Fancies and Goodnights Part 43

The figure smiled superciliously.

"Is it possible," cried Eustace, "that the clay in my back yard is the original clay from which Adam was made? But that would imply that Brooklyn is on the site of the Garden of Eden."

The figure laughed outright "Or have I succeeded," said Eustace, "where all the scientists have failed, and changed dead clay into organic colloidal matter, charged with pep and energy? That must be it. In that case I'm the h.e.l.l of a sculptor!"

"Have it your own way," said the figure. "In any case you're a lousy ventriloquist, and it's ventriloquism that rakes in the I don't know how many hundred thousand a year."

"There is something in that," said Eustace. "But since you can speak so well, surely we can give terrific performances."

"Not with me as the stooge," said Bertie. "I have the looks and I have the personality. I'm not sitting on your knee any more. You can sit on mine if you like, and I'll run the show and draw the money."

"Me sit on your knee?" cried Eustace. "No!"

"Oh, it's not so bad," said the other. "Come on, why don't you try it? You don't want to? Well, perhaps the little lady will try."

"Yes, I will," said Sadie. "I don't think I don't know how many hundred thousand a year is to be sneezed at." With that she seated herself on the image's knee.

"How d'you like it, honey?" asked the image.

"I think we ought to be engaged," said she. "In fact, I think we ought to be married."

"Don't worry about that," said the image, chucking her under the chin. "On the stage, it's different. We troupers are practical."

"Then take your practicality out of my studio," said Eustace. "I'm going back to ideals. No more ventriloquism, no more clay, no more springs! I'm going to make tombstones, and by gosh, I'll make 'em heavy!"

"Just as you please," said the image. "Sadie and I will get on very well as a couple."

"She will not like the pins," said Eustace.

"I shall allow no pins," said the image with a rea.s.suring glance at Sadie. "Just a little matter of this sort." As he spoke, he gave her another pinch, similar to the first he had given her, only this time her squeal was in a deeper, fuller tone.

"Your squeal is very deep and full," said Eustace to her, as he icily opened the door for their exit. "You had better remember that some of the springs I used were abominably old and rusty."

With that he shut the door after them, and, contrary to his expressed intention, he approached a chunk of clay that stood handy, and began to model it into a very fetching Eve-like figure. Halfway through, however, he changed his mind yet again, and turned out a cute little Sealyham.

YOUTH FROM VIENNA.

Young men with open faces, red cheeks, and brown hair all behave in the same way, and nothing in the world could be more reasonable. They fall into a job or in love with the utmost readiness and enthusiasm. If oil and Lucille let them down, they pretty soon console themselves with steel and Estelle.

Other young men seem born for one pa.s.sion only, or maybe two, one job and one woman. If both pa.s.sions are there they run together, like railway lines; they are strong as steel, and as devoid of romantic colouring. They go on forever, and if one or other fails the results are apt to be serious. Young men of this sort are sometimes very tall, lean to emaciation, with skull-like faces, deep-set and rather burning eyes, and mouths either terribly sensitive or terribly cruel, it is hard to say which. If they are poor they look like nothing on earth; if they are rich they look like Lincoln in the rail-splitting period.

Such young men frequently devote themselves to science; sometimes to medicine. The research side appeals to them. If they are brilliant enough, and have money enough, they study under the world's greatest authorities. If they are interested in certain functions of the glands, this takes them to Lilley's or the Ford Foundation, but in the old days, in the days of our youth, it took them to Vienna.

Before going to Vienna, Humphrey Baxter went to dine with a married couple of his acquaintance. These, not having a word to say about glands, had provided themselves and him with tickets for the theatre. The play turned out to be a light romantic comedy which was also only very indirectly concerned with the glands. Humphrey sat regarding it with forebearance until, at a well-chosen moment early in the first act, Caroline Coates walked on to the stage. Humphrey leaned forward in his seat. The movement pa.s.sed unnoticed because everyone else in the theatre also leaned forward.

It may well be asked why this considerable expenditure of human energy was exerted on account of a girl who only escaped being the worst actress in the world by being so very obviously not an actress at all. The fact is, Caroline Coates was a G.o.ddess. I think it was Alexander Woollcott who wrote: "To enquire as to her capacity as a mummer would be like asking, of a real actress, what is her prowess in trapeze work. Talent in this young woman would be a mere dilution, like soda in a highball; the less of it the better. When the divine Aphrodite walks on the stage, we do not wish her to perform like the divine Sarah."

Caroline had been put into a play by some fantastic mistake in the very year she left Bennington. It was at once apparent that she was one of those girls - there is only one in each generation - whose fortune it is to stand for something greater than talent and greater than beauty, and hence to be universally adored. The essential quality in Caroline was her youth. It aroused in the beholder the keenest, liveliest, and most exquisite sensation of pure joy, which is the rarest and finest of all sensations. Besides this, as I happen to know from private sources, this Caroline was a good-natured, well-bred, truthful, simple, kind, merry, and unaffected girl, and she smelled like a florist's shop, which is not always the case with G.o.ddesses.

Humphrey observed this phenomenon with a concentration he had hitherto reserved for sections of the obscurer glands mounted on microscope slides. As they left the theatre he turned to his host and hostess. "Do you by any chance happen to know that girl?" He saw the question surprised them, so he continued without waiting for an answer. "Or do you know anyone who knows her?"

"No, Humphrey. She lives in the great world. She's altogether beyond our cla.s.s. She lives with people with the names of buildings and breakfast foods. And when she's not on the stage she's on yachts and polo fields and such like, and we wouldn't know even this if we didn't read the Sunday papers."

Humphrey was in no way dismayed by this answer. He knew very well it needs only two or three introductions to bridge the gap between oneself and anyone anywhere in the world. He therefore asked everyone he knew, stating his purpose very clearly, and before many weeks had pa.s.sed he found himself on a certain terrace, looking over Long Island Sound, being curiously regarded by the namesakes of buildings and breakfast foods, and talking to Caroline Coates. He found her amazingly ignorant of the immense importance of recent researches into the functions of the ductless glands, and it was a keen pleasure to him to tell her of the great strides in human health and happiness and longevity that were promised by the new knowledge. You may imagine the effect of this gaunt, gauche, hollow-cheeked young man, in altogether the wrong sort of jacket, sitting among the well-groomed crowd, lecturing a popular idol of twenty-three on the effects of certain unsavoury juices upon horrible insane little girls, who wallowed in their own dung. Of course, she fell wildly, madly, head-over-heels in love with him, and before the month was out it was announced they were engaged to be married.

Certain buildings rocked a little; certain breakfast foods popped and crackled even more snappishly than usual. But in the main people felt that it showed what a fine girl Caroline was, and yet it was in no way a threat, because it couldn't possibly last. For example, what would happen when Humphrey went to Vienna, to work under the celebrated Vingleberg?

"I shall be there," said Humphrey, "for three years straight. And if I get out of that lab for forty-eight consecutive hours any time in those three years, it'll be because the place has burned down. I can't get back here to see you."

"Maybe I'll come over between shows."

"I wish you'd change your mind."

"Darling, I'd like to get married now, just as much as you would. But I simply cannot walk out on a new show and leave everyone flat. Besides ..."

"You want just one more."

"Yes, I do. Maybe I could come when it's over."

"They say the d.a.m.ned thing'll run for years."

"It may fold up in six months. Humphrey, I know you think I'm just greedy to have a fuss made over me ..."

"I've never suggested such a thing."

"But you think so. And if you didn't you'd be crazy. Because I am, just a bit. But if ever I feel it getting a real hold on me ..."

"And what do you think a real hold feels like? Like this?"

This terminated the conversation just as they were on an important point, which was rather a pity. Humphrey's boat sailed; Caroline's play opened; she was more idolized than ever, and everyone expected her to fall in love with someone else. But the first year pa.s.sed, and the second year pa.s.sed, and the third year wore on, and Caroline was still faithful. There were two excellent reasons for this. She was so extremely fond of Humphrey, and she was so extremely fond of herself.

When the three years were over, Humphrey Baxter was on the boat, and the boat was docking. For some weeks he had had a picture in his mind of how Caroline would look when she greeted him, and this picture was so much with him that when he was reading the right-hand page of his book, it hovered like an ill.u.s.tration on the left. Because this was the 1920's, he had costumed her in silver fox and violets. He looked down on the landing stage, and saw plenty of fur and flowers, but he saw no sign of Caroline.

He went down the gangway and through the barrier. Two people came up and grasped his either hand. They were d.i.c.k and Stella Archer, the very people who had introduced him to Caroline in the first place, and thus established squatter's rights in the relationship. They held his hands and looked at him, and uttered the pleasantest and friendliest of greetings. Humphrey looked this way and that. "Where's Caroline?" said he.

The greetings were gone like a burst bubble. Three altogether greyer people stood, in an east wind, in the giant cheerlessness of the landing shed.

"Carrie couldn't come," said Stella.

There was no doubt at all that Humphrey's mouth was sensitive, extremely sensitive. "Is she ill?" he asked.

"Well ..." said d.i.c.k.

"She's not ill," said Stella. "But she couldn't come. Humphrey, get your things through, and we'll go to lunch at the Revestel, and we'll tell you about it."

"Very well," said Humphrey.

They went to the Revestel, where they had eaten so often in the old days. They ordered lunch. "I think it's about time you told me what it is," said Humphrey.

"Humphrey," said Stella, "you've got to understand."

It was perhaps, after all, rather difficult to decide whether Humphrey's mouth was very sensitive or a little cruel. "Go on," he said.

"We're old friends," said d.i.c.k, "we've known you and Carrie the h.e.l.l of a long time, you know." Humphrey looked at Stella.

"Carrie's fallen in love," said Stella.

Humphrey closed his eyes. He might have been asleep, or dead. These skull-faced men can look astonishingly dead at times.

However, after a few long seconds he opened them again. d.i.c.k was saying something.

"When?" asked Humphrey of Stella.

"Last month, Humphrey. And almost at once it was too late to write."

"With whom?"

"He's quite a decent sort," said d.i.c.k. "In fact, it's Brodie."

"Alan Brodie the tennis champion," said Stella.

"National Singles eight times," said d.i.c.k. "The last six years in succession."

"He talks like that because he is scared and miserable," said Stella.

"Alan Brodie toured Europe the first year I was there," said Humphrey. "He came to Vienna. There was some kind of fuss at his hotel. A mob of women scuffling. It doesn't often happen over there."

"He's a popular idol," said Stella.

"Do you mean like Carrie?"

"He's a beautiful creature, Humphrey. He gives people the same sort of thrill that Carrie does. And the two of them together ... !"

"She must have changed a great deal."

"Not really, Humphrey. I think she's realized what she's meant for."

"She's not meant for that sort of thing at all," said Humphrey, not loudly or emphatically, but with complete finality.

"Humphrey, you'll just have to wait till you see them together."

"I can wait," said Humphrey.

In New York it is seldom necessary to wait very long. Humphrey had a book to publish, and therefore a publisher, and therefore an invitation to lunch, and at a certain restaurant frequented by the people who are known to each other and to the gossip columnists. A woman for whose glands he would have paid a small fortune was sitting at the next table. Suddenly she uttered a sort of squeal. Then Humphrey, with a sensation that made of him a life-long opponent of electrocution, heard her utter the following words: "Oh, look! The lovers!"

Humphrey had no reason to turn his head. He saw other people looking in the direction of the door. He had time enough to observe, on faces horribly besmeared with success, a look of simple pleasure such as made even those faces seem quite attractive. Humphrey not only observed this, but reflected on it. "It must be a good thing," he thought, "that can so transfigure faces like these."

All this time the faces in question were turning, like searchlights converging on an unseen objective, as they followed Caroline and her Alan Brodie. Suddenly Humphrey found himself caught as it were in the full blaze, which meant she was close behind him. He turned, and they met.

Everything was very pleasant, good-humoured and gay. Caroline and Brodie sat down with Humphrey and his publisher; other people came to greet them and were induced to sit down also. Everyone talked a great deal except Humphrey, who was not expected to talk a great deal.

The truth is, Humphrey had a decision to make. He was prepared to believe this new impression of his, that Caroline's approaching marriage was a good thing. He wanted to believe it, as far at least as a man nearly insane with jealousy could be expected to. Indeed, as far as is consistent with that very human weakness, and with knowing deep down that the whole business was nothing but an imbecile, narcissistic delusion, it may be said he did believe it was a good thing, and that his impulse to kick it to pieces and drag Caroline out of it was barbarous, atavistic, and on no account to be indulged in.

Caroline helped him in this n.o.ble endeavour. Her every word and every look was exactly right for the occasion. She made no bones about asking the publisher to move so that she could sit next to Humphrey. She spoke to him with the utmost tenderness and concern. Her look appealed to him to understand. Her smile, and the glow about her, proclaimed that, even if he didn't understand, there are values and glories in life that must be held paramount. And when she looked at her lover it was perfectly plain what those glories were. "So be it!" thought Humphrey. "It's a good thing." And he joined with the rest of the circle in watching the happy pair, and the light that was reflected on the faces of the others was reflected on his own, though no doubt in a broken sort of way.

There then ensued a divertiss.e.m.e.nt such as often happens in restaurants frequented by celebrities. Sallow young men arrived with cameras and flash bulbs; Caroline and Alan were required to get together and to take first this pose and then that. The process was more elaborate than the usual snapping of pictures in a restaurant, partly because an important magazine was involved, partly because there was a great deal of by-play with the manager and with people at other tables. It was the sort of thing that would be an awful pain in the neck unless you like that sort of thing, in which case of course it could be very gratifying.

Caroline was flushed, smiling, and immensely gratified when she sat down again beside Humphrey. It is in such states of happy excitement that words pop out that are utterly different from what one really means, words that anyone but a cold-blooded scientist would have the decency to ignore. "Well?" said Caroline. "What do you think of us?" She stopped herself suddenly, and looked at Humphrey in blushing embarra.s.sment, for such words are not fit to be heard by a psychoa.n.a.lyst, much less by a forsaken lover.

"I think," said Humphrey, "You're both charming, and I hope we'll be friends. Why not bring your young man around to see me?"

"We go off on Friday, you know," said Caroline, still confused. "There's not a chance in the world before then."

"But you will when you get back?"

"Of course. We'd love to. But it won't be for two months at least."

"I can wait, "said Humphrey.

About a week before Alan and Caroline were due back from their honeymoon, Humphrey, who had been thinking a great deal while he waited, called up a man named Morgan. This was Albert Morgan, whose vocation it is to take the ambiguous and uncertain mutterings of scientists and transform them into clear, downright, and extremely thrilling articles for the weekly magazines. "Morgan," said Humphrey, "It's now three months since you last pestered me to give you some private information about Vingleberg's experiments."

Morgan explained why he had abandoned the attempt to get Humphrey to talk.

"If you think clams do that sort of thing," said Humphrey, "I can understand why your articles are so extremely inaccurate. But, anyway, I'm not a clam, and to prove it I'm calling you to say I've just had a letter from Vingleberg. It concerns some tests we started just before I left. Now, listen; I shall tell you nothing that's in the least confidential, because I know d.a.m.ned well I'll see it in all the headlines tomorrow morning. But if you want to hear about twenty very carefully chosen words ..."

"Hold it!" said Morgan. "I'll be right over."

It was really remarkable what Morgan could do with twenty carefully chosen words. Or possibly Humphrey, being a guileless scientist, had been cozened into uttering twenty-five or even thirty. At all events the news broke, not in the headlines, it's true, but in very impressive articles on important pages, to the effect that stocky, balding, Viennese endocrinologist Vingleberg and Johns Hopkins' Humphrey Baxter had succeeded in isolating V.B. 282. And V.B. 282, it appeared, was neither more nor less than the glandular secretion that controls the aging of the tissues. And since we all have tissues, all aging, the promise in these paragraphs was seized on with avidity by all who read.

Meanwhile Caroline and Alan returned, and soon - very soon - they came round to Humphrey's apartment for a drink. He received them with the utmost cordiality, and asked them a thousand questions about themselves, all of which they answered fully and frankly, like people who had nothing to conceal. They were so anxious to give him all the information that might be of interest to him that neither of them observed his reactions very closely. Had they done so, they might have noticed that at certain answers, particularly from Caroline, his cruel and sensitive mouth tightened itself with that painful satisfaction with which a pathologist might regard the slide which tells him that his difficult diagnosis was right in every particular, and his best friend needs immediate surgery.

I do not wish to convey that the conversation of the newly married pair was entirely egotistical. Before a single hour had pa.s.sed Caroline herself broached a new subject. "Humphrey, dear," she said, "we hear you've become famous. Is it true?"

"It's true if you've heard it," he replied. "That's what fame is."

"But is it true about eternal youth and all that?"

"My dear girl," said he, "I think you've got all the scientists beaten as far as eternal youth is concerned. You looked eighteen when I met you, and you were twenty-three. Now you're twenty-six ..."

"Twenty-seven last week, Humphrey."