Firecrackers

Front matter

Carl Van Vechten

The Tattooed Countess A romantic novel with a happy ending

Peter Whiffle: His Life and Works

Chapter 1

Paul Moody permitted the book he had been attempting to read to slip from his relaxed finger-tips to the floor; his eyes wore that glazed, unseeing expression which is the outward token of vague thinking. It had been, indeed, impossible for him to invoke any interest in this novel, although, by a manifest effort, he had succeeded in turning the forty-third page. The fable, as he hazily recalled it in his chaotic reverie, dealt with a young American boy kept by a rich woman in her middle years. This relationship had been assumed some months before the episode occurred with which the story opened, a scene of sordid disillusion laid in a Paris restaurant. It had been on page forty-three that the boy began to explain to a sympathetic friend the trend of events which had led up to this situation. It was, Paul felt rather than thought, too much like life to be altogether agreeable, and he was certain that he could not entertain the idea of discovering, through the hardy means of a continued perusal, that the youth had made this compromise in order to secure release from a distasteful environment. Paul himself was sufficiently well acquainted with compromise to make the inspection of it, even in a literary aspect, uninviting.

There was, it became more and more evident to Paul, no escape from the rigorous luxury of his existence to be found in literature; certainly, life itself no longer offered an excuse for the gaping jaw of awe or astonishment. Even Campaspe Lorillard, he recalled with a little pang, appeared to have settled down; at any rate she was tired of inventing means for making the days and nights pleasant and capriciously variable for others. She had, it might be, determined to look out for herself in these respects and empower her friends to do likewise, were they fortunate enough to possess the necessary imaginative resources. Well, he was not fortunate enough, that was quite clear. Polish his wits as he would, he could summon up no vision of a single thing that he wanted to do. Was there, he demanded hopelessly of the great god Vacuum, anything to do? Paul assured himself that he was feeling very piano.

Slouching indolently, he sauntered to the window, where he watched the great sweeps of winter rain swirl against the protecting pane. Outside it was brumous: desolate and lonely; no one seemed to be passing by. Abruptly, from a crossing thoroughfare, a great truck lurched into the street and rolled, rumbling, towards Paul's vision. In the circle of light created by an overhead arc-lamp Paul descried the young driver in his leathern apron, his head bare, his thick, black hair matted by the drenching downpour, controlling the sturdy carthorses, the reins bound round his naked, brawny arms. In the eyes of this young carter, seen but an instant in passing, Paul fancied he recognized a gleam of enthusiasm, a stubborn relish, a defiance of the storm, which had once been his own. Had I been content to drive a truck, Paul considered, I, too, might have retained some of the sensation of the joy of living.

As he turned away from the window it occurred to him that some one else might have harboured this thought at one time or another, but a pendent, solacing reflection informed him that all overmastering emotions, of whatever nature, must have come down through the ages. That, he mused, is the whole secret of the trouble with us damned, restless spirits, there are no new overmastering emotions. What I am feeling now I have felt before, only never before so poignantly. There is nothing new to think, or to feel, or to do. Even unhappiness has become a routine tremor.

At this juncture Paul lighted a cigarette and struck, not wholly unself-consciously, an attitude of supreme dejection, head hanging from shoulders at an angle of forty-five degrees, before the augite fireplace which was the decorative centre of interest in the room. His lowered glance focused on the hearth and he was somewhat astonished to observe, and was at once aware of a slight lift in his melancholy as a result—so little external pressure is required to sway a mood—that no fire had been laid. He was also cognizant for the first time, although he had been occupying the room for halfan-hour, that he felt chilled. Lifting the pleated taffeta hanging from the seat under the windows, he stroked the pipes of the radiator. He touched cold metal, metal algid as ice! What could these passive signs portend? He could not recollect that this particular phenomenon had ever previously attracted his attention. His spirits rose as he pressed a button set in the wall.

He questioned the parlour-maid.

Mrs. Moody said that a fire in the drawing-room would be enough. I did not know that you had come in, sir.

But I never sit in the drawing-room before dinner.

She did not seek an alternative, explanatory phrase. I did not know that you had come in, sir, she repeated.

Well, light one now.

Very good, sir.

Choosing a journal from the loose heap of periodicals on the table, once more he settled himself in a renewed effort to read. To his disgust he discovered that he had selected a literary review. He examined the pile again, this time more carefully, but with no better success. It appeared that all the magazines were literary reviews—presumably Vera had raked out the fiction weeklies and carried them off to her own room—but a name on the cover of one of these arrested his attention. It was the name of the author of the novel, Two on the Seine, which he had so lately discarded. He flipped the pages until he found a paper about the fellow, together with his portrait.

Cynical chap, like me, was Paul's mental comment, only harder, much harder. There's bitterness there. He sighed. It's what we all come to, I suspect. Nothing to do. Well, he writes novels; at least he has that much the better of me. And, of course, he's older. I suppose I'll look even worse at his age. Paul compared his memory of the truckman, valiant, buoyant, steaming with wet, and yet apparently excited and happy, with the face on the open page before him, but he was not able to arrive at any conclusion.

The parlour-maid had returned with the logs sheltered neatly in the curve of her arm. My God, why was everything so damned neat? Nothing dislocated, nothing tortured, just everlasting neatness! As symmetrical, his world, he surmised, as the two halves of a circle before Einstein.

I forgot to ask yoy, Jennie—he addressed the figure kneeling in front of the fireplace—what's the matter with the furnace?

She turned her pretty, smiling face in his direction—even she, he noted, was like a rubber-stamp, like a maid in a French farce or a girl on the cover of a magazine—as she replied. The furnace is out of order, sir. I thought you knew.

Out of order! His spirits were soaring. If his luck continued he might be able to reconstruct a semblance of his quondam self. On second thought he recalled that Vera had announced this inconvenience earlier in the day. Now, however, it was evening.

But that was this morning, he objected aloud.

I know, sir. Jennie was engaged in expertly laying the fire. The man is still down there. He's acting very strange, sir.

Strange! How strange?

Well, while she was eating lunch, Mrs. Moody asked me to go see how he was getting along, and I did. He was reading a book, sir!

Reading a book!

Yes, sir. I came back and told Mrs. Moody and she thought it might be a recipe-book for fixing furnaces.

Good God! Paul tossed the magazine in his hand across the room. Have you been down since?

Twice, sir. Jennie applied the match.

Was he still reading?

The girl rose and brushed out her apron.

No, sir, she replied. The first time, he spoke to me, sir.

What did he say?

I don't know, sir. Something in a foreign language, sir.

Something in a foreign language. And the second time?

He was standing on his head, sir.

I think, Paul remarked, that I shall be obliged to go down and look this fellow over for myself.

Traversing the long corridor which led to the rear of the house, he crossed the kitchen and descended the cellar-steps, pressing a button to brighten his way. Passing through the laundry, walled with Nile-green tiles, he opened the door leading to the furnace-room. Pausing for an instant on the threshold of this vast, vaulted basement, the ceiling of which was upheld by a forest of terra-cotta columns, he experienced the distinct impression that he was listening to far-away music. A line of pillars, casting great shadows across the path ahead of him, completely blocked his view of the furnace. After a little, he pressed forward, instinctively walking softly on his toes, until, as the ranks of columns fell behind him, in the circular clearing in the centre of which rose the furnace, he was confronted with an amazing spectacle. On the stone-flagged pavement a youth reclined on his belly, his chin sustained by his palms, his forearms supported by his elbows. The young man, who might have been twenty-two years old, was absorbed in the pages of a book spread flat before him.

Paul, utterly unbeheld as yet, rested immobile for a moment while he studied the picture. The attitude of the young man, and his appearance, save for the fact that he wore the overalls of his craft, would have fitted into a fantastic sylvan ballet. His hair was black and sleek, like the coat of a seal just emerged from the ocean, his figure, slender, lithe, and taut, giving at once the impression of a distinguished grace and a superior strength. His hands were white and fragile, with long, delicate fingers. For the time being Paul was unable to see his face.

At last, but even so a little hesitantly, Paul moved forward and spoke.

Are you the chap who is supposed to be putting the furnace in order? he demanded.

Turning a leaf, rather than his head, the youth responded, You are.

Paul adopted a more aggressive tone. Then, why the devil don't you do it? The house is freezing.

This rougher method of approach was successful in disturbing the workman's preoccupation. He lowered his right forearm and permitted his neck to pivot until his gaze met the eyes of the intruder.

Who are you? he questioned softly. The rich resonance of his voice, the complete poise of his manner, the refined beauty of his face, cut as cleanly as a Roman sculptor might have carved it from marble, and as white as marble, his eyes, lustrous and black, his magenta lips, all were sufficiently baffling in the circumstances.

Moody is my name, Paul replied. I had supposed you were engaged to put the furnace in order. I . . .

The young man was on his feet at once and there was an implication of the miraculous even in the accomplishment of this movement which offered evidence of that co-ordinating control of the muscles which is the basis for all great dancing. Still, there was an expression of regret on the youth's countenance, adumbrating that he had been awakened from some bright dream. Again Paul thought he caught the distant tinkle of ancient music.

I beg your pardon, the youth apologized. The furnace has been in running order for some hours. I forgot—he was, in his embarrassment, almost stammering now—to notify the servants, but I will do so at once.

The boy spoke, Paul noted, with a slightly foreign, though unidentifiable, inflection, but not with an accent.

You won't mind my saying, Paul, now completely disarmed, put forward, that you are a most extraordinary fellow. Would you, he continued, mind telling me what you are reading?

The youth lovingly fingered the book which he still clasped in one hand. The Alchemy of Happiness, by the Persian poet-philosopher, Al-Ghazzali, was his response.

Good God! What is it about?

Al-Ghazzali avers that the highest function of man's soul is the perception of truth.

Paul rested a moment, silent, not without awe. When he spoke, it was to ask, Will you come upstairs? I'd like to talk with you.

By way of reply the youth mock-ruefully surveyed his stained overalls which contrasted violently with his well-kept hands, the delicate carving of his features.

Your clothes are all right. I don't want to talk with your clothes.

Then I'm with you.

The young man collected his scattered tools and packed them in a black hand-bag. The cherished volume by the Persian poet-philosopher he laid reverently on top. Now Paul led the way, the youth following, bag in hand, walking proudly, head erect, through the forest of terra-cotta columns and the green-tiled laundry, up the cellar steps, on across the kitchen, past the scandalized cook and maids, down the long corridor, back into the little chamber he had quitted but a few moments before. How different everything seemed now! The fire blazed fiercely, but it was not the fire which made the difference.

Sit down, Paul invited.

If you will permit me, I should like to wash my hands.

I beg your pardon. Paul made the carrying out of this reasonable request possible. Then he attended the youth's return.

Presently the workman came back into the room and accepted Paul's interrupted invitation. The rain continued to beat against the resounding panes, the fire crackled, but for a time neither of the men spoke. It became evident to Paul, at last, that a person with so much poise would never speak unless he had something to say and some good reason for saying it.

Will you have a little drink? Paul suggested.

Thank you, I don't drink, the young man replied, his gaze directed towards the cheer of the fire.

Smoke? Paul offered him the contents of a crystal box.

Not that either. The young man smiled.

Suddenly Paul broke out: See here . . . Then: How the devil does it happen that you're a furnace-man?

I'm not. At any rate, after tonight I'm not. I've done that. You appear to possess an excellent library.

It's not mine, at least most of it isn't. These—Paul swept his arm towards the full cases which lined the walls—are bindings, not books. I doubt if you'd find anything to read, there.

I'm not so sure.

What do you like to read?

Instead of replying to this question, the young man asseverated solemnly, What you lack is balance.

Balance?

Balance.

But . . .

Plumbing, the young man announced, and the allied artisanships serve their purposes. He rose, and with the utmost nonchalance stooped to toss a log on the waning blaze in the fireplace. Max Beerbohm's dictum that you should never poke a friend's fire unless the friendship dates back at least seven years invaded Paul's mind, and yet he did not feel resentful.

For a few moments the only sounds audible in the chamber were the crackling of the fire and the wailing of the wind smiting the chimney. Then the young man spoke again.

Have you ever thought of the meaning of life? he inquired.

I don't ever think of anything else! I've been thinking about it all the afternoon.

Well, what conclusion did you reach? Does it lie in service? or delight? or the approach to non existence?

I had about decided to give up the search . . . I had come to the conclusion that it had no meaning . . . until . . . What is it? What does it mean?

You see I'm not a preacher, the young man appeared to be apologizing.

Not a preacher!

I have had, perhaps, a vision, a glimpse of something, but why try to explain it?

But if I'm interested.

Paul actually quivered as the word passed his lips.

I'll tell you what, he went on, and then, interrupting himself with a Wait a minute, he rang the bell.

Jennie, he demanded when the maid appeared, what's Mrs. Moody doing?

She's dining out, sir.

O, yes, I remember . . . Mr. eh . . . Benson is dining with me. You might serve dinner in this room.

Yes, sir. Jennie looked as if she were about to give notice.

And wait a minute. Tell Albert to build a fire in the furnace.

Yes, sir.

There!

I'm sure it will be most pleasant, the youth avowed. You should have good food. Persons without balance . . .

O, hell! What's the formula, the password, the keynote? What is it, this balance?

It's a pity, the stranger remarked abruptly, that Hell's Kitchen, Battle Row, and Corcoran's Roost have been cleaned up. They were gone before I arrived in America. I long for a battle with the Hudson Duster Gang. I burn for an encounter with Mike the Mauler and the Bad Wop. I crave an introduction to Big Jack Zelig, Kid Twist, and Louie the Lump. I regret the obsequies of Kid Dropper. Where are Tanner Smith, Big Jim Redmond and Rubber Shaw? Where is the Gas House Gang?

Damned if I know! Would you really like to meet them?

Would I! Not in this rain, not in the taxi that will carry me away from here, but some time, some night, I'd like to, and now they're gone.

Paul scrutinized the countenance of the youth whose brow seemed knitted with despair. He was losing patience.

See here, he exclaimed. Give it to me . . . what you've got. It's what I need. It's what I hoped there would be! This complete and fascinating dislocation!

Jennie was pulling out the supports of a gatelegged table.

It isn't mine any more than it's yours. I can't give it to you.

Explain! Explain!

I'm not a preacher, the youth said for the second time.

Who are you?

I'm the boiler-mender you met in the cellar and invited to dine with you.

Can you really stand on your head?

Do you doubt it?

Will you?

You will.

I think I'm standing on my head at this moment.

From the time the soup appeared, on through the salad, the young man ate ravenously. Until he explained that he had forgotten to eat any lunch, Paul fancied that he must have been hungry for days. And while the youth devoured his food he largely refrained from speech. Paul, whose stomach suffered no pangs, regarded the fellow with esurient eyes, the eyes of an avid curiosity. What was it the chap had, and why wouldn't he tell?

Did you, the stranger queried at last, ever hear of Hippias?

Never, Paul replied, and then eagerly demanded, Tell me about him.

Or Leonardo?

Of course, I've heard of him. You mean The Last Supper guy.

Yes. The young man stared at Paul, and his stare at even a low rate of intensity had almost the devastating force of a gimlet. I think, he went on, that I'd like to tell you about Darwin's profligate bees.

Profligate bees?

Yes. It seems that some colonial or other carried a hive of thrifty English bees over to the West Indies. After the first year they ceased to save up their honey, as they found no occasion to use it. The weather was so splendid, the flowers so plentiful, that the bees sloughed off their serious business-like habits, became profligate and debauched, devoured their capital, determined to labour no longer, and entertained themselves by flying about the islands and stinging the Negroes.

Jennie chose this inopportune moment to announce that Mrs. Moody was calling on the telephone.

What the devil! Paul exclaimed, and then, Excuse me, just a moment. When, after a longer absence than he had foretold—Vera had kept him for an interminable period—he returned, he found the room empty. Instinct informed him that something else had disappeared along with the fantastic boiler-mender and presently, running his eye over the late Mr. Whittaker's bookshelves, he discovered a gap in the otherwise uninterrupted phalanx of volumes.

Chapter 2

Consuelo is causing me a great deal of anxiety.

Having delivered herself of this baleful bit of information, Laura Everest bent forward to manipulate her Sheffield tea-service. She poured out a cup for Campaspe Lorillard and, without asking her preferences in flavouring, dropped in two rose cubes of sugar, together with a little cream.

One lump and lemon, please, Campaspe protested, rejecting the proffered cup.

O dear, I forgot. I can't get Consuelo off my mind.

While Laura was arranging the exchange, Campaspe's eyes roved round the drawing-room, apparently appraising the Jacobean lacquer, the Chippendale chairs, and the portrait by Sir William Orpen of Laura Everest in the gown in which she had been presented at Buckingham, although years before she would have been able to make an inventory of every object in the room for an insurance inspector, so thoroughly was she acquainted with each one of them.

Ostensibly reflective, she stirred the contents of her cup. Yes, dear? she put forward at last, seemingly with no tinge of curiosity—it appeared as if she had noted that Laura was determined to talk and was not unwilling to permit her to exercise this desire—You were speaking of Consuelo.

I just can't think what the world's coming to, Laura continued. When we were young girls I don't think we ever raised problems for our parents.

Don't be ridiculous, Laura. You're only thirty six yourself at this minute.

You know very well what I mean, Campaspe. Consuelo is ten.

The only sign of impatience Campaspe betrayed was a nervous tapping of her foot on the rug.

She's too young to be really young, she remarked cryptically.

That's just it, Campaspe: she's ages older than I am. Were we like that?

Like what, Laura?

Laura gave no indication that she had heard this query. She lifted a spray of freesia from a green glass vase on the tea-table and held it to her nostrils as she murmured, It's just too awful!

What has she done?

It isn't that she's done anything, at least not yet, at least not much of anything. It is, Laura wailed, the things she thinks, the things she says.

You might let her talk with Basil. He hasn't a single idea in his head that couldn't be found in a novel by Frances Hodgson Burnett. I think I'll have a langue de chat.

Now Campaspe, Laura pleaded, passing the plate, don't tease me. I'm really quite serious.

I'm not teasing you, Laura.

You are too absurd, Campaspe. Besides, I don't think she'd want to listen to Basil. He's much too young for her. She prefers men of forty, men of the world. She was completely fascinated by Paul Moody the other day. I really don't like to have him come here any more.

What are her ideas?

It's not one thing. It's just everything she says and thinks. Indeed, I'm certain she thinks even worse things than she says. You know how careful I've always been. I've engaged the best governesses, the very best. Miss Pinchon is particularly to be relied upon. Eugenia, Laura concluded sadly, isn't a bit like Consuelo.

For the moment Campaspe gave up any idea of proceeding further along this direct line; she opened, rather, an oblique attack. Speaking of Paul, she began, I'm worried about him. I've never really worried about him before because he has always managed somehow to light on his feet, no matter how many storeys high the window from which he was tossed, but Vera seems too much for him.

I never considered that marriage proper, Laura announced severely. She's much older than he is—over twice his age, I should think—and it's perfectly obvious that he married her for her money. I knew it would turn out badly. It was certain to.

It hasn't turned out so badly in one way, Campaspe averred reflectively, as she began to count the coins in a Russian leather purse she had extracted from her hand-bag. He's been well taken care of. The late Mr. Whittaker's house is quite handsome in its sombre fashion, and Paul understands the art of arranging a dinner. Even Vera knows how to do that. But he's getting seedy, rusty . . . brain-fag, or the kind of fag that Paul would have instead of brain-fag. Why, I asked him to supper the other night, a very dull supper for some stupid professors, and he actually came. It discouraged me. The next thing we know Paul will go gaga.

It's his conscience, Laura asseverated sternly, getting the better of him. He knows that he has done wrong and he can get no more pleasure out of life. No one, she asserted categorically, can marry a fat, middle-aged woman for her money and remain happy.

You may be right, Laura. Campaspe yawned. What time is it getting to be?

Laura consulted her wrist. Around six. My watch is slow or fast, I forget which. Do you really want to know?

Approximately. I've got to . . .

Mrs. Moody, the maid announced.

Dear Vera, Laura rose to greet her caller.

Dear Laura, and Campaspe!

Vera, what a pleasure!

The stout woman, swathed in broadtail, waddled in, and settled herself in a deep arm-chair. I've just come from the matinée. She spoke in a squeaky, ineffectual voice, which seemed oddly at variance with her vast exterior. The odour of Tabac Blond pervaded the atmosphere.

Laura handed her a cup of tea, into which she had dropped one lump of sugar and a slice of lemon.

Fata Morgana . . . Laura, you know I take cream and two lumps.

O, I'm sorry. Of course, you do. Was it a good play?

Horrible. Not in the least like life. A middle-aged woman makes love to a boy. I detest sex abnormalities. A ridiculous situation, I think.

Absurd! Campaspe commented.

Laura was silent.

And do you know, Gareth Johns's new novel is based on the same disgusting subject? . . . Vera inspected the tray of sweets . . . I think I'll have two of these amandines de Provence. Are they fattening? I don't want to get fat . . . A perfectly idiotic affair between a boy and a middle-aged woman living together in Paris. Stupid! What are we coming to?

Stupid, perhaps, Campaspe remarked, but not entirely untrue to life. It's his own story, or part of it.

You know him!

The Countess Nattatorrini, whom he deserted years ago, is a friend of mine. O, it all happened in the late nineties. She's seventy-seven now.

Seventy-seven! gasped Vera, almost choking over her tea. How revolting!

She wasn't seventy-seven when she lived with Gareth, you must remember.

How old was she then? Laura was able to get out. It was impossible for her to become reconciled to the fact that Vera Moody, who weighed two-hundred and fifty pounds and had certainly passed her fifty-fifth birthday, had chosen this subject for conversation.

About fifty, I think, Campaspe replied, staring directly at Vera.

Well, all the more, if it did happen, he ought to keep still about it, was Vera's decision. It's very unusual, very.

She lifted an amandine in her chubby fingers to her lips. There was almost an air of cannibalism about Vera eating, Campaspe thought.

I saw Florizel Hammond at the theatre, Mrs. Moody went on. He was telling me about Frederic Richards. It seems that he charges twice as much to paint a brunette as he does to paint a blonde, brunettes are so distasteful to him.

What's Paulet doing? Campaspe yawned again. She was beginning to wonder whether her hour had been wasted.

As her husband's name was pronounced, Vera sat up very straight, carefully placed her cup of tea on a nearby pear-wood table, and gave every evidence in the expressive working of her features of the liveliest excitement. Paul, she announced—she was shriller even than usual—had the most extraordinary experience yesterday with a boiler-mender.

Did he beat Paulet up? Campaspe demanded.

No. It was stranger than that. He asked the man to dine with him.

Alert at last, Campaspe inquired, Did the fellow accept the invitation?

Yes, he did, and they had a curious conversation, but Paul can't remember a word of it, and then the man disappeared. Paul blames me for that. . . . Vera was almost crying now. Her words were pronounced in a whimper. . . . He complains that I telephoned at the wrong moment and interrupted them, but how could I know, Campaspe, that Paul was dining with a boiler-mender? I'm sure he has no right to blame me. I . . .

Where did he meet him? Campaspe broke in.

In the basement. He was fixing the furnace. He had fixed it, as a matter of fact. Paul found him reading the Persian poets . . .

The Persian poets! Campaspe echoed.

In the basement! What is the world coming to? Laura shook her head deprecatingly.

and standing on his head, Vera completed her sentence, goggling about her wildly. What do you make of it?

The sound of a child's voice in the hall interrupted the possibility of making anything of it for the present.

O, Consuelo has returned from the matinée! Laura cried. Her Aunt Jessie offered to take her. It is so difficult to select a suitable play for a child to see nowadays that I just told Jessie to take her to whatever the. Theatre Guild was doing. They always present nice, clean plays, I've heard.

Why, Laura, she's only ten! Vera ejaculated.

Campaspe laughed outright.