeared in her garden—although she had other anecdotes she herself preferred. A humanist, she liked stories about people, and the zebra one was bad art besides, having no ending really, and an explanation that was sadly mundane. She would much rather tell about Claude and Henry Clay, about one of the Great Compromiser’s compromises that had never reached the historians. Or about Louis’s patron, a philanthropist who gave in kind only, and who, on being approached at his door by a panhandler who wanted money for a glass eye, was able to invite him into a cabinet de travail where he had a box of them. But considering the roses and birds, possibly the zebra was more in line.
Across the river, the last evening light shone on the silver roof of a New York Central streamliner; she had a few minutes’ walk and it was time. Courage, she said to herself, thinking of Roger. You are learning your trade a little late, that is all. You still have $126.35 worth of time. And maybe Miss Bissle would be a jolly hedonist who wanted a “good companion,” although this was not often the conclusion one drew from watching people who watched birds. Remember, in any case, that when the artist is good, it is still the patron who is on trial. Reaching up toward Yves, she blew the dust from his frame. Why should our art, she thought, the art of happiness, be such a drug on the market these days? On that note, she tilted her head and went out, swinging the skirt of her dress, luckily so dateless, and tapping sharply, almost as if she scolded it, the tambour desk.
Meanwhile, a few minutes away, the Lampeys and their houseguests, Miss Bissle and her second cousin Robert, were speaking of Arietta. Parker and Helen Lampey, a white-haired couple in their sixties, had started life together at Christian College, Missouri, but long since, owing to Parker’s rise to the extreme altitudes of international law, had accustomed themselves to the ponderous social mixture to be found there—Swiss bankers, German industrialists, American judge advocates and solid rich like the Bissles. Thirty years of moving intercontinentally had not made them raffish—so far as was known they had never felt an expatriate tingle. What it had done was to give them the eternally pink-cheeked, good-tempered look of summer people; they had in fact been summer people all over the world. By native standards they should have been suffering from all the ills of cosmopolitan riches and ease; actually money, comfort and change had kept them amiable, enabling them to be as kindly as they looked, though considerably more worldly. Parker held several directorships adjacent to Robert, whose share in the family fortune was much larger than Miss Bissle’s, and it was through him they had heard of her needs. And had at once thought of Arietta.
“I made Robert come with me,” said Miss Bissle, “because Mary Thrace, the last one, you know—drank.” She was a large, gray pachyderm of a woman whose eyes blinked slowly. “And I don’t at all. You would think that would make it easier to notice in others, wouldn’t you? But it doesn’t. So I brought Robert.”
“Well, I do,” said her cousin, looking at his drink through the lower half of his bifocals. “Steadily. So you did just right.”
Parker smiled. He knew Robert, a quiet, abstemious sort, widowed early and childless, devoted to rather sec philanthropies since. One of those mild, almost expunged men for whom second or third generation fortune was a conscience, not a release.
“Why do men always make themselves out more colorful than they are?” said Miss Bissle, for whom Robert, past fifty, was still a younger cousin.
Helen Lampey glanced at Miss Bissle’s shoes, the flat, self-assured feet of a woman who would never know why. Her cousin looked the way most people who wore glasses like that did—round and tame.
“Is this Mrs. Fay outdoorsy?” said Miss Bissle. “Mary Thrace wasn’t.”
“I don’t know that one thinks of her as ‘out’ or ‘in,’” said Helen slowly. “What would you say, Parker?”
“Delightful either place. In Arietta’s company, where you are always seems just where you want to be. The father was just the same.”
Helen could see Miss Bissle thinking that this was not the way one got things done. “She had a year in Africa,” she said hastily. “I should think one would have to be…outdoorsy…there. And of course she grew up right here in the Hudson Valley—why, they caught a copperhead on their place only last year.”
“Still has the old place. Old family hereabouts, the Minots,” said Parker, rising to replenish the drinks.
“Minot!” Robert said softly. “Did you say—Minot?”
“Yes, ever know any of them? Understand they were quite a family at one time.” Busy with the drinks, he did not note Robert’s lack of response, covered in any case by Miss Bissle.
“Trigonocephalous contortrix,” she said. “They don’t eat birds.”
Robert sat back in his chair. Yes, I knew a Minot, he thought. I knew Victor. Probably isn’t the same family; chances are it couldn’t be. Still, what Lampey had just said about the woman they were expecting—that was just the way Victor had been, turning life rosy and immediate wherever he was, and for adults too, as could be seen in the aureole that went round a room with him—not merely for Robert, the small boy on whom he had occasionally shone his great face, fair, hot and flame-colored as Falstaff's sun. Looking back on Victor now from the modern distance, it seemed to Robert that he must have dreamed him—that day on the Brandywine for instance, 1912 it must have been, when Victor had taken him fishing, the same day he had insisted on letting Robert join the men lunching at Robert’s grandfather’s table before the stockholders’ meeting, and had fed the boy wine. Robert could see him now, jutting like a Rubens from even that portly group, the starched ears of the napkin he had tied around his cravat shining blue in the water-light reflected from walls that were white instead of walnut because of his choice, the napkin flecked, as lunch went on, with sauces Victor had conspired with the cook, the heavy company meanwhile tasting him with the same negligent appreciation they gave the food, as now and then he sent a sally rolling down the table like a prism, or bent over Robert, saying, “A little more claret with the water, Robert?…And now, if you please—a little more water with the claret.” After lunch, Robert had seen him give his grandfather a sheaf of papers, saying, “Here they are, Bi—Robert and I are going out after turtle.” As they left, one of the men said, “Bi—where do you get your cigars?”—it was Victor who had started people calling Robert’s grandfather Bi. “Victor gets them for me in Philadelphia.” At the man’s murmured envy, his grandfather had taken a careful puff, gently guarding the long, firm ash, and had smiled.
And that afternoon on the dock, sitting over the lines
that the caramel-colored Negroes in the shack behind them had lent them, had been a time he had remembered always, like a recurrent dream—a day on which absolutely nothing had happened except sun, water and the lax blush of the wine in his limbs. And Victor—doing nothing all afternoon except what he did everywhere, making one feel that whatever you and he were doing at the moment was “it,” that where you were was “here.” They had caught, Robert recalled, two turtles; he remembered being warned of their bite, and informed, lovingly, of their soup, “Victor,” he had asked suddenly, “what are you in?”—meaning chemicals, cotton, tin, this being the way men in those days, at that table, had spoken of what they did. “Oh I’m not ‘in’” had been the laughing answer. “You might say I’m—with.” Breathing hard, Victor had been peering in at the hamper that held the turtles. Robert had looked down at him. “So shall I be,” he had said. “Oh no you won’t. You’re already stuck with it, like these chaps. You’re already in.” Victor had risen, puffing. “Best you’ll be able to do is to have somebody around like me—way Bi does.” Robert had considered. “I’ll have you then if I may,” he had said.
Tale for the Mirror Page 15
