The Wharton Plot, page 23
Edith repaired to her room. Speaking out loud to Choumai, she imagined drapes that would better suit the space. Replaced its rug, widened the windows, knocked all the faux frou from the fireplace moldings. Then she abandoned the game. She had no desire to redesign the Belmont; she only wished to leave.
Settling by the window, she gazed down at Grand Central Station, still overwhelmed by girders and planks and workmen. The ground all around it excavated, the structure itself was held up by supports that seemed they would splinter any moment, causing the great station to lurch forward like a wedding cake sliding from a tipped table. The promise was that the future station would be grander, greater, altogether more suited to a modern New York, and she supposed it would be. But difficult to see that future now among the wreckage of rebuilding.
In her mind, she traveled back, to another station, another hotel, a room that was filthy, a space she would have refused to enter under any other circumstance. So of course he chose it. She remembered him smiling as he pulled her through streets crowded with grim-faced tired Londoners, all of whom seemed to be going from a place they didn’t much care for to another not much better. She had been leery at first, of the grime and spots on the mirror, the deep well of the mattress, the stickiness of dust on the bedside table, brass dull with fingerprints, the chintz spread shiny and greasy in spots—everything touched by something it shouldn’t be. But then she had reveled in the creeping intimacy of things that degrade—dirt, soot, hands, wet mouths. Delirious and laughing afterwards, she had thought how useful trains are! How noisy in their clacking, the great hiss of steam and self-important whoop. One could howl the roof down and not be heard—the freedom it gave. Why did everyone not make love near train stations? The world population would double within a year. Giddy, she had imagined it, pair after pair coming, rutting, going, speedily, one after the other, the gully of the bed growing deeper and deeper, posts rattling, until the bed collapsed in on itself, exhausted.
And yet it was also quiet. She could hear him breathing deeply as he slept, offering for now only the pale expanse of his shoulders, the slope of his neck. She had traced them, his slopes and curves, finally brushing the edge of his hair. This simple little thing, the feel of another person’s skin under one’s fingertips.
Had he ever known such a miracle, David Graham Phillips? She thought the answer was no, sadly. That chrysanthemum—a heart left in desolation. She had been so certain he didn’t know its meaning. Now she thought otherwise.
Oh, but he would have liked this coming-into-being station. It had the feel of him: noise, steel, crackling electricity, rushing, rushing, rushing. And yet, she thought, poor man, rushing headlong into six ugly pellets of metal that took his life. To satisfy the vanity of a sick, stupid boy who, because he could not do anything else of significance, decided he must kill someone.
A burst of laughter from beyond the door brought her back to Teddy. It was a sound she was entirely unused to, yet once he had laughed a great deal with her. Her mother had called him “sunshine in the house.” Another thing Lucretia had been wrong about.
Or had she? Certainly not at the time. Maybe Teddy might have kept that old happy bumbling-bear spirit if he hadn’t married a woman who, in the eyes of many, clapped a halter around his head and led him about on a leash, dragging him here and there, far from the Boston he loved, where he was comfortable. He had never learned to speak French, giving up after a few frustrating lessons. But maybe she should never have expected it of him: change, growth, effort. Perhaps, she thought wearily, it was her fault.
A knock at the door. She said “Yes” and looked up to see Dr. Kinnicutt.
In Edith’s experience, the good doctor’s success lay in his ability to tell his patients and their families what they wished to hear. He was as smooth and comforting as a bar of butter, and as malleable.
“Well,” she said. “How do you find him?”
“He should have his teeth removed.”
Startled, she said, “All of them?”
The doctor nodded sagely. “Not straightaway. But they do pain him a great deal.”
False teeth, another indignity. She came to the point. “He can travel then.”
“He can.”
“And … you don’t feel I should accompany him?”
A swift, decisive shake of the head. “Absolutely not, Mrs. Wharton. In fact, I would strenuously advise against.”
This, she thought, was overdoing it. It was what she wished to hear—the words had been given to her to repeat to Nannie if necessary—but strenuously? She frowned, asking the question, but leaving room for him not to answer if he judged the response impolitic.
He did not answer, saying instead, “I would suggest returning to The Mount. It is the place that gives him the most pleasure.”
She looked out the window again, Grand Central, workers crawling over it like so many ants. She had begun Lily Bart’s journey in that terminus. She recalled the image, her heroine poised between one point and the next, observed by a man who loved her, but not enough. Lily had come from Tuxedo, was on her way to Rhinebeck, but had missed her train. And so she was stuck, because she did not know what to do with herself.
To the doctor, she nodded agreement to his suggestion of taking Teddy back to The Mount.
“But after his trip. I have a book to write.”
* * *
The dinner, long planned, finally came to pass. Sitting in the vast dining room of the Belmont, styled to suggest the ducal palazzos of Mantua, Edith looked around the table and reflected that never before had the four of them dined together in America. She did not contribute much to the discussion at first, preferring to enjoy her friends and their enjoyment of one another. Fullerton was witty on the subject of the Millet paintings, insightful on the peace agreement between Haiti and Santo Domingo. When Walter made Henry laugh with a story of Cairo, Edith thought it was the first time in a while she had seen that miracle.
Pleased with the response, Walter escalated the absurdity and the loucheness of the tale, until Henry said, “No, no, you mustn’t say these things.”
“Oh, why not?” drawled Fullerton.
“They are magnificent, but they’re not—well, discussable or permissible or forgivable.” Henry paused. “At least not all at once.”
A roar went around the table.
“But—” said Walter, turning to her.
“Yes,” said Henry, doing the same.
Fullerton swung in his chair, tilted his head in her direction.
She said, “I’ve decided, actually.”
Walter looked surprised. “That you will leave him.”
“That you won’t,” guessed Henry when she didn’t answer.
“You’ve decided not to decide,” said Fullerton.
“I have decided that while I greatly value your advice, I no longer require it. I know my mind. Shall we have cheese?”
Fullerton left first. As she touched her cheek to his, she sighed to herself, Il m’aime, il ne m’aime pas. But she had gotten a great deal from him, whether he meant to give it or not. She thought of the revenge novel she had planned, and thought instead she would write, or attempt to, the truth. As she decided, she heard an echo of David Graham Phillips: The truth, Mrs. Wharton!
A truth, Mr. Phillips. Because there would be three in this story. Mine, his, and the young woman’s. A young woman who acts in accordance with her desires—without shame. An older woman who faces her regrets, also without shame. And, perhaps, begins to act in accordance with her desires.
Henry was complaining to Walter about rampant construction around Washington Square. “So much building. You wouldn’t believe how the university has grown. They’ve destroyed three old buildings to make room. One of them just happened to be my childhood home. I always thought I might have a plaque there: ‘Here lived Henry James, the author.’”
They recalled trips they had taken, proposed ones they should like to. Noting the way Henry’s face sagged slightly on one side, the grunting, sighing strain of the smallest movement, Edith thought how gallant he was. And how ill. When she called him to New York, he had come. And always, he had listened. At their first meeting, she had worn a pink Doucet dress, hoping to impress him. That had been a long time ago.
The dining room was nearly empty. The waiters did not bother to hide their yawns. She said, “I think it’s time.”
Walter went to tell the concierge to fetch a taxi. Suddenly animated, Henry said to her, “Ah, but tell me, before you go—” She moved around the table to take his outstretched hands. “Your own great drama—do you have the ending?”
“I cannot quite see it yet. I think the next chapter shall be exciting.”
She saw that the word exciting worried him. He said, “Once again, I advise you to wait.”
“I cannot wait, Henry. I am fifty years old. I shall see years David Graham Phillips never will. I mean to make use of them.”
Bending down, she kissed him on both cheeks. “You don’t need a plaque in Washington Square to immortalize you, Henry. It’s you who have immortalized Washington Square.”
* * *
“You have his handkerchiefs?”
White nodded. “Cotton, Turnbull and Asser. Not the Irish linen.”
“Possibly a new straw hat. A wider brim. The sort he wore in Italy. If you can find it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Edith looked at the luggage, piled high on the trolley at Grand Central Station.
Teddy stood some distance away, entranced by the scaffolding.
“And you’ll telegram, should you need me. I’ll send word once I’ve settled. Where I am.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
“Thank you, White. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“It’s kind of you to say so.” He looked at his charge. “He’s looking forward to the sea lions.”
Pressing White’s arm, she went to say goodbye to Teddy. She stopped just short of his perimeter, watching as he watched a flock of pigeons leap into the air flapping. He turned to follow their flight, then stayed staring off … at what she could not imagine.
“Teddy?”
He turned.
“Have a safe journey.”
The shadow of a smile around his ruined teeth. She took in his thin, craggy neck. The scant hair—poor thing, like an old coconut—the dim, tired eyes, bruised and wrinkled from squinting at the world, the effort to see it clearly, at least as everyone else did, and the pain of failure.
The planned farewell—Be good—came to her. Approaching, she kissed him on the cheek. Whispered, “Be well.”
And then she left him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Summoned to a last tea with Mrs. Wharton at the Palm, Brownell was surprised to see that her chaotic stay in the city had done her much good. She looked far better now than at their last meeting. There was color in her cheeks; her eyes were clear. Her head no longer sank on its stem. She was brisk and confident in her speech and movement. He had the feeling her next book would be very good.
When the napkins were laid, cakes selected, Choumai provided for, and the tea poured, she said, “Mr. Brownell, do you anticipate my next royalty statement will be something above a dollar and thirty-seven cents?”
Immediately, he began to demur, and she interrupted. “‘Bearing in mind the vagaries of the marketplace and the wickedness of the world and the fact that readers are faithless and fickle and their tastes growing coarser by the day,’ so on and et cetera … will I have money coming to me or no?”
He sipped at his tea, frowning because it was hot. Then said, “Yes, I should think so. Quite a bit.”
“Enough for a significant advance?”
He smiled. “I can’t negotiate an advance for a book I know nothing about.”
“Ah, but you can. The next book Henry James submits, I want you to pay him a handsome sum—somewhere in between five and ten thousand dollars, but closer to ten, and I shall ask him, so don’t think to stint.”
“It will be hard to persuade Scribner’s to part with such a sum, given the poor sales of the New York Edition,” he said quietly.
“Scribner’s will not be parting with such a sum—I will. You will pay Mr. James with this year’s royalties from my books.”
He stared at her, feeling this must be an evil trick. He would divert the royalties, and she would pounce, screaming about Scribner’s thievery and neglect.
Intuiting his fears, she said, “It’s not a trick. We’ll put it in writing if you like.”
“This is extraordinarily generous.”
“Yes.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because the world is wicked. And the marketplace vague. And readers are faithless and fickle, their taste growing coarser by the day.” She thought of David Graham Phillips’s rant about readers who only wanted confections about wealthy people racing about in automobiles and falling in love in foreign countries. Soon, Susan Lenox would be unleashed upon the world, and someone could rant about that. And he would not be here to rant back, she thought sadly.
To Brownell, she said, “Who else do writers have but other writers? Who else can we rely upon but one another? When one of us has more success, more … resources, it seems only right to share. Never let Mr. James know, of course. He’s still furious with me over my last intervention.”
Brownell smiled, lowered his voice. “One day, we shall get him the Nobel.”
Hesitant to break the mood with controversial topics, he said, “I am looking forward to The Custom of the Country.”
A story of New York, she thought. And a woman who wanted things.
She said, “And I look forward to your guidance on it. But you may get a different story first.”
She watched as he considered arguing. Was pleased to see him smile.
“Any story by Edith Wharton is worth having. But allow me to ask, what is it that so intrigues you about rural New England?”
Taking in the bustling, buzzing crowd of the tearoom, the hum of people talking about themselves, talking about others, she said, “It is lonely. And your choices are few.”
She thought of a young Carolyn Frevert, tricked and abandoned, then married and taken, not in a battered wagon, but not at all where she wished to go.
“You are trapped and your hope of rescue fades as the years pass. There is no electricity, no motors to speed you away. It is a darkness, alleviated only by fire and perhaps one other person who depends on you to sustain them. You see your duty. But you feel drained. Then, just when you’ve become resigned to this shadow existence—you see a chance of happiness. But your happiness means the destruction of that other person’s life. What choice do you make?”
He hesitated. “The honorable choice, surely? If someone depends on you…?”
“The honorable choice does not always lead to happy outcomes. The heart denied begins to feel nothing. It grows cold. Even cruel. That, too, is dangerous.”
She looked at him over her teacup. “Well—have I persuaded you, Mr. Brownell?”
“I am intrigued as always.”
As they made their way out of the tearoom, he said, “Jewett tells me you have read Susan Lenox. What did you think?”
“There was a great deal I admired. Like its author, it had tremendous vitality. Like its author, it was also tedious.”
No, she thought, that was ungenerous. The man deserved a better epitaph from her.
“He was wrong, but not wholly wrong and not in all things.”
They were at the point in the lobby where he would depart and she go to the elevator. He asked, “Does this mean I am forgiven for introducing you?”
Her first instinct was to say no; she liked to keep the advantage. But then she thought of this odd stay in New York without the mystery of David Graham Phillips. She would have rarely left the hotel. Would not have spoken to people with whom she violently disagreed—but whose views were perhaps enlightening. She would never have visited Appleton. Never made the acquaintance of Mr. Jewett.
Then she realized, Oh, dear. Poor Brownell.
Taking his hand, she squeezed it. “Of course. How could I not?”
“I’m relieved.”
He turned to go. Then, as if reminded by the ring of china and silver coming from the tearoom, he turned back to ask, “But what of your dinner? Your … matter of life and death?”
She smiled. “Oh, I chose life, of course, Mr. Brownell.”
* * *
The hotel managed the trunks; she managed Choumai. Arriving at the docks, she directed the purser in the proper handling of her things, then took Choumai to do his business. Poor thing. He had been seasick on the voyage over. She hoped this would be a calmer passage.
It was an off time for travel. No one she knew was in the first-class lounge. Choumai, worn out with the morning’s activity, lay down at her feet and fell asleep. Gazing down at his trusting peaceful presence, she remembered David Graham Phillips’s note to himself on his writing desk: “Work is the only permanently interesting thing in life.”
Well, and dogs, Mr. Phillips. And gardens and friends and a good roast chicken …
Still—she disliked sitting and doing nothing in such unappealing circumstances. Taking out her notebook, she considered doing a quick sketch of the walrus gentleman opposite her. He might serve as a two-line character. There was an opera scene in Custom, and she needed faces and voices. But as she tried to conjure the bustle of a night at the opera, Undine’s machinations working her way from one man to the next, it seemed altogether too busy for her mood. Instead, her mind went to loneliness. Thwarted hopes. Darkness, cramped rooms and crushed feeling. Only love gives you the power to say farewell to your old existence and to take flight toward a new one.
Or crash, she thought. That is also possible. Still, one can crash and limp away. Even recover.
She set pen to paper and without hesitation, wrote:
I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time, it was a different story.
