“Thank God that Rudyard is not here,” said Edmund, and all understood without a word what Edmund had in mind, how Rudyard more than Marcus would have made this marriage the subject of endless discussion until at last Ferdinand would think that his wife’s past was always talked about.
Clearly Marcus took pleasure in the fact that now that the marriage was accomplished, Ferdinand was helpless against the infamy unknown to him.
At that moment the absent hero, Ferdinand, appeared in the doorway and was greeted with congratulation which soon rose to acclamation.
“Who said that I am married?” asked Ferdinand, coldly.
“I said so. You said so. It says so on the card you gave me,” said Marcus, perplexed.
“I see no reason for making any unwarranted suppositions or assumptions on the basis of an engraved card,” said Ferdinand.
“This is stupendous,” said Edmund, for he saw that Ferdinand had a trump card up his sleeve.
“The fact is that I am not married,” Ferdinand declared. “It is possible that I may marry Irene in the near future, but at present we are merely very good friends who have decided to live together.”
Marcus capsized on the sofa. His dismay spread over his face as if he were at the dentist’s, his mouth open.
“What do you think of Algernon Nathan?” asked Marcus.
“You know well enough,” Ferdinand replied. “He is a knave and a fool. He is a coxcomb and a jackass, and he always will be, if he lives to a hundred.”
It was clear then that Marcus was seeking to suppress his own desire to tell Ferdinand about Irene’s intimacy with Algernon, for this knowledge was without meaning, if Ferdinand was not married to Irene.
The circle was stunned by Ferdinand’s declaration. It seemed to them an incomparable exhibition. The real right thing was not to get married until one wanted to get married and in the meantime to do as one liked, frankly and openly. Ferdinand had often formulated this attitude.
“What do you think of that?” Marcus asked Laura, for she alone often expressed conventional views about marriage.
“How much money does she make?” said Laura. “What is her yearly compensation?”
“Ten years hence,” said Edmund, “this evening will still be the subject of discussion and interpretation.” No one knew exactly what Laura meant, but it was clear in general that Laura intended to express contempt with the implication also that nothing good would come of such an arrangement.
Laura began to bring in cups, spoons, knives, forks, bread, jam and cheese for the midnight supper.
Marcus, defeated, felt nervous and bewildered. He fell back on a practice for which he had often been denounced, that of drawing upon a store of prepared jokes and epigrams.
“Say, speaking of marriage,” said Marcus, “I heard a good one the other day. A girl says to a friend of hers who is getting married soon: ‘Is your torso prepared?’”
The others looked at him in a frozen-faced silence.
“What’s the joke?” asked Jacob.
Marcus paled. He knew that he was being attacked. But he felt that he must attempt to justify his utterance.
“Don’t you see, she says torso when she means trousseau. It is a genuine Freudian lapsus linguae.”
“Enough of this Latin,” said Edmund, “it is a dead tongue, and your grammar would shame a Gaul of the second century.”
Marcus, persevering, launched a second effort.
“You are like the Irish,” he said laboriously, “it is as Dr. Johnson said, the Irish are a fair people; they do not speak well of anyone.”
“Spare us your prepared epigrams and quotations,” said Ferdinand, “they resemble canned music.”
“The trouble with you,” said Marcus, “is that you have no sense of humor. Algernon said you had none and I said that you were hilarious. But I see that I was wrong.”
This spontaneous remark was also a success. Everyone but Ferdinand laughed. He did not know why they laughed, but he was too clever to ask that it be explained to him, the trap which had often undone Marcus.
And now they all sat at the table, and ate and drank, and minds and hearts arose as if they danced. Marcus, seated next to Ferdinand, put his hand on his shoulder, and said, still warm with pleasure at the unexpected success of his remark about Ferdinand as humorless:
“You are a fine fellow, Ferdinand. I always admired you and no matter what you say or do, I will continue to admire you.”
“Shut up,” said Edmund, kicking Marcus under the table.
Ferdinand described his purchase of furniture and how he had imposed his scorn upon the merchants of furniture. It was a very interesting story.
“Say,” said Laura, returning from the kitchen where she had just taken her tenth drink, and hurling her lightning-bolt as if she spoke of the weather, “did you know that Irene slept for a whole year with Algernon Nathan?”
“Laura,” said Marcus, torn between guilt and the wish to appear to be the reproachful one.
“Yes,” said Ferdinand, “I heard all about it the first night I went out with Irene.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “What about it?”
“This Ferdinand is without a peer,” said Edmund, “he has no equal either in America or Europe.”
They all saw that Ferdinand had scored an unconditional triumph. It was impossible to make out if Ferdinand had actually known about Algernon, or with quick wit and perfect control recognized that he must not admit his ignorance.
“Are you going home now?” Jacob asked Edmund. “I have had enough pity and terror for one evening.”
“Yes,” said Edmund, who did not want to go but who wanted to hear what Jacob had to say about the evening.
“I will go with you,” said Marcus.
“You stay here or go by yourself,” said Jacob, “we don’t want you with us.” And on that note of judgment the young men left.
NINE: “A MILLION DOLLARS ARE WORTHLESS TO ME”
After long absence, Rudyard visited the teacher who had most befriended him in school, Percival Davis. After Rudyard had been seated in the study of Professor Davis and questioned about himself, Professor Davis said in a flat, but depressed, tone:
“I am dying.”
“We are all dying,” said Rudyard, uneasy and trying to find something to say.
“But I am dying faster than most human beings,” said Professor Davis, unwilling to permit Rudyard to extricate himself from the fact of his own death. “I may be dead in six months. The fact is, I probably will be.”
“I think that it would be boring to live forever,” said Rudyard, pleased by this comment, but still uncomfortable.
“Forever, perhaps: but I would like to live for at least a thousand years,” said Professor Davis passionately, “I would not be bored in the least. I would learn about every great school of painting, both in Europe and the Orient, and I would cultivate the best wines.”
“Yes, you’re right,” said Rudyard, hoping to shift the subject, “it would be wonderful to live for a thousand years!” He felt that through agreement he was at least polite.
Two months after, Percival Davis died of the heart attack he had expected. After hearing the news, Rudyard went strolling with Jacob and told him of the interview.
“It was not proper of him,” said Rudyard, “to confront me with his death. What was there to say? What a pity that we do not have formal utterances for all the important events of life.”