The Sunday Gentleman (8 page)

“Perhaps you will not remember my name,” my letter began. “Certainly, it is with a sense of guilt that I write you now. But if I may, permit me to refresh your memory. Early in May of last year, while I worked as a writer for the United States Army, I was briefly in New York where I obtained your address through the kind offices of Mr. Jack Lait…” Then, for four pages, I went on to explain why I had not been able to write the sisters in almost twenty months, how much I still wanted to create the play based on their lives, how eager I was to purchase the album of photographs of their club (“if the price is not prohibitive”), and, now that I was back in New York, how much “I should enjoy the pleasure of meeting you and talking with you.”

The following evening at seven o’clock—I had just returned by subway from my army chores, and was preparing to go out for dinner—the telephone in my room rang. I lifted the receiver, and then I forgot about dinner. The voice on the other end was that of Minna Everleigh. I still have my notes, jotted down immediately after our half hour’s conversation. “Minna sounds very old,” I had observed. “Her voice is quavery, it goes up and down, very much the way Joseph Jefferson sounds on those pioneer recordings Linguaphone puts out. Sometimes she speaks in a shriek, but her sentences are clipped and distinct, often punctuated by shrill laughter. Her speech is staccato.”

“We have your marvelous letter,” Minna Everleigh was saying, “and we want to thank you for it—the most perfect letter I have ever received. Aida read it and she agrees with me that it is perfect. Now, about that matter you referred to, the Everleigh sisters—I must tell you, they just left for Florida, they are there now and will be there for several months. But Aida and I will be in constant touch with them, and we’ll let them know of your requests and we’ll keep in touch with you.”

I told her I was deeply appreciative of the time she was giving to act as an intermediary between the Everleighs and myself.

She listened, and then she asked, “You’re not a Catholic, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“I thought not. Well, the Catholics and Puritans in this country would be against such a play as you have in mind. The Catholic Church is powerful, you know, and it’s gaining strength. It has control over everything. It is against such women as the Everleighs, yet, Irving darling, when I lived in Chicago, some of the finest women I met socially were of the same class as the Everleighs, some of the very finest…All this condemnation of the Everleighs. They do not merit it. I know. The whole thing is like those Nazis on trial for their war crimes. Many of those Nazis followed orders. I don’t mean that they’re not guilty. They are guilty. But they followed orders, you understand. They had to do what they did. And the Everleigh sisters had to do what they did, too.”

I began to tell her that I had nothing but admiration for the Everleigh sisters, but she interrupted me.

“You know, Irving,” she said, “there have been three books written about the Everleigh sisters. One is
Come into My Parlor
. It should have been called ‘The Club.’ Another is
The Gem of the Prairie
. And there is also
Lords of the Levee
. Most all of this is a bunch of untruths and lies. But
Come into My Parlor
is the best…As to your play, I know something else you can do meantime. I’ve been reading four volumes written by Paul Eldridge, published by Haldeman-Julius who puts out those Little Blue Books in Girard, Kansas. Eldridge’s books are not books really, but pamphlets—still, real literature you could adapt for the stage. I wrote Eldridge my opinion of his work, sheer genius, nothing like that awful novel.
Strange Fruit
. He teaches Romance languages right here in New York.”

Then graphically, if somewhat confusingly, Minna acted out, over the telephone—reciting various characters’ speeches with appropriate voice changes, the plot of one Eldridge book, and concluded by relating to me, briefly, the plots of the other three.

“You know, I have been writing a book of my own for seven years,” she went on. “It is called ‘Poets, Prophets and Gods.’ I have read a lot, you know, all of the three thousand books which I have here in my home, and I went around the world twice, once in 1909 and again in 1912. I am absolutely a freethinker, no nursery stories for me. You are a freethinker, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“My book would be heresy. I think I will have Haldeman-Julius publish it. They publish that sort of thing. I will finish it next year and you shall have an autographed copy.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“You may yet have your play, Irving. But really, you don’t think it could actually be done, do you? Did you ever see a photograph of the Everleigh sisters?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“One had warm brown hair, and the other had natural golden hair, and it would be difficult to find anyone to portray them on the stage. They were very strange, not happy girls. There was so much tragedy in their lives. They left Chicago in 1911 with over a half-million dollars. They lost most of it later through investments, but don’t think they are poor, because they are not. They live well, and have their jewels still. They are not poor, they are not dependent on anyone.”

I was relieved about that, and wanted to let Minna know, but she was rambling on.

“We had several large parties in this house in the thirties, but in June, 1937, when the war came, we swore off parties. We only go out to the theater sometimes now. Do you think that’s strange? But I do want to finish writing my book. Women friends are always calling about parties, about club meetings, about teas, but I have to refuse them…We ordered eight more copies of Eldridge’s books, something different for the reader, really, and I shall send you four in January of the new year. Eldridge is the modern Guy de Maupassant…I saw that movie,
The Dolly Sisters
, did you? I couldn’t help laughing at the picture, at Betty Grable and that other girl—I forget her name—oh, yes—June Haver. Yes. Oh dear, they were too lustful. Women in our day just weren’t like that at all, but I suppose men want to see that today. Remember the old saying, ‘What a man sees in a woman, he gets.’ Well, nowadays, Irving, he certainly wants a hot number, that’s what he wants today!”

She broke into a great peal of laughter, then suddenly sobered. “How old are you?” she asked.

“I’m thirty.”

“Thirty?” She laughed nicely. “What a wonderful age.” She paused, and then she said, “I will speak to the Everleigh sisters. You may yet get what you desire. But meantime, work on other things. There are more fish in the sea than are ever caught. Best wishes for the new year, darling, and thank you for the most perfect, most charming letter we have ever received, darling, and good-bye for now.”

Dazed, yet stimulated, by my first personal contact with Minna Everleigh, I wondered when we would speak to one another again. The week passed without another call from Minna. But the sisters were on my mind, and so was Christmas, then fast approaching, and three days before Christmas I went to a bookstore on Fifth Avenue and bought deluxe editions of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s
Sonnets from the Portuguese
and Dickens’
A Christmas Carol
and ordered them gift wrapped and sent to Minna and Aida Lester.

The following day, a Sunday, the sixth day since Minna’s first call to me, I was downstairs in the lobby of the Royal-ton purchasing pipe tobacco, when I was summoned to the telephone. A Miss Lester, I was told, wished to speak to me. While this conversation was briefer than our first, it was as meaningful to me, because, at last, I met Aida of the golden hair and gold piano.

At once, Minna said that she had just mailed a package to me. Her latest shipment of Little Blue Books had arrived from Girard, Kansas, and she was sending me several by Eldridge which she hoped I would consider for dramatization.

Before I could thank her, she began to reminisce about her sister and herself. “Aida and I were of a family of five,” she said. “Everyone wants to be something in their life, and I was no different. Like that young actor in California we’ve been corresponding with. He wrote us, just as you did, under the erroneous impression that we were the Everleigh sisters. I corrected him. He now sends us snapshots of himself and baskets of fruit. He wants to be a writer as well as an actor. He writes well. I suspect he has a Semite strain. I believe the greatest poets, writers, actors were Semites. Unfortunately, Aida and I are Aryan. I wish we weren’t. What are you, Irving? Are you a Semite?”

“Definitely,” I said.

Minna laughed. “I love that word ‘definitely.’ I have a feeling you’re going to go far…Look, Irving, I want you to talk to my sister, Aida, also. She’s ninety-nine percent more worthy than I am. I’m going to call down to her, and she’ll go into the library, among all our books, and talk to you on that phone, while I stay on this one. I hope you two get along without having met. Well, hold on—”

I waited, bracing myself for Aida, the unknown, and suddenly, a voice much younger than Minna’s, a voice soft-spoken and well-modulated and faintly Southern addressed me. This was Aida Everleigh, and she was charming. After an introductory exchange, I mentioned the play I hoped to write. Aida said that her sister, Minna, usually took care of business matters. She wondered how I was enjoying my winter in New York, and she listened with interest as I related my reaction to the city.

When I was through, Aida gave me her own impressions of New York. “We’ve been in New York for twenty-five years, and we’ve seen it change. It’s far too crowded now. I’m sure that’s all right for the young. They like crowds. But it’s difficult for us. I’ve been out to your Los Angeles many times. I love that climate. The last time I was there I went to see my brother. He died right after, in 1935.”

Minna, who had been listening to us on the other telephone, now entered into our conversation. She did not like Los Angeles because Hollywood was in Los Angeles and Hollywood was full of actors. “I don’t like actors, as a rule,” said Minna. “You’re not one, are you?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well—actors—they all have a little of Jack Barrymore in them, you know, all of them assuming a hundred different guises. I was something of an actress myself in my youth. But now I’m writing, and I hope someone will publish what I write. Irving, you will become known with your own writing. I suppose—I suppose we all want to leave something behind… Anyway, I have a feeling that a new literature is going to grow out of this war. You know, just as Hemingway and the rest came out of World War I, this second war will produce something completely new.”

After a while, it was Aida Everleigh who closed the conversation. She said, “You have a lovely voice, Irving. Do you have a snapshot of yourself? If you have, please send it to us. It’s wonderful to see people you’ve never met, people you’ve just spoken to or corresponded with…Be sure to have a merry Christmas, and the main thing to watch out for in the new year is your health. We’ve managed quite well with ours. You look after yours.”

Christmas Day, of that year, fell on a Tuesday. Many of us in the army were given a leave, and I had decided to spend my holiday in my hotel room, resting and reading and catching up on correspondence. At one o’clock in the afternoon, my telephone rang, and as I went to answer it, I hoped that it would be Minna Everleigh. My wish was granted. She was cheerful, and she spoke to me for more than thirty minutes, and it was mostly a monologue.

“I’ve just finished breakfast with Aida,” said Minna. “We only had coffee. We don’t eat on sacred days, not even between meals, which is perhaps why I feel so good today. But on December twenty-ninth we begin to celebrate New Year’s. I have a bottle of wonderful 1926 champagne, and we open it and drink it…I was reading at breakfast when we received your two Christmas presents—
Sonnets from the Portuguese
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and
A Christmas Carol
by Charles Dickens. By God, sweetheart, I’m wild about those editions. I really must apologize for the books I sent you because they’re only Little Blue Books. That Haldeman who publishes them is a queer, eccentric old man. He’s published one million books, and I’ve bought at least one thousand of them…Aida came to me at breakfast, after I opened your gifts, and I said I must call you, and she said, ‘Minna, you’re not going to bother that Sergeant Wallace on Christmas Day.’ I said that I wouldn’t promise not to. But I just don’t talk to anyone. I talk to you, I give you my time, Irving, because I like you. Anyway, thank you again for the books. They’re cast in such a beautiful dye. I’ll treasure these books until the last day of my life.”

I asked her if she was going to call on anyone or have visitors this Christmas Day.

“No,” said Minna, “I won’t see anyone. I determined that until my own damnable book is finished and published I would live in a castle of silence Have you reread the Jesus Christmas story? You know, I believe that the two thieves that were hanging from crosses beside Jesus were really his followers who wanted to steal from the rich to help the poor…I do not mind mankind’s crimes, but I do mind its hypocrisy…Have you been following what is going on in Europe? Anarchy is one thing, revolution is another thing, but nihilism is too much. And when people are starving and frozen—”

But suddenly, she was in an autobiographical mood. “Irving, did you know my father was a lawyer who spoke seven languages? It’s true. And as for myself, I was able to read before I was five years old. When I was very young, I got married, before I was seventeen. I married a wealthy devil of a man, but then we were divorced. Nevertheless, I have always felt that all men are my brothers, and you are one of my younger brothers…Aida and I come from Virginia, you know, way back, and I consider you a brother. I lost one real brother. Aida told you, didn’t she?…In 1679, after the Restoration in England, Charles II granted fifty-nine acres of land in Virginia to two brothers, and these two migrated to the New World. That was the beginning of our family. Those ancestors of mine, they all died of drink, insanity, and the Civil War. My grandmother was Welsh. She had a couple hundred slaves, but she loved Negroes. Yet, she would say to her Negro overseer, ‘I don’t believe in shipping niggers down the river, selling them off, but if I ever catch you mistreating your fellows, I’ll ship you off!’…The last one of our family was born while my mother was dying.”