In a Yellow Wood Page 10

  “You see it is based on the legend of the Golden Fleece. I have substituted the artistic ultimate in place of the fleece and, to carry the myth to its final parallel, I envisage all artists as traveling upon an Argosy....” She listened politely, carefully to the sound of the words, ignoring their meanings. She glanced up and down the large white-paneled room. No one was drunk.

  “Isn’t it stimulating?” asked Lewis when the Greek named Timon had finished.

  “Wonderful,” murmured Mrs Stevanson.

  The Greek flushed happily. “I don’t think the Argosy’s ever been interpreted quite that way before.”

  “I’m sure it hasn’t,” agreed Mrs Stevanson. She was becoming impatient now. Her own Argosy would have to begin again. More guests were arriving.

  “Have you seen the new ballet?” asked Lewis suddenly.

  “No, I haven’t seemed to have had the time.”

  “It’s dreadful. But the boy....” Lewis made little motions with his hand, with his mouth, with his body. His eyes glittered their blue innocence, their cheerful pleasure. He described the boy to her and in great detail he told her how he was going to arrange a meeting.

  “You’re too clever to stay alive, my pet,” said Mrs Stevanson. She hoped that none of her other guests were overhearing this. Most of them were quite worldly but a few weren’t and it would never do to have them hear him.

  “I must...” began Mrs Stevanson moving slowly away.

  “So nice to have met you,” said the small Greek named Timon.

  “The pleasure...” murmured Mrs Stevanson.

  Lewis waved to her. “I shall see you later, Helena.” Mrs Stevanson wondered irritably why fairies had to have such unpleasant voices.

  Several new arrivals were in the foyer. She recognized Mr. Heywood immediately. He was passively allowing one of the footmen to take his overcoat away from him.

  “Heywood dear, it was so nice of you to come.”

  “It’s nice to be here, Helena.” He looked unhappily at the footman, retreating with the overcoat.

  “And where is your lovely wife?” Mrs Stevanson knew perfectly well they were no longer on speaking terms.

  “My wife?” Heywood became dreamy, vague and distant. “Oh, she’s not well at all.”

  “Really? Do tell me what’s wrong. I’ve a very good doctor, you know.”

  “It’s nothing, really. She has trouble with her head. I think it’s her head.”

  “Migraine,” said Mrs Stevanson firmly, leading Heywood now into the drawing room. “I’ve been a martyr to it myself. You know,” and she lowered her voice, “I think it’s due to change of life.”

  “Really, Helena!” Heywood was gently shocked. He made a restraining motion with his white limp hairless hand. “I’m sure she’s much too young for that.”

  “Well, you never can tell,” said Mrs Stevanson who knew Mrs Heywood’s exact age.

  “What a lot of people,” sighed Heywood. “So many people.”

  “There are a lot,” said Mrs Stevanson proudly. “As usual I don’t know half of them.”

  Carefully she cut Mr. Heywood away from her, allowed him to float unprotected through the groups of people. He looked back at her sadly but she had no pity for him and, finally, a group of Wall Street people swallowed him up and she saw him no more.

  Several people were entering the drawing room. They walked slowly with the carefully controlled uneasiness of people who didn’t know the hostess well.

  She recognized one of the newcomers and she greeted him joyfully: Ulysses returned to Ithaca, as the small Greek named Timon might have said.

  The man she knew introduced her to the others. Most of them were English and she had a great admiration for the English. It was not particularly fashionable to like them now but she still was fascinated by them because they could talk without moving their lips. It was rather wonderful.

  “And this,” said the man she knew, “is Mrs Bankton.”

  “How do you do,” said Mrs Bankton in a low voice. She was not English; Mrs Stevanson could tell that right away.

  “We’ve met before, I think?” A hint of question was in Mrs Stevanson’s voice.

  “I don’t think we have.”

  Mrs Bankton was definitely not English. Her accent was French or Spanish or Italian. Mrs Stevanson could never tell one from the other.

  “Mrs Bankton’s husband is the artist,” said the man she knew slightly.

  “Of course,” said Mrs Stevanson wondering who Bankton was. “Certainly, I know. But you’re not English, my dear?”

  “No, madame, I’m not English.” Mrs Bankton smiled at her and made no further admissions. Mrs Stevanson looked at her with dislike. She liked to find out about people quickly. Life was too short to have them hold back important facts and, ultimately, confidences. People always confided in Mrs Stevanson, knowing that she was not sufficiently interested in them to repeat what she heard.

  “I do hope you’ll enjoy yourself,” said Mrs Stevanson more cordially than she would have done had she liked the person.

  “Thank you,” murmured Mrs Bankton. They bowed slightly to each other and parted. Mrs Stevanson watched Mrs Bankton as she walked across the room with her party. She looked very exotic in a short black lace dress and a red rose in her hair. What slim ankles, thought Mrs Stevanson disagreeably, thinking of her own heavy legs, practical legs one artist had told her, voluptuous legs an even better artist had said.

  Mrs Stevanson turned, setting a smile on her lips. She faced the largest of all the groups: over twenty people talking all at once to each other. Holding her breasts high she approached them and, as she was recognized, their voices lowered and smiles appeared all about her and she was accepted into the center of the group and there devoured.

  Robert Holton was received by a butler. His coat was taken with ceremony and he was moved easily out of the black marble foyer into the drawing room.

  He had never visited Mrs Stevanson in her New York apartment. He was greatly impressed and he tried to retain a mental image of what he saw: he was constructing a dream world and such an apartment might be material for it.

  The drawing room was large, formal and very light. Three chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. The walls were paneled in white wood with gold-leaf decorations, like the palace at Versailles. Paintings hung at regular intervals about the room: portraits mostly, portraits of Mrs Stevanson. There was one large painting of a countryside which Robert Holton could tell immediately was done by Rembrandt or someone like him.

  The floor was thickly carpeted and tables and formal chairs furnished the room. A few people sat; most of them, however, preferred to stand, to move about gracefully, searching.

  He stood blinking in the light, drugged by the high noise of voices, hypnotized by the odor of many flowers drenched over the women who stood talking to men.

  He walked slowly, uncertainly toward the center of the room. He knew no one in the room. He looked for familiar faces, though; there were none. Then he saw Mrs Stevanson and he walked toward her. She looked at him and he could tell she was puzzled. Then she recognized him; she came toward him and they met beneath a portrait of her lilies.

  “You’re little Bob Holton, aren’t you?” A strange description, he thought.

  “Yes, Mrs Stevanson, you remember we met last year and....”

  “Of course we did. How is your father?”

  “Fine, just fine.” His father hated her.

  “I’m so glad to hear that. I think you look more like your mother, you know. She was such a lovely woman.”

  He mumbled thank you.

  “Your mother was one of the most charming women I ever knew. She had such a wonderful way of doing things, so original.” Like marrying my father, thought Holton. “She was always full of surprises. I used to enjoy her so much.”

  There was an awkward silence. Robert Holton never found it easy to talk about his mother and Mrs Stevanson had decided, obviously, that it was the only thing s
he could discuss with him.

  “It was very nice of you...” began Holton.

  “Think nothing of it, my dear. I don’t know if there are many younger people here. You might look round, though. I suppose you’ll know everybody. There’s Laura Whitner over there....You know her of course.” He looked and saw a dark little woman wearing a skull cap.

  “I’ve seen her act,” he said accurately.

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs Stevanson looked around the room. He could see that she was preparing to leave him alone.

  He was wrong. “You must,” she said, “meet some friends of mine. They’re foreigners and they’ve only just arrived. They don’t know anyone....” She was going to say “either” but did not.

  She led him over to a small group of men and women. Mrs Stevanson didn’t know their names but she acted as if they were her dearest friends.

  “This young man is Robert Holton. His mother was a great friend of mine and you must be nice to him.” She was cute. “He’s just gotten out of the navy.” She looked up suddenly with a magnificent gesture, looked as if someone had hailed her from across the room. “Oh, I have to go! Please excuse me.” She moved away in a swirl of silk, her bright blue hair bouncing on the back of her thick white neck.

  “How do you do,” said Holton, shaking hands with a dark man. Then he shook hands with a light man, with a short heavy one, with a thin blonde girl and finally he shook hands with Mrs Bankton.

  “How do you do,” said Robert Holton.

  “How do you do,” said Mrs Bankton. Her voice startled him. It was deep and foreign and she had said the “you” as though she had really meant him.

  “I’m very well,” he said and he looked at her. Her hair was dark. Her eyes were greenish and bright and shining. He looked at her mouth, red and curved, elfinly shaped. He stammered, “I know you. I know you but....”

  “But who am I?” She laughed and gestured with her long white hands.

  “Yes, who are you?”

  “Carla.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve changed. I....”

  “And so have you. I think you look younger out of uniform.”

  “But....”

  “You’re surprised to see me? I’m just visiting this country. My husband,” she paused, “my husband is in England and I think he’ll be coming to join me soon.”

  “Then you’re married?”

  “But of course! And very well.” She smiled at him, smiled gently and he felt embarrassed because she acknowledged an old relationship so easily; that she was so unmoved, so unguilty.

  “I’m very happy to hear that.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “Thank you. Let’s get out of this crowd.” She looked about her. She pointed to a corner of the room, an alcove containing a window. “Let’s go over there.” They walked through the crowd and sat down on the love seat beneath the window.

  “You’re surprised, aren’t you?” She spoke softly.

  “A little, I guess. I don’t know. I have to get used to the idea. I always associated you with...with Florence and....”

  “You felt that was behind you?”

  He was surprised. She must have known him very well, he thought suddenly; he had forgotten how well she had known him. “No, I didn’t think that,” he lied.

  “I have very warm memories,” she said lightly.

  He blushed and hated himself but there was nothing he could do or say that would make it better. “Mine were pleasant, too. I...I liked Florence quite a bit.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you did, and you liked Fiesole, and the nights and summer days. I suppose you liked them all.”

  “I liked them all.”

  “And that was what you liked, all that you can remember?”

  “No, I remember more. I...I didn’t know if you’d want to talk about that; being married and....”

  She was surprised. “But I knew you first, after all. That counts for something and then I remembered, too. It hasn’t been so long.”

  “Several years.”

  “It doesn’t seem that long to me. You remember those nights at our place in Fiesole? We used to go out and sit on the ledge and look at the lights of the city.” They both looked out the window then, looked at the glacier-bright squares of light.

  “It was very pretty.”

  “You Anglo-Saxon!” She laughed at him, not maliciously but gaily. “You say it’s pretty. You say it’s nice. It was beautiful and you know it. That was a beautiful time.”

  He felt her warmth suddenly, began to remember her warmth, began to remember much that he had forgotten. “Yes,” said he, warmed by her, “those nights were beautiful.”

  “Good, I wanted to hear you say that. I wanted you to say,” her voice became so low that he could barely hear her, “I wanted you to say much more but I think you’ve forgotten.” She looked out at the towers of the city, at the glittering webs of light. She was embarrassed now and he was not. No, she was not embarrassed; he realized that with a sudden vision; she was sad and he didn’t want her to be sad.

  “You know...I can say more. I didn’t think you wanted to hear it. That was so long ago. You’re married and....”

  She turned around and faced him, her face alive and gay; her moods changed so quickly, he remembered: he had always been baffled by her changes. “You got interested in someone else. I know what you soldiers are like. Italians are just the same in Italy.”

  “No, there isn’t anyone else.” This was the wrong thing to say and he tried to withdraw the words from the air but they were lost to him now.

  “No one else? No one...?”

  “Well....”

  “How strange.” She looked at a painting of Mrs Stevanson and at that moment she looked as if this painting were the most important thing to her. Finally she said, “I think I’d like to drink some whiskey. Shall we go to the bar?”

  “Certainly, Carla.” He was glad that he had said her name naturally.

  Carla felt uncertain. The cold glass that a footman had given her was chilling her hand. She wondered if she should put it down on the dining-room table. They were standing near it and Robert Holton was looking hungrily at the food; she could see that in a moment he would have enough courage to eat.

  “What a dreadful room,” said Carla.

  “What?” He looked at her as though she had not been there. “Oh, yes, it’s sort of forbidding.” He glanced at the dark wood-paneled walls and the ornate chandelier.

  “I don’t know why these people must have everything so heavy inside,” said Carla. “The buildings in New York are so tall and light.”

  “Some places are more modern.”

  “I suppose they are.” The glass of whiskey in her hand was becoming much too cold to hold. She put it down on the table.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “I think I’ve had enough for now. You remember how little I used to drink.”

  “Yes, you never needed it.” He looked at her directly and smiled. She was happy then because it was the first time he had looked at her eyes. He was losing his fear of her, this strange and, to her, inexplicable fear.

  “Let’s find some place to sit down,” she said.

  “I thought you wanted to walk around.”

  She laughed. “All right, we’ll do both.” They walked around.

  More people had arrived. Several hundred, thought Carla with distaste. She liked smaller parties. She had only come tonight because friends of her husband had insisted. They were keeping close watch over her for they knew how jealous Bankton was. It was very amusing, she thought as she and Holton walked from group to group. Her husband’s friends watching her now would never suspect what had happened in Florence.

  They came to an especially large group, a dozen men surrounding Laura Whitner.

  “Do you want to meet her?” asked Carla, looking at Holton, knowing that he did.

  “You don’t know her?”

  “But of course. I
know everyone.”

  They cut their way through the bewitched men, cut through to the enchantress herself.

  Laura Whitner was dark and slight with full breasts. Her face was as delicate as a carving in ivory; sallow, too, as old ivory. The lips were brilliant red and she twisted her mouth in childlike expressions and her sad dark eyes glittered from habit and not from fire. She looked unwell, thought Carla.

  “Carla Bruno!” exclaimed Laura when she saw them. The two women embraced with warmth and the enchantment was broken for the admirers and they began to withdraw from the circle of her spell, smiling as they departed, leaving her alone in her theater with only two admirers.

  “But my tiny Carla, what are you doing in New York? I haven’t seen you for years, not since Paris.”

  “I’m here visiting.”

  “But I’m so happy to see you! You know, you’re the last person I’d expect to run into here.”

  “I had to get away from Europe. I hadn’t been to America since I was a child.”

  Laura Whitner looked at her hands. “You’re not married, are you?” Carla wore no wedding ring.

  Carla smiled and nodded.

  Laura looked astonished, her scarlet mouth, like a wicked child’s, twisted with all the emotions she felt and several that she did not. “To whom? To the little one here?” She motioned to Robert Holton who had been standing silently watching her.

  Carla laughed. “No, Laura, to Bankton in England.”

  “The painter?”

  “The painter. We’ve been married two years.”

  “Are you happy?” There was a dark note in her voice as she said this and Carla could tell that it was something she wanted to know.

  “I am not unhappy,” said Carla, knowing that this was no answer but she hoped that Holton would grasp her meaning.

  “I’m sorry,” said Laura Whitner almost undramatically. “I married again, you know.”

  “I heard you did. Is he here tonight? I used to know him.”

  “He couldn’t come, he’s working on a show. Are you going to have children?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I want one.” She sighed and touched the skullcap on her head with a hand that was pale and like the claw of a bird, a hand that shook. “If I’m not too old I’m going to make a child. I think that’s what I need.”