The Late John Marquand (2 page)

Actually, for some time before the heart attack Marquand had been thinking of buying a house in Boston and had been talking, a trifle wistfully, of returning to his “roots” there. His roots were
technically not in Boston—he had been born elsewhere—but over the years he had come to think of himself as a Bostonian, by rights as well as by nature. He had tried to establish his home in many places—New York, Hobe Sound, Aspen, Nassau—but to no purpose; he always came back to Boston. Most recently he had been shuttling back and forth between a New York apartment and Kent's Island. But he was weary of the New York pace, and Kent's Island was inconvenient in the heavy winter. One could be snowed in there for days. So he had been dreaming of owning one of the old bow-front brick houses in the quiet of Beacon Hill, houses whose purpled leaded-glass windows address the slope of the Common and the pools of the Public Garden, or perhaps a house on elegant, gaslit Louisburg Square, the setting of what is perhaps Marquand's most famous novel,
The Late George Apley
, all within walking distance of his beloved Somerset Club—in
Apley
he called it the Province Club. The provincialism of Old World Boston was something that both amused and comforted him.

But this preposterous house of Adelaide's was light years away from Beacon Hill. It was across the Charles River in unhilly Cambridge, at 1 Reservoir Street—even the address was offensive—in a bustling town where Harvard and M.I.T. students were underfoot wherever one went and nights were noisy with beer-hall laughter and dormitory record players. As for the house itself, nothing could have seemed farther from the Bulfinchian understatement Marquand had in mind than this architectural product of the Taft Administration. Number One Reservoir Street, Marquand commented slyly, gave one a good idea of what the reservoir was filled with.

Adelaide, of course, had doubtless just been trying—once more, after so many attempts—to show her husband that she loved him. She had bought this house (later, she would turn the vast living room into a kind of Marquand museum, with a bust of her husband, portraits, and copies of all his books, to record his literary fame and achievement) as a gift of love, a gift expressed, to be sure, in her own curiously heavy-handed and unfeeling terms.

In many ways, this was a typical Adelaide purchase, undertaken apparently without thought or reason, like the tweed deerstalker's cap she had bought him as a birthday present. “My Sherlock Holmes hat,” he would say, displaying it to friends. How
could she have expected Marquand, whose taste in clothes ran to Boston-banker conservative, ever to put on such a hat? Whenever Adelaide wanted to buy something for herself, she might or she might not mention it to her husband beforehand. If she did, John—who possessed the Yankee sense of thrift to an extreme degree—would frequently insist that they could not afford whatever it was. Adelaide would then say airily, “Well, then
I'll
pay for it, John,” and off she would go to buy it. She could never seem to understand why this sort of behavior would hurt and anger him. In recent years, since her mother's “seed” money had come down to her, her spending had escalated sharply. She bought compulsively, incessantly. John had given up on her.

Adelaide's acquisitiveness and stubbornness had also, a few years earlier, been responsible for an embarrassing lawsuit between Marquand and his first cousins, the Hales of Newburyport. John had lost the case and, as a result of the bitterness it stirred up, the Hale cousins, once his good friends as well, no longer spoke to him.

And now, on this autumn day in 1953, the Marquands' marriage had deteriorated to such a state that there was barely any communication between them. A few weeks earlier, Marquand had written to the Brandts in New York suggesting that he meet them in Boston for the week end, as soon as his doctor gave him permission. They would make a party of it, a kind of celebration of John's release from doctors' care. They would all stay at the Ritz-Carlton, and the high point of the reunion would be when the three friends drove over to Cambridge to inspect the house that his wife had bought. Naturally they would pick a time when Adelaide and the children were far away in Aspen. Now, in September, the moment was at hand. Carol Brandt came up on a Friday evening train, and Carl Brandt joined them on Saturday.

From the outset, the week end had been gloriously mirthful. Marquand and the Brandts set themselves up in an adjoining pair of the Ritz's famous suites, all of which contain—in addition to other amenities that have long since disappeared from American hotel-keeping elsewhere—wood-burning fireplaces in the sitting rooms. The three had thrown open the connecting doors so that the partying could be general, back and forth, and Marquand, after the slow weeks of recovery, was in top form. It was he who set the tone of
the gathering, which was one of mockery mixed with spite. “Adelaide,” he said,
“Adelaide”
—thrusting a sneer into the very pronunciation of her name—“it seems that
Adelaide
has purchased another
house
.”

He struck a characteristic pose. Standing, drink in hand, he hunched forward, scowling darkly with beetled brows and pursed lips, and clapped his other hand to the back of his neck, gripping it as though he feared his head might be about to fly from its perch between his shoulders. In this pose, he paced the floor, back and forth—fireplace to window, window to fireplace. “A
house
. Which. We. Are. About. To. See!” A footfall accompanied each word and, as his nasal New Englander's voice spat out each syllable, his voice rose in pitch until the final syllable came out almost as falsetto, while the pink color came in his cheeks.

It was a stage performance, of course. Whenever he had an audience, particularly an audience of friends, he loved to perform these oral concertos. He had taught himself this exaggerated, theatrical delivery, and he did it well. He had become famous for the way he could hold a roomful of people as he told a story or delivered an anecdote, celebrated for the way he could build himself into a tower of mock rage over an apparent trifle. His imitations of people, particularly of the styles of other authors (he could do Hawthorne, Melville, James Fenimore Cooper, as well as any number of three-named lady writers), were incisive, cruel, and hilarious. But this afternoon in Boston, the fact that the target of his wit and venom was his own wife made his performance a particularly telling one. Though Carl and Carol Brandt were, at this point, no fonder of Adelaide than John was, it was hard to know, watching his dreadful parody of the woman, whether to laugh or weep.

In the car going over to Cambridge, he continued his verbal assaults on, and imitations of, Adelaide—Adelaide who was now drinking more than she should, who had allowed herself to become much too fat, who could never seem to get herself anywhere on time, though John was a stickler for punctuality; Adelaide who dressed all wrong for her size, who got herself up in Indian costumes and peasant skirts with ruffled gypsy blouses, puffed sleeves, and little lace-up vests coming apart at the seams; Adelaide who had never been exactly pretty to begin with, and whose wild mass of
ash-blonde hair now never seemed to be properly arranged. “Listening to John attack Adelaide that afternoon was like watching a woman being buried alive,” Carol Brandt said later.

All over again, because he didn't mind repeating himself, John told the Brandts his story about Adelaide in New York at the Colony Club. It seemed that John and Adelaide had arrived at the Colony Club for some function, and Adelaide, who had made them late as usual, had dismounted from the taxi and, as was her habit, marched imperiously toward the front door without waiting for her husband to offer her his arm. The doorman had stepped quickly toward Mrs. John P. Marquand, wife of one of America's foremost novelists, sister-in-law of John D. Rockefeller III, daughter of a multimillionaire industrialist and a direct descendant of Thomas Hooker, seventeenth-century founder of Hartford, Connecticut, and said to her, “Sorry, lady, the service entrance is on the side.” It was one of John Marquand's favorite stories about his wife.

Now the three friends were all in the front hall of 1 Reservoir Street, Cambridge, and Marquand had already seen enough. He wanted no more. The physical ugliness of the house repelled him. How could Adelaide possibly have found such a place remotely attractive? Because of his heart attack, he announced, he didn't want to climb the stairs to see the rooms above. Carl Brandt, who suffered from emphysema, also said that he didn't care enough to go up to the upper floors. And so Carol Brandt, who decided that John ought at least to know what the rest of the house was like, started up the stairs alone.

“There was a great curving staircase that went up from the center of the hall,” Carol Brandt recalled later, “and on each floor there were balconies and overhangs. The upstairs rooms were all arranged around this central stair well. As I went up and around and into the various rooms, I would come back to the stair well and call down to the men below, trying to describe, as a journalist would, what was up there.” Carol Brandt, a tall, striking woman then in her forties, is a woman of precision and efficiency. She is also a woman of extraordinary effectiveness. For a number of years, she herself was a literary agent with a distinguished list of clients and, following that, she was the highly paid East Coast story editor for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and the then studiohead, Louis B. Mayer.
Mutual friends of Marquand and Carol Brandt have long insisted that she was the real-life model for the beautiful and well-organized advertising lady, Marvin Myles, in Marquand's novel
H. M. Pulham, Esquire
—at which assertion Carol has always smiled and said, “John took many of his characters from the people he knew.”

Of the Cambridge house that afternoon she has said, “The house was so grotesque that even though I tried to be very accurate about what I found in each room, the two men downstairs simply wouldn't believe that what I was telling them was the truth. There was a gun room on the third floor, for instance, and though the house was enormous there was a curious shortage of bathrooms. As I recall, there were only three. One of these had an enormous sunken marble tub that one had to climb down three steps to get into. And as I described each of these rooms and features of the house, John and Carl below kept calling back, ‘No! You're joking! There
couldn't
be a sunken bathtub.' I couldn't convince them that I was absolutely serious.”

All the way back to Boston, John Marquand kept muttering about the absurd house, absurd Adelaide, and the whole absurdity their marriage had become. The previous winter he had gone off alone to his island retreat in the Bahamas, just to be away from her, and now she had bought this hideous piece of real estate as some sort of gesture of conciliation. For some reason, of all the details of the house the sunken bathtub struck him as the worst, the most atrocious example of her tastelessness, of her pretentiousness, of his wife in one of her triumphs of mischief-making and of making him look ridiculous. “There
couldn't
be a sunken bathtub,” he kept repeating. “Carol, promise me you were teasing about the sunken bathtub.”

Back in the cool elegance of the Ritz-Carlton, drinks were quickly poured. John Marquand liked to drink. So did the Brandts. All three loved the Ritz, and John had often marveled over the Ritz's charming eccentricities, such as the curiously worded sign over the main entrance to the hotel which read, in large crimson letters, “NOT AN ACCREDITED EGRESS DOOR.” This particular week end an awed assistant manager had explained to John Marquand that the suite he was occupying had recently been used by Mrs. Frances Parkinson Keyes; she had lived there while working on one of her bosomy best sellers, and the hotel manager proudly showed John a
plaque that had been placed within the suite attesting to this signal honor. Mrs. Keyes, not one of his favorite authors, was among the three-named lady novelists whose styles John could parody. Could anyone imagine, he wanted to know, a more incongruous juxtaposition than Frances Parkinson Keyes and the Boston Ritz-Carlton hotel?

John Marquand had a characteristic gesture. He would seize his drink, curve his fist around it, and then begin swinging the glass in rapid, determined circles in front of him as he spoke. Talking now, swinging his glass, taking the center of the stage once more—as, of course, he rather liked to do—he was back on the subject of the Cambridge house all over again, doing a parody of Carol's description of the rooms. Soon everyone was convulsed with laughter. Suddenly John paused dramatically, as he was very good at doing, and announced to the little group, “I will—never—never—ever—
ever
live in that house, so help me God.” And he flung his hand heavenward.

But of course he did live in the house—though never for very long, and never very happily. His marriage to Adelaide would survive another five stormy years. Life is full of failed promises and the need to compromise, as characters in Marquand's novels are repeatedly discovering. One must, as Marquand heroes are forever reminding themselves, learn to adapt and adjust to circumstances, and in most cases such adjustments are solitary ones, and solutions are second-best. In John Marquand's last and most autobiographical novel,
Women and Thomas Harrow
, the title character makes, in a final scene, an abortive, half-unconscious, half-intentional attempt to commit suicide by driving his automobile—a Cadillac—off the road and over a high cliff above the sea. Tom Harrow does no more than crush a front fender against a fence post. While quietly congratulating himself, just as Marquand might have done, on the value of driving an expensive car, Harrow confronts a state trooper who witnessed the accident. The trooper asks Harrow if he can drive home alone. Harrow answers that he can, thinking wistfully, “In the end, no matter how many were in the car, you always drove alone.”

But having to agree to live, after all, in the house of his wife's folly must have seemed to the late John Marquand a form of surrender, much like other situations and moments in his life when the
very things he wanted the most (Adelaide, for one, to say nothing of his first wife, the beautiful Christina Sedgwick) had a way, once he attained them (his great financial success, his popularity, the Pulitzer Prize) of rising up against him, and mocking him, and defeating him.