Theophilus North (19 page)

“It's a very good rule, but admits of an occasional exception,” replied Mrs. Cranston, tacitly alluding to Edweena's possession of the “garden apartment” and probably to a number of her other lodgers.

“I think I've found the real right thing. It's not in an elegant neighborhood. The furnishings are modest but neat and clean; and it's within my means, after I've done a bit more haggling. I am not of a spendthrift nature, Mrs. Cranston, being wholly New England on my father's side and almost wholly Scottish on my mother's. In fact, I am what New Englanders call ‘near.' Schoolboys say ‘chinchy.' ”

Mrs. Cranston laughed. “In Rhode Island we often say ‘close.' I am not ashamed to say that I am fairly ‘close' in my dealings.”

Henry was indignant. “Why, Mrs. Cranston, you are the most generous person I've ever known. You have a heart of gold!”

“I never liked that expression, Henry. I would not have been able to run this house and keep my head above water, if I had not been ‘careful.' There's another word for you, Mr. North. I hate close-fisted stinginess, of course; but I certainly recommend a firm grasp on what money should and should not do.” She sat back in her chair, warming up to the subject. “Now twenty and thirty years ago Newport was famous for reckless spending. You wouldn't believe the amount of money that could be thrown away in a single night—to say nothing of a single season. But also you wouldn't believe the stories of miserliness, penny-pinching, meannesses—what's the word that's the opposite of extravagance, Mr. North?”

“Parsimony?”

“That's it!”

“Avarice?”

“Listen to that, Henry: That's what comes of a college education; hitting the nail on the head. Edweena's fond of saying that extravagance—give me another word, Mr. North.”

“Conspicuous waste.”

“Oh, what a beauty!—that conspicuous waste and avarice are related; they're two sides of the same desperateness. ‘Newport avarice,' she used to say, ‘was of a special kind. They all had millions, but their behavior was like a fever-chart: it would go up and down.' There was one hostess who would send out invitations for a big party—two hundred on gold plate; catering and additional staff from Delmonico's or Sherry's. But four days before the party she'd come down with an attack of some kind and cancel the whole thing. When this had happened a number of times her dearest friends made plans for an ‘emergency dinner' in case of another cancellation. She was the same lady who went through two seasons in two evening gowns; she appeared in the black or the purple one. She'd write orders for dresses to be sent up from New York, but she'd forget to mail the letter. These people think that no one notices! There's some demon inside them that robs them of the ability to look an expenditure in the face. It's a sickness, really.”

Here followed some staggering examples of penuriousness and “trimming.”

“Why,” said Henry, “there's a woman in town now—a very young woman, too. She's married to a man as famous as General Pershing—”

“Almost, Henry.”

“Thank you, ma'am. ‘Almost as famous' as General Pershing.”

“No names, remember! A rule of the house.”

“She has one all-absorbing interest: cruelty to animals. She's given half a dozen shelters to communities around here and pays their upkeep. She's on the National Anti-carve-'em-up Society. She gets hysterical about feathers on hats. But the stories—”

Mrs. Cranston broke in: “Mr. North, she does much of her own shopping. She puts on a thick brown veil, gets in her car, and goes down to those shipping supply shops; sends her chauffeur inside to tell the butcher that ‘Mrs. Edom' would like to speak to him outside. Mrs. Edom was the woman who
used
to be her housekeeper. She buys a whole side of beef from the salt-barrel. Takes two weeks to soak the salt out of it—
half
-soak the salt out. That's what the national hero and his children eat. She drives out to the Portuguese market and buys great milk cans of their kale soup with their
linguiça
sausages in it. When her servants protest and resign she scarcely gives them a civil letter of recommendation. She replaces them from those immigrant employment agencies in Boston and Providence. But she comes of an old Bellevue Avenue family and she must keep up her social position. About every ten days she gives a dinner party—catering from Providence; spends all the money she skimped for. Oh, it makes me boil—to think of that wonderful husband of hers and her children living on corned beef and kale soup while she spends thousands on dogs and cats!”

“Well, Mrs. Cranston, we have a saying in the Old Country: kind to animals, cruel to humans.”

“It's a kind of sickness. Mr. North, let's talk about something pleasant.”

I came to know the limits to which Mrs. Cranston could go in discussing any unfavorable aspect of the Newport she loved.

The lessons went on in fine shape, but the sweeping and dusting and the telephone calls from Rip's home were no small inconvenience. One day Rip asked me: “Do you ever take pupils on Sunday morning?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Could you manage one of my sessions every Sunday morning about eleven? My wife goes to church then; I don't. . . . Would that be all right? . . . So I'll pick you up at the ‘Y' next Sunday at a quarter before eleven. I'll take you to a classroom where we won't be disturbed. I belong to a club called the ‘Monks' Club'; it's a sort of shooting, fishing, drinking, and dining club, with a little dice-rattling on the side now and then. It's just over the line in Massachusetts, beyond Tiverton. It belongs to a little group of the lively set. No ladies allowed, but every now and then you see some girls there—from New Bedford or Fall River. No one ever shows up before sunset, especially not on Sunday. The Monks have pretty much given up hunting.” He added with his confidential grin, “Very expensive membership, but they made me an honorary member—
no dues!
. . . A great place for our work.”

The thought of a quarter of an hour's drive disturbed me a little. I'd come to like and admire Rip more and more, but I didn't want to hear his “story”—how Gulliver came to be bound supine by a thousand small silk threads. It was a woeful situation, but there was nothing I could do about it. I felt in my bones that he was burning to tell me the story—the whole sorry business. So far I had never met Mrs. Vanwinkle and had no wish to. I have a ready interest in eccentrics and my Journal was filled with their “portraits,” but I shrank from those borderline cases that approach madness—raging jealousy, despotic possessiveness, neurotic avarice. Rip's wife appeared to me to be stark staring mad. This view had been confirmed by a strange event that happened to intrude itself into my daily routine.

I had a pupil whom I was preparing for the college entrance examination in French, a girl of seventeen. Penelope Temple and I were working in the library when Mrs. Temple entered hurriedly:

“Mr. North, please forgive me, but the upstairs telephone is in use and I want to answer a call here. I think it will be very brief.”

I rose. “Shall we go into another room, Mrs. Temple?”

“It's not necessary. . . . It's a woman I never met. . . . Yes, Mrs. Vanwinkle? This is Mrs. Temple speaking. I'm sorry to have made you wait, but Mr. Temple is expecting an urgent call on the other telephone. . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . It is true, those were egret feathers I was wearing at the ball when that photograph was taken. . . . Excuse me, let me interrupt. . . . Those feathers belonged to my mother. They are at least thirty years old. We have preserved them with great care. . . . Excuse me interrupting you: the feathers are now falling to pieces and I shall destroy them, as you request. . . . No, kindly do
not
send Mr. Vanwinkle to this house. Any home in America would be proud to receive Mr. Vanwinkle, but he is too distinguished a man to go about town picking up dilapidated feathers. . . .
No
, Mrs. Vanwinkle, I wish you to do me the credit of
believing
me when I tell you that I will destroy the wretched feathers
at once
. Good morning, Mrs. Vanwinkle, thank you for your call. . . . Excuse me again, Mr. North. Penelope, I think the woman's insane.”

Twenty minutes later the front door bell rang and down the hall I heard Rip's voice in conversation with Mrs. Temple.

Naturally, I did not mention this episode to Rip.

Our first Sunday morning drive into Massachusetts was on a beautiful day in early July. Rip drove like Jehu, as all
retired
aviators do. Even in that aging car he exceeded the speed limits in city and country. The police never interfered; they were proud to receive a wave of his hand. In order to forefend any confidential communications about the enslaved Gulliver, I plunged into my overworked theory about the nine cities of Troy and of Newport. I made a considerable digression about the great Bishop Berkeley as we passed near his house (“I lived in Berkeley Oval in my freshman year at college,” he said). I had just about come to the end of my exposition when we drove up to the door of the Monks' Club. He brought the car to a standstill but remained at the wheel gazing before him.

“Ted?”

“Yes, Rip?”

“You remember that you asked me what I'd like to
do?
”

“Yes.”

“I'd like to be a historian. . . . Is it too late?”

“Why, Rip, you've got your niche in history. It isn't too late to pour out all you know about that—begin there and then broaden out.”

His face clouded over. “Oh, I wouldn't want to write anything about that. It's what you were saying about the eighteenth century in Newport—Rochambeau and Washington and Berkeley—that reminded me that I'd always wanted to be a historian. . . . Besides, a historian works in a study where he can close the door, doesn't he? Or he can go to some library where there's a
silence
sign on every table.”

“Rip,” I ventured, “in New York is your life much like this—a lot of errands during the day and dinners out every night?”

He lowered his voice. “Worse, worse. In New York I do most of the shopping.”

“But you have a housekeeper!”

“We
had
a housekeeper—Mrs. Edom. Oh, I wish she were back. Capable, you know—quiet and capable. No arguments.”

The Monks' Club had been an important roadside tavern before the Revolution. Many alterations had been made since. It had served as a storehouse, as a home, and as a school, but much of the original structure remained, built of hewn stone with high chimneys and a vast kitchen. The front room must have been originally designed for dancing; there was a fiddlers' gallery opposite the great fireplace. The “Monks” had furnished and adorned it as a luxurious hunting lodge, complete with some masterpieces of taxidermy. We worked upstairs in the library surrounded by maps, files of sporting magazines, law manuals of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts relative to shipping and game-hunting. The room overlooked the front entrance and was large enough for us to stride up and down in during our mock international dialogues. It was ideal for us. At one o'clock we used to collect our textbooks and reluctantly return to Rhode Island.

During our second Sunday morning session the telephone rang at the bottom of the stairs.

“I know who that is! Come along, Ted, I want you to hear this.”

“I don't want to hear your private conversations, Rip.”

“I
want
you to. You're a part of this—you're a part of my campaign.—Anyway, leave the door open. I swear to you, I
need
you to back me up! . . . Hello? Yes, this is the Monks' Club. . . . Oh, is that you, Pam? I thought you were at church. . . . I told you: I'm having a German lesson. . . . I know it's a sunny day. . . . We went over that before. The children are perfectly safe at Bailey's Beach. There are three lifeguards there—one on a scaffold and two in rowboats; and on the beach there are at least thirty nurses, nannies, governesses,
Fräulein, mademoiselles
, and
gouvernantes
. I cannot and will not sit there for three hours amid a hundred women. . . . Rogers can bring them back, can't he? . . .

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.