In a Yellow Wood Read online

  “You must be very happy with him.”

  She nodded and said with great sincerity, “Yes, I’m very happy now. After a long time I am.” And Carla looked into her sad dark eyes and saw that they had not changed expression.

  “Who is this?” asked Laura Whitner, turning to Holton, making love to him automatically with her face.

  “This,” said Carla, “is Robert Holton, an old friend of mine. We knew each other in Florence during the war.”

  “Indeed!” She lifted her thin brows and made her mouth very round. Holton blushed and Carla wanted to protect him.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you,” said Holton awkwardly. “I’ve liked you in the movies.” Carla remembered then his honesty: the thing that had attracted her to him. He had always been honest; she wondered if that was so now.

  “Have you really, child? Thank you.” She made a gesture that was intended for an entire audience but it was still very graceful.

  “You must,” said Carla, “call me up and we’ll get together. I’m staying at the Mason.”

  “I shall, of course. Tell me....” At this moment Mrs Raymond Stevanson appeared to capture Laura.

  “Laura, darling, I’ve got the most marvelous Estonian who wants to meet you. I think he said he was an Estonian. I know you’ll love him. You’ll excuse me, I know.” She said this last to Carla and Holton.

  “We’ll have lunch,” said Laura, calling back over her shoulder as she was borne away by the conquering Mrs Stevanson.

  “What did you think of her, Bob?” asked Carla.

  “She’s not as pretty as I thought she’d be.”

  “They never are; you must learn that.”

  He looked at her and she tried to tell what he was thinking but for once her intuition was not enough: she had first to examine the years that had gone by. She had to find some trace of familiar emotion in him. She had to rediscover the stranger. She had to make him remember what she remembered. In Florence he had loved her, she was sure of that. Now it was up to her to reconstruct a passion that had never been wholly lost. She had cared more for him than he had known then; would ever know, she hoped. There had been so many nights after he had left when she had longed to be with him, nights when she could feel again the warm summer about them as they lay together in the wide bed in her room. She was determined now to find the lover in the stranger that stood beside her, who stood looking seriously but remotely into her face.

  “Shall we sit down now, Bob?”

  People were beginning to leave. It was eight-thirty and Mrs Stevanson was glad to see them go. The first two hours were interesting and then she found herself bored.

  On the other hand George Robert Lewis was not bored. He was slightly drunk and enjoying himself very much. He was usually overcome by a monstrous ennui during the day which, as evening came, grew less and less. In a few more hours he would have discovered a reason for living and this would keep him happy until he woke up the next morning with a hangover.

  He was glad when he heard that the famous Bankton’s wife was at the party. She had been pointed out to him but he hadn’t met her yet. He stopped a waiter and took a cocktail from him. And, equipped for conversation with a woman, he marched across the drawing room to where Carla stood talking with a young man, a rather nice young man, thought Lewis.

  “Mrs Bankton?”

  She turned and looked at him and he rather liked her brown-green eyes.

  “Yes?” She looked at him as though she wanted him to go away. Lewis was sensitive to such things but not particularly nonplussed; in fact he was accustomed to being asked to go away.

  “I’m George Robert Lewis...you know Regarde, the avant garde magazine, only it’s so trite now to call anything avant garde. You must have seen it. We did the most splendid article on Bankton last year. I’ve just loved his work because I can feel what he’s trying to do: post-surrealism and all that sort of thing. I’m all for it; in fact, we’re all for people like Bankton who do things. I just felt I couldn’t help but come over and say hello.”

  She smiled at him very nicely. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Lewis. My husband thinks very highly of what your magazine is doing.”

  “He does? Oh, but isn’t that simply marvelous! I always felt I would be most sympathetic with the great Bankton. Tell me, darling, when do you expect him in this country?”

  She took the “darling” quite well, he thought.

  “I’m not sure. I think in a month or so. He’s so busy in London. By the way,” she said, “I want you to meet an old friend of mine, Robert Holton.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Lewis,” said the young man as they shook hands.

  “Enchanté,” said Lewis, bowing from the waist and allowing his hand to stay too long in Holton’s. Such a nice young man, thought Lewis, and wondered if....

  “What,” said Carla, “is Regarde espousing now?” She spoke quickly and Lewis could see that she understood him and this pleased him although, in a sense, they were rivals.

  “As always: the advanced, the revolutionary....”

  “And the honest?”

  “But of course, darling, we are never consciously dishonest, though it is hard sometimes not being.”

  “Perhaps in life but not in art.” She spoke severely. She was a Latin; he could tell now from her accent.

  “You’re not English?” He changed the subject.

  “No, I’m a Florentine.”

  “But how charming! I have always loved Florence. I spent several summers there when I was a boy. Let me see...I was there last in 19....It’s not important. How I loved those doors, though!”

  He saw that the young man named Robert Holton was beginning to look bored and Lewis hated above all else to be thought a bore even by a bore.

  “And you have been to Florence?”

  Holton nodded.

  Carla said, “That was where we met the first time. He’s an old friend of our family’s.”

  “How droll that must’ve been for you, finding this charming boy here at Helena Stevanson’s who, though I love her dearly, gives the dullest parties in New York.”

  “They are dull. I wonder why people come. Why do you come?”

  “I’m a creature in constant need of companionship. I go to everything. I must see a lot of people or I become most dreadfully morbid and then I write poems.”

  She smiled. “I remember you used to write some good poems.”

  He laughed, pleased. “You remember then? That was so long ago. I somehow have gotten all out of the habit.”

  “Perhaps you see too many people.”

  “That may be right and, speaking of people, you lovely ones must have dinner with me this evening, otherwise I must eat alone; I’ve been deserted today by everyone.”

  “I’m afraid,” said Carla, “that we can’t....”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” said Holton much to Lewis’s surprise—to Carla’s surprise, too. Lewis looked at her and saw she was surprised. He was amused, wickedly amused. There was something between them.

  “You must really join me. I know of the most interesting place in the Village. I know you’ll love it.”

  “Don’t you want to go?” asked Holton, looking at Carla.

  “Why....” She didn’t know what to say.

  “Certainly you’ll come; three is good company.”

  Carla gestured uncertainly with her hands.

  “Perhaps I’d better come back in a moment,” said Lewis, smiling maliciously at Carla. “I so hope I’m not upsetting plans.” He made bowing movements and retreated into the center of the party.

  As he withdrew he could see the long look Carla gave the young man.

  The men from Wall Street bored Mr. Heywood. He tried to act like them but from time to time he could not help implying gently to them that he was a broker through heredity, not inclination. It was so much easier doing what his father had done than to do something else or nothing at all. He had a puritanical horror of doing nothing. His fami
ly had made him believe that it was necessary always to work and he rather liked the work, too. It made him think less about his own uniquely miserable life.

  His wives were a large part of the general dreariness of his life. He never seemed to marry the right women. They either wanted his money or wanted to dominate him. He was used to domination by now but it made him uneasy sometimes to feel that his own will was so easily bent by others. He was always making stands, erecting firm barriers, but somehow the barriers usually collapsed. He wondered sometimes if he shouldn’t collect stamps or have a hobby like that.

  Thinking of this, he began now to divorce himself from the group of Wall Street people. He promised to have lunch with one, to call up another; he bowed to a third, shook hands with a fourth and then he floated softly away, a look of quiet happiness on his face: he was now alone in the midst of a party.

  Mr. Heywood looked about him to see if there was anyone he might like to talk to. He would prefer some young woman who looked lonely. His three wives had all looked lonely at one period of the courtship and he had married them as much for this corresponding loneliness as for anything else. He had been mistaken three times but he was, in general, an optimist.

  There seemed to be no lonely-looking young women. He sighed and was about to leave the party when he saw Robert Holton. He remembered him clearly; he was proud of his memory. Now he would have to speak to him. It would be difficult, but then he had always been taught that if a thing was particularly unpleasant it should be done: character was made in this fashion and character was more important than anything else. He proceeded to mould his character. He walked toward Robert Holton.

  Mr. Heywood approached Holton from behind and he could overhear his conversation with a dark pretty woman.

  Holton was saying, “I think it might be interesting. After all, Carla, I don’t get out much and if a person like Lewis wants us to go I think we should.”

  “If you want to, Bob.” She was a foreigner, thought Mr. Heywood with interest. “I’d hoped we might have had dinner together and try to...to talk of....I’m not saying this well, I’m sorry.”

  “No, Carla....” Mr. Heywood drifted between them now.

  “Mr. Holton?” he asked.

  “Oh, Mr. Heywood! How do you do, sir?” Robert Holton was impressed as always with Mr. Heywood’s greatness and this both saddened and pleased Mr. Heywood.

  “I had thought...” began Mr. Heywood in a barely audible voice.

  “This,” said Holton quickly on top of Mr. Heywood’s words, “is Mrs Bankton, an old friend of mine. Mr. Heywood.”

  The meeting was made and Mr. Heywood was rather attracted to this pretty girl who spoke English so beautifully and yet with an accent.

  “I thought I should find you here, Mr. Holton. Mrs Stevanson was telling me about you.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  “She is a charming woman,” said Mr. Heywood, praising an absent person about whom they all cared very little; it filled the first awkwardness of a meeting such as this. “You enjoy being downtown?” He was careful not to associate himself with Holton’s job.

  “Oh, very much,” said Holton.

  “By the way,” asked the dark pretty woman, “what are you doing now? You haven’t told me.”

  Holton flushed and Mr. Heywood was sorry for him. “I’m working in a brokerage office.”

  She laughed. “But how dreadful that must be.”

  Holton looked miserable and Mr. Heywood, who rather agreed with her, laughed. “It’s not too terrible, Mrs Bankton. Some of us manage to survive it. I think a sense of humor is the most important thing.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I had no idea you were also in the same situation.”

  How delightful she was, thought Mr. Heywood. “We must all,” said Mr. Heywood in a voice that was like the sigh of a dying man, “do our appointed tasks. Duty is of such great importance: it is the only tangible thing in the chaos of living.”

  “But I don’t think that’s so at all,” said Carla as gently as he but with less resignation. “One should always try to do what one wants to do.”

  “In spite of one’s duty to others?”

  “People that you love?”

  “No, that I...that one admires and respects.”

  “And this makes you happy?”

  “Are any of us happy?” asked Heywood in a voice of weary sadness; he stopped, suddenly remembering that young Holton was there. It would never do for him to hear these things.

  “I talked,” he said casually, “with Murphy about you today. He seemed most enthusiastic.”

  “That’s nice. I like working with him.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Heywood, looking at a spot somewhere over Holton’s head, “perhaps you would be interested in working in the jobs that, ah, come in contact with the public.” He could not say selling: he tried but he could not. He wondered if maybe a long trip to South America would give him a new perspective.

  “I think that would be wonderful!” Holton was moved as he should be. An affable young man, thought Mr. Heywood who, as a rule, did not like men at all, especially young men who seemed to be able to get all the lonely young women they wanted.

  “Perhaps,” murmured Mr. Heywood, “something can be arranged in the near future.” He looked at the dark woman beside Holton and he thought her an unusually real person to find in such a place as this. She was probably not real, though: only an illusion with long white hands and silvery nails. He was used to women vanishing.

  George Robert Lewis appeared and Mr. Heywood experienced a slight spasm of nausea. He found Lewis hard to be with. Mr. Heywood would not have said that being a broker was a productive life but if, to be an artist, it was necessary to be like Lewis he had no desire to be an artist.

  “How do you do?” said Lewis, bowing very low and smirking at him.

  “And how are you?” inquired Mr. Heywood politely, beginning to retreat slowly.

  “Doing marvelously. These charming people here are dining with me, aren’t you?”

  Carla looked uncertain and Holton nodded. Mr. Heywood wondered where Holton had run across Lewis.

  “I’m really,” said Lewis in a conspiratorial voice (an old woman’s voice, thought Mr. Heywood, frowning slightly), “just doing a job. Her husband is one of our idols and I may get a perfectly marvelous essay out of her. I knew his work so well.” Mr. Heywood wondered vaguely why Lewis was explaining so many things.

  “I see,” said Mr. Heywood. He turned to Carla. “Delighted to have met you.” He nodded to Holton. “I shall probably see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir; good night, sir.” Mr. Heywood glided away toward the door.

  Mrs Stevanson appeared beside him just as he had made up his mind to leave.

  “Do cheer up, Heywood. You look so petulant!”

  “I’m not really, Helena, not really.”

  “I’m not so sure. Who’re you looking at?” He glanced away quickly but she saw that he had been watching Carla. “Lovely, isn’t she? I’m afraid she’s stuck with that Holton boy and, my Lord, George Robert’s got her, too. The poor child and....” Mrs Stevanson was surprised. “I do think they’re leaving!”

  “After all,” said Heywood soothingly, “it is a cocktail party. They probably weren’t able to find you.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Heywood. Manners change so. She looked rather unhappy, I thought.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Bankton.”

  “Really. I didn’t notice.”

  “I don’t suppose you did; men don’t notice very many things anyway,” said Mrs Stevanson, suddenly exhibiting her bitterness. She controlled herself quickly. “Except men like you, Heywood dear.”

  “Thank you, Helena.” He bowed without movement; he suggested a bow without actually executing it. “Now I must really be going.”

  “So soon, Heywood, so soon?”

  Chapter Ten

  CARLA WAS ANGRY WITH ROBERT HOLTON, ANGRIER ST
ILL WITH George Robert Lewis. She had hoped to have dinner alone with Holton. She wanted time to recover a past emotion and now she would have very little time. As they drove through the lighted streets she looked with dislike at Lewis’s smooth boyish face.

  None of them spoke after they got into the cab outside Mrs Stevanson’s place. Lewis had given the driver an address and they had relaxed, each thinking of different things: Holton pleased to be seeing life; Lewis pleased to have secured the wife of a great figure; Carla displeased with the arrangement, Carla plotting murder.

  Robert Holton sat in the middle. Carla had decided that if she had to spend an evening with Lewis she at least wouldn’t sit next to him.

  She looked at Holton as they drove down Seventh Avenue. He was looking straight ahead. His well-formed, not very strong mouth was set in a straight line; he was trying to be firm now; he was trying to convince her that he was right in accepting Lewis’s invitation for them.

  She sighed loudly so that she would be heard and understood. Then she looked out the window and examined the neon signs that broke the darkness with many colors. She liked the lights.

  The taxicab stopped on a side street where a dozen or more signs advertised night clubs. They got out and Lewis paid the driver.

  “Where is it?” asked Holton, looking about him.

  Lewis pointed to some steps. “Right down there. I suppose it’s open; you know, there was some talk that the police might close it but I don’t think they will. Shall we go in?”

  Carla could see that Holton was wondering what he meant when he said that the police might close it. She understood herself and she was rather pleased now: it would be a lesson for him, an experience that he needed.

  Lewis led them down the steps and into the night club.

  There were two large rooms: one light and garish, with a long bar, many mirrors and booths; the other was darker, with tables and, at one end, a small band on a small stage. They went into the darker room. The headwaiter recognized Lewis and was very polite to him; he showed them to a table near the stage.