The Unpossessed (33 page)

“Oh look, the Ballisters,” said Mrs. Draper, coming to.

“The Ballisters,” said Miss Titcomb and Miss Henley-Star, Miss Cracken and Miss Milliken.

“My God, the Ballisters,” groaned Al.

Someone tapped Arturo on the shoulder. For the smallest fraction of a second Arturo closed his eyes and admitted a dazzling flash of dream. For he never played The Symphony without a faint belief that at its end some connoisseur would recognize it: some party would burst into applause behind his back: ‘Bravo, bravo, Teresca!' He snapped to attention and threw over his shoulder the melancholy smile that could be photographed as anything; to the last that smile played safe. “Mr. Terry, sorry, would you mind playing old New York songs, you know, 1890 vintage, someone's just come in . . .” The smile turned smoothly commercial; Arturo broke off the Autumn movement in the middle; he gave the Boys a signal and wound up his knee for action again. “Af-
ter
the Ball was o-over. . .”

(Thank God for that, Mr. Terrill whispered; I never really cared for Debussy anyhow.)

Having bowed themselves under the portières and crouched themselves onto the ballroom floor, the Ballisters stood, like royalty. Envoys were quickly sent from all the separate groups. Mr. Whitman and Mr. Draper both hurried forward at the instigation of their wives, Mrs. Stanhope despatched Mr. Merriwell; the efficiency expert's wife insisted on accompanying her husband (contact with people like the Ballisters was always reassuring), Mr. Bud Chapman had to drop his mental pinochle hand because Mr. Crawford scraped back his chair and said there were the grand old Ballisters; a Mr. Harrod whispered to his brotherinlaw that the Ballister house had eighty-seven rooms and can you imagine that grand old pair keeping it up even though the rooms were no longer in use and they were both too old to walk up stairs, that's true aristocracy for you, Mr. Harrod explained to his brotherinlaw who was from Pennsylvania and not expected to know; farther on down the room gentlemen laid their sandwiches on plates and wiped their hands carefully before starting for the Ballisters; and in a corner by the music a man by the name of George Hervey Junior tried to look unconcerned while the male members of his party rose and left him sitting with the ladies, all because George Hervey Senior was a self-made man self-made so recently that his bank-account had scarcely had time to jell—and more than ever Junior was convinced that Socialism was the best way out.

“It's people like the Ballisters,” Violet Draper murmured, watching her husband's course across the room, “who restore one's faith in life.” “They make all the sacrifices well worth while,” sighed Mrs. Whitman; “even a tragedy like poor Jim Fancher's.” “Standards,” said Mrs. Draper, nodding, “it's all a question of standards—and poor Jim Fancher had them too.” “In a broad way of thinking, yes,” replied Mrs. Whitman; “but principles—” “Standards are stronger,” said Violet Draper; and both ladies fingered their pearls and began to sing through closed mouths: “mm hmm hmm” to Af—ter the Baaall.

Upstairs in the library Merle whispered, “The Ballisters must have come. We really ought to go down.” But because Jeffrey answered nothing, she protested for him: “But not yet, not yet, in a moment.” Af-ter the Ball kept floating up.

“But look here, Firman,” Miles was saying, “what classes
is
the Magazine supposed to reach, that's the point, the whole point.” “I think personally,” said Cornelia laughing, “that your Negro was a house-detective.” “No, he looked too much like one,” said Margaret; “a dark horse if ever there was one!” “only two classes,” Firman said “and no use trying to bridge them over” said a Maxwell “nor inventing smaller classes in between” said Little Dixon “because in a war after all,” said Cornelia leaning forward, “there can only
be
two sides” “the fellows in No Man's Land in between are shot from both trenches” said Firman, taking Cornelia's hand. “But intellectuals,” said Miles. “I think you're very brave,” said Margaret, “to face a life like that; but what are you going to do about a
personal
life, Cornelia?” “Oh I'll grant you that the intellectuals were born on an island of some sort, Flinders,” Firman said; “but is that any reason,” said Cornelia eagerly, “for never crossing over to the mainland? . . . Why I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Flinders, Margaret, what exactly do you mean, a
personal
life?” she said, absently stroking Firman's hand.

“It begins to look,” said Al, “a bit like the last round-up taking place around the Ballisters. . . . So this is a revolution party, Miss Norah, is it? Well, I think it's a pretty nice party because
you're
at it.”

“I do wonder where my husband is,” said Norah politely smiling; “I hope he won't forget to make his speech.” Al put a brotherly arm about her shoulder.

Ruthie Fisher caught her eye. Norah was absently smiling; but as she smiled her eyes seemed to make a quick decisive tour to every corner of the room; and returning, calm from their vain trip but still watchful, they encountered Ruthie Fisher sympathetically. At once the knowledge leaped in Ruthie's heart: that Norah, like herself, awaited Jeffrey; that Norah's heart beat just like hers; that Norah too, beneath her mild composure, knew that solemn anguish . . .

“Of course she knows about me, Lydia!” she said indignantly. “She's no bourgeois, Norah and I are the greatest friends. Oh Norah's swell,” she said in a burst of love, of loyalty, for Norah; “sometimes,” she added, feeling the solace of their combined pain and love, “sometimes I think I like her better than I like Jeff . . . if she weren't a girl,” she finished honestly.

“Gosh! Fish!” Lydia said. “Doesn't she
care
, I mean how can she be friends with you, I mean . . .” But for Ruthie Fisher there were in that room for the moment only two people, herself and Norah Blake; and in the whole world only three, herself and Norah waiting hand in hand like sisters, and beyond, somewhere elusive in space but still belonging vividly to both of them, their lover Jeffrey Blake. The nearest thing to peace that she had known all evening filled her.

The court of the Ballisters grew and the Ballisters came up to the shoulders of the first rank courtiers. The ancient Ballisters as they were called again although they were brother and married sister, had been wedded one third of their lives and widowed one third. This last lap that they were on was like a continuation of their childhood and it is doubtful if either remembered the married interim. They crouched and shoved through life together, equally in need of one another's arms and valiantly “kept up” the grand old mansion in which (some seventy years ago) the Ballister children had played Hunt the Slipper: though they could no longer climb its stairs. Old Mr. Ballister was considered especially valiant because despite his years he kept his hearing; old Sarah Ballister was valiant because though deaf (or else remarkably absent) she conducted herself without ear-trumpets. They bowed and crackled now; said things like “well well, how is your grandfather, oh yes, he's dead,” that were taken away by the first rank as very precious favors. The next rank came up as the first group settled on the outskirts and the little Ballisters shrank a little more and licked at their turned-in lips; the third rank pressed in close enough to see the velvet band that held up old Miss Ballister's throat and then old Sarah Ballister murmured to her brother that she was tired and her brother said aloud that his sister was tired and everybody murmured of course, significantly and self-reproachfully, and sprang forward to lend the Ballisters arms across the floor. “It is not,” whispered one member of the cortège; “that eighty is so very many years; but it is so awesomely near the end of them.” And the band played Auld Lang Syne.

Arturo was not playing Auld Lang Syne for the Ballisters. He was playing it to Mary. He was lonely for Mary, he played to Mary sitting at home with a mending basket on her knee; or going in to change the littlest kid; or stealing a look at her fur coat hanging grandly in the closet. Very well, Arturo thought with dignity: let him be a minor artist; he was a major lover anyway.

The music went up the stairs in a slow crescendo, came and circled faintly in the library like a hurdy-gurdy sounding melancholy from the street. “I have always been” said Jeffrey (
be still, my trembling hands!
) “something of a lone wolf; even in my childhood.” He had almost forgotten Merle, sitting with his head on her lap and letting Auld Lang Syne stop his ears and brain. Now he brought himself to look at her. He thought she looked a little drunk, as though her mouth had slipped, her eyes were floating; all of her swayed like a plaster cast of Venus—if that were passion, he thought fastidiously, then passion was not becoming to her; but it looked more like despair. What on earth was he doing here, he thought, waking with surprise. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be with Merle. He buried his hands in her hair to still them there. But his hands trembled, thinking of Elizabeth; his mind wandered, thinking of Elizabeth. (He recalled again how she had violently struck him.) It was like this always: when he was with one woman he would think of another. When he had lightly courted Margaret Flinders he had thought of Comrade Fisher; when he made love to Comrade Fisher he had lain and longed for Merle; and now that his fingers swept at will through Merle's lovely cloudy hair he wanted Elizabeth Leonard. And when the cycle was complete, when he had won his way again around the cycle, there would be Norah again, his Norah, waiting: with whom at last he was at liberty to be himself. “I have almost always,” he said, “been lonely”; and heard his words mechanical and yet sincere, like the murmurous sentimental hurdy-gurdy from below.

The Ballisters were seated with care, arranged, refreshments brought them; ambassadors lingered, broke off and returned to their separate parties, Bud Chapman called for his friend and plucked at Crawford's sleeve, Mr. Harrod bowed himself back to his Pennsylvania brotherinlaw. “They didn't know us from Adam,” the efficiency expert whispered witheringly to his wife as against no protests whatsoever they tore themselves away. But the Ballisters of course must never be left alone; and Mr. Draper who had been sitting closest to Mr. Ballister's valiant voice, straining for the end of how his sister had found cobwebs over their great-grandmother's picture in the hall, looked up to discover that his was the glory, the embarrassment, the fame, of “sitting with the Ballisters”: for Lucius Whitman, laughing, had returned to both their wives.

“Now this,” said Bruno tentatively, standing in the doorway with an arm about each of his protégés, “reminds one forcibly of Marx: that there might be a revolution; or there might be chaos.” They stood blinking in the light, Emmett, Elizabeth, and Bruno, searching through the ballroom for their friends. “And here comes your father, Emmett, to tell us which it is.” “Say, your revolution's late,” Al said. “It's twelve o'clock. Is that my son? Well, I'm damned. What? no shakee hands with revolution's sugar-papa?” Emmett hesitated; held out his hand and drew it back, perceiving that one of his father's hands was engaged round Norah's waist, the other held a turkey-stick. “What's this?” said Bruno. “This? Oh it's my lamp,” said Al, brandishing it; “I'm Diogenes looking for a proletarian. But who is this,” he said. “I'm Emmett's girl-friend,” Elizabeth said, “I hope you don't mind, Mr. Middleton—and would you ask the steward please,” she waved toward March, “for a little drink for the lady?” “Nice to see you all,” said Norah; “Jeffrey's mislaid somewhere.” “And where's my mother,” said Emmett suddenly; “where's Merle, I d-d-don't see her anywhere.” “She's upstairs, son, she got tired of waiting for you.” Al smiled down anxiously into Emmett's face.

“I think I'll go and find her,” said Emmett to his own surprise. He was home again. He wanted Merle. “I wouldn't, son,” said Al with gentleness. And that was his God damned jealousy again, thought Emmett, his cruelty, his sadism as the Vambery called it. “Stick with us, Emmett,” said Bruno kindly. But Emmett had turned against them all; a wave of pity for his mother swept him as he thought how she, like himself, was left out of things here, by his friends, by her own husband. He had a keen thrust suddenly of instinct: his mother would be waiting, lonely, hungry for a sight of him. “I wouldn't, son,” said Al again. “Don't leave us, Emmett, I couldn't bear it,” said Elizabeth coldly. “Look, we'll be needing you to help with the speeches, Emmett,” Bruno said. Emmett turned upon them all. “What do you th-th-think I am, anyway,” he said, “a God damned b-b-baby?” And swung round, brushing March's belly, to mount the stairs.

“In the library, I think,” said the Vambery, directing him. From the stairs the party filled Emmett with disgust. He saw his father guiding Norah Blake, his arm about her waist; Bruno and Elizabeth following, arm in arm, step matching step. He went up the stairs more eagerly than he had for years. How many times, he thought, had he crept up them to hide away from Merle; and now he climbed them swiftly to find her and tell her he was sorry. He had very little notion of how to speak to her, even of what, precisely, he had to say; but words would come somehow. Reaching the top he grew exalted with a new impulse: he might tell her of what he saw below, tell how Bruno let him down as Al did her, he might offer to take her away—he had a fine vision of their going off together, Switzerland perhaps, “the young American and his lovely mother, what a beautiful relationship between them”; educating her; or perhaps merely pleasing her—he wanted somebody exclusively to himself.

The door to the library stood closed; light shone over the transom. He walked up gently, shy with faith. It occurred to him then that Merle would not be alone; she could not (however she had wanted to) have deserted the party to come up here and wait for him. He lifted his hand to knock—and saw how large and blank the door was.
What might go on between a man and woman behind closed doors was still a mystery to him . . . the possibilities although remote were infinite and black
. . . He remembered Al's face; thought now in retrospect the Vambery had looked peculiar too. His blood beat again in that new and surreptitious way and he went on up the stairs past rows and rows of blank closed doors until he found his own. He went in and stood with his lonely childhood until he burst into tears for company. When the first tears failed him he drew the pages of Bruno's speech out of its dog-eared envelope and looking at it, touching it, remembering how they had written it together, the tears came burning forth again.