Fancies and Goodnights Part 47

"There is a great deal in what you say," said Henry. "I must admit I hadn't thought of one or two of those points before. I'll call you up tomorrow morning, Mr. Fishbein. I'll let you know definitely."

Henry hung up. He found himself in a state of peculiar excitement. His breathing was affected. His mind seemed to be working furiously, yet produced no thought. "There is a good deal of difference, to a child," said he at last, "between having an overworked, undistinguished, hard-up, eternally bothered sort of father, and the sort I might be."

"Who is that dark, slim, distinguished-looking millionaire archeologist in the yellow waistcoat? He looks a darling."

"He's my daddy."

It was on the campus at Bryn Mawr. The girls were a lovely lot that year.

"Oh, h.e.l.l!" said Henry. "I must keep myself out of this. But that cuts both ways. I must keep my prejudices out also."

In the end he got up and caught his usual train, being, as not infrequently happened, very nearly run over near the entrance to Grand Central. "If I had been killed by that cab," thought Henry, "what would my life have been?"

Bates was on the train. Bates was a publisher. With him was another man from the Tarrytown district, a man called Cartwright, a plump and merry man, with shining eyegla.s.ses. A fourth came in shortly after Henry had taken his seat. This was a man whose name none of them knew, because he seldom opened his mouth. He was sallow, lantern-jawed, with a wry smile and an attentive, understanding eye. They seemed to know him very well, G.o.d knows how; he always joined them when he travelled on the train, ventured nothing, replied briefly, and nodded cordially when they got off at Tarrytown. He himself went on. When he was not there, they missed him. His nod and his astringent smile were valued.

The train started. Henry waited till they got out into the daylight. Then he launched his news, watching carefully for their reaction. "You'll never guess who rang me up today," said he. "The great Fishbein. In person, as they love to say. Speaking from Hollywood. He talked for pretty nearly half an hour. It seems this brat of mine, Joyce - well, they want to make a child star of her. 'The child star of the next seven years,' he said."

The others laughed heartily. "Can you beat that?" said Cartwright. "For sheer unmitigated gall!"

"Probably thought you'd jump at it," said Bates. "When I think of what they do to books of ours!"

"I can see Sanford as a screen daddy," said Cartwright. "Especially in the later years. What did you tell him - rather see your daughter dead at your feet, or what?"

"Well," said Henry, "I said I'd think it over."

"Oh, but ... Well, of course, it's your business, old man," said Cartwright. "But I shouldn't think it required much thought"

"My reaction was exactly the same as yours - at first," said Henry. "All the same, he mentioned - and I imagine the man is not a downright liar - he mentioned two or three million dollars. Yon have to think a bit before you turn that sort of thing down. For someone else, mark you, not for yourself."

"It's a lot of money," said Cartwright. "They don't want an old male actor, I suppose - butlers and clergymen? I'd go like a shot. But a kid ..."

"I was rather impressed by one or two things Fishbein had to say," said Henry. "The man's no fool, you know. He quite agreed about some of these child stars. He says it's their G.o.d-awful parents. Apparently the studios are very careful about the brats. Psychiatrists in attendance ..."

"Oh, h.e.l.l!" said Bates, "listen, I've been out there twice, about books."

"But it shows the right spirit," argued Henry. "He told me another thing. It seems the I.Q. of these youngsters is always very notably above the average."

"So much the worse," said Bates, "for I.Q."

"I.Q.'s not everything," said Cartwright. "What do they grow up like?"

"It's too early to know," said Henry. "Maybe very well. After all, it's a form of experience. If a child has that sort of talent..."

"Oh, come!" said Bates.

"She has a right to develop in her own way," said Henry obstinately. "After all, my wife and I would be there."

"Henry," said Bates, "you sound like some of our authors when they get offers to go out there. They have it all worked out on paper, poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!"

"I think there's a difference," said Henry. "Two or three millions is..."

"Quant.i.ty makes no difference," said Bates, "when the quality of the money is lousy. It's not real money, Henry. It's dead leaves; that's what it is."

"Or sour grapes," said Henry, glancing at their silent companion for approval. "I feel that Joyce, when she is old enough, might view it differently. I must say I don't care much for your reaction. The same goes for you, Cartwright. If you're sincere, you're about ten years behind the times. There's such a thing as being narrow-minded, stuffy. Film people in these days are very often people of culture. After all, they're artists, in a way."

"They say money talks," said Bates. "I think I can hear it. Henry, it has an ugly voice."

"So has envy," said Henry. "I must say I ..." He broke off. "What do you think?" said he to the silent man.

"I don't know," said that worthy, rubbing his lantern jaw, and twisting his mourn abominably. "I don't know. For Christ's sake! I earn much about what you fellows do. G.o.d d.a.m.n it! I live in a sort of cottage - four rooms. That's all I could afford. Why? Because I wanted it solid. Try to buy a bit of seasoned wood, that's all. Just try it. You talk about children, wives, G.o.d knows what. How the h.e.l.l do you manage it? Probably eat margarine. Everything's margarine, pretty nearly. An old woman cooks for me - I said, 'Don't give me any of that stuff; I don't like it. I don't like to be insulted. Don't give me food out of cans, don't give me food made with something-eeta, or something-ola.' I want leather on my feet and I want wool on my back. That's all. I'd as soon have them spit in my face as sell me their d.a.m.ned -olas and -eetas. It costs me all I earn to run a four-room shack. Wives! Families! Taps to Hollywood! Smells of margarine to me."

After this surprising outburst, he relapsed into his habitual silence. Obviously he had not heard, or understood, anything about the stupendous offer. It had been strained out, as by a filter of prejudice. The train began to slow up, approaching Tarrytown. "Well, gentlemen," said Henry with acridity, as he collected his things. "If I'd been in doubt before, you would have made my mind up for me. Thank you. And goodbye! I shall accept Mr. Fishbein's offer tomorrow." Compressing his lips, he nodded a bitter farewell.

Bates and Cartwright, both a little red about the gills, responded as stiffly, sitting tight, waiting for him to go first out of the train. The lantern-jawed man looked at him in obvious bewilderment. Henry looked away. He got off the train.

He drove home, still fuming. "h.e.l.lo, darling!" said Edna.

"h.e.l.lo, Daddy!" cried little Joyce, running toward him, all smiles and dimples, arms out, giving her curls a twitch - it really looked d.a.m.ned effective.

"h.e.l.lo, daffodil!" said he, gathering her up. "Did you like California, honey? Would you like to go back there?"

"What's that?" said Edna.

"Never mind," said he. "Look, it's seven already. That child should be in bed. She wants to keep that dancing quality."

"Listen," began Edna.

"I can't," said he. "I've a letter to get off. I can just make it. Have dinner held up for once, there's an angel."

He went to the writing desk in his bedroom, irritated into an overmastering urge to do something definite, final He needed to deliver just one kick that would shatter the world of Westchester and museums. "Petty, highbrow sn.o.bbery!" said he to himself as he took up his pen.

He wrote to his chief at the museum. The letter started as a formal resignation, with the request that some over-due leave might coincide with the normal period of notice, so that Henry need not appear at the office again.

Henry leaned back and surveyed these formal paragraphs, and found them rather negative. "It was not thus," he thought, "that the yellow waistcoated should bid farewell to the grey minded." Curling his lip, he added an urbane and scarifying word or two, such as would leave no doubt at all as to the sort of man they were dealing with.

He hurried downstairs. "Can dinner come on?" said Edna. "It will be spoiled."

"Let us bring it in ourselves," said he. "I want May to rush down to the village with this. She can just get the mail."

Soon they were seated at the table. "Henry," said Edna, "you needn't go on making cracks about that business."

"What business?" said he. "What cracks?"

"The way you talked about her 'dancing quality,'" said Edna. "I said this morning you were right. Today, back here, I've been thinking about it, and I'm sorrier than ever. But, Henry, some people can do a fool thing once, and it doesn't mean they don't take standards and things absolutely seriously. It's just being a weak woman. I'm glad you're not a weak woman, Hen."

"Edna," said Henry. "There's such a thing as instinct. From our point of view - our old point of view - you were wrong. Because you did what you did without knowing certain things that justified it. As a matter of fact, I've been investigating the whole thing today, and I've discovered that your instinct was perfectly tight."

"I don't understand," said Edna.

"Today," said Henry, with a smile, "I have decided to accept a quite amazing offer for Joyce, I have resigned from the museum, and ..."

"What are you saying?" cried Edna. "Do you mean for Joyce to go on the films? No!"

"But yes," said Henry. "Precisely that. It will develop her. The system is marvellous. I had it out with Fishbein himself. In person. Psychiatrists, dieticians, everything."

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Edna. "Henry, what's come over you?"

"Do you remember that mink coat?" said Henry.

"Is this some new sort of joke?" said Edna. "But it's not. You're serious. You're telling me that I should let Joyce go into pictures so that I can get a mink coat. You? Henry? Good G.o.d, we've been married ten years, and ..."

"Don't be silly," said Henry. "It's not a mink coat. I used that just as a sort of symbol for all sorts of things."

"And a very good symbol," said Edna. "No, thank you." She got up and walked over to the window. "Wait a minute," said she, turning as Henry began to speak. "This still seems a bit unreal, as if it was in a rather bad play or something. But there it is. You've just smashed everything up. Everything. The way we've lived, the things we've valued - and yourself, too. I don't know who you are. I don't know who I've been living with."

"This is absurd," said Henry. "I can see it's no good arguing with you at present. When you hear all the facts, you'll change your mind."

"Do you think so?" said Edna grimly.

"Whatever you do," said Henry, "it's settled. I've resigned from the museum. I'm accepting the offer."

"I am Joyce's mother," said Edna.

"And I am her father," said Henry. "And your husband."

"No," said Edna. "Good Lord! How funny this is! You might have produced a mistress, you might have taken to drink. We might have had tears and storms and misery for months and years. And still you would have been my husband. And now you say a few silly words, and you're not. You're just not."

"Keep your voice down," said Henry. "I heard May come in."

May came right in to the dining-room. "Did you catch the mail?" said Henry. "My resignation," he added to Edna.

"You'll have to withdraw it," said Edna.

"You should have read it," said he, smiling.

"Yes, sir," said coloured May, "and that Western Union boy caught me up and give me this here telegram." She handed the wire to Henry.

"Probably from Hollywood," said he, as he opened it. There is a huge difference between the way in which people in different walks of life open their telegrams. Henry dealt with this in the superior manner of one already waistcoated in yellow. The telegram stripped him naked. It was from Hollywood all right: CANCEL ALL I SAID.

FISHBEIN.

THE CHASER.

Alan Austen, as nervous as a kitten, went up certain dark and creaky stairs in the neighbourhood of Pell Street, and peered about for a long time on the dim landing before he found the name he wanted written obscurely on one of the doors.

He pushed open this door, as he had been told to do, and found himself in a tiny room, which contained no furniture but a plain kitchen table, rocking chair, and an ordinary chair. On one of the dirty buff-coloured walls were a couple of shelves, containing in all perhaps a dozen bottles and jars. An old man sat in the rocking chair, reading a newspaper. Alan, without a word, handed him the card he had been given. "Sit down, Mr. Austen," said the old man very politely. "I am glad to make your acquaintance."

"Is it true," asked Alan, "that you have a certain mixture that has - er - quite extraordinary effects?"

"My dear sir," replied the old man, "my stock in trade is not very large - I don't deal in laxatives and teething mixtures - but such as it is, it is varied. I think nothing I sell has effects which could be precisely described as ordinary."

"Well, the fact is -" began Alan.

"Here, for example," interrupted the old man reaching for a bottle from the shelf. "Here is a liquid as colourless as water, almost tasteless, quite imperceptible in coffee, milk, wine, or any other beverage. It is also quite imperceptible to any known method of autopsy."

"Do you mean it is a poison?" cried Alan, very much horrified.

"Call it cleaning fluid if you like," said the old man indifferently. "Lives need cleaning. Call it a spot-remover. 'Out, d.a.m.ned spot!' Eh? 'Out, brief candle!'"

"I want nothing of that sort," said Alan.

"Probably it is just as well," said the old man. "Do you know the price of this? For one teaspoonful, which is sufficient, I ask five thousand dollars. Never less. Not a penny less."

"I hope all your mixtures are not as expensive," said Alan apprehensively.

"Oh, dear, no," said the old man. "It would be no good charging that sort of price for a love potion, for example. Young people who need a love potion very seldom have five thousand dollars. Otherwise they would not need a love potion."

"I'm glad to hear you say so," said Alan.

"I look at it like this," said the old man. "Please a customer with one article, and he will come back when he needs another. Even if it is more costly. He will save up for it, if necessary."

"So," said Alan, "you really do sell love potions?"

"If I did not sell love potions," said the old man, reaching for another bottle, "I should not have mentioned the other matter to you. It is only when one is in a position to oblige that one can afford to be so confidential."

"And these potions," said Alan. "They are not just - just - er -"

"Oh, no," said the old man. "Their effects are permanent, and extend far beyond the mere casual impulse. But they include it. Oh, yes, they include it. Bountifully. Insistently. Everlastingly."

"Dear me!" said Alan, attempting a look of scientific detachment. "How very interesting!"

"But consider the spiritual side," said the old man.

"I do, indeed," said Alan.

"For indifference," said the old man, "they subst.i.tute devotion. For scorn, adoration. Give one tiny measure of this to the young lady - its flavour is imperceptible in orange juice, soup, or c.o.c.ktails - and however gay and giddy she is, she will change altogether. She'll want nothing but solitude, and you."

"I can hardly believe it," said Alan. "She is so fond of parties."

"She will not like them any more," said the old man. "She'll be afraid of the pretty girls you may meet."