Such young men frequently devote themselves to science; sometimes to medicine. The research side appeals to them. If they are brilliant enough, and have money enough, they study under the world's greatest authorities. If they are interested in certain functions of the glands, this takes them to Lilley's or the Ford Foundation, but in the old days, in the days of our youth, it took them to Vienna.
Before going to Vienna, Humphrey Baxter went to dine with a married couple of his acquaintance. These, not having a word to say about glands, had provided themselves and him with tickets for the theatre. The play turned out to be a light romantic comedy which was also only very indirectly concerned with the glands. Humphrey sat regarding it with forebearance until, at a well-chosen moment early in the first act, Caroline Coates walked on to the stage. Humphrey leaned forward in his seat. The movement passed unnoticed because everyone else in the theatre also leaned forward.
It may well be asked why this considerable expenditure of human energy was exerted on account of a girl who only escaped being the worst actress in the world by being so very obviously not an actress at all. The fact is, Caroline Coates was a goddess. I think it was Alexander Woollcott who wrote: «To enquire as to her capacity as a mummer would be like asking, of a real actress, what is her prowess in trapeze work. Talent in this young woman would be a mere dilution, like soda in a highball; the less of it the better. When the divine Aphrodite walks on the stage, we do not wish her to perform like the divine Sarah.»
Caroline had been put into a play by some fantastic mistake in the very year she left Bennington. It was at once apparent that she was one of those girls — there is only one in each generation — whose fortune it is to stand for something greater than talent and greater than beauty, and hence to be universally adored. The essential quality in Caroline was her youth. It aroused in the beholder the keenest, liveliest, and most exquisite sensation of pure joy, which is the rarest and finest of all sensations. Besides this, as I happen to know from private sources, this Caroline was a good-natured, well-bred, truthful, simple, kind, merry, and unaffected girl, and she smelled like a florist's shop, which is not always the case with goddesses.
Humphrey observed this phenomenon with a concentration he had hitherto reserved for sections of the obscurer glands mounted on microscope slides. As they left the theatre he turned to his host and hostess. «Do you by any chance happen to know that girl?» He saw the question surprised them, so he continued without waiting for an answer. «Or do you know anyone who knows her?»
«No, Humphrey. She lives in the great world. She's altogether beyond our class. She lives with people with the names of buildings and breakfast foods. And when she's not on the stage she's on yachts and polo fields and such like, and we wouldn't know even this if we didn't read the Sunday papers.»
Humphrey was in no way dismayed by this answer. He knew very well it needs only two or three introductions to bridge the gap between oneself and anyone anywhere in the world. He therefore asked everyone he knew, stating his purpose very clearly, and before many weeks had passed he found himself on a certain terrace, looking over Long Island Sound, being curiously regarded by the namesakes of buildings and breakfast foods, and talking to Caroline Coates. He found her amazingly ignorant of the immense importance of recent researches into the functions of the ductless glands, and it was a keen pleasure to him to tell her of the great strides in human health and happiness and longevity that were promised by the new knowledge. You may imagine the effect of this gaunt, gauche, hollow-cheeked young man, in altogether the wrong sort of jacket, sitting among the well-groomed crowd, lecturing a popular idol of twenty-three on the effects of certain unsavoury juices upon horrible insane little girls, who wallowed in their own dung. Of course, she fell wildly, madly, head-over-heels in love with him, and before the month was out it was announced they were engaged to be married.
Certain buildings rocked a little; certain breakfast foods popped and crackled even more snappishly than usual. But in the main people felt that it showed what a fine girl Caroline was, and yet it was in no way a threat, because it couldn't possibly last. For example, what would happen when Humphrey went to Vienna, to work under the celebrated Vingleberg?
«I shall be there,» said Humphrey, «for three years straight. And if I get out of that lab for forty-eight consecutive hours any time in those three years, it'll be because the place has burned down. I can't get back here to see you.»
«Maybe I'll come over between shows.»
«I wish you'd change your mind.»
«Darling, I'd like to get married now, just as much as you would. But I simply cannot walk out on a new show and leave everyone flat. Besides …»
«You want just one more.»
«Yes, I do. Maybe I could come when it's over.»
«They say the damned thing'll run for years.»
«It may fold up in six months. Humphrey, I know you think I'm just greedy to have a fuss made over me …»
«I've never suggested such a thing.»
«But you think so. And if you didn't you'd be crazy. Because I am, just a bit. But if ever I feel it getting a real hold on me …»
«And what do you think a real hold feels like? Like this?»
This terminated the conversation just as they were on an important point, which was rather a pity. Humphrey's boat sailed; Caroline's play opened; she was more idolized than ever, and everyone expected her to fall in love with someone else. But the first year passed, and the second year passed, and the third year wore on, and Caroline was still faithful. There were two excellent reasons for this. She was so extremely fond of Humphrey, and she was so extremely fond of herself.
When the three years were over, Humphrey Baxter was on the boat, and the boat was docking. For some weeks he had had a picture in his mind of how Caroline would look when she greeted him, and this picture was so much with him that when he was reading the right-hand page of his book, it hovered like an illustration on the left. Because this was the 1920's, he had costumed her in silver fox and violets. He looked down on the landing stage, and saw plenty of fur and flowers, but he saw no sign of Caroline.
He went down the gangway and through the barrier. Two people came up and grasped his either hand. They were Dick and Stella Archer, the very people who had introduced him to Caroline in the first place, and thus established squatter's rights in the relationship. They held his hands and looked at him, and uttered the pleasantest and friendliest of greetings. Humphrey looked this way and that. «Where's Caroline?» said he.
The greetings were gone like a burst bubble. Three altogether greyer people stood, in an east wind, in the giant cheerlessness of the landing shed.
«Carrie couldn't come,» said Stella.
There was no doubt at all that Humphrey's mouth was sensitive, extremely sensitive. «Is she ill?» he asked.
«Well …» said Dick.
«She's not ill,» said Stella. «But she couldn't come. Humphrey, get your things through, and we'll go to lunch at the Revestel, and we'll tell you about it.»
«Very well,» said Humphrey.
They went to the Revestel, where they had eaten so often in the old days. They ordered lunch. «I think it's about time you told me what it is,» said Humphrey.
«Humphrey,» said Stella, «you've got to understand.»
It was perhaps, after all, rather difficult to decide whether Humphrey's mouth was very sensitive or a little cruel. «Go on,» he said.