House Party (2 page)

"Lily," Mrs. Clendenning cried, "would you just
look
at this! If you buy right now, you can get a mink coat for just two thousand dollars and they’ll store it free until autumn. Honestly, it
does
pay to read these ads. I don't know why
you
don't splurge a little and buy yourself a really decent coat. I always say there's nothing like mink to . . .”

"The reason I don't, Violet, is that two thousand dollars is
exactly
what it's going to cost to have the roof replaced on this horrid old eyesore. I've had six estimates and that's the lowest. And what's more, they've all said that it's a miracle the old roof hasn't rotted away already. Now be still and let me plan the liquor order."

"Lily, I don't know how you can
say
such things about the house where we were born. One of the real showplaces of Long Island and built on property that's been in the family since—well, since even before the United States
was
the United States."

"How would you like to buy it, Violet?"

"What?"

"I said how would you like to
buy
it. I nearly managed to get rid of it last year to the Sisters of Charity. They were going to have a convent or a home for delinquent girls or something."

"Oh, Lily!"

"And just this spring a doctor—a psychologist or psychiatrist or whatever you call them—was thinking about taking it over as a retreat for alcoholics."

"Lily
Ames!
Dear Papa's house turned into a home for drunks! I never
heard
of anything so . . ."

"But you needn't worry, Violet. They've all turned the wretched old thing down because it's made of wood—it's termites or something they worry about."

"Lily Ames! To think you'd even
consider
selling. Haven't you any
feeling
for your home?"

"Did
you
when you sold the last Villa Violetta at the peak of the real-estate boom?" Mrs. Ames asked.

"That's
different,
Lily, you can't ask a poor, lone widow to rattle around in twelve huge rooms."

"But you can ask
this
poor widow to rattle around in forty? I tell you what, Violet: If you're so sentimental about this place, I'll trade you even. You take the house, the furniture, the land—all six miles of it—and I'll just move into your little suite at Carlton House. Then we'll
both
be happy."

"Lily! I wouldn't
allow
you to make such a sacrifice."

"No sacrifice at all. Besides, you have air conditioning and television built into a Boulle chest."

"Oh! Television's very vulgar. I only look at
I
Love Lucy."

"Well,
I
only look at the roof caving in. Come now, if you want to be helpful you can give me some advice on where to put all these people for the weekend."

"Oh, Lily, you know I
love
to plan parties.”

"Then
come.”

The heels of Lily's pumps and Violet's mules echoed and reechoed through the vast empty rooms of the old Pruitt Place as they walked across the central hall. The house and its grounds were, indeed, one of the earliest showplaces on Long Island. Erected in 1885 by dear Papa, as a token of esteem for the woman he was about to marry, the house was an outstanding example of the work of Richard Morris Hunt in the white heat of his eclecticism. Mr. Hunt had
said
it was an adaptation of a real French chateau and dear Papa had seen no reason to doubt the master builder's word.

But because of the current craze for summer cottages, Mr. Hunt had suggested that the house be built entirely of shingles and dear Papa, sensing that shingle would be far cheaper than limestone or marble—and far more stylish, too—happily agreed. The house was to be sizable, but not too large to be run by dear Papa's staff of ten, whose aggregate salaries came to just thirty-five dollars a week.

In the interests of economy, a ballroom was omitted, but the central hall was made large enough to accommodate three or four hundred dancers with some degree of comfort. Encouraged by this saving, dear Papa had agreed to add a smoking room, billiard room and music room to the already scheduled drawing room, morning room, sitting room, dining room, reception room and library. These, along with a kitchen, pantry, laundry, servants' hall and a hot little conservatory, made up the first floor. At the end of the central hall, a massive staircase wound its ponderous but majestic way around a pipe organ to the second floor's labyrinthine corridors and twenty bedrooms. Above that were attics and store rooms and ten miserable cubicles for servants, sweltering beneath the shingled mansard roof.

The relationship between dear Papa and his architect had been an exciting one, fraught with quick thrusts and Machiavellian betrayals, heavy with grudging compromises. Mr. Hunt had suggested walnut panelling for the major rooms; dear Papa held out for oak—bright gold, dead black and fumed. Dear Papa won. Mr. Hunt also urged dear Papa to buy a lot of genuine French antiques, and here dear Papa was forced to compromise. But for every one of Mr. Hunt's
fauteuils
dear Papa bought a Morris chair; for every
Régence
commode, a smoking stand; for every
écritoire,
a roll-top desk. As Mr. Hunt was fond of Aubusson tapestries, ormolu candelabra and marble statues, so was dear Papa fond of Tiffany glass, paintings of moose, and vases filled with peacock plumes. Only time was to prove that neither man's taste was infallible.

But when Lily took over as chatelaine, she found that with the aid of paint, a crowbar and the Salvation Army, most of dear Pupa's mistakes could be removed. In its heyday, when her children were growing up, when her husband was alive, when money was coming in and not going out, the house had a kind of incredible charm. Mrs. Ames had a certain uncertain certainty in questions concerning what was right, what was wrong, what was good and what was bad. Under her supervision, the possible rooms had become beautiful, the impossible ones interesting, and all of them comfortable. Its charm was still evident, but like a weary beauty, past her prime, the house showed signs of loneliness and neglect. It was at its best with a crowd of people—under artificial light.

"I suppose," Lily said to her sister as they reached the second floor, "that with Uncle Ned coming, we'll have to open the whole bachelors' wing. He said something about expecting his old suite again."

"Oh, the bachelors’ wing! Lily, the sound of it is too terribly romantic for words. Remember when dear Papa was alive and these rooms were filled with our beaux down for the weekend. And Uncle Ned would always come up the drive in a beautiful carriage with two men on the box! And there were never less than twelve at table. La, but those days were fun—the swimming, the picnics, the croquet . . ."

"Well, those days are gone forever, Violet. The world just isn't like that any longer." Mrs. Ames opened the door of Uncle Ned's suite. Ned Pruitt was dear Papa's younger brother. The two men had hated each other cordially, but dear Papa generously said that blood was thicker than water and that there'd always be a place under this very roof for his frivolous waste-wealth brother when his every penny had gone and he'd eaten and drunk himself into some fatal disease. Dear Papa had died at the age of fifty-five. Uncle Ned was now eighty-six and going stronger than ever.

Lily struggled to open the windows. "These rooms are all right, I know. Nanny did them properly just this week. All they need is airing and some flowers."

"Oh, let
me
arrange a pretty bouquet for dear Uncle Ned. And there's that big dressing room for his beautiful, beautiful clothes."

"Violet, doesn't it sometimes strike you that Uncle Ned's clothes are a little silly in this day and age? What would people say if I were to go about in a hobble skirt and buttoned boots?"

"Oh, but Uncle Ned wears them with such an
air!"

Uncle Ned's suite consisted of an oval sitting room, and octagonal bedroom, a large dressing room and bath, and a room for his valet. It was decorated somewhat more elegantly than most of the guest rooms because even though dear Papa had despised young Ned and his prodigal way of life, Ned's friendship with Edward VII, Lily Langtry, Harry Lehr, Kaiser Wilhelm and other august personalities of the period rather impressed dear Papa and led him to the wan hope of some day entertaining royalty in this very house, in which case Uncle Ned's famous friends could have these rooms and Ned could be housed up in the servants' quarters. Nothing had ever come of dear Papa's plan.

"And, Lily," Mrs. Clendenning cried from the bedroom, "would you just look at this—an autographed picture of Marie of Roumania. Dear Uncle Ned must have left it behind when he was out here two years ago. Isn't . . ."

"That's very interesting, Violet, but he has so many pictures of dead people I'm sure he's never missed this one. Now see that the windows are open in there and don't dawdle. We've got a lot to do today." Moving back to the hall, Mrs. Ames said, "I think well put Felicia's young man right here in the blue room."

"In the
blue
room, Lily?" Mrs. Clendenning cried. "I'd so hoped we could put Mr. Burgess in the Venetian room: those lovely silvery walls and that beautiful big bed. Pope Clement XIII once slept in it. And poor Felicia is so . . ."

"The Venetian room indeed! There's a wet spot on one lovely silvery wall as big as your bottom. It's so damp you could raise orchids in there. And as for that bed, it feels as though Pope Clement were still
in
it. Won't any of you ever realize that this house has gone to rack and . . ."

"But, Lily, you could have all that fixed. I know a little decorator who does . . ."

Mrs. Ames turned her blazing eyes on her sister. "Have it
fixed?
I can't even afford to have my
hair
fixed. Felicia's Mr. Burgess can just
pig
it in the blue room. If it was good enough for Theodore Roosevelt it's quite good enough for . . ."

"Oh, Lily," Mrs. Clendenning said, opening the door of the blue room, "let's not bicker today. It's going to be a lovely, lovely weekend! I know it is. Just like it always
was.
Just as it was when we were
girls."

Silently the two sisters went about opening up rooms in the bachelors' wing—Uncle Ned's suite, the blue room for John Burgess, the red room for the gentleman who was coming out with Katherine Ames, the green room for the young man who was visiting Eleanor Ames.

"You'll do the flowers for the men?" Mrs. Ames asked.

"Oh, I'd love to, Lily!" Mrs. Clendenning gushed.

"Good. Use up the peonies first. They're beginning to die anyhow."

"I always feel so sad when the peonies start to go."

"Don't, Violet. The weeds come to take their place. Now, where shall we put this Miss Devine? Someplace nice, I think. She's Paul's friend. I'd thought of the French room, but of course Felicia's in there."

"Why not the rose room across from Felicia, Lily? That's sweet."

"But it's right next to Felicia's children. I'm sure they'd disturb Miss Devine."

"Nonsense, Lily, they're as good as gold and as quiet as mice. Why, Fraulein was saying to me just yesterday . . ."

A shrill scream and a burst of voluble German in the second person interrupted Mrs. Clendenning's euphemistic description of her grandchildren.

"I think I hear one of your golden mice right now, Violet," Mrs. Ames said.

“Heavens,” Violet cried. She ran to the end of the corridor and threw open the window. "Yoo hoo! Yoo hoo! Emily! Robin! Here I am, darlings! No, look up
here.
Here's Granny! Emily, darling, stop pummeling your brother so. That's not
nice.
Emily! Fraulein,
will
you stop her! Darlings, stop that
this minute
and Granny will give you something."

Mrs. Ames was of two minds about her sister's grandchildren. She felt that they were neglected by their mother, spoiled by their grandmother, and badly raised by their
fraulein.
Mrs. Ames thought that little Emily Choate was a sneak and a bully and as selfish as her mother. Little Robin Choate was, in her opinion, a whiner and sniveler and a thorough-going coward. Yet she envied Violet for having grandchildren and wished that she herself might have some to spoil just as outrageously as Violet did.

Mrs. Clendenning's scene at the window subsided and she returned, flushed with pleasure to her sister's side. "Oh, the darlings! Carefree young spirits! It's a pity none of
your
children ever married, Lily."

"Isn't it!" Mrs. Ames said rather more sharply than she had meant to. "Now if you'll just see to the rose room for Miss Devine, I'll make sure that the children's rooms are aired."

"Oh, do please hush, Lily. You'll wake Felicia."

"Wake
Felicia?
I don't know how a
corpse
could sleep with you shrieking out of the window that way. Besides, I should think she'd
want
to get up. It's eleven o'clock."

"But, Lily, poor Felicia needs her rest. She's exhausted."

"Exhausted from what? She did nothing but lie on the beach all day yesterday and play solitaire with herself after dinner."

"I meant
emotionally
exhausted, Lily. This divorce has dealt her a cruel blow." Violet punctuated her remark with a look of wise martyrdom.

"I see," Lily said. "Now if you'll just attend to the rose room—very quietly, of course—I'll look after the children's old rooms."

Mrs. Ames always felt a kind of sadness whenever she went through the rooms where her four children had grown up. These bedrooms were so empty and lonely now, yet she could still feel the presence of her young. Mrs. Ames was glad that her children had flown the nest. She kept telling herself that. She wanted them to have lives of their own—not to cling to her. But when she went through their bedrooms the four of them seemed so far away.

Eleanor Ames was the youngest and her room was nearest the old nursery where Nanny could keep an eye out for her. Elly's room was—well, it was just impossible, that was the only word for it. Even when it was tidy, as it was now, it was still a mess. It was us irrepressibly Elly as ever, strewn with snapshots of friends, with half-begun collections of fossils and butterflies and coins and matchbooks. Elly's old doll, once a ravishing princess from the Nain Bleu, still sprawled on the bed, her rose complexion pitted and battered, her flowing tresses cropped like a convict's. One arm dangling loosely from her chamois torso; a golden slipper forever lost. On the wall were moth-eaten old pennants from boarding school, camp and college. There was still a nasty spot on the carpet left by the reeking old stray dog smuggled in by Elly in defiance of parental law. The closet was an eyesore.

How different Katherine's room was; neat, orderly, almost prim. There was a place for everything and everything in its place. Kathy's books were arranged alphabetically by author. The clothes Kathy left in the country hung in military precision in a closet, redolent of sachet. Kathy had four sets of slipcovers and curtains for summer, fall, winter and spring. She had made them all herself and they fit flawlessly. Kathy's room was so snug, so homey that Mrs. Ames felt almost uncomfortable in it. It made her conscious of her own shortcomings as a housewife. "It's a perfect room," she said aloud, "perfect for a bride—or for an old maid."

Paul was quartered directly across the hall from Kathy and whenever the two were in the house together they were inseparable. Sometimes Mrs. Ames would find Paul in his sister's room. Brother and sister sitting silently. Kathy never sat in Paul's room, however, because there was no place to sit there. Paul's room was like a monk's cell. It was painted white and faced north. It contained a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, a drawing table and stool. The only ornament in the room was a framed drawing of a country house, said to be available to the common man at a price well under twenty thousand dollars. Paul had done the drawing during his last year at Yale Architectural School and it had won him a prize and also a job.

Well, there was nothing wrong with Paul's room, just as there had been nothing wrong with Kathy's. Mrs. Ames had known that before she even entered them. Now she went into her favorite room. It was Bryan's.

Mrs. Ames felt a little tingle of pleasure as she stood in the doorway. Mrs. Ames liked things to be right and Bryan's room was the rightest she had ever seen. Bryan had chosen this room himself. It was the largest bedroom in the house. He had chosen the furniture for it, too, picking the loveliest pieces she owned. He had chosen mostly English furniture—the Adam writing table, the Sheraton wardrobe, the Chippendale dwarf chest, the pair of Queen Anne wing chairs. There was a lovely, faded Persian rug on the floor, a pair of Georgian urns, a Copley portrait of a long-dead Pruitt above the mantel. The room was perfect without looking interior-decorated, and like Bryan, it was welcoming and masculine and correct.