Theophilus North Read online

  We continued our studies relative to Dean Berkeley’s visit to the western hemisphere. He could see that my interest was almost equal to his own. Imagine our delight when, reading The Analyst, we discovered that “our boy”—now Bishop Berkeley—had smashed and pulverized Sir Isaac Newton and the mighty Leibnitz on the matter of infinitesimals. Both Dr. Bosworth and I were babes-in-arms in the realm of cosmological physics, but we got the point. Newton’s friend Edmund Halley (of the comet) had mockingly spoken of the “inconceivability of the doctrines of Christianity” as held by Bishop Berkeley, and the Bishop replied that Newton’s infinitesimal “fluxions” were as “obscure, repugnant and precarious” as any point they could call attention to in divinity, adding, “What are these fluxions . . . these velocities of evanescent increments? They are neither finite quantities, nor quantities infinitely small, nor yet nothing. May we call them the ghosts of departed quantities?” Crash! Bang! The structure of the universe, like the principles of the Christian faith—according to the Bishop—were perceived only by the intuition. It could not be said that Dr. Bosworth and I danced about his study, but the spies listening at the doors must have reported that something strange was going on—at midnight! These were giants indeed! Including Swift—my patron since I had begun to think of myself as Gulliver. We were in the heart of the Second City, in the eighteenth century.

  At our first interview I had rebuked Dr. Bosworth’s excessive curiosity about myself; our intermittent conversations were limited to historical subjects, but I was aware that he continued to be “consumed with curiosity” about me. When the very wealthy take a liking to any one of us belonging to the less fortunate orders they are filled with a pitying wonder as to how we “make out” in those conditions of squalor and deprivation to which we are condemned—to put it briefly they try to figure out how much money we make. Do we get enough to eat? I was to meet this concern over and over again during the summer. Plates of sandwiches, bowls of fruit, were constantly placed before me. Only once (at another house) did I consent to take as much as a cup of tea in any of my employers’ homes or in their friends’ homes, though invitations to luncheons, dinners, and parties began to arrive in considerable numbers.

  I was uneasily aware that I had become an object of exaggerated curiosity on the Avenue by reason of the indefatigable pen of Flora Deland. As I have related, she lost no time in endearing herself to Newport. Her nation-wide (and local) audience had been enthralled by her account of the nine cities and the glorious trees on Aquidneck Island, and of the wonders of the Wyckoff House. I had revisited “The Sandpiper” a number of times, but the flower of friendship had lost its bloom; she nagged at me and then quarreled with me. She could not understand why I did not strain every nerve to become a social success among the “cottages,” presumably with herself on my arm. I told her firmly that I had never accepted an invitation and that I never would. But before we parted company she had published a sixth article—a glowing picture of the cultural renaissance that had taken place in this earthly paradise. This had been sent to me, but I failed to read it until long after. Without naming me she wrote of an unbelievably learned young man who had become the “rage” of the summer colony and was reading Homer, Goethe, Dante, and Shakespeare with young and old. He had revived the Browning Club and his French matinées were depopulating Bailey’s Beach. Her article opened with a scornful repudiation of a witticism twenty years old to the effect that “the ladies of Newport had never heard the first act of an opera nor read the last half of a book.” Newport was—and always has been—she affirmed, one of the most enlightened communities in the country, the foster home of George Bancroft, Longfellow, Lowell, Henry James, Edith Wharton, and of Mrs. Edward Venable, author of that moving volume of verse, Dreams in an Aquidneck Garden.

  Nor did I know at the time that there was a less flattering reason why I had become in those circles an object of almost morbid curiosity.

  It was a custom of the house that toward midnight Dr. Bosworth’s guests would file into the study to take a second leave of their distinguished host. I stood against the wall in that self-effacement that became my station. Mrs. Bosworth did not accompany them, but Dr. Bosworth and Persis saw to it that I was presented to them all. Among them were some who were, or had been, my employers: I received from Miss Wyckoff a radiant smile, from Bodo (a frequent guest) a fraternal and inelegant greeting in German. Ladies whom I had never met told me of their children’s progress:

  “My Michael’s set his heart on becoming a tennis champion, thanks to you, Mr. North.”

  Mrs. Venable: “Bodo tells me that you’re reading Bishop Berkeley—how fascinating!”

  Another: “Mr. North, Mr. Weller and I are giving a small dance on Saturday week. To what address may I send a card?”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Weller, but my days are so filled that I’m unable to accept any invitations.”

  “No parties at all?”

  “No—thank you very much—no parties.”

  Another: “Mr. North, is it too late for me to join your Robert Browning Society. I’ve always loved the Brownings.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t know of any Browning Society in Newport.”

  “Oh? . . . Oh? . . . Perhaps I was misinformed.”

  The Fenwicks, whom you will meet later, were very cordial with a smile of complicity. I was presented to the parents of Diana Bell who did not acknowledge the introduction. I leaned forward to Mrs. Bell and said in a low voice but very distinctly: “I have twice sent my bill to Mr. Bell for services which he agreed upon. If he does not pay my bill, I shall tell the whole story to Miss Flora Deland and sixty million Americans will learn of that purloined letter. Good evening, Mrs. Bell.”

  That was low; that was unworthy of a Yale man. She stared straight ahead of her, but the bill was paid. Let him who will be a gentleman!

  Among the guests I met more and more members of the family clan: Mr. and Mrs. Cassius Marcellus Leffingwell, and their older children; the Edward Bosworths and their older children; the Newton Bosworths and a child or two. All these ladies put out their hands and declared that they were delighted to meet me; these gentlemen not only refused their hands but either stared at me stonily or turned their backs. When I had been the object of hostility on repeated occasions I became aware that Gulliver was encountering some example of the mores on Aquidneck Island that deserved a closer study.

  I was not comfortable at “Nine Gables.” I had come to Newport to observe without becoming deeply involved. Among the Bosworths I felt obscurely that I was in danger of becoming extremely involved in some imbroglio out of late Elizabethan drama. I had already made two enemies in the house: Willis loathed me; when I passed Mrs. Bosworth in the hall, she lowered her head slightly but her glance said, “Beware young man, we know what your game is. . . .” Day after day I planned to throw up the job. Yet I enjoyed the readings in Bishop Berkeley; I enjoyed Dr. Bosworth’s constantly recalling the Newport of the eighteenth century half a mile from where we were working. I was deeply interested in Persis, Mrs. Tennyson, though I had never been presented to her. She seemed to regard me with puzzled distrust. I wondered how was she able to live the year round in a house governed by her vindictive “Aunt Sally.” Above all I had been exalted by my employer’s preposterous vision of gathering together here the greatest living thinkers—a vision he could only communicate in whispers. I had lived four and a half uneventful years in a New Jersey where there were no perils and no visions, no dragons and no madmen—and very little opportunity to exercise and explore any of those youthful ambitions that lay dormant within me. I did not resign.

  It was I who unwittingly opened the next door into a deeper involvement. We had been reading aloud from Dr. Bosworth’s own work Some Eighteenth Century Houses in Rhode Island. When we finished the chapter that contained a detailed description of Bishop Berkeley’s “Whitehall” I expressed my admiration for the art with which it was written; then I added, “Dr. Bosworth, I think it would
be a great privilege to visit the house in your company. Would it be possible to drive out some afternoon and see the house together?”

  There was a silence. I looked up and found him gazing at me searchingly, piteously. “Indeed, I wish we could. I thought you understood . . . I have this disability. I am unable to leave this house for more than a quarter of an hour. I can walk in the garden for a short time. I shall never leave this house. I shall die here.”

  I returned his gaze with that impassive expression I had learned to adopt in the Army where irrationality knows no bounds and where we underlings have no choice but to make a pretense of unfathomable stupidity. To myself I thought, “He’s crazy. He’s around the bend.” We had often sat uninterruptedly in his study for almost three hours, after which he had accompanied me unhurriedly to his front door. All I knew at that moment was that I did not want to hear one more word about it. I wanted to have nothing to do with the appealing, longing, dependent expression on his face. I was no doctor. I didn’t know what I was, but Dr. Bosworth was a bad judge of men. He had assumed that I was a sympathetic listener. A miserable man cannot hold his tongue in such company and soon I was to receive the whole damnable ludicrous story.

  But I must interrupt my narrative here.

  I must give the reasons—which I was soon to learn—why encounters with the guests at the close of the Bosworths’ dinner parties were of so mixed a nature.

  I continued to enjoy occasional late hours at Mrs. Cranston’s boardinghouse now aglow with the expectation of Edweena’s imminent return. Henry continued to share with us the postcards he received telling of whales, mighty storms, flying fishes, and picturing the beauties of the Leeward Islands. The conversation flowed on. For the most part I played the role of an appreciative listener. I gave them only a general idea of my activities, mentioning few names. After the retirement of the other ladies Mrs. Cranston intermittently relaxed her rule against the use of our Christian names. Generally Mr. Griffin sat with us, lost in deep thought or in vacancy, occasionally delighting us with some far-sought non-sequitur. My Journal was enriched by many of Mrs. Cranston’s reflections.

  “The Whitcombs!” cried Mrs. Cranston. “There’s another case of the Death Watch, Henry. Oh, how I wish Edweena were here to tell Teddie about her theory of the Death Watch. You tell him, Henry. I’m tired tonight. Do now, I know it will interest him.”

  “Will you interrupt me, ma’am, if I get to sliding on the ice, as often happens? . . . Well, it’s this way, old matey: in a dozen houses in Newport there’s an aged party, male or female, sitting on a mountain of money. . . .”

  “Twenty houses, Henry, at least twenty.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Now let’s call the aged party the Old Mogle—some call it Mogull, you can pronounce it either way. Newport’s the only place in the country where rich old men live longer than rich old women. I’ve heard you make that observation, Mrs. Cranston.”

  “Yes, I think it’s true. It’s the social life that kills. The old men simply withdraw upstairs. No old woman has ever been known to withdraw from the social life of her own accord.”

  “And the Old Mogle has sons and daughters and grandchildren and flying nevvies and nieces, all waiting for the reading of the will. But the Old Party won’t die. So what do you do? You gather around him every hour of the clock and ask him tenderly about his health—tenderly, sadly, lovingly. You call in doctors to ask him doubtfully, tenderly about his health. ‘Well, Mr. Mogle, how are we today? God bless my soul, we look ten years younger! Splendid! Let me look again at that little inflammation. We don’t like that one little bit, do we? Too near the brain. Is it sensitive to the touch, Mr. Mogle?’ Oh, I wish Edweena were here; she does the doctor business glorious, doesn’t she, Mrs. Cranston? She says that all men over seventy can be made to be high-pepper-condriacs in zero time with a little attention from the loved ones. She says all women are, anyway.”

  “I’m not, Henry.”

  “You’re nowhere near that age, Mrs. Cranston—and God gave you the constitution and the figure of the Statue of Liberty.”

  “I’m above compliments, Henry. Go on with your story.”

  “Now the Death Watch has a lot to worry about, cully—see what I mean? For instance, favoritism! One son over another, one daughter over another, down to the new-born grandchild. Terrible thought! Then there’s always the Old Man’s Folly—falls in love with his nurse or secretary. Or a beautiful divorcée arrives from Europe, pulls his beard and strokes his hands right at the dinner table. An old lady falls in love with her chauffeur; we’ve seen it scores of times. The Death Watch goes frantic. Frantic—and starts to act. We’ve seen some terrible action around here. Expel ’em! Crush ’em!”

  “You’ve forgotten something else, Henry.”

  “Thankee, and what’s that, ma’am?”

  “The callers, the confidential callers, with noble causes—”

  “How could I forget them! Universal peace. Colleges named after you! Eskimos. Fallen women—very popular. Old men are very tender about fallen women.”

  “Dogs’ cemeteries,” said Mr. Griffin.

  “How bright you are tonight, Mr. Griffin!—All these things taking the food out of the mouths of his nearest and dearest.”

  The room seemed to have become uncomfortably warm.

  “What kind of action do they take, Henry?” I asked.

  “Well, they’ve got two lines of action, haven’t they? To get rid of the favorite they’ve got slander—they tell stories. Even if it’s their nearest kith ’n’ kin. That’s easy. But their ‘object all sublime’—as the poet said—is to take the pen out of the great Mogle’s hand—to remove his power to write checks. To drive him dotty. To get him quivering and bursting into tears. Guardianship—soften him up for guardianship.”

  “Terrible!” said Mrs. Cranston, shaking her head.

  “They’ve got their doctors and lawyers all lined up. Why, we know a Mogle in this town who hasn’t left his front door for ten years—”

  “Eight, Henry.”

  “You’re always right, Mrs. Cranston.”

  “No names, Henry.”

  “He’s just as well as you or me. They make him think that he’s got cancer of the sofa cushion. The great specialist comes up from New York—you can’t do these things without specialists—specialists are the Death Watchers’ best friend. Dr. Thread-and-Needle comes up from New York and tells him it’s about time for another of those little operations. So the Mogle is wheeled in and they take a little piece of skin off the area. The nurses near die of laughing. ‘Ten thousand dollars, please.’ ”

  “Henry, I’d say you were sliding on the ice a bit.”

  “I’ll be forgiven if I exaggerate. Teddie’s new to the town. You never can tell when he might come up against an example of things like this.”

  “Let’s talk about something more cheerful, Henry. Teddie, who have you been reading aloud to lately?”

  “Mostly I’ve been getting children ready to return to school, Mrs. Cranston. I’ve had to turn down a number of jobs. I think there’s a craze on to trace a family’s genealogy to William the Conqueror.”

  “That’s always been true.”

  The conversation flowed on.

  I returned to my room thoughtfully.

  My next engagement at “Nine Gables” was on the following Sunday morning. Dr. McPherson had suddenly decided that the late-hour sessions were inadvisable. I was surprised to see Dr. Bosworth fully dressed to go out. He was arguing with his nurse. “We shall not need your company, Mrs. Turner.”

  “But, Dr. Bosworth, I must obey Dr. McPherson’s orders. I must be near you at all times.”

  “Will you leave the room and close the door, Mrs. Turner?”

  “Oh, dear! I don’t know what to do!” she answered and left.

  To me he whispered, “Listening! Always listening!” His eyes searched the ceiling. “Mr. North, will you climb up on that chair and see if there’s some kind of gramophone up th
ere listening to what’s said here?”

  “No, Dr. Bosworth,” I said, raising my voice, “I was engaged to read aloud here. I am not an electrical engineer.”

  He put his ear to his bedroom door. “She’s telephoning all over the house. . . . Come, follow me.”

  We started down the great hall to the front door. As we approached it Mrs. Leffingwell came floating down the staircase.

  “Good morning, Papa dear. Good morning, Mr. North. We’re all coming over to lunch. I came early to see if Sally wanted to go to church. She can’t make up her mind. But I’d much rather listen to the reading. Mr. North, do persuade my father to let me join you. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

  Something in her voice astonished and pained him. He stared at her for a moment and said, “You too, Mary?” then added harshly, “Our discussion would not interest you. Run off to church and enjoy yourselves. . . . We are going to the beech grove, Mr. North.”

  It was a most beautiful morning. He had brought no book with him. We sat for some time in silence on a bench under the great trees. Suddenly I became aware that Dr. Bosworth’s eyes were fixed on me with an expression of suffering—of despair.

  “Mr. North, I think I should explain my disability to you. I suffer from a disorder of the kidneys which the doctors tell me may be related to a far more serious illness—to a fatal disease. I find this very strange because—apart from certain local irritations—I have experienced no pain. But I am not a medical man; I must rely on the word of certain specialists.” His eyes now bored into mine. “As a side aspect of this wretched business, I suffer from a compulsion to urinate—or try to urinate—every ten to fifteen minutes.”

  I returned his gaze as solemnly as he could wish.

  “Why, Dr. Bosworth, you and I have sat in your study for hours at a time without your leaving the room once.”