My rescuer (“Joe”) had had free ingress to all motion-pictures and knew how to behave in great houses. “If Mr. North is ready to go, the car is waiting for him. We have a call to the Daubigny cottage. Good night, ladies and gentlemen, we are sorry to have been an inconvenience to you.”
I bowed in silence to the company and left.
Outside Joe said to his companion, “Let’s see where the gook’s gone.”
“He’s knocking at the side door, Joe. Do you think he needs any help, Joe?”
“They’ll find him. . . . The Chief says to have as little to do with these people as possible. They’re crazy as coots, he says. Let them wash their own sheets, he says.”
If I’d had a grain of decent feeling in me, I’d have resigned the next morning; but what’s a little family unpleasantness compared to discovering Bishop Berkeley, Croce, Vico, and letting one’s eyes rest on Persis Tennyson?
When the hour arrived for the Sunday drive to “Whitehall” Dr. Bosworth and his granddaughter were waiting at the door. It was a beautiful afternoon in August (but I remember no others; on Aquidneck Island rain fell—considerately—only when the inhabitants were sleeping ).
Persis said, “I shall sit in front with Jeffries. Mr. North, will you sit with Grandfather. He likes to drive slowly and I know he wants to talk to you.”
“Mrs. Tennyson, I have never had the pleasure of being introduced to you?”
“What!” said Dr. Bosworth.
“We have exchanged greetings,” I said.
Persis laughed. “Let us shake hands, Mr. North.”
Dr. Bosworth was bewildered. “Never met! Never introduced! What a house I live in! Cassius lying in the bushes—policemen passing around guns—Sarah and Mary behaving like . . .” He began laughing. “Makes an old man feel like King Lear.”
“Let’s forget all about it, Grandfather.”
“Yes.” He began pointing out to me some eighteenth-century doors and fanlights. “There are some beautiful houses all over town—going to rack and ruin. Nobody appreciates them.”
“Dr. Bosworth, I’ve discovered a resident in Newport who could have helped us with those metaphysical passages in Bishop Berkeley.”
“Who’s that?”
“Someone you know well—Baron Stams. He has a doctorate from Heidelberg in philosophy.”
“Bodo? God bless my soul! Does Bodo know anything?”
“He also has a doctorate from Vienna in political history.”
“Do you hear that, Persis? He’s a pleasant fellow, but I thought he was just one of these dancing-partners that Mrs. Venable collects for her parties. You always found him rather empty-headed, didn’t you, Persis?”
“Not empty-headed, Grandfather. Just difficult to talk to.”
“Yes, I remember your saying that. Surprised me. He seems to be able to talk easily to everybody he sits by except you. A regular gigolo. Your Aunt Sally always seats him by you and Mrs. Venable always seats him by you, I hear.”
Persis remained silent.
Dr. Bosworth again addressed me confidentially. “I always thought he was one of these fortune hunters, if you know what I mean—title, good looks, and nothing else.”
I began laughing.
“Why are you laughing, Mr. North?”
I made him wait for it and laughed some more.
“You find something droll about it, Mr. North?”
“Well, Dr. Bosworth, it’s Baron Stams who has the fortune.”
“Oh? He has money, has he?”
I looked Dr. Bosworth in the eye and I didn’t lower my voice. “A fortune: excellent brains, excellent character, a distinguished family, an assured career. He has been decorated by his country for bravery in battle and he almost died of his wounds. His castle at Stams is almost as beautiful as the famous monastery at Stams—which you must know. In addition, he’s lots of fun.” Again I laughed. “That’s what I call a fortune.”
Persis had turned her profile toward us. She appeared to be annoyed and bewildered.
We arrived at “Whitehall.” I had to hold my breath from awe.
Bishop Berkeley was the author of the line “Westward the course of empire takes its way.” There we were, pilgrims from the East.
In spite of kind invitations I never drove out in Dr. Bosworth’s car again; though I was taken for a drive in Persis Tennyson’s—an account of that starlit encounter I must defer. It will be found in a later chapter entitled “Bodo and Persis” whom it more closely concerns. Persis became her grandfather’s constant companion—running head on into the danger from which I was escaping, “favoritism.” Mrs. Bosworth’s tone became increasingly sharp to her, but Persis held firm. One afternoon I called on Dr. Bosworth at his request for a short talk following his daily drive. While waiting in his study for him to change his clothes I overheard the following conversation in the hall.
“You must be able to see, Aunt Sally, that these drives agree with Grandfather.”
“You are an ignorant girl, Persis. This activity will kill him.”
“I asked Grandfather as a favor to me to submit to an examination by Dr. Tedeschi. Dr. Tedeschi recommended the drives.”
“How could you take such a responsibility? Dr. Tedeschi is a puppy, and an Italian puppy at that.”
Dr. Bosworth reentered his study. He was overflowing with ideas that had occurred to him. He was preparing to present the great project to a still unselected board of directors. There was to be an administration building with two lecture halls, a large and a small; a well-stocked library; at least nine separate residences; large annual grants to the Masters; a dormitory and dining hall for whatever students the Masters consented to accept. Further expenditures were added in pencil along the margins. . . . The project called for millions and millions. Very exhilarating.
Two evenings later I arrived at the usual hour. Persis was waiting outside the house. She put her fingers on her lips, raised her eyebrows, and pointed toward the hall. There was trepidation and a shade of amusement on her face. She spoke no word. I rang the bell and was admitted by Willis. Mrs. Bosworth met me in the hall at some distance from her father’s study. She addressed me in a low voice but very distinctly. “Mr. North, since you entered this house you have been a constant source of confusion. I regard you as a foolish and dangerous man. Will you explain to me what you are trying to do to my father?”
I replied even more quietly. “I don’t understand what you mean, Mrs. Bosworth.”
It worked. Her voice rose. “Dr. Bosworth is a very sick man. These exertions may kill him.”
“Your father invited me to accompany him to ‘Whitehall.’ I assumed that he had his doctor’s permission.”
“Assumed! It is not your business to assume anything.”
I was now almost inaudible. “Dr. Bosworth spoke of his doctor’s approval.”
“He refuses to see his doctor—the man who has been his physician for thirty years. You are a trouble-maker. You are a vulgar intruder. Mr. North, it was I who engaged you to come to this house. Your engagement is terminated. Now! Now! Will you tell me what I owe you?”
“Thank you . . . Dr. Bosworth is expecting me. I shall go to his study to say goodbye to him.”
“I forbid you to take one step further.”
I had one more trick up my sleeve. Now I raised my voice. “Mrs. Bosworth, you are very pale. Are you unwell? Can I get you a glass of water?”
“I am perfectly well. Will you lower your voice, please?”
I started dashing about, shouting, “Mr. Willis! Mr. Willis! Is anybody there? Mrs. Turner! Nurse!”
“Stop this nonsense. I am perfectly well.”
I ran the length of the hall, calling, “Smelling salts! Help! Asafoetida!”
I overturned a table. Persis appeared. Mrs. Turner appeared. Willis appeared. Maids emerged from the kitchen.
“Do be quiet! I am perfectly well!”
“Call a doctor. Mrs. Bosworth has fainted.” I recalled a smashing phra
se from eighteenth-century novels, “Unlace her!”
Willis pulled up a chair behind Mrs. Bosworth so abruptly that she sank into it, outraged. Persis knelt and patted her hands. Dr. Bosworth appeared at the door of his study and the room fell silent. “What’s the matter, Sarah?”
“Nothing! This oaf has raised a great noise about nothing.”
“Persis?”
“Grandfather, Aunt Sally suddenly felt unwell. Fortunately Mr. North was here and called for help.”
Now it was like grand opera—that relief in the air when things crack open. Mrs. Bosworth rose and advanced toward her father—“Father, either that monster leaves this house or I do!”
“Willis, call Dr. McPherson. Sarah, you’re tired. You’re overworked. Mrs. Turner, will you kindly take Mrs. Bosworth up to her room. Go to bed, Sarah; go to bed! Persis, I want you to stay here. Willis!”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will have a whiskey and soda. Bring one for Mr. North, too.”
Whiskey! It was that request that made it clear to Mrs. Bosworth that her authority was at an end. After years of gruel, whiskey. She started for the stairs, brushing Mrs. Turner aside. “Don’t touch me! I can walk perfectly well by myself.”
“Dr. Bosworth,” I said, “I have great respect for Mrs. Bosworth. I shall certainly discontinue my visits here since they are so unwelcome to her. May I remain a few minutes to thank you for the privilege it has been to meet with you here?”
“What? What? We must talk this over. Persis, will you please join us?”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
“Mr. North feels that he must leave us. I hope he will be able to meet me from time to time at the ‘Reading Rooms.’ ”
Willis entered with our drinks. Dr. Bosworth raised his glass, saying, “Dr. Tedeschi recommended today that I have a little whiskey in the evening.”
Persis and I exchanged no glances, but I felt that we shared a sense of something accomplished.
That was my last engagement at “Nine Gables.”
Both Mrs. Bosworth and I left the house—she to visit a dear friend in England, I to offer my services elsewhere. But, as I have already told the reader, I had not yet entirely terminated my relations with all the residents at “Nine Gables.”
Toward the end of the summer I met Dr. Bosworth by chance. He was as cordial as ever. He confided to me that he was too old to cope with the numerous details involved in setting up an Academy of Philosophers; he had another project in mind—still a secret; he was planning to build and endow a clinic for that “excellent young physician Dr. Tedeschi.”
Rip
Late in June I was surprised to discover that someone I had known fairly well at college was living in Newport’s Sixth City. One late afternoon I was wheeling homewards along the Avenue when I was startled to hear a voice from a passing car calling “Theophilus! Theophilus! What the hell are you doing here?” I drew up beside the curb. The car which had passed me did so also. A man alighted and walked toward me laughing. Still laughing he slapped me on the back, punched me in the thorax, seized my shoulder, and shook me like a rat. It took me some minutes to recognize Nicholas Vanwinkle. All his life—through school, college, and military service—he had naturally been called “Rip.” There was a legend in his family that Washington Irving had known his grandfather well and had written him one day asking permission to use the name Vanwinkle, applying it to a likeable old character in a story he was writing about the Dutchmen living in the Catskills. He was given cordial permission and the result became known around the world.
And once again the name “Rip Van Winkle” attained a wide celebrity, for the man who was handling me roughly on Bellevue Avenue was the great ace in the War, one of the four most decorated veterans on “our side” and The Terror (and tacitly acknowledged admiration) of the Germans. He had been a member of the class of 1916, but the men who received their degrees in 1920 included many who had left school long before to take part in the War—some enlisting in Canada before our country was involved; some like my brother and Bob Hutchins joining ambulance units in France and the Balkans, then later transferring to our services. Many among the survivors of these dispersed students returned to Yale to complete their undergraduate education in 1919 and 1920. I had not known Rip well; he had moved in far more brilliant circles; he was the very flower of the jeunesse dorée and an international celebrity in addition; but I had conversed with him many times in the Elizabethan Club, where he could very well represent for us the figure of Sir Philip Sidney, the perfection of knighthood. Tall, handsome, wealthy, preeminent in all the sports he engaged in (though he did not play football or baseball), and endowed with a simplicity of manner far removed from the stiffness and condescension prevalent in his own coterie, sons of the great steel and investment banking houses.
By chance I ran into him in Paris one noon on the Avenue de l’Opéra in the late spring of 1921, soon after I had finished my year’s study in Rome. We crossed near the entrance to the Café de Paris and he promptly asked me to lunch there. His simple spontaneity was unaltered. He was returning to America the next day, he said, to marry “the finest girl in the world.” It was a delightful hour. Little could I perceive that the price of our meal was from the bottom of his pocket. I had not seen him nor heard anything about his private life in the intervening five years. Five years is a long time in one’s late youth. He was now thirty-five, but looked well over forty. The buoyancy of his greeting soon gave way to an ill-concealed dejection or fatigue.
“What are you doing, Theo? Tell me about yourself. I’ve got to go out to dinner, but I have a whole hour before I have to dress. Can we sit down and have a drink somewhere?”
“I’m free, Rip.”
“Come on—the Muenchinger-King! Put your bike in the back seat. Gee, I’m glad to see you. You’ve been teaching somewhere—is that right?”
I told him what I had been doing and what I was doing. I pulled out of my purse a clipping of the advertisement I had placed in the Newport paper. There was something refreshing and moving about the selflessness of his attention, but I was soon aware that it was precisely the relief of not talking or thinking about himself that he was enjoying. Finally I fell silent. His eyes kept returning to the clipping.
“You know all these languages?”
“Hit or miss and a bit of bluff, Rip.”
“Have you a good number of students or listeners, or whatever you call them?”
“Just about as many as I can handle.”
“You know German, too?”
“I went to German schools in China when I was a boy and have kept up my interest in it ever since.”
“Theo?—”
“Call me Ted, will you, Rip? ‘Theophilus’ is unmanageable and ‘Theo’ is awkward. Everybody calls me Ted or Teddie, now.”
“All right . . . listen, I have an idea. Next spring, in Berlin, there’s going to be a banquet and two-day reunion for the men on both sides who fought in the air. Bury the hatchet, see what I mean? Hands across the sea. Gallant enemies. Toasts to the dead and all that. I want to go. I’ve got to go. And I want to get a little practice in the German language first. I had two years of German in prep school and I had a German grandmother. Now at that meeting I’d like to be able to show that I can at least stumble around in German. . . . Ted, could you find two two-hour lessons a week for me?”
“Yes. Early morning all right for you? Eight o’clock? I’m giving up some of those tennis coaching hours now that the pro’s come back.”
“Fine.”
He looked down at the table a moment. “It won’t go down well with my wife; but this is a thing I want to do, and, by Jesus, I’ll do it.”
“Your wife doesn’t like anything that has to do with Germany?”
“Oh, it isn’t that! She has a hundred reasons against my going. Leaving her alone with the children in New York. She thinks that any recall of the War makes me nervous and high-strung. God damn it, this trip would make all that
easier for me. And there’s the expense, Ted—the useless expense! Mind you, I love my wife; she’s a wonderful woman, but she hates useless expense. We have the New York house and we have this cottage. She thinks that’s all she can manage. But, Ted, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to shake their hands. Bury the hatchet, see what I mean? They tell me I’m as well known over there as Richthofen is over here. Can you understand how I feel about it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Gee, it’s great seeing you again. It gives me the strength I need to put this thing through. Don’t you think I owe them the courtesy of making an attempt to speak German? You can start me picking it up again this summer; and I’ll work like a fool on it for the rest of the year. God knows, I have nothing else to do.”
“What do you mean by that, Rip?”
“I have an office. . . . The idea was that I was to manage my wife’s property. But the money kept getting bigger and the advisers at the bank kept getting more and more important—so that there was less and less for me to do.”
I got the idea and answered quickly, “What would you like to do?”
He rose and said, “Do? Do? Suggest something. I’d like to be a streetcar conductor. I’d like to be a telephone repairman!” He brushed his hand across his forehead and looked about him almost feverishly; then concluded with forced joviality, “I’d like to break my engagement tonight and go out to dinner with you, but I can’t,” and he sat down again.
“Well,” I said in German, “I’m not leaving town. We can have dinner some other night.”
He pushed his glass backward and forward broodingly, as though that possibility was doubtful. “Ted, do you remember how Gulliver in the land of the little people—”
“In Lilliput—”
“In Lilliput was tied to the ground by thousands of small silk threads? That’s me.”
I rose and looked him straight in the eye: “You’re going to that banquet in Germany.”
He returned my seriousness, lowering his voice. “I don’t see how. I don’t see where I’ll get the money.”
“I always thought you came of a very well-to-do family.”