Thomas Wolfe, page 315
“Oh, no,” another quickly interrupts. “You’re wrong there! The reason that he grins that grin and turns away is that he’s trying hard to hear—the reason that he doesn’t answer when you speak to him is that he’s deaf——”
“Ah, deaf!” says still another in derision. “Deaf, hell! Deaf as a Fox, he is! That deafness is a stall—a trick—a gag! He hears you when he wants to hear you! If it’s anything he wants to hear, he’ll hear you though you’re forty yards away and talking in a whisper! He’s a Fox, I tell you!”
“Yes, a Fox, a Fox!” they chorus in agreement. “That much is certain—the man’s a Fox!”
So the Aimers and the Missers whisper, argue, and deduce. They lay siege to intimates and friends of Fox, ply them with flattery and strong drink, trying thus to pluck out the heart of Fox’s mystery. They find out nothing, because there’s nothing to find out, nothing anyone can tell them. They are reduced at length to exasperated bafflement and finish where they started. They advance to their positions, take aim—and miss!
And so, in all their ways, they lay cunning snares throughout the coverts of the city. They lay siege to life. They think out tactics, crafty stratagems. They devise deep plans to bag the game. They complete masterly flanking operations in the nighttime (while the great Fox sleeps), get in behind the enemy when he isn’t looking, are sure that victory is within their grasp, take aim magnificently—and fire—and shoot one another painfully in the seats of their expensive pants!
Meanwhile, the Fox is sleeping soundly through the night, as sweetly as a child.
Night passes, dawn comes, eight o’clock arrives. How to describe him now as he awakes?
A man of five and forty years, not really seeming younger, yet always seeming something of the boy. Rather, the boy is there within that frame of face, behind the eyes, within the tenement of flesh and bone—not imprisoned, just held there in a frame—a frame a little worn by the years, webbed with small wrinkles round the eyes—invincibly the same as it has always been. The hair, once fair and blond, no longer fair and blond now, feathered at the temples with a touch of grey, elsewhere darkened by time and weather to a kind of steel-grey—blondness really almost dark now, yet, somehow, still suggesting fair and blond. The head well set and small, boy’s head still, the hair sticking thick and close to it, growing to a V in the center of the forehead, then back straight and shapely, full of natural grace. Eyes pale blue, full of a strange misty light, a kind of far weather of the sea in them, eyes of a New England sailor long months outbound for China on a clipper ship, with something drowned, sea-sunken in them.
The general frame and structure of the face is somewhat lean and long and narrow—face of the ancestors, a bred face, face of people who have looked the same for generations. A stern, lonely face, with the enduring fortitude of granite, face of the New England seacoast, really his grandfather’s face, New England statesman’s face, whose bust sits there on the mantel, looking at the bed. Yet something else has happened on Fox’s face to transfigure it from the primeval nakedness of granite: in its essential framework, granite still, but a kind of radiance and warmth of life has enriched and mellowed it. A light is burning in the Fox, shining outward through the face, through every gesture, grace, and movement of the body, something swift, mercurial, mutable, and tender, something buried and withheld, but passionate—something out of his mother’s face, perhaps, or out of his father’s, or his father’s mother’s—something that subdues the granite with warmth—something from poetry, intuition, genius, imagination, living, inner radiance, and beauty. This face, then, with the shapely head, the pale, far-misted vision of the eyes, held in round bony cages like a bird’s, the strong, straight nose, curved at the end, a little scornful and patrician, sensitive, sniffing, swift-nostriled as a hound’s—the whole face with its passionate and proud serenity might almost be the face of a great poet, or the visage of some strange and mighty bird.
But now the sleeping figure stirs, opens its eyes and listens, rouses, starts up like a flash.
“What?” says Fox.
The Fox awake now.
“Foxhall Morton Edwards.”
The great name chanted slowly through his brain—someone had surely spoken it—it filled his ears with sound—it rang down solemnly through the aisles of consciousness—it was no dream—the very walls were singing with its grave and proud sonorities as he awoke.
“What?” cried Fox again.
He looked about him. There was no one there. He shook his head as people do when they shake water from their ears. He inclined his good right ear and listened for the sound again. He tugged and rubbed his good right ear—yes, it was unmistakable—the good right ear was ringing with the sound.
Fox looked bewildered, puzzled, searched around the room again with sea-pale eyes, saw nothing, saw his hat beside him on the pillow, said, “Oh,” in a slightly puzzled tone, picked up the hat and jammed it on his head, half covering the ears, swung out of bed and thrust his feet into his slippers, got up, pajamaed and behatted, walked over to the door, opened it, looked out, and said:
“What? Is anybody there?—Oh!”
For there was nothing—just the hall, the quiet, narrow hall of morning, the closed door of his wife’s room, and the stairs.
He closed the door, turned back into his room, still looking puzzled, intently listening, his good right ear half-turned and searching for the sounds.
Where had they come from then? The name—he thought he heard it still, faintly now, mixed in with many other strange, confusing noises. But where? From what direction did they come? Or had he heard them? A long, droning sound, like an electric fan—perhaps a motor in the street? A low, retreating thunder—an elevated train, perhaps? A fly buzzing? Or a mosquito with its whining bore? No, it could not be: it was morning, springtime, and the month of May.
Light winds of morning fanned the curtains of his pleasant room. An old four-poster bed, a homely, gay old patch-quilt coverlet, an old chest of drawers, a little table by his bed, piled high with manuscripts, a glass of water and his eyeglasses, and a little ticking clock. Was that what he had heard? He held it to his ear and listened. On the mantel, facing him, the bust of his grandfather, Senator William Foxhall Morton, far-seeing, sightless, stern, lean, shrewd with decision; a chair or two, and on the wall an engraving of Michelangelo’s great Lorenzo Medici. Fox looked at it and smiled.
“A man,” said he in a low voice. “The way a man should look!” The figure of the young Caesar was mighty-limbed, enthroned; helmeted for war; the fine hand half-supporting the chin of the grand head, broodingly aware of great events and destiny; thought knit to action, poetry to fact, caution to boldness, reflection to decision—the Thinker, Warrior, Statesman, Ruler all conjoined in one. “And what a man should be,” thought Fox.
A little puzzled still, Fox goes to his window and looks out, pajamaed and behatted still, the fingers of one hand back upon his hips, a movement lithe and natural as a boy’s. The head goes back, swift nostrils sniff, dilate with scorn. Light winds of morning fan him, gauzy curtains are blown back.
And outside, morning, and below him, morning, sky-shining morning all above, below, around, across from him, cool-slanting morning, gold-cool morning, and the street. Bleak fronts of rusty brown across from him, the flat fronts of Turtle Bay.
Fox looks at morning and the street with sea-pale eyes, as if he never yet had seen them, then in a low and husky voice, a little hoarse, agreeable, half-touched with whisper, he says with slow recognition, quiet wonder, and—somehow, somewhy—resignation:
“Oh. . . . I see.”
Turns now and goes into his bathroom opposite, surveys himself in the mirror with the same puzzled, grave, and sea-pale wonder, looks at his features, notes the round cages that enclose his eyes, sees Boy-Fox staring gravely out at him, bethinks him suddenly of Boy-Fox’s ear, which stuck out at right angles forty years ago, getting Boy-Fox gibes at Groton—so jams hat further down about the ear, so stick-out ear that’s stick-out ear no longer won’t stick out!
So standing, he surveys himself for several moments, and finding out at length that this indeed is he, says, as before, with the same slightly puzzled, slow, and patiently resigned acceptance:
“Oh. I see.”
Turns on the shower faucet now—the water spurts and hisses in jets of smoking steam. Fox starts to step beneath the shower, suddenly observes pajamas on his person, mutters slowly—“Oh-h!”—and takes them off. Unpajamaed now, and as God made him, save for hat, starts to get in under shower with hat on—and remembers hat, remembers it in high confusion, is forced against his will to acknowledge the unwisdom of the procedure—so snaps his fingers angrily, and, in a low, disgusted tone of acquiescence, says:
“Oh, well, then! All right!”
So removes his hat, which is now jammed on so tightly that he has to take both hands and fairly wrench and tug his way out of it, hangs the battered hulk reluctantly within easy reaching distance on a hook upon the door, surveys it for a moment with an undecided air, as if still not willing to relinquish it—and then, still with a puzzled air, steps in beneath those hissing jets of water hot enough to boil an egg!
Puzzled no longer, my mad masters, ye may take it, Fox comes out on the double-quick, and loudly utters, “Damn!”—and fumes and dances, snaps his fingers, loudly utters “Damn!” again—but gets his water tempered to his hide this time, and so, without more peradventure, takes his shower.
Shower done, hair brushed at once straight back around his well-shaped head, on goes the hat at once. So brushes teeth, shaves with a safety razor, walks out naked but behatted into his room, starts to go downstairs, remembers clothing—“Oh!”—looks round, bepuzzled, sees clothing spread out neatly on a chair by womenfolks the night before—fresh socks, fresh underwear, a clean shirt, a suit, a pair of shoes. Fox never knows where they come from, wouldn’t know where to look, is always slightly astonished when he finds them. Says “Oh!” again, goes back and puts clothes on, and finds to his amazement that they fit.
They fit him beautifully. Everything fits the Fox. He never knows what he has on, but he could wear a tow-sack, or a shroud, a sail, a length of canvas—they would fit the moment that he put them on, and be as well the elegance of faultless style. His clothes just seem to grow on him: whatever he wears takes on at once the grace, the dignity, and the unconscious ease of his own person. Never exercises much, but never has to; loves to take a walk, is bored by games and plays none; has same figure that he had at twenty-one—five feet ten, one hundred and fifty pounds, no belly and no fat, the figure of a boy.
Dressed now, except for necktie, picks up necktie, suddenly observes it, a very gay one with blue polka dots, and drops it with dilating nostrils, muttering a single word that seems to utter volumes:
“Women!”
Then searches vaguely on a tie rack in his closet, finds a modest grey cravat, and puts it on. So, attired now, picks up a manuscript, his pince-nez glasses, opens the door, and walks out in the narrow hall.
His wife’s door closed and full of sleep, the air touched subtly with a faint perfume. The Fox sniffs sharply, with a swift upward movement of his head, and, looking with scorn, mixed with compassion, pity, tenderness, and resignation, inclines his head in one slow downward movement of decision, and says:
“Women!”
So, down the narrow, winding staircase now, his head thrown sharply back, one hand upon his lapel, the other holding manuscript, and reaches second floor. Another narrow hall. Front, back and to the side, three more closed doors of sleep and morning, and five daughters——
“Women!”
Surveys the door of Martha, the oldest, twenty, a——
Woman!
And next the door of Eleanor, aged eighteen, and Amelia, just sixteen, but——
Women!
And finally, with a gentle scorn, touched faintly with a smile, the door of the two youngest, Ruth, fourteen, little Ann, just seven, yet——
Women!
So, sniffing sharply the woman-laden air, descends now to the first floor, enters living room, and scornfully surveys the work of——
Women!
The carpets are rolled up, the morning sunlight slants on the bare boards. The chairs, the sofas, and upholstery have been ripped open, the stuffing taken out. The place smells of fresh paint. The walls, brown yesterday, are robin’s-egg blue this morning. Buckets of paint are scattered round the floor. Even the books that lined the walls have been taken from the tall, indented shelves. The interior decorators are at their desperate work again, and all because of——
Women!
Fox sniffs the fresh paint with sharp disgust, crosses the room, mounts winding steps, which also have been painted robin’s-egg blue, and goes out on the terrace. Gay chairs and swings and tables, gay-striped awnings, and in an ashtray several cigarette butts with telltale prints upon them——
Women!
The garden backs of Turtle Bay are lyrical with tender green, with birdsong and the hidden plash of water—the living secret of elves’ magic embedded in the heart of the gigantic city—and beyond, like some sheer, terrific curtain of upward-curving smoke, the frontal cliff of the sky-waving towers.
Fox sniffs sharply the clean green fragrance of the morning, sea-pale eyes are filled with wonder, strangeness, recognition. Something passionate and far transforms his face—and something rubs against his leg, moans softly. Fox looks down into the melancholy, pleading eyes of the French poodle. He observes the ridiculous barbering of the creature—the fuzzy muff of kinky wool around the shoulders, neck, and head, the skinned nakedness of ribs and loins, wool-fuzzy tail again, tall, skinny legs—a half-dressed female creature with no wool at all just where the wool is needed most—no dog at all, but just a frenchified parody of dog—an absurd travesty of all the silly fashions, mannerisms, coquettishness, and irresponsibility of a——
Woman!
Fox turns in disgust, leaves terrace, descends steps to the living room again, traverses barren boards, threads way around the disemboweled furnishings, and descends the stairs to the basement floor.
“What’s this?”
In entrance hall below, a lavish crimson carpet where yesterday there was a blue one, cream-white paint all over walls today, which yesterday were green, the wall all chiseled into, a great sheet of mirror ready to be installed where yesterday no mirror was.
Fox traverses narrow hallway, past the kitchen, through the cloak-room—this, too, redolent of fresh paint—and into little cubbyhole that had no use before.
“Good God, what’s this?”
Transfigured now to Fox’s “cozy den” (Fox wants no “cozy den”—will have none!), walls are painted, bookshelves built, a reading lamp and easy chairs in place, the Fox’s favorite books (Fox groans!) transplanted from their shelves upstairs and brought down here where Fox can never find them.
Fox bumps his head against the low doorway in going out, traverses narrow hall again, at last gets into dining room. Seats himself at head of the long table (six women make a table long!), looks at the glass of orange juice upon his plate, does nothing to it, makes no motion toward it, just sits there waiting in a state of patient and resigned dejection, as who should say: “It’s no one but the Old Grey Mule.”
Portia enters—a plump mulatto, nearing fifty, tinged so imperceptibly with yellow that she is almost white. She enters, stops, stares at Fox sitting motionless there, and titters coyly. Fox turns slowly, catches his coat lapels, and looks at her in blank astonishment. She drops her eyelids shyly, tittering, and spreads plump fingers over her fat mouth. Fox surveys her steadily, as if trying to peer through her fingers at her face, then with a kind of no-hope expression in his eyes, he says slowly, in a sepulchral tone:
“Fruit salad.”
And Portia, anxiously:
“What fo’ you doesn’t drink yo’ orange juice, Mistah Edwahds? Doesn’t you like it?”
“Fruit salad,” repeats Fox tonelessly.
“What fo’ you always eats dat ole fruit salad, Mistah Edwahds? What fo’ you wants dat ole canned stuff when we fixes you de nice fresh orange juice?”
“Fruit salad,” echoes Fox dolefully, utter resignation in his tone.
Portia departs protesting, but presently fruit salad is produced and put before him. Fox eats it, then looks round and up at Portia, and, still with no-hope resignation in his voice, says low and hoarsely:
