no way to know what to expect. Edith sees him as brilliant and flawed. Kind and selfish. Both master and child. Approaching the age of sixty-four, he has grown stout and unwell. During the cold spring trip they took with him the previous year, he was often dyspeptic, and had moments of what Edith thought of as thermostatic issues: he would suddenly and dramatically become hot. Itchy. This would usually occur after dinner. If he was in familiar company, he would apologize profusely, remove his jacket, then his waistcoat and then, with nothing else to remove, he’d go to bed. Edith remembers her mother going through a similar phase as part of “the change.” She didn’t think men experienced this too.
But if any man could, it’s fitting that it be Henry, for, despite his rich masculine voice and dominant presence, there is a femininity about him that Edith can’t help noting. She sees it in his sensuous lips and his perfectly manicured hands. And in his eyes. Henry has the clear, gentle eyes of a child.
Henry once confided in Edith that as a child he was mortified by a stammer so profound it took a Herculean effort for him to share even the simplest thoughts, so even now each spoken word bears the weight of a dictionary falling off a shelf. It often takes him so long to get to the point, a simple story can grow to four, six, eight times its natural size. While Edith knows she’s in for an exquisite ride, others are often not as indulgent.
At the dinner party she throws on the night of his arrival, Henry is in grand form, spinning a single story that dominates the entire dinner from soup to dessert. It is a long-winded narrative, even for Henry, and though to Edith it seems wonderful, she sees it strains the patience of even the most tolerant of her guests.
After Henry has retired, Teddy, still pale from a week’s bout of influenza, struts into Edith’s boudoir and perches heavily on the edge of her bed, sighing.
“Must everything Henry says be a literary reference?” he says. “I never had a class at Harvard so wearisome.”
Edith takes a deep breath. “Some things are worth waiting for.”
“But every time he speaks, I fear the train will
never
reach the station.”
She rises and comes over to him, pressing her hand against his forehead. “You’re still feverish, dear,” she says. “Go to bed. We want you well for our motor trip.”
“Promise me you will not let Mr. James go on while we are trapped in the motorcar with him, Puss.”
“I can’t control Henry,” she says.
“Well, give it a try.” He sniffs, shuffles into his own room and closes the door sharply behind him.
Edith is amazed that she has so far avoided Teddy’s influenza. Instead, it’s Henry who falls ill. Two days after his arrival, he asks Alfred White to inform Edith that he is seriously, possibly fatally indisposed.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. That is what he told me to convey,” Alfred says, looking at his shoes.
Edith hurries to Henry’s room and taps on the door.
“May I come in?” she asks.
“If you dare,” he says. Henry looks like a great beached whale, lying in the middle of the
lit bateau
with the covers neatly tucked under his armpits.
“I think I shall die,” he says. “You’ll have to have a piano mover remove me from this lovely bedroom,” he announces. He moans and lies back on his pillow. Edith notes that he has put on a beautiful silk dressing gown and wears an ascot. Quite an effort for just lying in bed.
“We’ll take very good care of you,” she assures him.
She arranges for much tea with honey, all sorts of croissants and toast and stewed chicken to be brought to his room.
Later in the afternoon, Henry asks for Anna. Soft, serious Anna enters his room, shuts the door and doesn’t come out for an hour.
Edith, feeling a tad jealous, monitors the door. When Anna emerges, Edith ushers her away from Henry’s room. “What on earth did he speak to you about?” she asks.
“He told me
But if any man could, it’s fitting that it be Henry, for, despite his rich masculine voice and dominant presence, there is a femininity about him that Edith can’t help noting. She sees it in his sensuous lips and his perfectly manicured hands. And in his eyes. Henry has the clear, gentle eyes of a child.
Henry once confided in Edith that as a child he was mortified by a stammer so profound it took a Herculean effort for him to share even the simplest thoughts, so even now each spoken word bears the weight of a dictionary falling off a shelf. It often takes him so long to get to the point, a simple story can grow to four, six, eight times its natural size. While Edith knows she’s in for an exquisite ride, others are often not as indulgent.
At the dinner party she throws on the night of his arrival, Henry is in grand form, spinning a single story that dominates the entire dinner from soup to dessert. It is a long-winded narrative, even for Henry, and though to Edith it seems wonderful, she sees it strains the patience of even the most tolerant of her guests.
After Henry has retired, Teddy, still pale from a week’s bout of influenza, struts into Edith’s boudoir and perches heavily on the edge of her bed, sighing.
“Must everything Henry says be a literary reference?” he says. “I never had a class at Harvard so wearisome.”
Edith takes a deep breath. “Some things are worth waiting for.”
“But every time he speaks, I fear the train will
never
reach the station.”
She rises and comes over to him, pressing her hand against his forehead. “You’re still feverish, dear,” she says. “Go to bed. We want you well for our motor trip.”
“Promise me you will not let Mr. James go on while we are trapped in the motorcar with him, Puss.”
“I can’t control Henry,” she says.
“Well, give it a try.” He sniffs, shuffles into his own room and closes the door sharply behind him.
Edith is amazed that she has so far avoided Teddy’s influenza. Instead, it’s Henry who falls ill. Two days after his arrival, he asks Alfred White to inform Edith that he is seriously, possibly fatally indisposed.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. That is what he told me to convey,” Alfred says, looking at his shoes.
Edith hurries to Henry’s room and taps on the door.
“May I come in?” she asks.
“If you dare,” he says. Henry looks like a great beached whale, lying in the middle of the
lit bateau
with the covers neatly tucked under his armpits.
“I think I shall die,” he says. “You’ll have to have a piano mover remove me from this lovely bedroom,” he announces. He moans and lies back on his pillow. Edith notes that he has put on a beautiful silk dressing gown and wears an ascot. Quite an effort for just lying in bed.
“We’ll take very good care of you,” she assures him.
She arranges for much tea with honey, all sorts of croissants and toast and stewed chicken to be brought to his room.
Later in the afternoon, Henry asks for Anna. Soft, serious Anna enters his room, shuts the door and doesn’t come out for an hour.
Edith, feeling a tad jealous, monitors the door. When Anna emerges, Edith ushers her away from Henry’s room. “What on earth did he speak to you about?” she asks.
“He told me
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