The Golden Vanity (30 page)

Mrs. Perry broke the pause by resuming a conversation with Sam Reynolds. She said: "But why was the bank kept open if the examiners knew it was insolvent? Nobody told the depositors."

"Nobody could tell you," Sam pointed out. "They'd have been sent to jail—it's against the law."

"What is against the law?" Mrs. Perry's natural muddleheadedness had at last encountered a subject entirely fitted for it.

"Telling the truth about a bank. Injuring its spotless reputation. And of course its reputation is spotless as long as nobody tells the truth."

"But I would have taken my money out if I had known," said Mrs. Perry plaintively.

"Then you're in luck; you might have been sent to jail for that too," Sam consoled her. "That is, if it was real money and you tried to keep it. Cheer up; you can't win."

"I wish you wouldn't make a joke of everything," Mrs. Perry was goaded to rebuke. "I never know what you mean."

"Me?" said Sam, his bald head and moony countenance as free from guile as a new-laid egg. "If you want to laugh yourself to death, get some of the big boys talking—get Julius Dickerson to explain things to you. Ask him why is a standstill agreement and what to do with a discretionary account and how to unload building mortgage bonds and how much a guarantee is worth and who's going to manage a managed currency—who'll take care of the caretaker's daughter? And if you have any money left, maybe he'll sell you some nice copper stock at a bargain; I don't believe he got from under that in time. There weren't quite enough widows and orphans to go round. Unless Julius handed his copper to old man Helder; he's paralyzed."

"Mr. Dickerson is on the bondholders' protective committee," said Mrs. Perry.

"Ow!" said Sam. "Excuse me; I've got a stitch in my side!" He rolled about in his chair.

Mrs. Siddall stared at him broodingly. She knew he was talking at her; and he knew she knew it; but he shouldn't make a fool of poor Annabel, especially before strangers. Of course Annabel was a born fool, no more sense than God gave a goose; nevertheless she was one of the family; and besides, the loss of money was not humorous. Mrs. Siddall meant to have a private chat with Sam; she had asked him out for that purpose; but she had expected to see Julius Dickerson first. She had had an appointment, which Julius was obliged to cancel; he was summoned to Washington. The testimony of the leading bankers before the Senate Committee disturbed Mrs. Siddall profoundly. It reminded her grotesquely of the way Polly had spoken of "only fifty thousand, only twenty-five thousand"; though they mentioned millions, even billions. They had sold to investors
only
so many hundreds of millions of worthless paper, European bonds, South American bonds. And there was the Kreuger affair, the Insull scandal . . . These things produced a physical tremor when she thought of them. They brought back her sensation when she was ill, with that maddening bandage over her eyes, and everyone speaking soothingly to her . . .

The heat was oppressive this afternoon. It was years since she had spent July on Long Island, but she had stayed on from day to day going over the estate accounts. Almost half her capital was tied up in the Siddall Building— that was what Sam was jibing at. And the bonds had defaulted on interest. Indeed, since she had borrowed the money to take over the bonds, putting up her soundest collateral as security at the bank, it was she who was paying interest, an insanely incomprehensible reversal of the first principles of her existence. The building was eating up her income on her remaining capital. Sam's brutal cynicism offended her sense of propriety, but Julius Dickerson's bland generalities, which used to be so reassuring, had begun to increase the doubt and irritation at the back of her mind. After all, it was Dickerson who had advised her throughout the transaction, floated the bond issue and arranged for her to take over the unsold bonds in order to complete the building—which didn't pay. She had depended on Dickerson's wisdom, followed his counsel. The returns were inadequate in the form of phrases on the debt structure, reflation, parity, maldistribution, the New this and the New that. Conservative men used to anticipate hard times, prepared for them, weathered them; hard times were the test of their ability, and wealth their just reward. Men like her father and Wyman Helder senior. Though her father disapproved of the first Wyman Helder's record—those Civil War rifles!—that was a very long time ago, and at least he made money, he didn't lose it. She was annoyed by Sam's callous phrase; Helder was not paralyzed, he was retired. About once a year, Mrs. Siddall dined at the Helders', and paid a brief, ceremonial call on the old man, in his wing of the Helder house. He had a collection of coins and medals, the finest in the world in private hands; and a cabinet of precious stones. Jewelers had standing orders to show him unique or historic gems. His hobby was more or less a secret; even to Mrs. Siddall he had never shown the jewels, though they had been friends, after a fashion, for forty years. He was only two or three years older than herself; it was his father who had been her father's contemporary. Mrs. Siddall realized suddenly that he was practically the only other survivor of her own generation and group. Now she thought of it, she hadn't seen him for three years, not since immediately after the stock-market crash. And he hadn't talked like Julius Dickerson then. He said: It looks bad . . . After a protracted silence, he added: They've been on a big drunk, and this is the morning after. . . . His lapse into the vernacular from his usual laconically noncommittal habit, fixed the conversation in her mind.

Polly touched up her face and rose to go. "Must you?" Mrs. Siddall had a genuine affection for Polly, in spite of her settled disapprobation of Polly's extravagance and her attendant swains.

Polly made a sulky mouth. "There's no discharge in the war. I accepted the invitation for a week; I thought it was to be a cruise. But the old boy can't travel this year, so they brought him onto the yacht in his wheel chair and we steam up the Sound in the morning and back in the afternoon and anchor for the night. The yacht has to be kept very quiet, so we play bridge in whispers and would like to cut one another's throats. Awfully jolly."

Again Mrs. Siddall was baffled by a tone, an attitude, so subversive, that reproof could find no point of approach. She preserved her dignity by silence, but her mental disquiet affected her bodily. She was conscious for the first time of age as a process of loss, authority slipping away. She looked to Gina for support and was slightly comforted; there at least was a vindication of her own judgment.

Gina smiled back at Mrs. Siddall mechanically . . . She thought, Arthur scarcely knows Marion Townley. Marion tries the same tricks on every man she meets; and Arthur isn't interested, didn't even catch her intention; he's talking to Guy Fletcher now. But why has he changed? . . .

Gina could not recall precisely when the estrangement had begun. Arthur's mannner toward her had not changed—except in the one particular. She had thought nothing of it—for how long? . . . The answer, which did not occur to her, was contained in the fact that she had thought nothing of it.

Arthur was instantly aware of Gina's oblique concentration on him. For the remainder of the evening, throughout dinner, while Mrs. Perry made conversation with an inconsequence that frustrated all rational rejoinder, Arthur speculated what Gina wanted of him; he felt the tension in the dark, as they sat on the terrace after dinner.

Mrs. Siddall thought, really, Annabel is too tiresome. All these silly women chattering, running about and making speeches and getting their pictures in the papers, with prominent teeth . . . Mrs. Siddall's reflections were incoherent, and the connection remote; Mrs. Perry had never made a speech in her life, nor had her photograph published even as an indistinguishable smudge in the background of a group of patronesses of this or that. But Mrs. Siddall felt suddenly that there were far too many women in the world, and no men at all. Only committees and mobs. She rose and excused herself brusquely. Arthur gave her his arm to mount the marble stairs, and Gina came to say good night.

Arthur would have gone down again, for no particular reason except that there was no reason for anything else. Gina said: "Were you—if you're not busy—"

"Why, no," Arthur's invincible courtesy constrained him. He followed her into their sitting room, one of five immense rooms forming their suite. There were also nurseries reserved for Benjy on the same floor. Arthur sat on the wide window ledge and watched Gina move about nervously, her backless white satin gown rippling around her pretty ankles.

"Just a moment—it was so hot in town to-day—" Gina said.

"Very hot," Arthur agreed. There was thunder in the air; the night was thick dark, and a sultry sweetness rose from the garden. He waited . . . She couldn't touch him any more. Strangely, desire troubled him least when he was near Gina, because all his emotional experience was identified with her, and it was over. Even the nights when he couldn't sleep, or when he woke at lonely hours, the knowledge that she was there beyond an unlocked door, that if he asked her she would not refuse, subdued his senses.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame . .
. He had schooled himself to be fair to her, to admit the failure must be his. Now it was as if she merely reminded him, by the poise of her head, the downcast eyelids, of someone he had loved. Someone who had never existed. A picture, a fancy. There was nobody else, and he doubted if there ever would be. Not caring was easier, once you had attained it. One couldn't, he thought, go through that twice. He was still young enough to believe in the efficacy of such resolutions.

Gina returned in a lace negligee, having sent away her maid. Arthur was lighting a cigarette; he said: "May I?" since this was her room, and he no more than a guest.

"Of course; give me one." But she laid it down immediately. "We haven't seen much of each other lately," she said.

The few feet of distance between them became absolute. She couldn't mean . . . Would she say it? He had enough unregenerate human nature in him to feel that it was her turn, yet he felt also that to let her speak was a tacit treachery, since it was too late. No, he didn't want her to. Leave it alone. "I suppose I have been in town more than usual," he said quickly. "A lot of editorial conferences—rather futile, I'm afraid."

"Perhaps it's my fault," Gina said. His manner, polite, attentive and disinterested, struck her with dismay. That was how he had conducted himself toward Marion Townley. "I've been worried about other things—but that doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters, if you're worried. What is wrong?" He was sincerely insistent, making amends for his ungenerous first thought. They must go on as they were....

She knew later she had committed a folly in telling him what he asked, but she too was under compulsion to fill the dead space between them with words—She had had a letter from her mother. Soon after his marriage, Arthur had made a settlement on Mrs. Fuller, with reversion to Gina. Five thousand a year. At the time, it was half his own private income, money inherited from his grandfather. It made no material difference to him; Mrs. Siddall had always allowed him much more; but it solved a painful problem for Gina. She could not leave her mother in poverty, and she didn't want her living with them as an unofficial pensioner, another poor relation like Mrs. Perry. Mrs. Fuller had retired to Santa Barbara, where the climate agreed with her health and she was the most important figure in a group of elderly left-over women of sufficient means, who played cards, went to lectures and the movies, and exchanged reminiscences of deceased husbands, absent children and vanished friends. Gina's amazing marriage had left her mother permanently dazed. Once a year she visited Gina and Arthur, a proud but uncomfortable pilgrimage. Once a week she wrote, and Gina answered. The money came through the bank every month.

Three months ago the remittances had dwindled to a quarter of the accustomed sum. Mrs. Fuller supposed it was a mistake. Her bank made enquiry for her; she was informed that "owing to unprecedented conditions" the income had diminished. She sent the letter to Gina, with a timid bewildered note. What did it mean? Assailed by a frightful suspicion that the gift might somehow have been revoked, Gina spent the day in town pursuing information. Deferential but ambiguous gentlemen assured her that the trust was unaltered, but some of the securities were "frozen."

"Never mind," Arthur said. "I'll send a check to your mother to-morrow, and I'll ask Mr. Lützen to look into the trust fund. He'll straighten it out." Arthur couldn't imagine any other issue. Certainly Mrs. Siddall had told him that they must cut down expenses, as the estate income was diminished by the depression. He had refrained from buying various rare editions for his library, items he had coveted, which were going cheap. So far as he could see, he had no other expenses. Household bills, club dues, that sort of thing, were paid through an estate account. Of course there was the magazine; Mrs. Siddall had hinted at that; it was hard to decide what to do about it. ... Some time ago Mrs. Siddall had transferred to Arthur a minority interest in the estate corporation; but as it carried no control, he accepted it as a formality. He really never thought about money, unlike most young men in his position. He was neither stingy nor spendthrift; his point of view was very like that of a well-behaved child with a good home and sufficient pocket money. He took it for granted. If money was what Gina wanted, she could have it, he thought, with the high-minded contempt of endowed virtue for the ethics of necessity.

"Don't worry," he repeated. Gina saw that he was going, and she couldn't hold him. He would stay as long as she furnished a pretext; he would not be rude. But her advantage had slipped from her. Theretofore he had been the one who asked and she who granted favors.

She did not even know how to—to make love to him, to win him back. She had never needed to. ...

There was a light tap on the door. Gina blushed, an involuntary betrayal. "Who is it?" she called sharply.