Thomas Wolfe, page 524
But he felt better after shaving and four fingers of sound rye:—none of your bromo seltzers, aspirins, or soda-tablets, or any of your other quack remedies for him; after a night of old-fashioned cocktails and champagne there was nothing like a good stiff drink of whiskey the next morning to set a fellow up.
Warmed by the liquor, and with a sparkle in his eye for the first time, Mr. Rivers finished dressing without great difficulty. He grunted his way into his heavy woolen drawers and undershirt, fumbled with shaky fingers to put cuff links and collar buttons in a clean shirt, grunted as he bent over to pull his socks on, got into his trousers without much effort, but had a hard time with his shoes—confound it, it came hard to have to bend and tie the laces, but he wasn’t going to let any fellow tie his shoes for him! By George, as long as he could move a muscle, he’d have none of that.
The worst was over now; fully attired, save for his coat and vest and collar, he stood before the chiffonier, buttoned the wing collar, and with trembling fingers fumbled carefully with the knot of his cravat. Then he combed his sparse hair with the heavy silver comb, brushed it with the heavy silver brush, and—looked with satisfaction at the two splendid photographs.
The one on the left was really bull-like; the square face was packed with a savage concentration of energy and power, the mustache curved around two rows of horse teeth bared with tigerish joy, behind the spectacles the eyes looked out upon the world with fighter’s glance. Everything about the photograph spoke the brutal eloquence of energy and power, its joyful satisfaction in itself, its delight with life, adventure, friendship, love or hate, its instant readiness for anything. Everything about the picture said: “Here I am, boys! I feel bully!”—and this bully-feeling, brutal, savage, joyful, ready-for-fight-or-fun picture was autographed: “To dear old Ned with heartiest and most affectionate regards from Theodore!”
The other face, no less the fighter’s face, was colder, leaner, more controlled. A long, lean face a little horse-like in its bony structure, horse-like, too, in its big teeth, touched coldly, stiffly round the powerful thin mouth with the sparse smile of the school-teacher; the whole long face borne outward by the powerful long jaw, relentless, arrogant, and undershot,—face of school-teacher marking papers, Presbyterian face, to flesh-pots hostile, to wine, women, belly-warmth, exuberance, and life’s fluidity, unskilled, opposed, and all unknowledgable, but face of cold high passion, too, fire-glacial face, and face of will unbreakable, no common, cheap, contriving, all-agreeing, all conceding, compromising, and all-promising face of the ignoble politician, but face of purpose, faith, and fortitude—face of arrogance, perhaps, but face, too, of a captain of the earth, a man inviolable, a high man—and signed: “To Edward Rivers—with sincerest good wishes and—may I say—affectionate regards—Cordially yours—Woodrow Wilson.”
Old Man Rivers’ tired old eyes and haggard face really had the warm glow of life and interest in them now. As he struggled into his vest and coat, he looked at the two photographs, wagged his head with satisfaction, and chuckled:—
Good old Ted! Dear old Tommy! I tell you what, those—those fellows were—were just bully! He just wished everyone in the world could have known both of them the way he had known them! Why, the minute Ted walked in a room and flung down his hat, the place was his. The minute he met you, shook hands with you—why—he made you his friend forever! By George, there was something about that fellow—just the way he had of coming in a room, or flinging his hat down, or jumping up to shake your hand, and saying, “Delighted”—there—there was just something about everything that fellow did that warmed you up all over!
And Tommy? As Mr. Rivers’ old tired eyes surveyed the long prim face of Tommy, his expression, if anything, became a little softer, a little more suffused with mellowness than when he had surveyed the vigorous countenance of Ted. . . . Tommy! There was a great fellow! He just wished everyone had known Tommy as he had known him!—Why, confound these fellows, anyway (a kind of indignant and impatient mutter rattled in the old man’s throat)—writing and saying all this stuff about Tommy’s being cold, unfriendly, not able to warm up to people.—By George, he’d like to tell ’em what he knew! He’d known Tommy almost fifty years, from the time they were at Princeton right up to Tommy’s death, and there never was a man on earth who had a warmer “human side” than Tommy had! By George, no! Ask anyone who knew him, ask any of Tommy’s friends whether he was cold and unable to warm up—they’d tell you pretty quick how cold he was! Confound these fellows, he’d just like to tell them about some of the great times he’d had with Tommy—some of the things they’d done in college—yes! And even later—he’d just like to tell them about that time when Tommy had all the fellows in the class come and visit him—that was in 1917, right when he was in the middle of all that trouble, but you’d never have known it from the way he acted, invited the whole class to come and stay two days and all the fellows who could come came, too—and that was a celebration! The last night they were there, after Tommy had gone to bed, the fellows took Jimmy Mason, who was the baby of the class and also the smallest one among them, and dressed him up in a nightgown and a nightcap and put him in a baby-carriage and wheeled him down the hall to Tommy’s room and walked right in, by George, and woke Tommy up and said, “Tommy, here’s a child we can’t stop crying! What are we going to do with him!” And Tommy got right out of bed, entered right into the spirit of the thing, and says, ‘I think we ought to let Ned Rivers take care of him; he’s the only bachelor among us, and if anyone is going to be kept awake by that child’s crying, he’s the one who ought to pay the penalty, what do you fellows think?” Well, by George, they all agreed with him—and Tommy took the baby-carriage and wheeled it away and led the whole procession down the hall, by George, into my room—and some of the fellows found a cradle that had been there ever since Ted’s day—or McKinley’s—or someone—and put Jim Mason into it—and made him stay there, by George!—why, confound these fellows, when they begin to say things about how cold and reserved Tommy was, they just don’t know what they’re talking about. I’d like to tell them!
Mr. Rivers surveyed the two photographs a moment longer with a warm color of affection and tenderness in his tired old face, the glow of pride and loyalty in his weary eyes.
It was something to be able to say that you’d been the friend of two such fellows as that. It did not occur to Mr. Rivers, it had probably never occurred to him, that it was not only “something to be able to say,” but in the nature of a miracle to be able to accomplish it—something like sitting on Vesuvius and cooling one’s heels at the North Pole at the same time. It was part of Mr. Rivers’ charm that he had never seen anything at all extraordinary in his accomplishment. It is true that there had been times when his friendship for these two celebrated men had been attended by certain moments of embarrassment. There had been the time, for instance, when Theodore had come into his office, tossed his hat across the room, flung himself into a chair, and opened conversation with: “Well, Ned, what’s the news? Have you seen or heard anything lately of that lily-livered, weasel-worded milk-sop down in Washington? Look here, how the devil can you put up with such a fellow?”
And there had been the time when Tommy had broken a pause in the conversation, to inquire acidly: “Are your relations still as cordial as ever with the Buzz-Saw of Sagamore? I’m surprised to see there are no scars of battle yet.”
Well, now, by George—yes, those fellows did say things about each other now and then, but that was just a way they both had of blowing off steam. I don’t think either of them really meant a word of it! By George, I just wish those two fellows could have known each other—and—and—and I just believe they’d have gotten along together fine!
2
It may seem from these interior reflections that Mr. Rivers was not lacking in certain extraordinary gifts. Possessing no talent of any kind—except the genuine and attractive talent for friendships that has been indicated—Mr. Edward Rivers had risen to a very considerable position in the nation’s life. He was now occasionally referred to in the press as “the Dean of American Letters.” Every year upon his birthday, representatives of the New York Times and the New York Herald Tribune called upon Mr. Rivers, interviewed him, and printed his views on a great variety of subjects at a very considerable and respectful length. When questioned by the representative of the New York Times for his opinions on the Modern American Girl, the venerable Dean of American Letters had remarked that by George, he just thought she was fine—he thought she was perfectly splendid! And when the young man from the Herald Tribune asked the Dean for his opinion on the state of the nation’s letters, and his opinion of the Younger Writers, the Dean said Well, now, he thought the whole thing looked most promising. He liked to see vitality, originality, and a fresh point of view—and he thought these Young Fellows had it, by George he did. What—the Times man would now inquire—did the Dean think about the modern freedom of expression—the tendency to “tell all” in modern writing—to put it bluntly, the use of “four letter words” by some of the young writers, even in the pages of some of the higher class magazines? For example, Rodney’s Magazine, of which the Dean had been for many years the editor, had only a year or two before serialized the latest novel of the young writer, John Bulsavage. What did the Dean think of the use of certain words in that book—the use of words (and of blank spaces!) which had never before appeared on the chaste pages of Rodney’s Magazine? Was it not true that there had been a great many letters of indignant protest from old subscribers? Had there not been a number of canceled subscriptions? Had the Dean himself approved the inclusion of these debatable scenes and phrases which had caused so much and such excited comment at the time? Was the Dean himself disposed to say that he favored the startling freedom in the use of material and of utterance which characterized the work of some of the leading Young Writers? As a distinguished editor, an arbiter of the nation’s taste, as a discoverer and supporter of the best that had been said for the past fifty years, as a friend of Theodore Roosevelt and Woodrow Wilson, as a crony of the late Henry van Dyke and William Lyon Phelps, as the esteemed and honored colleague of such distinguished people as Agnes Repplier, Ellen Glasgow, Robert Underwood Johnson, Edith Wharton, Nicholas Murray Butler, John Galsworthy, Henry Seidel Canby, Percy S. Hutchinson, Walter Pritchard Eaton, Henry Peckinpaugh Saltonstall, Corinne Roosevelt Robinson, and Elizabeth Pipgras Wiggins, Isabel Miranda Patterson, and Irene McGoody Titsworth, Constance Lindsay Skinner and Winona Roberta Snoddy, Edna Lou Walton and Ella Mae Maird, Sylvia Chatfield Bates and Ishbel Lorine McLush, Ben Ray Redman and Edmund Clarence Stedman, Henry Goddar Leach and Warner Perkins Beach, Charles Forbes Goddard and T. Lothrop Stoddard, Constance D’Arcy Mackay and Edna St. Vincent Millay, Hamilton Fish and Lillian Gish—in fact the whole brilliant and distinguished group of authors, editors, and critics who had always stood for the most liberal—nay, the most advanced!—developments in modern literature, but whose judgment was also tempered by a sane balance, a sane adherence to standards of good taste, craftsmanship, and form, and to an unwavering belief in the fundamental wholesomeness, purity, and good sense of American life, which the writing of some of these younger writers was prone to forget—what, considering his intimate association with all these distinguished people, did he, Edward Rivers, the Dean of American Letters, think of the work of these Younger Writers?
Well, now—Mr. Rivers squirmed a little at questions such as these. He foresaw complications, disagreements, arguments, and Mr. Rivers did not like complications, disagreements, arguments. He believed in Tact. Well, now—the Dean of American Letters saw stormy weather: he must trim his canvas and sail close. If he came out with whole-hearted and enthusiastic endorsement of the Young Writers, all of their methods, words, and works, he knew that he must be prepared for a vigorous chorus of protest from certain worthwhile people of his distinguished and extensive acquaintance:—letters from venerable dowagers at whose dinner parties he was a frequent guest (Mr. Rivers was a constant diner-out; he had spent a large part of his life dining out; he dined out every night; his difficulty was not to get invitations, but tactfully to chose between invitations, so that he might not only retain the affection—and future invitations—of those he refused, but could also assure himself of the best dinner, the best liquor, the finest champagne, and the most distinguished and worthwhile gathering among those he accepted)—letters then from venerable old dowagers, from venerable old Vanderbilts, Astors, Morgans, Rhinelanders, Goelets, and Schermerhorns (Mr. Rivers knew all the venerable old Vanderbilts, Astors, Morgans, Rhinelanders, and Schermerhorns), letters from distinguished old ladies who wrote or had written essays for Rodney’s, letters from all the distinguished old widows of all the ambassadors, governors, senators, financiers, college presidents, and presidents of the nation he had known, letters from all the lady writers with three names—the Irene McGoody Titsworths, the Winona Roberta Snoddys, the Elizabeth Pipgras Wigginses, and so on—each letter written in the writer’s own inimitable and distinguished vein, of course, but all showing a certain unity of purpose and opinion—viz:—Could the Dean of American Letters have been quoted correctly? Could they believe their eyes? Could it be possible that the statements attributed to Mr. Rivers in this morning’s edition of the Times accurately represented the considered judgment of that distinguished editor? Could it be true that the celebrated critic who had for fifty years been not only the wise and temperate appraiser, but the arbiter of what was highest, noblest, purest in the world of letters, who had been, for so long and such an honorable career of service, guardian of the torch, the defender of the “eternal values”—could such a man as this have so forgotten all his standards, have so forsaken all that he had ever stood for, as to uphold, praise, and give the support of his authority to iniquitous filth that posed as “literature” (God save the mark), to defend the use of language one might expect to find among the low dives of the Bowery, but never within the pages of Rodney’s Magazine, and to praise the relentless “realism” (realism, if you please), the “talent” (talent, the Lord help us), the depraved, imbecilic, brutal, vulgar, and ill-written maunderings of people whose obscenity might conceivably be of interest to the specialist in abnormal psychology, the professional criminologist, the pathologist interested in various states of manic-depressivism, but of serious interest to one of the most distinguished critics living—good heavens! What had happened to him, anyway?
3
Well, now, it was a hard question to decide. It certainly was! A fellow never knew just what to say: if he praised the works, the words, the talents of these Younger Writers, he would let himself in for all this kind of thing from people he knew, some of them his best friends. And if he dispraised the works, the words, the talents of these Younger Writers, then he might expect another flood of letters from the children and the grandchildren of the very people he had sought to please. And these letters from the irreverent young would ask him bluntly who the hell he thought he was, and suggest that he go immediately and reserve accommodations for himself at the Old Woman’s Home. They would tell him further that the serialization of Mr. Bulsavage’s work was the only useful act that Rodney’s Magazine had performed in twenty years, that the magazine was moribund, a museum piece, and under Mr. Rivers’ direction had become a repository for essays on bee-culture written by the aged widows of former ambassadors to Peru. They would finally suggest that Mr. Rivers close his trap and continue to print the works of Mr. Bulsavage and a few other young people, who were doing the only work worth doing nowadays, or else deposit the decayed remains of Rodney’s in the nearest garbage can, and go jump in the river.
By George, what was a fellow going to do? If you pleased one crowd, you’d make the other mad. There had been a time when young people had let their elders tell them what to read and what to think, but that was gone. Nowadays you never knew which way to turn. Well, the only way, the Dean decided, was the Middle Way. That was the way he’d always taken; it had always been the right way for him. So when the Times man asked him what he thought about the Younger Writers, and whether he approved, Mr. Rivers squirmed a little, looked uncomfortable, then took the Middle Way.
Well, now, that was a hard question to answer—by George it was. He didn’t approve of everything they did—not by a jugful. He might be old-fashioned, and all that, but he still believed there were certain Standards—Standards of—of—style, and form, and craftsmanship, and—and—good taste, by George he did! If these things should perish, then the world would be the loser, but he didn’t believe for a moment that they would. In the long run, the eternal values would win out. He didn’t believe for a moment that the whole picture of American life, the whole truth of it, its fundamental wholesomeness, and sweetness, and—and sanity, was being dealt with by these young writers. He thought that they were too prone to deal with abnormal states of psychology, to present distorted pictures, to go in too much for—for scenes of violence and cruelty—and—and—abnormal and distorted points of view. The War was probably responsible for this condition, the Dean thought. But just as the pendulum had swung too far in one direction, it would probably swing back in the other. As for the Younger Writers, although he didn’t approve of everything they did, he thought their vitality, their freshness, the originality of their point of view, was just splendid! He thought the future of American writing showed great promise. We were undoubtedly going through one of the most interesting and hopeful periods of literary production we had known in a long time. Some of the Younger Writers were people of undoubted talent, and when they had grown a little older, and acquired a more mature point of view, by George, he expected great things from them (headlines for tomorrow: “Dean Sees Golden Future For Young Writers,” or “Dean Raps Smut But Praises Promise”).
