You Can't Go Home Again (60 page)

The face of Fox was illuminated by a radiant tenderness as, in a low, deaf, slightly hoarse tone, he said:

“Good morning, darling.”

Still without looking at him, stricken, desperate, she tried to get away from him, yet, even in the act, her affection for the Fox was eloquent. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer, her eyes went back and forth like a frightened fledgling’s, she wanted to vanish through the walls, dart out of doors, turn into a shadow—anything,
anything
, if only she could utterly escape notice, having no one look at her, pay any attention to her, above all,
speak
to her. So she fluttered there in his embrace like a dove caught in a snare, tried to get away from him, was in a state of agony so acute and sensitive that it was painful to watch her or to do anything that would in any way increase the embarrassment and desperate shyness of this stricken little girl.

Fox’s embrace tightened round her as she tried to escape, and he grew full of solicitude and anxiety as he looked at her.

“Darling!” he whispered, in a low and troubled tone. He shook her gently. “
What
, darling?” he demanded. “
Now
what?” he finally demanded, with a touch of the old scorn.

“But
nothing
, daddy!” she protested, her timid little voice rising in a note of desperate protest. “
Nothing
, daddy!” She squirmed a little to get free. Reluctantly Fox let her go. The child ducked right down into her chair, still with her eyes averted, and concluded with a little gasping laugh of protest: “You’re so
funny
, daddy!”

Fox resumed his seat and still continued to regard her sternly, gravely, with alarmed solicitude, and a little scorn. She shot a frightened look at him and ducked her head down towards her plate.

“Is anything
wrong?
” said Fox, in a low voice.

“But
naturally—not!
“—a protesting and exasperated little gasp of laughter. “Why should anything be
wrong?
Honestly, you’re so
strange
, daddy!”

“Well, then,” said Fox, with patient resignation.

“But
nothing!
I keep
telling
you, there’s
nothing!
That’s what I’ve told you from the
feerst!
”

All of the children of the Fox say “feerst” for “first”, “beerst” for “burst”, “theerst” for “thirst”. Why, no one knows. It seems to be a tribal accent, not only among all of Fox’s children, but among all of their young cousins on the Fox’s side. It is almost as if they were creatures of some isolated family, immured for generations on some lonely island, cut off from the world, and speaking some lost accent that their ancestors spoke three hundred years ago. Moreover, their tone is characterised by a kind of
drawl
—not the languorous drawl of the deep South, but a protesting drawl, a wearied-out, exasperated drawl, as if they have almost given up hope of making Fox—or
someone
—understand what ought to be obvious without any explanation whatsoever. Thus:

“But
nothing
, daddy! I’ve told you that from the
f-e-e-r-s-t!
”

“Well, then, what
is
it, darling?” Fox demanded. “Why do you
look
like that?”—with an emphatic downward movement of the head.

“But look like
what?
” the child protested. “Oh,
daddy
, honestly”—she gasped, with a little strained laugh, and looked away—“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Portia brought smoking oatmeal and put it down before her, and the girl, saying timidly: “Good morning, Portia,” ducked her head and began to eat hastily.

Fox continued to look at the child sternly, gravely, with a troubled expression in his eyes. Looking up suddenly, she put down her spoon, and cried:

“But,
daddy—wha-a-t?
”

“Are those scoundrels going to be here again to-day?” said Fox.

“Oh, daddy,
what
scoundrels?...Honestly!” She twisted in her chair, gasped a little, tried to laugh, picked up her spoon, started to go on eating, then put her spoon down again.

“Those scoundrels,” said the Fox, “that—you
women
“—he inclined his head with scornful emphasis—“have brought in to destroy my home.”

“But
who
are you
talking
about?” she protested, looking round like a hunted animal for a means of escape. “I don’t know who you
mean
.”

“I mean,” said Fox, “those interior decorating
fellows
“—here his voice was filled with the dismissal of an unutterable contempt—“that you and your
mother
have imported to wreck the house.”

“But
I
had nothing to do with it!” the girl protested. “Oh, daddy, you’re
so
-----” she broke off, squirmed, and turned away with a little laugh.

“So—_what?_” said Fox, low, hoarse, and scornful.

“Oh, I don’t know—so—so
stra-a-nge!
You say such funny
thi-i-ngs!
”

“Have you
women
,” Fox went on, “decided when you’re going to let me have a little peace in my own house?”

“Let you have a little
pe-a-ce?
...What have
I
done? If you don’t want the decorators, why don’t you speak to
mo-o-ther?
”

“
Because
“—Fox inclined his head with a slow, ironic emphasis upon the word—”
because
—I--don’t—count! I’m only the—Old—Grey—Mule—among six women—and, of course,
anything
is good enough for me!”

“But what have
we
done? We haven’t done anything to you! Why do you act so
p-e-e-r
-secuted?...Oh, daddy, honestly!” She squirmed desperately, tried to laugh, turned away, and ducked her head down towards her plate again.

Sitting back in his chair, one hand clasped upon the arm, his whole being withdrawn, remote, in an attitude eloquent of deep, unhoping patience, Fox continued to regard the child gravely for a moment. Then he thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled his watch out and looked at it, glanced at the child again, and shook his head in a movement packed with stern reproach and silent accusation.

She looked up, quick and startled, laid her spoon down, and gasped:

“
Now
what? What are you shaking your
he-a-ad
for? What is it
now?
”

“Is your mother up?”

“But
naturally
, I don’t
kno-o-w!
”

“Are your sisters up?”

“But,
da-a-dy
, how can I tell?”

“Did you get to bed early?”

“Ye-e-e-s,” in a drawl of protest.

“What time did your sisters get to bed?”

“But, of course, I have no way of
kno-o-wing!
Why don’t you ask
the-e-m?
”

Fox looked at the watch again, then at the child, and shook his head once more.

“Women!” he said quietly, and put the watch back into his pocket.

The child by now has finished with her oatmeal—all she wants of it. Now she slides out of her chair and, with face averted, tries to glide past Fox, out of the room. Fox gets up quickly, puts his arms round her, says in a low, quick, worried tone:

“Oh,
darling
, where are you going?”

“But to
sch-o-o-ol
, of course!”

“
Darling
, stay and
eat
your breakfast!”

“But I’ve
e-e-a-ten!
”

“Oh, you
haven’t!
” whispers Fox impatiently.

“But I’ve eaten all I
wa-a-a-nt!
”

“You haven’t eaten
anything!
” he whispers scornfully.

“But I don’t
want
any more,” she protests, looks desperately about, and struggles to free herself. “Oh, let me
go-o-o
, daddy! I’ll be
late!
”

“Then
be
late!” whispers the great watch-watcher and head-shaker scornfully. “
Stay
and
eat
your
breakfast!
“—punctuating these decisive words with slow nods of emphasis.

“But I
ca-a-n’t!
I’ve got to read a
pa-a-per
.”

“A—what?”

“A
t-e-e-r-m
paper—for Miss Allen’s class—it comes at nine o’clock.”

“Oh,” says Fox slowly, “I see.” In a low, almost inaudible tone, “On—_Whitman?_”

“Ye-e-e-s.”

“Oh…Did you read the book I gave you—the one with his war diary and notes?”

“Ye-e-e-s.”

“Astonishing!” whispers Fox. “Isn’t it
astonishing?
You can see just how he
did
it, can’t you? He—he
got right up
on everything,” Fox whispers, “just as if he were the thing itself—as if it were happening to
him!
”

“Ye-e-e-s.” She looks desperately around, then with averted eyes blurts out: “You were right about the other thing, too.”

“What other thing?”

“About night—how there’s so much night and darkness in himhis—his feeling for night.”

“Oh,” Fox whispers slowly, his sea-pale eyes misted with reflection. “Did you tell about that, too?”

“Ye-e-s. It’s
tr-u-e
. After you told me, I read him again, and it’s
tr-u-e
.”

Shy, desperate, timid, stricken as she is, she nevertheless knows it’s true when it’s true.

“That’s
fine!
” Fox whispers, and shakes his head sharply with immense satisfaction. “I’ll bet it’s
good!
”

The girl’s ivory features flush crimson. Like Fox, she loves praise, yet cannot stand to have it spoken. She squirms, is terrified, is hoping against hope----

“I don’t
kno-o-w
,” she gasps. “Miss Allen didn’t like the last paper I wrote—what I said about Mark Twain.”

“Then,” Fox whispers, low and scornfully, “let Miss Allen
not
like it. That was a
fine
paper,” he whispers. “What—what you said about the River was just right.”

“I
kno-o-w!
And that was the part she didn’t like. She didn’t seem to know what I was talking about—said it was immature and not sound, and gave me a ‘C’.”

“Oh,” says Fox absently, thinking all the time with an immense satisfaction of the spirit: “What a girl this
is!
She has a
fine
mind. She—she
understands
things!”

“You see, darling,” Fox whispers gently, coming back to Miss Allen, “it’s not their fault. These people do the best they can—but—but they just can’t seem to
understand
,” he whispers. “You see, Miss Allen is an—an academic kind of person—I guess, kind of an old maid,
really
,” he whispers, with an emphatic movement of the head—“and that kind of person, darling, just wouldn’t be able to understand what Whitman and Mark Twain and Keats are like…It’s—it’s a shame,” Fox mutters, and shakes his head, his eyes troubled with regret—“it’s a shame we’ve got to hear about these people first in—in schools—from—from people like Miss Allen. You see, darling,” Fox says gently, his face cocked sideways, his good ear pointing towards the girl, his language simple as a shoe, his face keen, shrewd, thoughtful, and absorbed, and radiant as a blade of light, as it always is when interest and reflection hold the wise serpent of his brain—“you see, darling, schools are all right,
really
—but the
Thing
they do is different from the
Thing
that Keats and Whitman and Mark Twain do…People like that really have no place in schools. A—a
school
,” Fox whispers, “is an
academic
kind of place, you see—and the people that you find in schools are academic people—and these other kind of people—the
poets
,” whispers Fox, “are not academic people—they’re—they’re really
against
what the academic people do—they are people who—who
discover
things for themselves,” Fox whispers, “who burst through and make another world—and the academic people cannot understand them—so that’s why what the academic people say about them is—_is not much good_,” Fox whispers. For a moment he is silent, then shakes his head and mutters in a low tone of profound regret: “It’s a
pity!
Too
bad
you’ve got to hear about it first in schools—but—but just do the best you can with it—get what you can from it—and—and when
those people
“—whisper mixed with understanding, pity, and contempt—“have gone as far as they can go, just forget about the
rest
they tell you.”

“I
kno-o-w
! But, really, daddy, when Miss Allen starts drawing charts and diagrams upon the blackboard, showing how they
did
it—it’s—it’s
aw-w-full
I can’t
be-e-ar
it—it just makes everything so,—_te-er-rible_!...Oh, daddy, let me go!” She squirms to free herself again, her tender features tortured with self-consciousness. “
Please
, daddy! I’ve got to! I’ll be
late!
”

“How are you going?”

“But
naturally
, the way I always go.”

“By taxi?”

“But of
course
not, I take the
str-e-e-t
car.”

“Oh…What street car?”

“The Lexington A-a-a-venue.”

“Alone?” says Fox in a low, grave, troubled tone.

“But, of
course
, daddy!”

He looks at her sternly with a sorrow-troubled face, and shakes his head.

“But what’s wrong with taking the
str-e-e-t
car? Oh, daddy, you’re
so-o
—” she squirms, looks off indefinitely, her face touched by a smile of agonised embarrassment. “
Please
, daddy! Let me
go-o-o!
I tell you I’ll be
late!
”