GLIMPSING THE MOON
With an Obeisance toEdith Wharton
With an Obeisance toEdith Wharton
With an Obeisance to
Edith Wharton
“I opine,” began Susy——
“You what?” interrupted Nick.
“Opine,” answered Susy.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Nick.
“Why not?” she asked, amazed.
“Why it isn’t done, my dear. Really it isn’t.”
“It’s a perfectly good word,” pouted Susy. “Prior used it.”
“Prior, yes, but not since,” said he. “It has had priority but not permanency. Obsolete, my dear—archaic. Begin again.”
“All right. How’s this?——”
“The moon—their tutelary orb——”
“Tutelary orb! Oh, dear!” groaned Nick. “Why don’t you say ‘chaste goddess of the night!’ ‘sweet regent of the heavens!’ ‘queenand huntress, chaste and fair!’ or something new like that? This is modern English prose, my dear Susy. Here, let me have the typewriter. I’ll show you how.”
Nick Lansing lived in a three-pair-back bed sitting-room. An industrious young man, he worked day and night. In the daytime he worked, writing part of a popular encyclopedia—V to X, a most depressing section of the alphabet. At night he worked his rich friends for dinners, the opera, drinks and cigars, a more agreeable job.
Susy Branch was also a prominent member of the I. W. W. She worked everybody, day and night, all the time, for everything—clothes, shoes, hats, board, lodging and laundry.
In spite of their industry, both were poor. Nick was poor as he could be—which, considering Nick’s capacity for poverty—is saying something. Susy was poorer than she could be—and be satisfied—which, considering her tastes and appetites, isn’t saying so much. Still, the fact is she hadn’t a red—outside of her vanity-case.
And so they were married. By the Interposition of Authorship they were brought togetherat the almost equally poor Fulmers’ tiny cottage in the wilds of New Hampshire, where Nat Fulmer painted the Italian cook on the veranda, Grace Fulmer played the fiddle in the dining-room and the five Fulmer kids raised hell simultaneously all over the place. The romance of married love in a cottage swept Susy off her feet.
It was Susy’s idea. Nick would never have thought of it.
“Why not us get married?” she asked quite simply.
Nick was frightened, shied, might have run away, but Susy was on the job with a plan—blue-prints, specifications and working-drawings all complete—especially the last. Susy was a fast worker.
In six words, the gist of it was “checks, nothing but checks, for wedding-presents.” The word “checks”—in the plural—rooted Nicky to the spot. “Lead me to them!” cried every fibre in his body.
The whole thing was simple enough. Susy would guarantee the checks. It should be understood of all that it would be bad form to give Nick and Susy anything but checks, drafts or orders for the payment of money—this their spending-money. For the rest, everyone would lend them their spare houses, palazzos, cottages, villas, apartments, servants, food,wine, cigars and cigarettes—board and lodging free for a year at least. Susy would guaranteethat.
And that’s all they had to look out for—one year. After that, why, either of them might make a better match—both of them probably. One little hand-made divorce would do for both....
“I should like just for once to have something of my very own, Nicky dear—something that nobody had lent me, like my fancy-dresses, motors, opera cloaks—or given me, like everything else. And the divorce would be my own, wouldn’t it, Nicky? Mine and yours, just our owny own little divorce.”
“Checks!” murmured Nicky, still in a trance. “Checks!”...
It rose for them—the moon—their tutelary orb, if you prefer to put it that way, as indeed you may, goodness knows, some do—over Como, Streffy’s villa, marble balustrades, stephanotis, gardenias, nightingales, and Streffy’s cigars....
But now their month was ended. They were packing for the next on their string, Vanderlyn’s palazzo in Venice, equally well found.
“The new tenant’s motor has come,” saidSusy gaily, “and I’ve bribed the chauffeur to drive us to Milan. It’s so much cheaper than railway fares.”
“Clever of you!” Nicky laughed.
“And I’ve packed all the rest of Streffy’s cigars.”
“Streffy’s cigars?” Lansing stared, aghast. “Streffy’s cigars!Oh, my God! Give me the key, woman!”...
He worked half an hour over the refractory lock, perspired, broke his finger-nails, disinterred them at last. Then he jumped into the motor and they were whirling through the nightingale-thickets to the gates.
“Why did you leave the cigars, dear?” she asked.
“Of course, you don’t understand, darling,” he answered gently. “No woman knows anything about cigars. Streffy never bought those cigars, dear.They were given to him.Thank God! Vanderlyn buys his own cigars....”
At the palazzo, a letter from Ellie Vanderlyn awaited Susy, containing four other letters addressed to “Nelson Vanderlyn, Esqre., New York City.” Susy read:
“One good turn deserves another ... you and Nick can stay all summer ... no expense—servantshave orders ... just post these letters, one a week ... be good to my child....”
It was too plain!... vile!... infamous!... a child left behind ... abominable!... for her to take care of ... outrageous!... She would never do it ... they must leave this place at once....
But she awoke next morning to the sun shining through curtains of old brocade, making a network of golden scales upon the vaulted ceiling—to a luxurious breakfast in bed and a single tea-rose in an old Murano glass—and thought of—the child! How could she leave a lonely child exposed to all the evils of such a pampered infancy? Distasteful as it was to dwell in the palazzo of the ungodly—it was her duty ... and she did. The letters went in due course to N. Vanderlyn, Esqre.
Charlie Strefford arrived wearing a mouldy Panama hat, reminiscent of the Stilton cheese of old England—an eccentricity pardonable in the next-but-two to the Earldom of Altringham—only the present incumbent and his son intervening.
“Good old Streffy!”
“Where’s old Nick?”
“He’s writing, you know. Works all day ona philosophic romance—likeMarius, you know.”
“Oh, I say!—good one!” laughed Streffy. “Nick’sMarius—youmarryme—see? Capital!—Eh, what? Rath-er! Countess of Altringham—what? Altringham and son sure to die soon‘—’bout middle of the book—accident in hunting field or yacht capsizes in the Solent—sure to—always happens—one or other—absolutely. Think it over, old thing....”
Ellie Vanderlyn came back ... but only to be off again to St. Moritz, leaving Nick and Susy undisturbed.
“Good-by, you dear thing,” to Nicky. “I must thank you for helping me to be so happy elsewhere—you and Susy were such bricks about the letters.”
She left him a morocco case, in it a pearl scarf pin. He sought Susy. She hurried to him. She pressed the button of the lamp. Her husband’s face started out of the twilight ... fortunately stopped before it had entirely left him ... then hardened. On her outstretched wrist was a bracelet of emeralds and brilliants.
“Look, dearest—wasn’t it darling of Ellie,” she cried.
“Yes, she gave me this.” He opened themorocco case. “But yours cost more. Will you tell me why she values your services higher than mine? Don’t you know that men demand and receive higher wages than women? My position as head of the family ... it’s humiliating ... it’s.... I don’t know what to say.... I’m all het up.... I’ll have to go for a tramp....”
And he left her ... just like that.
None was to be found in all Venice, nor in Milan, nor in Genoa, whither his hopeless quest had led him. Lazzaroni a-plenty ... but in all Italy, it seemed, there was not one real, honest-to-God, good old-fashioned American tramp....
... But he did find Coral Hicks....
There, in the harbor, was the huge outline of the Hickses’ yacht, theIbis... within the outline was theIbisitself. Nick knew it well. He had bummed his board and lodging on it for five months once in the good old days before Susy and the checks had mesmerized him.
There was something so restful about the Hickses, so substantial, so solvent. Good old Papa and Mamma Hicks, solid three-dimensional people.... Papa, especially, had awonderful figure—one large digit, backed by six ciphers and a decimal point.
He could see them now, with their entourage—two secretaries, a doctor, a maiden lady known as Eldorada Tooker—though why so called, unless to supply Comic Relief, no one could say—and Coral, sole daughter of their house and heart, that still unmarried child of opulence.
One large digit, backed by six ciphers and a decimal point, contrasted with a small bank balance, backed by Susy’s grandmother’s pearl necklace ... what about that? He knew they would have to cast the pearls before the wolf, if they were to hang together much longer.... Susy would have to choose between her Nicholas and her necklace.... Was it right?... Was it fair to Susy to burden her longer?... The year was almost up.... Why not resign now—while theIbiswas at hand?...tutissimus Ibis!
He picked up theDaily Mail, ran his eye casually down its columns and read:
“Tragic Yachting Accident in the Solent. The Earl of Altringham and his son, Viscount d’Amblay, drowned.”
Coral Hicks was a young lady of compact if not graceful outline, with a downright manner,also a little black down right on her upper lip. She shanghaied unresisting Nick and theIbissailed away....
Sitting beside him on deck, she suddenly said:
“Your wife hasn’t written you for weeks.”
“No, thank the Lord!” he laughed.
“And you haven’t written her.”
“No.”
“Then you’re free. Will you take a new job? Will you be my—secretary?”
“My dear Coral,” he replied, “this is so sudden. No, I cannot. I do not love you in that way, dearest. It’s too much like work. But I will be a husband to you.”
From the next port he wired his wife:
“Hereby tender resignation my position your husband stop pearls beautiful but Coral more durable stop recommend Streff my successor go to it kid—don’t stop.”
Susy wired Streffy:
“Congratulations old bean nice name Altringham been thinking it over Nick has quit.”
She received an answer:
“Meet me at the fountain Versailles Friday”....
“So Nicky did a bunk, eh?” Streffy chuckled. “I say, that’s top-hole, what? How about little old me? Countess, you know ... places, no end.... Altringham and the others.... If you don’t like the others, we’ll see about altering ’em.... I say, how’s that? Pretty good, eh? ... better take me on, old thing? What?...”
Casually running their eyes down the columns of theDaily Mail, as was their wont, Nick, Streffy, Susy and Coral read:
“A divorce has been arranged and will shortly take place between Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Lansing.”
They were at tea on the terrace of the Castle, the Earle and Countess of Altringham (néeBranch) and their week-end guests, Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Lansing (néeHicks), all merry and bright.
“Nicky, dear, did you read the funny story they’ve written about us?” asked Susy gaily. “Of course not. I’d forgotten you’ve given up books entirely. Well, it’s simply killing. You see, I’m supposed to turn Streffy down and then, of all things, get a job as child’s nurse for—you’d never guess—the five Fulmer kids—remember that awful bunch?—can you imagine me?
“Then you do the same to Coral—isn’t that the limit?—you turning down Coral! Imagination? Well, I guess yes. And you come bumbling round and it’s all on again—no divorce at all. Think of it!—and we go off with all the Fulmer kids, for a second honeymoon at—this is the top-notch!—at Fontainebleau—cheap hotel—awful restaurants. And, then, I suppose, we live happily ever after—though the Lord knows what we’re supposed to live on. They didn’t know us, did they, old one? I’ll say they didn’t.”
Everybody roared with laughter.
“Oh, well,” said Nicky, “you know, they’re the thing nowadays—unhappy endings—they all do it—call it Realism.”