baby’s rebellion, her sister withdraws in remote adolescent silence, and Elijah, the adult, takes refuge in that false intellectualism that fools nobody. “The idiom of one’s surroundings,” Eli had said, “A protest should be phrased in the idiom of one’s surroundings.”
Stefan suddenly regretted that it was Friday evening and the office closed. Even upstairs in his room, he would feel the pall in the house; down here the kitchen was choked to the ceiling with it. Alexandra was discoursing on neutral matters—“Twenty-five cents for a pound of butter—two cents for one egg—the poor will starve—” but behind her words fluttered a private agitation, residue of the three separate scenes that had followed the three separate arrivals of the children during the afternoon.
Just as Eli had irritated him the most, so Fran had hurt Alexandra the most, attacking in the most vulnerable spot.
“I’m never going to let another boy come here,” Fran cried out the moment Jack Purney left. “You don’t want me to know anybody nice.” Alexandra’s face went tight with outrage, but Fran raced on. “I nearly died, with Jack right here hearing everything you said.”
“But you insisted on an explanation then and there. You wouldn’t wait.”
“You could have not told me. Not right in front of Jack.”
Stefan Ivarin directed his glance to his older daughter. Every day she became less the child, more the woman, and with her developing beauty she would soon enough give them a new kind of worry. But in her lowered eyes and straightened lips, there was something disagreeable and guarded.
Next to her was Fira, still stormy and rebellious, but openly so. From babyhood on, there had never been anything enigmatic and closed about her; she loved, hated, laughed, cried—all openly and fully. When her friend Trudy had left, there had been another scene about the black bunting; the house had echoed with Fee’s sobs and Alexandra’s attempts to persuade and comfort. Supper had brought only a hiatus—what an evening lay ahead!
On the other side of the table, Eli and Joan were putting up a life-less pretense of responding to Alexandra’s dissertation on high prices. Idiom indeed, Stefan thought now as he glanced at his son. What an argument I could give him! A verbal hiding that his lordly manner asks for. But it would upset Alexandra and ruin my evening.
Again he thought of the office and irritation pinked him. What nonsense, this pious pretense of observing the Sabbath in an office where ninety-five per cent of the staff were agnostic or atheist or at least unorthodox. But even with the office closed, New York might not be such a bad idea. By nine he could be at the café, playing chess or talking over a glass of tea with people who felt no need to instruct him in the niceties of public protest.
“Isn’t it so, Stiva?”
It was Alexandra, a new note in her voice. “Isn’t what so?” he asked warily, sure she had left the safe topic of high prices.
“That the A.F. of L. has more than doubled in ten years?”
“Tripled,” he answered. “In nineteen hundred, it had only half a million members.”
Alexandra looked triumphantly at her son. “You see?”
“Just the same,” Eli said, “you can’t prove they added even one member by doing things like that.” He jerked his thumb toward the front of the house.
“And can you prove,” Stefan answered for Alexandra, “that they did not add even one member by doing them?”
“I bet I could prove that thousands were alienated by such farfetched—”
“What is this sudden passion for proving?” Stefan interrupted sharply. “Next, you will be ‘proving’ your point about the ‘idiom of one’s surroundings.’”
“That’s just common sense,” Eli said. “Just an understanding of human nature.”
“And your mother and I,” Stefan replied, leaning forward so that one of his vest buttons clicked against the edge of the table, “have neither
Stefan suddenly regretted that it was Friday evening and the office closed. Even upstairs in his room, he would feel the pall in the house; down here the kitchen was choked to the ceiling with it. Alexandra was discoursing on neutral matters—“Twenty-five cents for a pound of butter—two cents for one egg—the poor will starve—” but behind her words fluttered a private agitation, residue of the three separate scenes that had followed the three separate arrivals of the children during the afternoon.
Just as Eli had irritated him the most, so Fran had hurt Alexandra the most, attacking in the most vulnerable spot.
“I’m never going to let another boy come here,” Fran cried out the moment Jack Purney left. “You don’t want me to know anybody nice.” Alexandra’s face went tight with outrage, but Fran raced on. “I nearly died, with Jack right here hearing everything you said.”
“But you insisted on an explanation then and there. You wouldn’t wait.”
“You could have not told me. Not right in front of Jack.”
Stefan Ivarin directed his glance to his older daughter. Every day she became less the child, more the woman, and with her developing beauty she would soon enough give them a new kind of worry. But in her lowered eyes and straightened lips, there was something disagreeable and guarded.
Next to her was Fira, still stormy and rebellious, but openly so. From babyhood on, there had never been anything enigmatic and closed about her; she loved, hated, laughed, cried—all openly and fully. When her friend Trudy had left, there had been another scene about the black bunting; the house had echoed with Fee’s sobs and Alexandra’s attempts to persuade and comfort. Supper had brought only a hiatus—what an evening lay ahead!
On the other side of the table, Eli and Joan were putting up a life-less pretense of responding to Alexandra’s dissertation on high prices. Idiom indeed, Stefan thought now as he glanced at his son. What an argument I could give him! A verbal hiding that his lordly manner asks for. But it would upset Alexandra and ruin my evening.
Again he thought of the office and irritation pinked him. What nonsense, this pious pretense of observing the Sabbath in an office where ninety-five per cent of the staff were agnostic or atheist or at least unorthodox. But even with the office closed, New York might not be such a bad idea. By nine he could be at the café, playing chess or talking over a glass of tea with people who felt no need to instruct him in the niceties of public protest.
“Isn’t it so, Stiva?”
It was Alexandra, a new note in her voice. “Isn’t what so?” he asked warily, sure she had left the safe topic of high prices.
“That the A.F. of L. has more than doubled in ten years?”
“Tripled,” he answered. “In nineteen hundred, it had only half a million members.”
Alexandra looked triumphantly at her son. “You see?”
“Just the same,” Eli said, “you can’t prove they added even one member by doing things like that.” He jerked his thumb toward the front of the house.
“And can you prove,” Stefan answered for Alexandra, “that they did not add even one member by doing them?”
“I bet I could prove that thousands were alienated by such farfetched—”
“What is this sudden passion for proving?” Stefan interrupted sharply. “Next, you will be ‘proving’ your point about the ‘idiom of one’s surroundings.’”
“That’s just common sense,” Eli said. “Just an understanding of human nature.”
“And your mother and I,” Stefan replied, leaning forward so that one of his vest buttons clicked against the edge of the table, “have neither
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