Theophilus North (15 page)

That was low; that was unworthy of a Yale man. She stared straight ahead of her, but the bill was paid. Let him who will be a gentleman!

Among the guests I met more and more members of the family clan: Mr. and Mrs. Cassius Marcellus Leffingwell, and their older children; the Edward Bosworths and their older children; the Newton Bosworths and a child or two. All these ladies put out their hands and declared that they were delighted to meet me; these gentlemen not only refused their hands but either stared at me stonily or turned their backs. When I had been the object of hostility on repeated occasions I became aware that Gulliver was encountering some example of the
mores
on Aquidneck Island that deserved a closer study.

I was not comfortable at “Nine Gables.” I had come to Newport to observe without becoming deeply involved. Among the Bosworths I felt obscurely that I was in danger of becoming extremely involved in some imbroglio out of late Elizabethan drama. I had already made two enemies in the house: Willis loathed me; when I passed Mrs. Bosworth in the hall, she lowered her head slightly but her glance said, “Beware young man, we know what your game is. . . .” Day after day I planned to throw up the job. Yet I enjoyed the readings in Bishop Berkeley; I enjoyed Dr. Bosworth's constantly recalling the Newport of the eighteenth century half a mile from where we were working. I was deeply interested in Persis, Mrs. Tennyson, though I had never been presented to her. She seemed to regard me with puzzled distrust. I wondered how was she able to live the year round in a house governed by her vindictive “Aunt Sally.” Above all I had been exalted by my employer's preposterous vision of gathering together here the greatest living thinkers—a vision he could only communicate in whispers. I had lived four and a half uneventful years in a New Jersey where there were no perils and no visions, no dragons and no madmen—and very little opportunity to exercise and explore any of those youthful ambitions that lay dormant within me. I did not resign.

It was I who unwittingly opened the next door into a deeper involvement. We had been reading aloud from Dr. Bosworth's own work
Some Eighteenth Century Houses in Rhode Island
. When we finished the chapter that contained a detailed description of Bishop Berkeley's “Whitehall” I expressed my admiration for the art with which it was written; then I added, “Dr. Bosworth, I think it would be a great privilege to visit the house in your company. Would it be possible to drive out some afternoon and see the house together?”

There was a silence. I looked up and found him gazing at me searchingly, piteously. “Indeed, I wish we could. I thought you understood . . . I have this disability. I am unable to leave this house for more than a quarter of an hour. I can walk in the garden for a short time. I shall never leave this house. I shall die here.”

I returned his gaze with that impassive expression I had learned to adopt in the Army where irrationality knows no bounds and where we underlings have no choice but to make a pretense of unfathomable stupidity. To myself I thought, “He's crazy. He's around the bend.” We had often sat uninterruptedly in his study for almost three hours, after which he had accompanied me unhurriedly to his front door. All I knew at that moment was that I did not want to hear one more word about it. I wanted to have nothing to do with the appealing, longing, dependent expression on his face. I was no doctor. I didn't know what I was, but Dr. Bosworth was a bad judge of men. He had assumed that I was a sympathetic listener. A miserable man cannot hold his tongue in such company and soon I was to receive the whole damnable ludicrous story.

But I must interrupt my narrative here.

I must give the reasons—which I was soon to learn—why encounters with the guests at the close of the Bosworths' dinner parties were of so mixed a nature.

I continued to enjoy occasional late hours at Mrs. Cranston's boardinghouse now aglow with the expectation of Edweena's imminent return. Henry continued to share with us the postcards he received telling of whales, mighty storms, flying fishes, and picturing the beauties of the Leeward Islands. The conversation flowed on. For the most part I played the role of an appreciative listener. I gave them only a general idea of my activities, mentioning few names. After the retirement of the other ladies Mrs. Cranston intermittently relaxed her rule against the use of our Christian names. Generally Mr. Griffin sat with us, lost in deep thought or in vacancy, occasionally delighting us with some far-sought non-sequitur. My Journal was enriched by many of Mrs. Cranston's reflections.

“The Whitcombs!” cried Mrs. Cranston. “There's another case of the Death Watch, Henry. Oh, how I wish Edweena were here to tell Teddie about her theory of the Death Watch. You tell him, Henry. I'm tired tonight. Do now, I know it will interest him.”

“Will you interrupt me, ma'am, if I get to sliding on the ice, as often happens? . . . Well, it's this way, old matey: in a dozen houses in Newport there's an aged party, male or female, sitting on a mountain of money. . . .”

“Twenty houses, Henry, at
least
twenty.”

“Thank you, ma'am. Now let's call the aged party the Old Mogle—some call it Mogull, you can pronounce it either way. Newport's the only place in the country where rich old men live longer than rich old women. I've heard you make that observation, Mrs. Cranston.”

“Yes, I think it's true. It's the social life that kills. The old men simply withdraw upstairs. No old woman has ever been known to withdraw from the social life of her own accord.”

“And the Old Mogle has sons and daughters and grandchildren and flying nevvies and nieces, all waiting for the reading of the will. But the Old Party won't die. So what do you do? You gather around him every hour of the clock and ask him tenderly about his health—tenderly, sadly, lovingly. You call in doctors to ask him doubtfully, tenderly about his health. ‘Well, Mr. Mogle, how are we today? God bless my soul, we look ten years younger! Splendid! Let me look again at that little inflammation. We don't like that one little bit, do we? Too near the brain. Is it sensitive to the touch, Mr. Mogle?' Oh, I wish Edweena were here; she does the doctor business glorious, doesn't she, Mrs. Cranston? She says that all men over seventy can be made to be high-pepper-condriacs in zero time with a little attention from the loved ones. She says all women are, anyway.”

“I'm not, Henry.”

“You're nowhere near that age, Mrs. Cranston—and God gave you the constitution and the figure of the Statue of Liberty.”

“I'm above compliments, Henry. Go on with your story.”

“Now the Death Watch has a lot to worry about, cully—see what I mean? For instance,
favoritism!
One son over another, one daughter over another, down to the new-born grandchild. Terrible thought! Then there's always the Old Man's Folly—falls in love with his nurse or secretary. Or a beautiful divorcée arrives from Europe, pulls his beard and strokes his hands right at the dinner table. An old lady falls in love with her chauffeur; we've seen it scores of times. The Death Watch goes frantic. Frantic—and starts to act. We've seen some terrible
action
around here. Expel 'em! Crush 'em!”

“You've forgotten something else, Henry.”

“Thankee, and what's that, ma'am?”

“The callers, the confidential callers, with noble causes—”

“How could I forget them! Universal peace. Colleges
named after you!
Eskimos. Fallen women—very popular. Old men are very tender about fallen women.”

“Dogs' cemeteries,” said Mr. Griffin.

“How bright you are tonight, Mr. Griffin!—All these things taking the food out of the mouths of his nearest and dearest.”

The room seemed to have become uncomfortably warm.

“What kind of action do they take, Henry?” I asked.

“Well, they've got two lines of action, haven't they? To get rid of the favorite they've got slander—they tell stories. Even if it's their nearest kith 'n' kin. That's easy. But their ‘object all sublime'—as the poet said—is to take the pen out of the great Mogle's hand—to remove his power to write checks. To drive him dotty. To get him quivering and bursting into tears. Guardianship—soften him up for guardianship.”

“Terrible!” said Mrs. Cranston, shaking her head.

“They've got their doctors and lawyers all lined up. Why, we know a Mogle in this town who hasn't left his front door for ten years—”

“Eight, Henry.”

“You're always right, Mrs. Cranston.”

“No names, Henry.”

“He's just as well as you or me. They make him think that he's got cancer of the sofa cushion. The great specialist comes up from New York—you can't do these things without specialists—specialists are the Death Watchers' best friend. Dr. Thread-and-Needle comes up from New York and tells him it's about time for another of those little operations. So the Mogle is wheeled in and they take a little piece of skin off the area. The nurses near die of laughing. ‘Ten thousand dollars, please.' ”

“Henry, I'd say you were sliding on the ice a bit.”

“I'll be forgiven if I exaggerate. Teddie's new to the town. You never can tell when he might come up against an example of things like this.”

“Let's talk about something more cheerful, Henry. Teddie, who have you been reading aloud to lately?”

“Mostly I've been getting children ready to return to school, Mrs. Cranston. I've had to turn down a number of jobs. I think there's a craze on to trace a family's genealogy to William the Conqueror.”

“That's always been true.”

The conversation flowed on.

I returned to my room thoughtfully.

My next engagement at “Nine Gables” was on the following Sunday morning. Dr. McPherson had suddenly decided that the late-hour sessions were inadvisable. I was surprised to see Dr. Bosworth fully dressed to go out. He was arguing with his nurse. “We shall not need your company, Mrs. Turner.”

“But, Dr. Bosworth, I must obey Dr. McPherson's orders. I must be near you at all times.”

“Will you leave the room and close the door, Mrs. Turner?”

“Oh, dear! I don't know what to do!” she answered and left.

To me he whispered, “Listening! Always listening!” His eyes searched the ceiling. “Mr. North, will you climb up on that chair and see if there's some kind of gramophone up there listening to what's said here?”

“No, Dr. Bosworth,” I said, raising my voice, “I was engaged to read aloud here. I am not an electrical engineer.”

He put his ear to his bedroom door. “She's telephoning all over the house. . . . Come, follow me.”

We started down the great hall to the front door. As we approached it Mrs. Leffingwell came floating down the staircase.

“Good morning, Papa dear. Good morning, Mr. North. We're all coming over to lunch. I came early to see if Sally wanted to go to church. She can't make up her mind. But I'd much rather listen to the reading. Mr. North, do persuade my father to let me join you. I'll be as quiet as a mouse.”

Something in her voice astonished and pained him. He stared at her for a moment and said, “You too, Mary?” then added harshly, “Our discussion would not interest you. Run off to church and enjoy yourselves. . . . We are going to the beech grove, Mr. North.”

It was a most beautiful morning. He had brought no book with him. We sat for some time in silence on a bench under the great trees. Suddenly I became aware that Dr. Bosworth's eyes were fixed on me with an expression of suffering—of despair.

“Mr. North, I think I should explain my disability to you. I suffer from a disorder of the kidneys which the doctors tell me may be related to a far more serious illness—to a fatal disease. I find this very strange because—apart from certain local irritations—I have experienced no pain. But I am not a medical man; I must rely on the word of certain specialists.” His eyes now bored into mine. “As a side aspect of this wretched business, I suffer from a compulsion to urinate—or try to urinate—every ten to fifteen minutes.”

I returned his gaze as solemnly as he could wish.

“Why, Dr. Bosworth, you and I have sat in your study for hours at a time without your leaving the room once.”

“That's the ridiculous part about it. Perhaps it's all in the mind—as Bishop Berkeley is constantly insisting! As long as I'm in my own house—keeping quiet, so to speak—I am not inconvenienced. I am assured that it is not the usual old man's affliction; it is not prostate trouble. It's something far graver.”

(Oh, hell! Oh, crimson tarnation! Resign right now!—Besides, every two weeks I'd sent my bill to Mrs. Bosworth, my ostensible employer, and she'd made no reply. This was my fifth week. She owed me over sixty dollars!)

The old man went on: “For many years I served my country in the diplomatic life. Public functions tend to be long drawn out. State funerals, weddings, christenings, openings of parliament, national holidays. Unforeseen delays! Snowstorms in Finland, hurricanes in Burma! . . . Waits at railway stations, waits on grandstands. I was the head of my delegation. . . . I have always been a healthy man, Mr. North, but I began to get a dread of that—that little necessity. Now I know that it's all in the mind. Bishop Berkeley! Doctors laugh at me, I know, behind my back. One doctor fitted me out with a sort of goat's udder.” Here he covered his face with his hands, murmuring, “I shall die in this house or in their wretched hospital.”

There was a silence. He lowered his hands and whispered, “The worst of it is that the idea is getting around that I'm crazy. Do
you
think I'm crazy?”

I raised my hand for silence and got it. I was as authoritative as a judge and solemn as an owl. “Dr. Bosworth, none of this is new to me—this kidney trouble. I know all about it.”