Agnes lived on Beekman Place in an old brown-stone front house that she had bought twelve years ago. She had spent the proceeds of her third play upon it, figuring that it would
be as good an investment as any other for little Agnes. It was very tall and narrow, with two rooms on each floor, and it had a garden, about as big as a postage stamp, overlooking the East River. There was not much in the garden but a privet hedge and a flagged path and one small poplar tree that was shining and shivering, that bright June day, in frail, pale bloom.
Agnes's writing-room overlooked the garden. It had walnut panelling and book-lined walls and a large eighteenth-century table desk, with a typewriter on it, in a corner near the fireplace. Agnes and Jane spent most of the afternoon on the window-seat, looking out at the view. Jane liked the view. The grey-green river, glittering under smoke and sun, eddied swiftly past the parapet at the foot of the garden. City tugs and excursion boats plied up and down the stream, the grey towers of the Queensborough Bridge were etched against the enamelled sky, and the grass on Blackwell's Island was the brilliant emerald green of city parks in June. Kept grass, thought Jane, that grows beliind iron palings, man-made like the skyscrapers, but very tranquil and pleasant to look upon in the wilderness of brick and stone that was New York.
They talked of Gicily and her coining marriage. They talked of Jenny and her Seventy-Ninth Street penthouse. They talked of Steve and his house on Beacon Hill. They talked of Agnes's work and of Agnes's daughter.
Agnes turned out a play a year now. She had written twelve and had disposed of aU of them, and only three had failed. One, to be sure, had had only a succes (Testime. It had been fun to work on it, but Agnes was never going to write a play like that again. Agnes was never going to finish her novel or write any more short stories, unless her luck failed her on Broadway. Agnes had banked two hundred and fifty thousand doUars in the course of the last fourteen years and
bought the house on Beekman Place and educated little Agnes.
Little Agnes was a Bryn Mawr junior. She had been pre pared at the Brearley School and had gone in with a lot of nice girls whom she knew very well and was majoring in biology and physics. Little Agnes wanted to be a doctor, and was planning to enter the College of Physicians and Surgeons at Columbia, just as soon as she graduated. She was off on a house party now in the Berksliire Hills.
Marion Park had been kind to little Agnes and thought the child had ability. Though Agnes had often been back to the college and had seen Marion standing in Miss Thomas's rostrum in a black silk Ph.D. gown with blue stripes on its flowing sleeves and a little black mortar board on her still brown hair, it seemed just as strange to her as it did to Jane to think that Marion Park was now President of Br)^n Mawr. Agnes's plump, authoritative person was a familiar figure on Broadway. Her grey head was crowned with authentic dramatic laurels. Jane was a grandmother three times over. Yet it seemed incredible to both of them that a contemporary of theirs could be a college president. Incredible to think that Marion, with whom they had so often sat upon a Bryn Mawr window-seat, could ha'e become a pri'ileged person like Miss Thomas — Miss Thomas, who had always seemed to them not quite of this world of every day.
'Does Httle Agnes feel that way about Marion?' asked Jane.
'The rising generation,' said Agnes with a smile, 'doesn't feel that way about any one on God's green earth.'
'Do you remember what Papa said about her,' said Jane, 'that first night in Pembroke, when he sat next to her at supper? "I bet that girl will amount to something some day." *
'Your father was always right about people,' said Agnes.
That, of course, made Jane think instantly of Jimmy. Had
her father been right about Jimmy or had he been blinded by parental fears? Jane knew more now about parental fears than she had in the days when Jimmy had aroused them in the breast of her father. She knew they were very blinding.
'What's the matter, Jane?' asked Agnes. 'You look so sober.'
*I was thinking of Jimmy,' said Jane quietly. 'I was thinking of how proud he would have been of you, Agnes, and of how he would have loved all this.' Her glance wandered over the cheerful, luxurious room, then came to rest on the restless river rolling past the window.
*Yes. He would have loved it,' said Agnes gently. 'For a time. Jimmy loved success and comfort. But if he never worked for them, Jane, it was only because he loved other things more. He wasn't like me. I'm a money-maker, pure and simple. But Jimmy was a gypsy. Jimmy loved success for the fun of it and comfort for the ease of it, but they would soon have bored him. Jimmy could never have sat on this, window-seat and looked at all those boats without wanting to charter a tug for Shanghai or Singapore. Jimmy would never have locked up his money in banks or sunk it in bricks and mortar. He wouldn't have been any happier, really, on Beekman Place than he was on Charlton Street. Jimmy's happiness was always just around the corner.'
Jane listened in silence. She had been around the corner, of course. Was that why she had represented happiness to Jimmy? If so, how lucky, how veiy, very lucky, that she had never let him discover that her street was no different from any other thoroughfare!
Agnes was very wise. Agnes was wonderful. Agnes knew everything — except one thing. In all the years of their common experience, thought Jane, nothing bound her to
Agnes as closely as the secret that Agnes would never share.. She rose to leave her a little sadly.
*I hate to think of what's before you, Jane,' said Agnes. 'But remember one thing — there can't be understanding between two generations. I'm convinced of that. Love, Jane, and sympathy, but never understanding. We must take our children's ideas on faith. We can never make them our own. Remember that and save yourself unhappiness.'
m
Jane tried to remember it that very evening, as she sat by Stephen's side on a black-and-silver divan in the shrimp-pink drawing-room of Jenny's East Seventy-Ninth Street penthouse. The penthouse was small and very, very modern. Jane could not understand its scheme of decoration. From the Euclid designs of the geometric silver furniture to the tank of living goldfish set in the marble walls of Jenny's black bathroom, it all looked very queer to Jane. It looked queerer than queer to Stephen. His face had been a study when he had seen the goldfish. Young Steve had thought nothing of it.
*I don't like this arty stuff,' he had said with brotherly candour. 'I'd change this entire roomful of modem truck for one genuine Duncan Phyfe table!'
Jenny had laughed at him and so had Barbara and so had the young interior decorator who had designed the room. Rather to Jane's surprise, Jenny and Barbara had invited three of their friends to meet Jane and Stephen — three young men, who, at the first glance, seemed almost as queer to Jane as the tiny modern penthouse.
One was the interior decorator, of course, a clever-looking young Jew in London evening clothes. He painted, Barbara had murmured, and had done some tremendous things, and condescended to run his shop on Madison Avenue, only be-
cause one must live. One must, thought Jane, and presumably in London evening clothes. Looking at a canvas of his that hung over the silver fireplace, Jane was not surprised that he found it practical to sell chintzes on the side. It looked like a broken kaleidoscope of green and pink and yellow glass. Jane wondered if it were a sunset or a woman, then realized that her ideas of painting were outdated. It was obviously a reaction, or, at the most concrete, a passion or a mood. Jane knew she was benighted about modern art. But honest, at least. She admitted frankly that she could not speak its language.
The second friend was a volatile young Englishman, the musical comedy star who had just finished playing the lead in 'Laugh, Lady, Laugh,' a show that had been 'packing them in,' so Jenny had informed Jane, for the last eighteen months on Broadway. Jane thought his crisp blond hair just a ripple too curly and the strength of his clear-cut jaw line a trifle weak. Nothing made a man look weaker, Jane reflected with a twinkle, than a strong chin. He was very nice and friendly, however. His n
ame was Eric Arthur and he had a penchant for Russian wolf hounds. He had two with him on tour, with which he walked in Central Park every day at noon. They had formed his first bond with Jenny. She had met him at a party at Pierre's and they had talked of the wolf hounds immediately.
The third friend looked more to Jane like some one whom you would conceivably ask to dinner in Lakewood. That was her first impression and she immediately despised herself for it. A thought like that was distinctly unworthy. It was just like her mother and Isabel. Jane was determined to like Jenny's friends. This third young man was only a little anaemic-looking. He came firom Hartford, Connecticut, and he had gone to Yale University and he was the youthful
curator of prints at the Metropolitan. He had struck up an argument with Steve immediately on the question of the eternal merit of Currier and Ives.
All three of them, at any rate, seemed to be on the most intimate terms with Jenny and with Barbara. The curator of prints was their amateur boodegger, the interior decorator was furmshing the farmhouse at Bedford Hills, the musical comedy star was full of wise thoughts on English kennels where they could buy a few better bitches. He was sailing for Liverpool next week and would take the matter up for them.
Jane learned all this before they had finished with the cocktails. They did not finish with the cocktails for some time. Champagne was served with the perfect little dinner, and chartreuse afterward, and, later in the evening, a highball for the men.
By nine o'clock the curator of prints and the musical comedy star were both a little flushed and loquacious. By ten they were distinctly hilarious. The young Jew did not drink, and Steve, Jane was thankful to note, was behaving himself, though he rated his sister's taste in liquor much higher than her taste in decoration. By eleven all the young people were shouting the lyrics from 'Laugh, Lady, Laugh,' around the grand piano, while Eric Arthur pounded out the melody on the keys. Stephen looked fearfully tired. Jane knew she ought to take him back to the Plaza, but she did not like to leave the girls alone at a party that was going just like this. Ridiculous, of course. Jenny and Barbara were left alone at all their other parties. They looked completely in command of themselves and the situation. Too young and too pretty, however, to
They did look ridiculously young. And rather as if preposterously masquerading in this Httie modern penthouse of their own. Barbara wore a black lace smoking-jacket ovef
a gown of trailing black chiffon. Her curly red hair waa cropped close, like a prize-fighter's, on her aristocratic little head. She wore her cigarette — that was the verb that came to Jane's mind — in a long green jade holder. She was standing at Eric Arthur's shoulder, highball in hand, her arm thrust casually through the curator's elbow, singing the jazz melodies with m.ock emotion. Jenny was hanging over the end of the grand piano, singing, too. She was, Jane thought, rather amazingly dressed in black velvet pajamas, with a long loose coat of cherry-coloured silk. Her shiny pale hair was brushed straight off her forehead and cut short like a boy's at the white nape of her neck. Two long paste earrings glittered at her ears. Between them her plain, distinguished little face looked out at Jane with exactly the same expression as her poor Aunt Silly's. But Jenny had been born in the right period. There was a premium set now on distinguished plainness. Jenny's lank figure in its bizarre costume, Jenny's hom^ely face with the hair strained off her high forehead, was the essence of smartness. She looked like a cover design for 'Vanity Fair.'
It was the period, of course, Jane reflected soberly. It was not the children. Young people had always sung cheerily around grand pianos. It was prohibition and the emancipation of women and the new freedom of the sexes. There was no real harm in it. But was this just Jenny's idea of 'living smartly in New York'? It was not Jane's. It was not Stephen's. It was not Bill Belmont's. In his brown-stone residence on East Sixty-First Street, Bill Belmont, Jane knew, was as mystified as she and Stephen were at the charms of the penthouse.
Eric Arthur had run through the score of 'Laugh, Lady, Laugh,' but his nimble fingers were still rattling over the keys. A shout of applause burst from his httle audience.
'Sing it, Eric!' they cried.
*It's the new song hit from "Sunny Side Up"!' Jenny tossed in explanation to her parents. Eric Arthur's tender young tenor dominated the uproar. He was singing appas-sionata, upHfted by highballs.
'Turn on the heat! Start in to strut! Wiggle and wobble and warm up the hut! Oh! Oh! It's thirty below! Turn on the heat, fifty degrees! Get hot for papa, or papa will freeze! Oh! Oh! Start melting the snow! If you are good, my little radiator '
This was not living smartly in New York, thought Jane firmly. Young people had always sung cheerily around grand pianos. But not — not drunk. Not — not songs Uke that. She rose to leave the party.
Jenny,' she whispered, *you ought to send them home.'
Jenny's eyes met hers with a little indulgent twinkle.
'I mean it, Jenny,' said Jane.
'All right,' said Jenny calmly. 'I will.' She moved to Barbara's side and whispered in her ear. Barbara laughed a little, then glanced at Jane and Stephen. Jenny clapped her hands, then clapped them again, more vehemently, until the clamour about the piano ceased.
'You've got to go home, boys,' she said in the sudden silence. 'It's twelve o'clock and Mother's a blue-ribbon girl. She thinks we've all had enough!'
The blunt statement was met with a burst of good-humoured laughter. Eric rose from the piano bench and drained the last of his highball. They were no drunker, Jane reflected, than she had seen many young men at perfectly respectable parties at home. The young Jewish decorator said good-night to her very politely. He was really a nice boy, thought Jane. He
got the two inebriates out of the room much quicker than Jane would have thought possible. Jane heard Barbara make a date with the curator of prints for luncheon next day. She wondered if he would remember it. When they had finally taken themselves off, Jenny turned to her parents.
*You didn't like them, did you, Mumsy?' she said. 'But you know Eric's funny when he's tight.'
'They say, Mr. Carver,' said Barbara conversationally to Stephen, 'that the tighter he is, the funnier he is in the show. He keeps putting in lines — I don't suppose he knows what he's saying — but they always bring down the house '
'It's a gift!' laughed Jenny. She was placing Jane's evening wrap around Jane's shoulders. 'I'll meet you at the dock,' she said. She kissed Jane tenderly and threw her arms around Stephen. She looked absurd and adorable, Jane thought, as she smiled up into his weary face — Hke some fragile, fantastic clown, in those loose black velvet trousers and that cherry-coloured sack. Barbara was rallying Steve at the door. No one, Jane thought suddenly, had yet mentioned Cicily's name.
*I wish I were going with you,' smiled Jenny. 'But we're going to have a fearfully busy month at the kennels.'
'I wish I were going with them,' said Steve, 'but I'm just getting into my stride at the bank.'
'You'll have a lovely time,' said Barbara.
'Won't they?' smiled Jenny.
*You bet they will!' said Steve.
It was a conspiracy, Jane decided, as she plunged earthward in the elevator. It was a friendly conspiracy of silence, to keep two foolish old people from worrying over something they could not control — something that was none of their business, really. Steve chatted pleasantly all the way back to the Plaza in the taxi about modern decoration versus
Duncan Phyfe tables. Jane did not listen. They did not know what they had lost in life, these kindly, capable, clever young people who did not believe in worry. Stephen looked terribly tired in the bright, white light of the Plaza lobby. She should have taken him away from that party at ten o'clock. They did not know that they had lost anything, she thought, cis she plunged skyward in the Plaza elevator. But Stephen knew. And she knew. Though it was difficult to define it.
IV
Paris, thought Jane — the city of joy! She glanced across the railway carriage at Stephen's face. It looked rat
her grim. Stephen was rested, however. The six days at sea had been good for him. Stephen was a sailor and, in spite of parental anxieties, he had responded immediately to the tang of the briny breeze and the roll of the deep-sea swell. While still in the Ambrose Channel, he had seemed perceptibly more cheerful. He had landed at Cherbourg that morning, looking tanned and healthy and braced for his ordeal. The grimness had returned to his face rather slowly, as he had sat silently all day, staring out through the window of the railway carriage at the pleasant midsummer French landscape.
The train was pulling slowly into the Gare Saint-Lazare. A group of porters were assailing the door of the carriage. The air rang with their staccato utterance. Jane caught a whiff of garlic and was suddenly exalted with a feeling of adventure. It was a real breath from a foreign land. The train had stopped. The porters stormed the luggage rack. Jane and Stephen descended to the platform.
*Je veux un taxi,' said Jane.
The porters responded with a flood of eloquence. Jane and Stephen following their blue smocked figures through the
crowd. Steamer acquaintances waved and smiled. Jane caught other whiffs of garlic. She could not subdue that sense of adventure. Ten days in Paris! She was smiling a little excitedly, when she first caught sight of Cicily — Cicily standing with the three children and Molly at the gate of the train.
Years of Grace Page 49
