I tried to persuade Gertrude Wood to give me the exact and definitive version of all this, but she said, “There are limits to human endurance. I long ago refused to hear any more of it, and I now refuse to hear anything more about it”. He refused to play for me, so the legend must remain a legend — despite the fact that its central figure is alive, and will doubtless remain so for many a long year. The Woods are tough as the towering oaks of their New England.
Dr. Wood can drive a car — and can carve — as well as anybody when he keeps his mind on it, but doesn’t like to do either. Mrs. Wood consequently does all the carving and most of the driving. She likes to keep the indicator between fifty and sixty when roads are suitable, and on occasion steps it up to seventy and over. None of the Woods is slow or static. Dr. Wood’s preferred and almost only alcoholic beverage is the Old-fashioned, or in lieu of that a dry Martini. Mrs. Wood makes them very dry. He frequently has one or two before dinner. I was writing these notes in East Hampton, after one of the dinners, and had written, “Mrs. Wood does all the carving, and, to paradox an old Scotch phrase, despite her husband’s terrific personality, Wherever she sits is the head of the table”. I asked her kindly to look the script over, and left it on her desk. When I found it next morning, she had turned author herself and had written across the top of the page, “The Professor sits at the head of the table. Gertrude carves so that he can talk to his guests — or if not, so he can think out problems which are often solved during the meal — at which times he is sometimes silent when he should be talking”.
There’s another Scotch phrase, by Bobbie Burns, which ends, “… to see ourselves as others see us”. I still insist that Gertrude Wood sits at the head of the table, and not merely because she does the carving. For she directs the conversation, no matter how brilliantly her husband dominates it. Sometimes she makes him talk, when he has been silent too long, and she has also been known to explode with the well-bred Boston equivalent of “For God’s sake, shut up!” when his conversational pyrotechnics risk setting fire to some inflammable guest.
The household is hospitable, enjoys parties, people, gaiety. The rambling, remodeled Queen Anne farmstead, with ample space and appurtenances, has made it convenient in summer to entertain week-end guests, and they have had many famous ones. The guest book, with its autographs, verses, and frequent drawings, reads like a recipe for goulash concocted from Who’s Who and the Social Register with a dash of gossip sauce from the New Yorker.
The galaxy of autographs, touching both the starry firmament and Broadway’s neon lights, ranges from great astronomers to Dwight Fiske. They’ve even entertained Harpo Marx, by accident, and a celebrated safe-cracker by design. Nearly every autograph has some tale or reminiscence connected with it. One of the richest concerns the late Charles Nungesser, French ace of aces, who flew out to East Hampton during his last visit to New York, and left the following inscription: “A Monsieur Wood, et sa famille, en souvenir de leur charmante réception à mon arrivé en avion au golf”.
The “charming reception” accorded him when he landed on the golf course might well be written into next year’s script of Hellz-a-Poppin.
Robert Wood, Jr., and Nungesser had met one evening at the Harvard Club. The two young veterans had a lot to say to each other over the Scotch and sodas, and when Nungesser learned that the Wood summer home was at East Hampton, he mentioned the fact that he was flying out to the Maidstone Club for lunch on Saturday. So-and-so, or a Monsieur Tel as they say in French — he didn’t quite recall the name, mais un garçon charmant — had invited him. He had written the name down, but couldn’t just then recall it. He hoped Robert and his father would join them there for lunch or coffee or a drink.
Late Saturday morning, seeing a tiny plane high over the farm, the Woods, father and son, hopped into their car and went out to the club. As they arrived, Nungesser’s plane was circling the golf course, and he landed near the first tee. No sooner had he shut off the engine, than a big, red-faced, barrel- chested member in plus fours rushed toward Nungesser waving his driver and shouting:
“This is an outrage! You can’t land on the golf course of a private club! You took my wife’s eye off the ball! You spoiled her drive!”
Dr. Wood hastened forward and explained to the apoplectic golfer that the flyer was Nungesser — that he had come there by invitation to lunch — that he had shot down sixty-seven German planes — was the greatest of all air heroes. The golfer roared, “I don’t give a damn if he shot down five hundred planes! He spoiled my wife’s drive!”
Then the steward of the club rushed out shouting, “See here, you can’t land here! It’s against the rules”.
Dr. Wood said mildly, “But he already has landed”.
“But he can’t!”
“But he has!”
“But he can’t!”
“But he has! And furthermore he’s invited here to luncheon with a member of the club”.
“By what member?” demanded the steward. Nungesser fished the name out of his pocket, and the steward looked at it.
“But that man’s not a member. He’s not a member of the club at all. He only lunches here sometimes with Mr. Jones- Smith”.
It began to be apparent that the garçon charmant had been in his cups when he invited Nungesser to the Maidstone Club, and had forgotten all about it. So the Woods decided to take Nungesser home with them to lunch. In the meantime Dr. Wood, who had been an early member and shareholder in the club, decided that Nungesser ought to have a cup of coffee. The steward reluctantly agreed to let Mr. Nungesser have a cup of coffee. Whereupon Nungesser fumbled in his breast pocket, produced a visiting card the size of a large wedding invitation, but slightly more ornate, and presented it in a courtly manner to the steward. Wood says the card had everything on it but the Eiffel Tower — which is the French equivalent of the kitchen stove.
The steward was embarrassed and unimpressed. When the colored waiter came to serve the coffee, Nungesser produced another and handed it to him. The colored waiter was enchanted and terrifically impressed. The Woods then took Nungesser home to lunch, and later, a bit mystified at the strange ways of Americans, but happy and not out of countenance, he flew back to New York.
Apropos of William Beebe’s visit is a tale of the rats in the barrel — and apropos of Father Pigot’s, occurs a rhapsodic tribute to Wood’s homemade gin.
The barn and outhouses had become infested with rats, and a lot of them were caught alive in basket traps. They were to be loosed as is the custom and killed by terriers. This is not for fun or cruelty, as some imagine, but to train the terriers. In the meantime, Wood dumped the rats in a barrel and observed them with curiosity. He says that they began jumping and that their pink noses came up in waves, like pink bubbles on water, but didn’t quite reach the rim. Presently some of them began running wildly around the bottom of the barrel. Soon, like motorcyclists in World’s Fair saucers, they were whirling around the sides of the barrel, held by centrifugal force. They ran faster, spiraled up, and finally came hurtling over the rim!
Wood told his naturalist friends. Beebe at first refused to believe the story, but was finally convinced. It seemed evident that the rats in rushing and tumbling around over each other at the bottom were occasionally thrown against the wall and discovered that if they ran faster against the curved wall, they were pressed against it and could actually climb out in a spiral. Wood let the rats go for the fun he’d had watching them do it. They recalled to his mind his youthful conquest of the spiral balustrade, he says.