observed to his friends that Mrs. Vand's daughter was known to no one. It was at once evident, despite his smile (he smelled a great deal of beer), that I was, to be sure, not known to
him.
"Stefanie!" he greeted me. "What a disgrace—where have you been?"
"Stefanie is out on the terrace."
He bowed low at his error, and inadvertently struck his ear with the broomstick. "Should you like to replace her?" he invited, indicating the broom. "The next piece will be a gavotte, and after that, watch and see, a saltarello. Allegra has the latest notions of music. At midnight we'll dance the two-step—twelve o'clock sharp, you see, because it's E.E. Cummings' bedtime."
"Let him sleep," I advised. "Don't wake him."
His colorless eyes disliked me. "You have extremely negative views."
"Your ear is red," I noticed. "Did you hurt it?"
"You're very rude," he remarked, "to look so expensive."
"I'm no more expensive than you."
"Nonsense, I'm as shabby as can be."
"I wasn't speaking of your morals. I was speaking of your keep."
"I am one of the advantages of Mrs. Vand's wealth," he declaimed, turning his implement upside down and articulating into its straw face. "I am an instance of private enterprise. The Edward McGoverns of the world are luxuries which only the very rich can afford."
"You are less a luxury," I said, "than a defect of character."
"Your views," he repeated firmly, "are socialist. I was not bought for my usefulness. I am an objet d'art. I am rare and fragile"—he pointed—"like that little porcelain over there, the one with the lady and the fan. Try to understand that this broom and I are in different categories. My whole purpose," he finished, "is to give pleasure."
"How do you do that?"
"By providing an atmosphere," he said shallowly, "through the exploitation of my talents."
"Aha," I began, "when it comes to exploitation, your talents are considerable. —But I rather prefer the broom."
"You are the worst example of your class," he resumed. "You know nothing of the great. You know nothing of Maecenas, the Medicis, or the Guggenheims. Ford was a crank until he became a Foundation. I have a friend in Salerno, a sculptor and a pederast, who does nothing but the busts of young men—a Roman family of ancient lineage supports him. He lives with his boy lover in a house under a wheat field..." He went on naming the patrons he recalled, from history and from life, and their wards and dependents, all of them in some way freakish, mad, or criminal. His talk was no more than that of a hired man defending his pride by flattering the gentlefolk who give him his bread.
My mother, it seemed, had, directly or indirectly, many such hired men—not only her staff of poets, but William and even William's son, men whose relation to her rested not upon love or duty, but squarely and simply upon the complications of wealth. It was in the nature of things that her servants should be chiefly lawyers and intellectuals of one sort or another, persons with smeared lenses and sleepless eyes beneath them, and apparently no private lives; and it was also entirely natural that these menials, superior to their mistress in taste and brains and conduct, should feel contempt for her. They were all bought, after all, as Ed McGovern had not been afraid to express it (the humiliation inherent in this was hers, not his)—even the incorruptible William, who had put her away as a wife, could take her back again as a client. And the hired role, that of family adviser, was not dissimilar from the earlier one—except, of course, that now he was bought and paid for.
The curious element in this commerce was that nobody pitied her. It is not usual, admittedly, for the rich to be pitied, except in crude jokes and bathetic tales, and Allegra Vand, to be sure, enjoyed her status excessively. She enjoyed it, moreover, with confidence enough to believe that she scorned it, and pointed to her fellow-traveling as proof—but the most stupid reader could
him.
"Stefanie!" he greeted me. "What a disgrace—where have you been?"
"Stefanie is out on the terrace."
He bowed low at his error, and inadvertently struck his ear with the broomstick. "Should you like to replace her?" he invited, indicating the broom. "The next piece will be a gavotte, and after that, watch and see, a saltarello. Allegra has the latest notions of music. At midnight we'll dance the two-step—twelve o'clock sharp, you see, because it's E.E. Cummings' bedtime."
"Let him sleep," I advised. "Don't wake him."
His colorless eyes disliked me. "You have extremely negative views."
"Your ear is red," I noticed. "Did you hurt it?"
"You're very rude," he remarked, "to look so expensive."
"I'm no more expensive than you."
"Nonsense, I'm as shabby as can be."
"I wasn't speaking of your morals. I was speaking of your keep."
"I am one of the advantages of Mrs. Vand's wealth," he declaimed, turning his implement upside down and articulating into its straw face. "I am an instance of private enterprise. The Edward McGoverns of the world are luxuries which only the very rich can afford."
"You are less a luxury," I said, "than a defect of character."
"Your views," he repeated firmly, "are socialist. I was not bought for my usefulness. I am an objet d'art. I am rare and fragile"—he pointed—"like that little porcelain over there, the one with the lady and the fan. Try to understand that this broom and I are in different categories. My whole purpose," he finished, "is to give pleasure."
"How do you do that?"
"By providing an atmosphere," he said shallowly, "through the exploitation of my talents."
"Aha," I began, "when it comes to exploitation, your talents are considerable. —But I rather prefer the broom."
"You are the worst example of your class," he resumed. "You know nothing of the great. You know nothing of Maecenas, the Medicis, or the Guggenheims. Ford was a crank until he became a Foundation. I have a friend in Salerno, a sculptor and a pederast, who does nothing but the busts of young men—a Roman family of ancient lineage supports him. He lives with his boy lover in a house under a wheat field..." He went on naming the patrons he recalled, from history and from life, and their wards and dependents, all of them in some way freakish, mad, or criminal. His talk was no more than that of a hired man defending his pride by flattering the gentlefolk who give him his bread.
My mother, it seemed, had, directly or indirectly, many such hired men—not only her staff of poets, but William and even William's son, men whose relation to her rested not upon love or duty, but squarely and simply upon the complications of wealth. It was in the nature of things that her servants should be chiefly lawyers and intellectuals of one sort or another, persons with smeared lenses and sleepless eyes beneath them, and apparently no private lives; and it was also entirely natural that these menials, superior to their mistress in taste and brains and conduct, should feel contempt for her. They were all bought, after all, as Ed McGovern had not been afraid to express it (the humiliation inherent in this was hers, not his)—even the incorruptible William, who had put her away as a wife, could take her back again as a client. And the hired role, that of family adviser, was not dissimilar from the earlier one—except, of course, that now he was bought and paid for.
The curious element in this commerce was that nobody pitied her. It is not usual, admittedly, for the rich to be pitied, except in crude jokes and bathetic tales, and Allegra Vand, to be sure, enjoyed her status excessively. She enjoyed it, moreover, with confidence enough to believe that she scorned it, and pointed to her fellow-traveling as proof—but the most stupid reader could
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