So Little Time (14 page)

“Do not leave anything to be done in the spring,” Madge's uncle had always said, “that can possibly be done in the autumn.”

The house itself glistened with a fresh coat of gray paint and there was not a slate missing on the mansard roof. As the coupé stopped beneath the shadow of the porte-cochère, the screen door at the top of the granite steps was opened by old Lizzie who had been Madge's aunt's maid. Lizzie's face was firmly set and her apron was freshly starched and her hair, though it was sparser and whiter, was done up in the same tight knot that Jeffrey remembered.

“Lizzie, dear,” Madge said, “we're not late, are we?”

“No, Miss Madge,” Lizzie answered, “he's just coming down the stairs.” And when she looked at Jeffrey he felt as he had that time when he had first come to call. Lizzie must still be thinking of all the young gentlemen whom Miss Madge might have married.

“Hello, Lizzie,” he said.

“Good afternoon,” she answered, “Mr. Wilson.”

The hall seemed dark after the bright October sunlight, but he could distinguish the long Kermanshah carpet, the seat that opened for rubbers with the mirror above it and racks for canes and umbrellas on either side, the wide gaping arch of the fireplace with the head of a moose over it and the oil painting of a grass-grown Roman ruin. He could see the cool, waxed yellow-oak staircase curving upward two ways from the landing—the design sometimes used on ocean liners. There was a tart, clean smell of chrysanthemums from the vases just below the landing window, and sure enough, just as Lizzie had said, Madge's Uncle Judson, clean and brushed for lunch, was walking down the stairs.

He walked deliberately but not feebly, resting his hand lightly on the golden-oak bannister. His face was long and thin and paler than it had been. His starched collar and his dark suit looked too large for him.

“Well, well,” he said to Madge, when he kissed her, “if you want to tidy up, everything is ready in your Aunt Clara's room.”

“No, no, Uncle Judson,” Madge said, “I don't want to keep you waiting.”

He moved his head sharply sideways when she spoke, toward the tall clock which was ticking beside the umbrella stand.

“You have time,” he said, “you're early. There is everything in your Aunt Clara's room.”

Then he moved another step down the hall, and Jeffrey moved toward him.

“How do you do, Jeffrey?” he said.

“How do you do, sir?” Jeffrey answered.

Uncle Judson cleared his throat.

“Do you want to wash your hands?”

“No thanks, sir,” Jeffrey said.

From the way Uncle Judson looked at him, Jeffrey could not tell whether he was suspected of exhibiting exceptional strength or weakness. Time had nothing to do with it. Jeffrey felt the way he always had with Madge's uncle, that he was being dealt with according to the best rules of hospitality, but that it had all been a whim of Madge's—an accident.

“There's sherry in the library,” Uncle Judson said.

The French doors of the library opened to a piazza, and from outside there was the same smell of chrysanthemums.

“Thank you, sir,” Jeffrey said when the old man handed him a glass.

“Well,” Uncle Judson said, and sipped his sherry, “well—”

It seemed to Jeffrey that there was nothing much more to say. Through an open window he could hear the metallic ring of a rake on the driveway.

“The place is looking very well, sir,” Jeffrey said.

“They're busy now,” Uncle Judson answered. “Never leave anything to be done in the spring that can possibly be done in the autumn.”

“It's always one long fight,” Jeffrey said, “to keep a garden going.”

“You think so?” Uncle Judson asked. “Not if one is systematic. It's a matter of routine.”

“I don't suppose I'm systematic,” Jeffrey said.

“No,” Uncle Judson answered, “I suppose you're not. Let me see, I haven't seen you for some time.”

“No,” Jeffrey answered, “not for quite a while.”

“I hope,” Uncle Judson said, “that everything has been going well with you. Have Madge and the children been well?”

“Yes, they've been all right, thanks,” Jeffrey said.

“Jim is quite a boy,” Uncle Judson said, “but it always strikes me queer—he looks like you.”

“Well,” Jeffrey said, “of course he can't help that.”

“Let me see,” Uncle Judson said, “you were an aviator in the last war, weren't you?”

“Yes, sir,” Jeffrey answered.

“They seem to be driving the British back,” Uncle Judson said, “in the air, I mean.”

“That's true, the forward fields are too hot for the fighters now,” Jeffrey answered.

“I see that they've bombed St. Paul's,” Uncle Judson said.

“Yes,” Jeffrey answered, “London's getting it.”

“I'm glad that I won't have to see it later.” The old man waved to the decanter. “Another glass of sherry?”

“No, thank you, sir,” Jeffrey said.

The old man clasped his hands behind his back.

“I wonder what's keeping Madgie,” he said. “Well, we must always wait as patiently as we can for the ladies. This morning—do you know what I've been thinking?”

“No, sir,” Jeffrey answered.

“I've been thinking that I'm very pleased to be my age with the way the world's been going.”

As far as Jeffrey could recall in all their meetings, that was the only remark that old Judson Mapes had ever made to him that was intentionally informal.

“I think you're right, sir,” Jeffrey said, “but my age is the worst. Right now I'd rather be old or young.”

Uncle Judson clasped his hands behind his back. His pale blue eyes met Jeffrey's squarely.

“Everything is changing—for the worse,” he said, “for the worse. The lavatory's right here—are you sure you don't want to wash your hands?”

“Thanks, quite sure,” Jeffrey said.

“Well,” Uncle Judson said, “here comes Madge. Madge is like her mother. She always kept us waiting, but her Aunt Clara was punctual. Madge, will you lead the way?”

Jeffrey had always heard that one became set in one's opinions as time went on, but he could never see this working in himself. It seemed to him that his attitude toward people whom he had known for long was always undergoing alterations, so that personal relationships were nearly as impermanent as real estate values and liking kept changing to indifference and dislike merged into tolerance simply because of living. Nevertheless, he had always been sure that his attitude toward Madge's uncle would never undergo much change. He would always call him “Mr. Mapes” rather than “Uncle Judson,” but now as they entered the dining room, he knew that they shared the experience of observing the passing of time.

Lizzie, assisted by another maid about her age, was waiting on the table. The ceiling of the room was high. The walls were done in a greenish artificial leather. The curtains which framed the tall windows were heavy blackish-green velvet bordered by tarnished gold tapes. The table was round, made of black fumed oak like the sideboard, and its legs had the same heavy ornate carving. The chairs were black oak too, upholstered in dark green leather that was held in place by elaborate brass-capped tacks. Lizzie was removing the place plates, which were gold-embossed and dark purple, each with a different flower in its center. The silver was a variation of the Crown pattern, a heavy elaborate contortion of motifs such as you saw sold by weight in those strange New York shops that collected bric-a-brac from liquidating estates. Lizzie was bringing in the clear pale consommé, and Mr. Mapes was picking up his spoon. There was nothing in that room that anyone in his right senses would want any more.

“You never come to see us, Uncle Judson,” he heard Madge saying.

“I do not like New York now,” he said, “and I am very busy here.”

There was no way at all of telling what went on behind that pale façade. Jeffrey had never thought of him except as a pompous old stuffed shirt and a snob, but now he felt a faint glow of admiration for him. He was like a ship sinking with its guns still firing.

“You ought to see more people, Uncle Judson,” Jeffrey heard Madge saying, and he wondered how her Uncle Judson liked it when she tried to run his life.

“There is no one I wish to see,” Uncle Judson said. “No one lives here any longer.”

“But you must be lonely, Uncle Judson.”

“Lonely?” he answered. “No, not lonely.”

He was running his own show, and perhaps that was all that anyone could do. Jeffrey was wondering what he would be like himself if he reached that age, and he hoped he would not reach it. The hothouse grapes with their silver scissors had scarcely been passed before the old man was pushing back his chair.

“It is time for my nap,” he said, “if you'll excuse me. Shall I find you here when I come down?”

Jeffrey thought that Madge was going to say they would wait, and if she had, he was not sure that he could have stood it.

“I wish we could wait,” Madge said, “but we can't. We're driving to Connecticut.”

“Then good-by,” Uncle Judson said. “It was kind of you to come. Gregory has put some chrysanthemums in your car.” His pale eyes met Jeffrey's for a moment. “It was kind of you to come. There are cigars on my desk in the library, and the door to the right—in case you want to wash your hands.”

The car now had that same clean acrid smell of chrysanthemums.

“Darling,” Madge said, “thanks for going. I know it was an awful beating for you.”

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, “it wasn't bad.”

“Well, it wasn't fun,” Madge said.

“It wasn't fun,” Jeffrey answered, “but he puts on quite a show.”

“Jeffrey,” Madge said, “drive a little faster, please let's hurry.”

He knew what she wanted, because he wanted the same thing. Now that it was over, she wanted to get away. She wanted to get away from the Sound and the Post Road and memory, and she thought that she could do it by driving faster.

“Jeffrey,” she said, “it's such a clear day, isn't it?” And then he saw that she was crying, but there was nothing that anyone could do about it.

“I'll be all right in a minute,” she said, “I'm sorry.”

“That's all right,” Jeffrey answered, “go ahead and cry.”

“I'm all right now,” she said, “and Jeff, all week end we'll have fun.”

He was not so sure of that. They would be moving up the Merritt Parkway to adjust themselves to something else, and at any rate he had never liked the word. He supposed it was an Anglo-Saxon monosyllable—“fun.”

9

And Fred Too, of Course

“It seems ages since I've seen Beckie,” Madge said. “I'll be awfully glad to see her.”

Beckie, as Madge always said, was her oldest, dearest friend. Their families had both owned houses on Willow Road, for one thing, and then they had both gone to Farmington for years, and years, and years. Madge always said that Beckie was the most intelligent girl she knew—that was one of Madge's favorite words, “intelligent,” and it always brought a picture to Jeffrey's mind of a bright little dog walking on its hind legs and wearing a soldier cap. Madge was always sure that Jeffrey would like to see Beckie because Beckie was so intelligent about books. Each Sunday she saved the
New York Times Book Review
so that she could read it bit by bit through the week and could form her own judgment as to what was really worth while. She did not want to have books picked out for her beforehand by anyone like Henry Canby and his crowd at the Book-of-the-Month Club. Beckie was not sure, for instance, that she agreed entirely with Dr. Canby's taste, at least as far as she could gather it from his writings in the
Saturday Review of Literature
, which she also read carefully every week. At any rate, good or bad, it was not her taste, and she did not want that of someone else imposed upon her. It was all well enough, she said, for someone to publish a book of reading that
he
liked, but Beckie wanted her mind to be full of reading that
she
liked. That was why Madge said that Beckie was intelligent about books. They had a fight once when Jeffrey said that he didn't believe that Beckie had read all the books she talked about—but Beckie always said she never talked about a book she hadn't read; she never cheated that way.

“She would be better,” Jeffrey said, “if she cheated in any sort of way.”

“Jeffrey,” Madge said, “you know Beckie is intelligent.”

“Nothing she reads does her any good,” Jeffrey said.

“You're being mean about her,” Madge told him. “I only wish that we could be as happy as Fred and Beckie.”

There was no use telling her that he hoped to heaven that he would never have to be happy the way Fred and Beckie were, because it was the sort of happiness that went with charcoal briquettes and grills on wheels and eating steaks outdoors and drinking out of glasses with “Whoops” written on them and using towels marked “His” and “Hers” and cocktail napkins embroidered with “Freddie and Beckie.” There was at least one thing you could do, Madge always said, and that was to be loyal to your friends, even if they did use those napkins.

“You do like Fred and Beckie,” Madge said as they drove out the Merritt Parkway, “you just pretend you don't to be contrary. Do you know what Beckie used to do at school?”

Jeffrey said he did not, but he did know that Beckie and Madge had passed the most glorious years of their lives at Farmington.

“She used to memorize ten lines of Shakespeare every morning while she brushed her teeth,” Madge said, “and she still does.”

“If she did it in the evening, too,” Jeffrey said, “she'd memorize it twice as fast.”