Читать книгу The Fighting Littles - Booth Tarkington - Страница 8

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Entrance through an open French window brought him into the dining-room, and here he remembered something. On the previous evening, while “the family” sat elsewhere, he had retired quietly to the dining-room to read a borrowed well-worn work reputed liable to confiscation and known to him and his male circle as Bokakio. Threatened by interruption, he’d hurriedly thrust the volume into a drawer of the small sideboard; and now, as nobody was near, he decided to retrieve it and do a little more summer reading.

The humidity of the weather made the drawer stick, and, resenting this, he jerked the handle powerfully. The drawer yielded; and so, to an extent, did the whole sideboard. A fine old rose-pink glass compote, a trophy of one of his mother’s antiquing excursions, slid picturesquely over a polished mahogany surface and dispersed itself upon the floor. It was accompanied by another antique, a Sheffield teapot, which naturally suffered less and only had its spout bent.

Filmer was annoyed. He was often accompanied by breakage—seldom a week passed without his dismembering some useless, prized old thing—but nobody except himself ever became accustomed to it; and he now realized he’d have to listen to a lot of dismal blah-blah about the compote before the day was over. That wouldn’t be all, either: the subject would be brought up time and time again in the future, long after he was thoroughly sick of it.

He replaced the teapot, leaving the bent spout in shadow toward the wall, so that his mother wouldn’t notice the difference, probably, until the next time she asked somebody to tea. Then, having used a foot to push the ruins of the compote beneath the sideboard, he brought forth the book, closed the drawer, went out to the garage, sat upon a stool, and resumed his perusal of Bokakio. As he read, he absently smoked cigarettes, lighting one at the end of another, until finally he was surprised to find the package empty. By that time, however, he heard a musical gong belling indoors, Gentry Poindexter’s announcement of lunch.

Filmer placed Bokakio carefully under a large box of junk; and then, fearing that he perhaps reeked of tobacco, he washed his hands and face at a sink in the garage and made use of two Eucalina tablets. Remains of these were still precautionarily in his mouth as he came into the dining-room and sat down beside Cousin Olita, opposite Goody. His father was present. Ripley Little often lunched at home, having resigned from his downtown club in May 1940 when one of the new members asked him if he thought the President could be persuaded to accept a third term.

“That the way to behave?” Ripley Little gave the favorite a surprisingly cold glance. “No greeting? No courtesy? Just clop-clop in and flop down in your chair and begin guzzling? No apologies for what you’ve done? Nothing?”

Filmer looked hurt. “For what I’ve done? Father, I haven’t been doing anything I know of.”

Mrs. Little shook her head sadly. “Filmer, of course you know what you did; you couldn’t have forgotten it this soon, and I’m sure he’s sorry, Ripley.”

“Then why doesn’t he say so?” Little asked. “He’s a mystery. How does he manage to destroy property by merely walking into a room? It must have been so; time and again he does it. There wasn’t anything on the sideboard to interest him. How could——”

“I was outdoors when I heard the crash,” Cousin Olita said. “I didn’t come in, though, because he doesn’t often hurt himself much. Maybe he got dizzy and reached for something to steady himself without looking. It might have something to do with that medical smell he often has because just a little while before I’d been asking him if he oughtn’t to have the doctor for it. I do think he ought to, because I notice it gets stronger and stronger.” She glanced about brightly. “Don’t you all smell it again right now?”

“Smell it?” Little repeated. “Smell it? It gets into the food. As soon as he came into the room I began to taste it and since he’s sat down I can’t taste anything else.” After a busy hot morning downtown, Ripley Little had come home by hot bus, wilted; he’d bathed and donned a new “tropic suit” of pale linen. Then, somewhat refreshed, he had been told by Gentry Poindexter of the loss of the valuable compote. The favored child was responsible, no question; and the father didn’t wish to be hard on him; but the smell, on top of the destruction, was trying. “You didn’t radiate this odor at breakfast, Filmer. How do you manage to do it now?”

“I guess,” Filmer said apologetically, “I guess I must of got some of that soap on my hands again from washing.”

“Soap?” his father asked. “How do you expect to wash without getting soap on your hands? Do you usually wash with your elbows?” He stared down the table at his wife. “Can’t that soap be changed? He seems to be allergic to it and maybe Olita’s right; possibly he ought to see a specialist. A good epidermist might be able to tell us why the rest of us can use that soap without——”

He was interrupted by a little accident. Filmer, nervous, had applied too much force to the cutting of a chop upon his plate. The chop, not tender, slippery with the juices wherein it lay, leaped from Filmer’s plate and came to rest temporarily upon his father’s new linen lap.

Little cried out unhappily, and, making the matter worse with a napkin soaked in ice water from a goblet, spoke testily of his son, of the price of clothes, and of the cost of compotes believed to be of Bristol glass; but he had to interrupt himself for hygienic reasons. “Stop that!” he commanded. “Job jam it, going to eat it after it’s been on the floor?” Again he addressed his wife. “Almost fifteen years old and he’ll eat anything—anything! Does he care where it’s been? He does not! Only the other day I saw him drop an all-day sucker on a dobdab ant-hill and then eat it—or at least he would have eaten it, ants and all, if I hadn’t taken it away from him.”

Abashed, Filmer nevertheless defended himself. “The other day? Why, my goodness, Father! When that happened I wasn’t hardly over nine years old. I only——”

“ ‘Only’!” Little said. “Only ruined my clothes! And then going to eat it right off the floor! Why, when I was your age if my father had to talk to me as I’m compelled to——”

Sunny Cousin Olita spoke to Goody in a caressing voice. “You had a nice morning with your new friend, didn’t you, dearie?”

“Just beautiful,” Goody said, and, as her face was all right again, looked better than beautiful herself. Color was unusually high in her young cheeks; her voice had something new in it—a hushed and honeyed lingering, a rhapsodied little drawl. “Beautiful,” she said dreamily. “He thinks we ought to have a hedge in front of the house instead of the fence, to be like the rest of the neighborhood. He likes to sing duets, Mother; so I’ve called up Madam Wurtza and arranged to begin vocal lessons, two a week. It’s only four dollars a lesson. He said——”

“Who?” Ripley Little stared at his daughter. “Who is it that wants me to take down our fence and put up a hedge to get frost-killed and’s already costing me eight dollars a week for music lessons? Who is this new——”

“He’s a friend of mine,” Goody replied, not eating but gazing wistfully at the tablecloth. “He says this city ought to have lots better architecture, Cousin Olita. He says for instance our house shouldn’t have that side gable on it, and either the Watsons next door ought to paint their porch white or we ought to change ours to yellow. He’s right about that, don’t you think, Cousin Olita? He says I ought to send for a Chow from the Archblow Kennels on Long Island.”

Ripley Little also had stopped eating, though he grippingly retained his knife in his right hand. “A what from where?” he asked. “Say that again.”

“A darling Chow puppy, Father. He said to get you to wire for it and to have your bank wire the Archblow Kennels you’re good for it and——”

“I’m not!” her father interrupted. “I’m not good for it. If I ever see a Chow in this house I’ll be bad for it. In the meantime I’m asking again: Who is this new family adviser you——”

“It’s so strange,” Goody said, looking dreamier and dreamier. “I’ve lived my whole life in the same town with him and thought I knew him, but never really understood a thing about his nature until the other night at a party something urged me to stop dancing and walk about the lawn with him, listening to the music. Then all at once I saw how different he is and’s almost the first one I ever talked to that takes the serious view of life, and wanted to tell me about capital and labor and Hitlerism and these old American reactionaries and how few people understand the vast problems our generation’s had wished on us. He talked about you, a little, Father. He thinks in your business you’re maybe following old-line methods too closely. He thinks most of you businessmen downtown——”

“Who does?” her father asked. “Who thinks I’m following old-line methods and wants to tell everybody downtown how to run their businesses?” Little paused for a reply; but, as Goody only smiled absently, he continued: “Let me get this straight. You met a boy at a party who’s got you taking music lessons at four dollars a crack to sing duets with him, and’s going to solve vast problems and rip out our fence and the side gable and paint the porch different and have my bank support my credit for the purchase of a Chow pup. I ask you who——” Ripley Little’s already incensed breathing unfortunately inhaled from the direction of his son. “Job jam it!” he said muffledly. “Move farther away! Move down towards Cousin Olita, can’t you? Let her have it a while!” He looked protuberantly at his wife. “I was talking to old Colonel Roland O. Whiting yesterday, the Americanest man I know; he’s ninety-eight and a half years old, the last of the Fighting Whitings, all four of ’em Civil War officers and lifelong friends of my great-uncle, Brigadier General Cuneo Ripley Little that I was named for, as none of you ever remembers no matter how often I’ve told you. He said to me——”

“Who, Father?” Filmer asked, confused though his interest was aroused. “Was it your great-uncle that you’re named for, or one of the Fighting Whitings that said this to you? Which did, and what did he——”

“I’m speaking to your mother,” Little said. “At least, I’m trying to. In conversation with me yesterday old Colonel Roland O. Whiting declared solemnly that this whole earth’s now become an insane asylum, and is he right! Europe, Asia, Africa, a man’s own country, a man’s own business, a man’s own home life—it’s all jazz-banged to flinders. It’s complete!”

He spoke with sincere conviction. At the moment almost all of the gentler impulses, including the instinctive fondnesses of fatherhood, were motionless within him. Filmer, as much as Goody, appeared to be an inexplicable creature who contained no trace of his own or any other intelligence. Without the slightest sense of responsibility, Filmer ruined a suit of clothes, the taste of food, a fifty-five-dollar compote and ate off the floor, all within the same hour—and he hadn’t much more than started the day, at that! You couldn’t even tell if he’d be alive by sunset. As for Goody, instead of trying to do something to make up for the car she’d transmuted to junk, she plainly tended to slide into a state of unpleasing lovesickness brought on, apparently, by the half-witted conversation of an adolescent Youth Movement spouter at a dance. Mrs. Little wasn’t doing anything to stop any of this, and Cousin Olita seldom came indoors when it rained unless frightened by thunder. Ripley Little felt lonely, all alone among shapes that looked like thinking beings but weren’t.

He applied more ice water to his lap, with poor results, and asked huskily, “Since Goody seems unable to mention the sacred name, will somebody else kindly try to tell me just who is this refashioner of our family’s destinies, this Walking Brain?”

“Why, I thought I’d mentioned his name,” Goody said. “You’re getting an entirely wrong impression; it’s somebody you like, Father. The other day when you spoke of him to me I was silly enough never to have appreciated him; but it was only because I didn’t really know him then. It’s Norman Peel, Father.”

“Norm——” Little began, stopped abruptly and stared at her suspiciously. His son, misinterpreting the father’s expression, believing it to be one of indignation, thought to regain lost favor.

“Norman Peel!” Filmer said jeeringly. “She’s telling you straight. That’s the new one, Father; everybody says so. She’s gone plumb mush over that spectacled, dish-faced——”

“What!” The dreamy Goody came to life; her eyes flashed. “You dare? You who go around smelling, breaking everything and eating ants! You! Why, you aren’t worthy even to speak the name of——”

“I am too!” Filmer shouted. “Why, even Norman Peel’s own cousins say that guy’s the most egotistical guy they ever knew; they say he’s practically got meegomania. They say——”

“Mother!” Goody rose emotionally. “If this is to be permitted at your table I for one decline to sit here and listen to it. For one, I ask to be excused!”

“That’s merely sex,” Filmer said, addressing his father informatively, as Goody left the room. “She’d finished her lunch anyhow and she’s been nothing on earth but pure sex practically as long as I’ve known her. It’s all that’s behind this eight-dollars-a-week duet idea; though I don’t say it’s sex exactly that makes her want to buy a Chow—a Chow or any dog at all might be a good idea—but the rest of it’s nothing but. For instance, take all this hooey about changing the fence and painting the porch yellow and cutting out the gable: Doesn’t that betray she’d ruin our whole place just to——”

“Have you finished your lunch?” his father asked. “If you have——”

“Oh, all right.” Filmer rose, aggrieved. “At least I’m old enough to grasp when my few opinions aren’t thought to be desired.” He left the table proudly.

Little, preparing to go, himself, glanced frowningly at Cousin Olita and then at his wife. “Well, what is it?” he asked. “Was she putting on an act at me? Was she trying to put something over on me?”

“What like, Ripley?” Mrs. Little said. “I don’t see——”

“I mean about Norman Peel.” His suspiciousness increased. “Just because I happened to mention Norman Peel the other day as a superior young man and——”

“Oh, no, no!” Cousin Olita and Mrs. Little both spoke together, and then Mrs. Little continued, “It’s only too genuine, Ripley! I don’t think she’s ever been so much this way before.”

“No, she really hasn’t,” Cousin Olita added. “Genuine? I should say so! I flatter myself I know the real thing when I see it, Cousin Ripley. It’s lovely to watch when it springs up this way, and I think you did a wise thing when you pushed him at her. I’m sure he’s all you told her he was and you can always be glad you had a hand in it.”

“It didn’t sound like him,” Little said. “What she quoted him as saying didn’t seem to me characteristic. When I’ve seen Norman Peel downtown he’s always appeared to be a bright young fellow anxious to get on in business and——”

“But that’s different,” Mrs. Little explained. “When they’re with each other they’re often almost the very opposite of what they are with us, Ripley. He’s a serious young man; but of course Goody’d make him feel much more at home with her than he would with you, don’t you think? No, I’m sure she told us entirely truthfully just what he——”

“Yes, indeed!” Cousin Olita added this confirmation. “Goody admires him too much to change a word she heard fall from his lips.”

“All right,” Little said. “All right, all right! I suppose nothing whatever’s been heard from the unparalleled snail, A. P. Crappio? He hasn’t condescended to telephone when he thinks our remaining car will be out of the shop?”

“Yes, he has, though.” Cousin Olita, rising to go, was benign. “You’ll be glad to hear, Cousin Ripley, Crappio sent it back this morning, and it looks so nice.”

Gentry Poindexter had come in to clear the table, and Little spoke to him. “Bring it around, Gentry. You can take me downtown in it and finish your dishes after you get back.”

The colored man went hastily to the pantry door, bearing a single saltcellar on his tray. “Miss Goody already tooken it, Mr. Little.”

“What?”

“Yes, suh; jes’ see her rollin’ out the driveway from the window. She already out pleasure-drivin’. Guess still go’ be bus for you, Mr. Little, yes, suh.”

The pantry door swung quickly, removing Gentry Poindexter from the sight of his employer, who turned to speak to Mrs. Little and Cousin Olita. They, however, were no longer in the room.