Then arrange with Cynthia or Helen or the Winstons’ chauffeur to bring them. Pamela, I have something to say to you: I shall never go to Bailey’s Beach again. . . . No, the children will not drown. Both of them hate to go in the water. They say it ‘thtinkth.’ . . . No, I don’t know where they picked up that word. They say that all the children say so. They want to go to the Public Beach where there’s real surf. . . . I will not be disturbed in my lesson. . . . No, there’s no one else in the building as far as I know; the staff have gone to church. . . . Pam, be yourself; talk like yourself; don’t talk like your mother! . . . I don’t want to discuss that over the telephone. . . . Pamela, be your sweet, reasonable self. . . . I have never said anything more disrespectful about your mother than you have said many times. . . . I will be back well before one-thirty. This long-distance call is costing a good deal of money. . . . Yes, I’ll pick up some ice cream at the dairy. No, it’s got to be at the dairy where I can charge it, because I haven’t a penny in my pocket. . . . I have to go back to my lesson now, but I don’t wish to hang up on my dear wife, so will you please hang up first? . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . No . . . Goodbye, see you soon.”
He rejoined me with raised eyebrows, saying: “Gulliver and the hundreds of silk threads. Every day I cut a few of them.”
I made no comment and we went on with our work. He seemed to be reinvigorated, or should I say, proud of himself.
I was getting caught up in a situation that was more than I could handle. What I needed was not advice—which I have seldom found profitable—but more facts; not gossip but facts. I thought I knew the reason why Rip was a diminished man. I wanted to know more about his wife. I wanted to be sure that I was being just to her; to be just you must seek out all the facts you can get. I felt that I had reached the end of what Mrs. Cranston and Henry Simmons could tell me.
Where could I go for solid facts about Pamela Yanwinkle?
Suddenly I thought of Bill Wentworth. I asked him for a half hour of his time. Again at the end of the day I found myself in his office among the shining trophies. I told him about the German lessons, the constant interruptions, and the sheer servitude to which my friend had been reduced. “Bill, how long have you known Colonel Vanwinkle?”
“Let me see. Pamela Newsome—as I knew her—brought him here in the summer of 1921 soon after they were married.”
“Had you known her long?”
“Since she was a child. During the summer she was in here every day; since her marriage she scarcely appears here at all. Her parents are old Newporters.”
“Are many Newporters aware of the tight reins she holds over him?”
“Mr. North, they’re the laughing-stock of the town.”
“How is it that she has so much money in her own name?”
“The Newsomes are not so much a family as a corporation. Every child on reaching twenty-one gets a large bundle of stock—well over a million, they say—and continues to get more annually. . . . She was a very difficult girl. She never got on with her parents. Perhaps that’s the reason why—when she became engaged in the fall of 1920—they gave her their Newport cottage and themselves started going to Bar Harbor for the summer.”
“Excuse my frankness, Bill, but is she as miserly and hard-driving as they say?”
“My wife was a long-time friend of their housekeeper, Mrs. Edom, a fine woman, a strong character. Mrs. Edom used to call on Mrs. Wentworth on an occasional Sunday morning. It broke her heart to see what Pamela was doing to the Colonel. You wouldn’t believe what went on in that house. Mrs. Edom used to come to my wife for comfort.”
“Bill, why has the Colonel so few friends?”
“Everybody likes him—not only admires him, but likes him. But both men and women are made uncomfortable by the picture they see. Mr. North, before the war there were many young men around here who did nothing—simply enjoyed themselves and nobody thought the worse of them. But times have changed. They have jobs, even if they don’t need the money. Idleness is out of fashion; it’s made fun of. And everybody can see the bad effects of it. We’ve seen it before—a poor man married to a very rich girl; she cracks the whip and he jumps through the hoop like a monkey.”
I gave him my picture of the young man who had had his “glorious hour” too early in life and whose vitality or will-power had been broken by it. I went on to tell him how Rip was beginning to lean on me to help him get some freedom.
“Well, if you have any influence on him urge him to get a job. If what I’ve heard is right, he hasn’t a penny. He has to crawl to her for an allowance which she can give or she can withhold. Now I’m going to tell you a story that I’ve never told to a soul, and I’m trusting you. The second summer he was here the Board of Governors made him an honorary member of the Casino. I asked him to call on me the day before so that I could explain to him how we were setting up the ceremony. I told him that perhaps his wife might want to come, but he telephoned me later that she would be present at the ceremony, but that on that rehearsal morning she was busy with one of her ‘cruelty to animals’ committees. Well, he arrived; it’s always a pleasure to meet him—a fine fellow, and all that. I told him a photographer would be present; we wanted the picture to hang on our walls. There it is! We never give out publicity photos for the newspapers, except during the Tennis Championship Week. I told him the Governors would be pleased if he wore his uniform and his medals. He said he had his uniform and a few medals. He’d sat beside the Mayor on the grandstand at the Fourth of July parade. Which medals did they want? I told him they hoped he’d wear the American ‘big three’ and the French and English ones. ‘I haven’t got them, Bill.’ Then he grinned. Do you know his grin?”
“Oh, yes, whenever he talks about his war record or his celebrity he grins.”
“He said that he’d wanted to buy a birthday present for his wife on her first birthday since their marriage, and that he’d borrowed money on them as security from those medal and trophy dealers in New York. Now, I’ll tell you one thing more: she didn’t come to the ceremony. She hates his fame; she’s afraid it may ‘go to his head’ and spoil him. Mr. North, urge him to get a job. He’ll be a different man.”
“Thanks, Bill. Has he been offered any?”
“Of course he has—with that famous name of his. Corporation directorships, things like that. She won’t let him consider them. You know he comes from western New York State. The Governor wanted to create one for him, provided that he’d move to Albany. I heard it was about twenty thousand a year, State Marshal. His wife laughed at it. To her that’s peanuts. She said it was degrading.”
“Is it true that she feeds the family mostly salt beef and kale soup?”
“Oh. The town makes up stories about her. But she does buy canned goods by the gross.”
So it is profitable to go to the right person for advice, after all.
The next Sunday morning we were up in the library at the Monks’ Club having a breezy time, breaking irregular verbs. Rip had arrived at that borderline in learning a new language when words hitherto only recognized in print become vocables—an exhilarating feeling.
“Na ja, Herr Major, ich kenne Sie.”
“Und ich kenne Sie, verehrter Herr Oberst. Sie sind der Herr Oberst Vanderwinkle, nicht wahr?”
“Jawohl. War das nicht ein Katzenjammer über dem Hügel Saint-Charles-les-Moulins? Dort haben Sie meinen linken Flügel kaputt gemacht. Sie waren ein Teufel, das kann man sagen.”
Rip glanced out of the window. “Jesus! There’s my wife.” Sure enough, there was the car and the chauffeur was coming up the walk. The doorbell rang. “Go downstairs. Pretend you’re the club steward or something. Say that I gave orders not to be disturbed until one o’clock.”
I put on my blazer (“YALE 1920”). “I can’t be a steward in this. I’ll pretend I’m a member. I’ll work something out.” I descended the stairs slowly and opened the door.
“Sir, Mrs. Edom is calling and wishes to speak to Colonel Vanwinkle.”
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I caught a glimpse of “Mrs. Edom” in a deep brown veil sitting in the car. I said loudly, “I think he gave orders that he was not to be disturbed on any account. Has something serious happened in his home? Fire? Appendicitis? Mad dog bite?”
“I don’t . . . think so.”
“Wait. I’ll see if he can be seen. Tell Mrs. Edom that his German professor is very strict about interruptions. He’s a holy terror.”
Rip was waiting for me on the stairs. “She says she’s Mrs. Edom and she wishes to speak to you.”
“She’ll come in. Nothing can stop her.”
“I’m going to lock the door leading upstairs. It’s half-past twelve already. I’ll stay down and keep her company.”
“Damn it, I want to hear what you say. I’m going to stretch out on the floor of the fiddlers’ gallery. She can’t see me from there.” I went down to the front room, locked the inner staircase door, put the key in my pocket, picked up a copy of Yachting, and sat down to read it. There was a noise up in the gallery. Rip had pulled a coverlet about himself and was lying down. The doorbell rang again. I opened the door and faced a determined woman. She had thrown the veil up about her hat—a very good-looking young woman, furious. She pushed the door open and passed me into the front room.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, madam. Forgive me if I say that it is a rule of the club that ladies are not admitted here. There is no reception room for women.”
“Kindly tell Colonel Vanwinkle that Mrs. Edom wishes to speak to him.”
“Madam, as the chauffeur told you . . .”
She sat down. “Excuse me, are you the steward of the club?”
“No,” I said, deeply offended.
“Who is in authority here? . . . Are there no servants here?”
“The caretaker and his wife seem to have gone to church.”
“Sir, will you kindly tell me whom I am addressing?”
I was amiability—dare I say: charm?—itself. “Mrs. Edom, surely you know something about men’s clubs. It’s a rule of the club that no member may be addressed by the name he bears in private life. We are addressed by the name given us by the Abbot. I am Brother Asmodius. The member to whom you have been referring is Brother Bellerophon.”
“Childish nonsense!”
“Since the Middle Ages and the Crusaders’ Orders. I happen to be a Mason and the member of a fraternity. In each club I have been assigned a name to be used in that club. You surely know that monks in a religious order do the same. My wife finds it hard to forgive me that I do not tell her every detail of our ceremonies. . . . I think I remember hearing that you are the housekeeper in Brother Bellerophon’s home.”
She glared at me in silence. Then she rose, saying, “I will speak to the Colonel.” She went to the door leading upstairs and shook the knob.
I was cleaning my fingernails. “That German professor locked it, I expect. I wouldn’t put anything beyond him.”
“I shall sit here until the Colonel comes down.”
“Would you like something to read, Mrs. Edom?”
“No, thank you.”
I resumed my reading in silence. She looked about her. “I see that you monks—as you call yourselves—shoot deer, foxes, and birds. Contemptible sports!”
“There’s less and less of that now. You can understand why.” She stared at me in silence. “Out of respect for Brother Bellerophon’s wife.” Silence. “Surely, you know of her crusade for the prevention of cruelty to animals. . . . What a fine woman she must be! Saves the lives of dogs and cats and wild animals every year! A great heart! A big heart!”
I strolled across the room to straighten a picture. Nonchalantly I added, “Having heard what an intelligent woman she is—and what an excellent wife and mother—I have always been surprised that she permits her children to go to Bailey’s Beach. My wife wouldn’t let our children be seen dead there.”
“What is unwise about that?”
“I am surprised you ask, Mrs. Edom. The transatlantic sea lane and the Gulf Channel both pass a few miles from that point. Hundreds of ships in each direction go by all day and night. And by some unfortunate combination of land, tides, and currents the rubbish thrown overboard finds its way to Bailey’s Beach as to a magnet. Each morning the employees rake up baskets of trash: seamen’s boots, decaying fruit, dead parrots, picture postcards unsuitable for children, and other things too distasteful to mention.”
She stared at me appalled. “I do not believe that to be true.”
“It is very discourteous of you to say that, Mrs. Edom. In this club gentlemen do not call one another liars.”
“I beg your pardon. I meant to say that I find that difficult to believe.”
“Thank you. . . I have also heard that the lady about whom we are talking is careful about the diet furnished to her family and staff. Do you know my wife and I think that kale soup is one of the most nutritious—and delicious—dishes that exist.” (Pause.) “But a very experienced doctor advised us not to let children under twelve eat that highly spiced linguiça sausage that is cooked in it at the Portuguese market. . . . And beef and pork soaked in brine—excellent! The British Navy served it to their seamen for centuries and ruled the sea. The Battle of Trafalgar was said to have been won on corned beef. That same doctor advised my wife, however, that too much of that salted meat is not to be recommended for young children, even after weeks of soaking in clear water.”
“Does Brother Bellerophon—as you call him—come often to this club?”
“Not as often as we’d like. I think I can say that he is the most beloved and admired member here. The club members, who are all very wealthy men, became aware that his family is less fortunately provided than themselves. They made him honorary member which requires no dues. Four of them, including myself, offered him high positions in their companies and enterprises. Brother Prudentius has offered him a vice-presidency in an insurance company in Hartford. Brother Candidus is developing resident areas in Florida. Brother Bellerophon’s name on the letterhead, his presence, his famous probity, would bring the firm millions of dollars which they would be glad to share with him. And so the rest of us. Brother Bellerophon is too deeply attached to his family; his wife does not wish to move to Connecticut or to Miami. I am hoping that he will change his mind and join my company from sheer necessity.”
“What business are you engaged in, sir?”
“I’d rather not say, Mrs. Edom. But considering his distinguished service to our country, the Federal Government would not be inclined to examine our operations too closely.” I lowered my voice. “Do you think I can hope that he will?”
“Brother Asmodius, I have no desire to continue this conversation.”
“A man must work. A man must stand up on his own feet, ma’am.”
“I will pound on that door!”
“Oh, Mrs. Edom, don’t do that! You would wake up the girls!”
“Girls! What girls?”
“Naturally on the weekends there are some convivial times here. A little drinking. And some pleasant company from New Bedford and Fall River. The members return to their homes at a very late hour. But we allow their charming friends to sleep later. They will be picked up in a limousine at two.”
“Girls! Do you mean to tell me that the Colonel is upstairs now among a lot of Jezebels?”
I looked thoughtful. “I don’t recognize the name. . . . I met an Anita, a Ruth, a Lilian, an Irene. And a Betty.”
“I am leaving this minute.—No! I will pound on that door.”
“Madam, as a member of this club I must restrain you from creating an unseemly disorder.” I added bitingly, “I had always heard that Mrs. Edom conducted herself as a woman of distinction, which has not always been said of her mistress.”
“What do you mean by that?”
I pointed to the clock. “You have only a quarter of an hour to wait.”
“What did you mean by that unpleasant remark?”
“It was not an unpleasant remark. It was a tribute to yourself, Mrs. Edom.”
“I am waiting—”
“If you sit down and stop abusing this club, I shall . . . give you a short explanation.”
She sat down and glared at me, expectantly. I returned to polishing my nails, but I began to speak offhandedly: “My dear wife does not engage in gossip. I have never heard her repeat a malicious remark—but once. By the way, we took the doctor’s advice. We no longer serve the children kale soup and beef in brine.”
“You were about to tell me some remark about Mrs. Vanwinkle.”
“Oh, yes.” I lowered my voice and moved my chair toward hers. “There is a nickname that is going around about that otherwise wonderful woman.”
“A nickname!”
“My wife heard it from Mrs. Delgarde who heard it from Lady Bracknell who heard it from Mrs. Venable herself.”
“Mrs. Venable!”
I rose. “No! I don’t circulate things like that. I’ve changed my mind.”
“You’re a very exasperating man, Brother Asmodius. You’d better finish what you began.”
“All right,” I sighed, “but promise not to repeat it—least of all to Mrs. Vanwinkle.”
“I will not repeat it.”
“Well, Mrs. Venable heard that Mrs. Vanwinkle sent her husband—that great man—to Mrs. Temple’s house to pick up a thirty-year-old egret feather, because she refused to believe Mrs. Temple’s promised word that she would destroy it herself. Mrs. Venable said, ‘I shall not give another penny to those animal shelters until Mrs. Vanwinkle is locked up. She’s a Delilah!’ ”
“Delilah!”
“You remember that Delilah cut short the mighty Samson’s hair whereby he lost his strength—so that his enemies could rush into his tent and blind him. She beat on cymbals and tambourines and danced on his prostrate body. Scholars of the Old Testament know very well that the story means that she performed a far more serious operation on him.”
Theophilus North Page 15
