Theophilus North (44 page)

“Oh, Tante Liselotte, you know the old hymn and Bach's music for it, ‘
Gottes Zeit ist die allerbeste Zeit
.' ”

She repeated the words.
“Ja . . . Ja . . . Ich bin müde. Danke, junger Mann
.”

I rose with effort. I looked about, drowsy with fatigue, for Mrs. Grant. My eyes fell on the woman who had taken her place—on one of the nine faces dearest to me that I have known in my life, though I was to know her such a short time. She rose smiling.

I said, “Edweena,” and the tears rolled down my face.

“Theophilus,” she said, “you go downstairs. I will stay here a little longer. Henry is waiting for you. Can you find the way?”

As I leaned against the door I heard Edweena ask, “Where is the pain, dear Tante?”

“There is none . . . none.”

I wanted to reach the staircase, but my way was barred. I could scarcely keep my eyes open; I longed to lie down on the floor. I slowly walked as through a field of wheat. I had to unfasten hands from my sleeves, from the hem of my coat, even from my ankles. On the flight of stairs between the second and third floors I sat down on a step, leaned my head against the wall, and fell asleep. I don't know how long I slept, but I woke much refreshed and found Edweena sitting beside me. She had taken hold of my hand.

“Do you feel better?”

“Oh, yes.”

“It's nearly midnight. They'll be hunting for us. We'd better go downstairs. Can you walk all right? Are you yourself?”

“Yes. I think I had a long nap. I'm all rested.”

On the second-floor landing, under a light on the ceiling where we could see each other's face, she said, “Can you bear a bit of good news?”

“Yes, Edweena.”

“About five minutes after you left, Tante Liselotte died.”

I smiled, I started to say, “I killed her,” but Edweena put her hand on my mouth. “I understand a little German,” she said. “‘
Ich bin müde. Danke, junger Mann
.' ”

Together we entered the front rooms on the ground floor.

“Well, you've been quite a while,” said Mrs. Cranston. “Mrs. Grant has told me about the ending. You've performed your last miracle, Dr. North.”

“I'll walk you home, cully,” said Henry.

I said good night to the ladies. As I was going out the door, Mrs. Cranston called, “Mr. North, you've forgotten your envelope.”

I returned and took it. I bowed and said, “And thank you, ladies.”

On the way home, buoyed up by good old Henry and by the consciousness of having made a new friend in Edweena, I recalled a theory that I had long held and tested and played with—the theory of the Constellations: a man should have three masculine friends older than himself, three of about his own age, and three younger. And he should have three older women friends, three of his own age, and three younger. These twice-nine friends I call his Constellation.

Similarly, a woman should have her Constellation.

These friendships have nothing to do with passionate love. Love as a passion is a wonderful thing but it has its own laws and its own histories. Nor do they have anything to do with the relationships within the family which have their own laws and their own histories.

Seldom—perhaps never—are all eighteen roles filled at the same time. Vacancies occur; some live for years—or for a lifetime—with only one older or younger friend, or with none.

What a deep satisfaction we feel when a vacant place is filled, as it was by Edweena that night. (“Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken.”)

During those months in Newport I found one sound older friend, Bill Wentworth; two friends of my own age, Henry and Bodo; two younger friends, Mino and Galloper; two older women, Mrs. Cranston and (though meeting seldom) Signora Matera; two women of about my own age, Edweena and Persis; two younger women, Eloise and Elspeth.

But we must remember that we also play a part in the Constellations of others—which is a partial replacement in our own. I was certainly a younger friend necessary to Dr. Bosworth, though so self-centered a man could never meet the need of an older friend for me. “Rip” Vanwinkle and even George Granberry were ghosts of their former selves (the test is laughter; their resources for laughter were spent or quenched). I hope I was an older friend in Charles Fenwick's Constellation, but he was struggling to arrive at his rightful age and the struggle left him with little to give in the free exchanges of friendship.

Of course, this is only a fanciful theory of mine—not to be taken too literally, nor to be dismissed hastily. . . .

At the end of the summer I met Galloper at the Casino. We shook hands solemnly as usual.

“Have you got a minute to sit down over here in the spectators' gallery, Galloper?”

“Yes, Mr. North.”

“How's the family?”

“They're all very well.”

“When do your mother and sister leave for Europe?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“Please tell them I wish them a happy voyage.”

“I will.”

Comfortable pauses.

“You don't end every sentence with ‘sir' any more, do you?”

He looked at me with what I had come to know as his “interior smile.” “I told my father that American boys call their father ‘Dad' or ‘Papa.' ”

“
Did
you? Was he very angry?”

“He threw his hands up in the air and said that the world was going to pieces. . . . I call him ‘sir' the first thing in the morning, but most of the time I call him ‘Dad.' ”

“He'll come to like it.”

Comfortable silences.

“Have you decided what you're going to be in life?”

“I'm going to be a doctor. . . . Mr. North, do you think Dr. Bosco will still be teaching when I get to medical school?”

“Why not? He's not an old man at all. And you're a sharp student. You'll skip a class or two. I see where a fellow graduated from Harvard the other day at the age of nineteen. . . . So you're going to be a brain surgeon, eh? . . .

“Well, that's one of the most difficult professions in the world—hard on the body, on the mind, and on the spirit. . . . You come home tired at night after a couple of four- or five-hour operations hanging between life and death. . . .

“Marry a calm girl. See that she doesn't laugh outside, but inside, as you do. . . . Many great brain surgeons have a hobby to escape into when the burden gets too great—like music or collecting books about the early history of medicine. . . .

“Many great surgeons have to set up a kind of wall between themselves and the patients. To shield their hearts. See if you can change that. Put your face near to the patients when you talk to them. Pat them lightly on the elbow or the shoulder and smile. You're going down into the valley of death together, see what I mean? . . .

“Many a great Dr. Sawbones—do you mind the word?”

“No.”

“Many a Dr. Sawbones tends to withdraw into himself. To save his energy. They become domineering or eccentric—always a sign of an inner loneliness. Pick out a few friends—men and women, of all ages. You won't have much time to give them, but that doesn't matter. Dr. Bosco's best friend lives in France. He only sees him once in every three or four years, at congresses. They steal away and have a choice and expensive dinner together. Great surgeons tend to be great gourmets. After half an hour they discover that they're laughing together.—Well, I have to go now.”

We shook hands solemnly.

“Keep well, Galloper.”

“You, too, Mr. North.”

Bodo and Persis

This chapter might also be called “Nine Gables—Part Two,” but it has seemed advisable to place it here among these later chapters. It is therefore out of its chronological order. The events recounted here took place after the drive with Dr. Bosworth and Persis to Bishop Berkeley's “Whitehall” (when I explained that Bodo was not a fortune hunter but was himself a fortune) and before my last visit to “Nine Gables” (and that smashing ultimatum from Mrs. Bosworth: “Father, either that monster leaves this house or I do!”).

I have not yet entered into possession of my apartment. I am still living at the Y.M.C.A.

I had no classes on Monday nights. After supper in town on a certain Monday evening I returned to the “Y” at about eight. The desk clerk gave me a letter which I saw resting in my pigeonhole. Standing at the desk I opened and read it.
“Dear Mr. North, I often take a late drive. I hope you will not be too tired to join me tomorrow night when you've finished reading with my grandfather. You can place your bicycle in the back seat of my car and I can return you later to your door. There is something urgent I should tell you. This needs no answer. I shall be at the door of ‘Nine Gables' when you leave. Sincerely yours, Persis Tennyson.”
I put the letter in my pocket and was starting upstairs when the desk clerk said, “Mr. North, there's a gentleman over there who's been waiting to see you.”

I turned and saw Bodo coming toward me. I had never seen his face stern and taut before. We shook hands.

“Grüss Gott, Herr Baron.”

“Lobet den Herrn in der Ewigkeit,”
he replied unsmilingly. “Theophilus, I've come to say goodbye. Have you time to talk for an hour? I want to get a little bit drunk.”

“I'm ready.”

“I left my car up at the corner. I have two flasks of
Schnapps
.”

I followed him. “Where are we going?”

“To Doheney's, down at the Public Beach. We need ice.
Schnapps
is best when it's very cold.”

We started off. He said, “I shall never come to Newport again, if I can help it.”

“When do you go?”

“The Venables are giving a small dinner for me tomorrow night. When the guests are gone, I'll start driving to Washington and shall drive all night.”

His unhappiness was like a weight and a presence in the car. I remained silent. Doheney's was a “straight” bar, that is to say no illegal liquor was sold there. The curtains at the windows were not drawn. Guests could bring their own. It was as friendly as Mr. Doheney himself and it was almost empty. We sat at a table by an open window and ordered two teacups and a small pail of ice. We embedded the flasks and the teacups in the ice.

Bodo said, “Danny, we're going for a walk on the beach while the stuff gets cold.”

“Yes, Mr. Stams.”

We went out, crossed the road, and started walking toward the bathing pavilion—shut up for the night—our feet sinking in the sand. I followed like a familiar dog. Bodo ascended the steps and stood with his back against one of the pillars on the verandah. “Sit down, Theophilus; I want to think aloud for a few minutes.”

I obeyed and waited. Something awesome was going on in Bodo.

It is a universally held opinion of our day that full-grown men do not shed tears. I'm quite a weeper myself, but I'm not a sobber. I weep at music and at books and I weep at the movies. I never sob. I have told in
Chapter 7
how Elbert Hughes—who was not a full-grown man—cried like a baby and how exasperating it was. At college I had a friend who was about to be dismissed from the university for having published a plagiarized story in the undergraduate magazine of which I was an editor. His father was a clergyman. The scandal and disgrace would be overwhelming and would shatter his life. Perhaps I shall tell that story some day. The spectacle of his abasement was all the more devastating because he had been innocent of any intention to deceive. When I was at Fort Adams I knew a soldier, drafted from his farm in Kentucky. He had never been farther from his dirt-floor cabin, from his parents and his eight brothers and sisters than a visit to the nearest county seat. (“Till I was drafted I'd never wore a pair of shoes except on Sunday; my brother and I took turns wearing the shoes to church.”) Sobbing of homesickness. At the American Academy in Rome I cut down a friend who had been trying to hang himself in the shower because he had contracted a venereal disease—sobbing of rage.

There's a vast amount of suffering in the world—a small, but important, part of it, unnecessary.

Bodo's condition was something else. It was soundless, motionless, and tearless. Even in that diffused starlight I could see that his jaws were clenched and white; his gaze was not fixed on me nor on the wall behind me. It was turned inward. Here was my best friend—well, with Henry Simmons my best friend—in extremity. That starts a fellow thinking.

At last he spoke. “I called at ‘Nine Gables' this afternoon to say goodbye. I had the foolish notion that I might—just possibly might—ask Persis to be my wife. She showed a little more animation than usual, but we're all relieved when someone who bores us to death comes to say goodbye. Her grandfather, however, showed a real interest in me for the first time; wanted to talk about philosophy and philosophers; wouldn't let me go. . . . I don't understand her. . . . I can understand a woman not liking me, but I can't understand a total absence of any reaction whatever—just politeness, just evasive good manners. . . . We've spent so many hours together. We've been thrown at one another—by Mrs. Venable and Mrs. Bosworth and half a dozen others. We have
had
to make talk. Of course, I've asked her out to dinner, but there's no place on this island to go to dinner except the damned Muenchinger-King and she says that she doesn't like dining in public places. So we make talk at formal dinners. Each time, I'm knocked over by the fact that she's not only a very beautiful woman, but a superior one. She knows all about music and art and even
Austria
. She speaks three languages. She's reading all the time. She dances like Adeline Genée—I'm told that she sings beautifully. What's more, my instinct tells me that she has great capacity for life and love . . . and life. I love her. I love her. But she gives me no sign of recognizing that I am a living, breathing, possibly loving, human being. All that talk and nothing catches fire. You know how I like children and
children like me
. I turn the conversation to her three-year-old son, but even then nothing catches fire. . . . Sometimes I wish she showed annoyance, or down right dislike; I wish she'd snub me. I look around the dinner tables; she's the same with every man. . . . Perhaps she's grieving for her husband—but she's out of mourning; perhaps she's in love with someone else; perhaps she's in love with you. Don't interrupt yet! So I'm leaving Newport forever. I'm erasing Persis from my mind and heart. I'm renouncing something that I was never offered. Let's go see if the
Schnapps
is cold.”