The Golden Cup Page 7

  He will tell me when we shall be married.

  “I only want to promise you that you needn’t worry. I’m very careful. You won’t become pregnant.”

  Why, all at once, this trembling shame? Because … the consequences of all that sweetness could be so fearful.…

  “Hennie, did you hear me? I said don’t worry. Trust me.”

  “I will. I do.”

  “Listen to me, I know you. You’ll go home and have a bad conscience. But you mustn’t. We’ve done nothing wrong. Can there ever be anything wrong about love?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Of course there can’t.”

  When she awoke the next morning, the thought flooded in instantly: I am different because of what happened yesterday. It seemed impossible that this difference, this great change, was not visible. Yet her father read the Times at breakfast and her mother hurried Alfie off to school; everything was as always, the cereal, the iceman’s bell, and the mailman’s whistle. But all that day, whenever she passed a mirror, she stared at herself.

  After that, it was arranged between Dan and Hennie that whenever she could find plausible time, she would come to him. Arriving early, she would watch quietly while he finished his work in the orderly laboratory, so different from the room in which he ate and slept. Here, properly arrayed, were papers, tubes, coils of wire, filaments and tools. Sometimes Dan tried to explain what he was doing.

  “This is an amplifier. And here, this is hand-drawn copper wire, much stronger than ordinary copper wire—”

  She had no idea what all this meant; the words passed over her head, acknowledged by a vague smile. Always and only there was the longing for him. He was so absorbed; with narrowed eyes, head on one side, he’d whistle thoughtfully and pause to think, completely at ease with himself. Always at ease with himself and everyone. He spoke as he pleased, dressed as he pleased—she had to laugh inwardly, thinking, as she watched, how amusing it was that, caring so little about his own dress, he yet had that quirk of noting how a woman looked or ought to look.

  “That yellow thing is very good on you.” He would turn suddenly. “I’m finished. Let’s go upstairs and take the yellow thing off.”

  She liked to bring food, to make or bake something at home on the pretext of taking it to the settlement house. She tidied the room as best she could, for Dan was careless and never threw anything away, whether old clothes, letters, or cracked dishes. Doing these things, she felt the marvel of making a life together in daily work and trust.

  She felt as good as married. Almost.

  The months flowed easily into one another and Dan was happy; he talked no more of longing to be in a room with her behind a locked door. Hesitating to mention marriage, and wishing she could hide her flushed face, since, after all, it was the man who ought to be the eager one, or so the novels all said, she nevertheless brought up the subject.

  “You see, I have to get some money ahead,” Dan replied.

  “I’m a simple person, Dan, you know that. I don’t want a lot. I’m as simple as you.”

  “We may be simple, but even so, we can’t live here in this room, can we?”

  Glancing at the narrow bed, the single chair, and the milk bottle on the windowsill, she had to concede that.

  “Darling, I wish it could be tomorrow. But I shall have to get a little ahead.”

  “How is that to be done?” she asked, keeping her tone steady.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. Look about you. More soup kitchens, bank failures, unemployment. This is a full-blown depression, Hennie. True, I get a salary, but till I met you I saved very little. I always gave so much away, and now the need for giving is greater than it ever was.”

  “You’re still giving?”

  “Not much, though it’s hard not to when I see my kids coming to school half asleep because they’ve been up late making artificial flowers. But I’m trying, I really am. Just be patient.”

  Alfie went to the Werners’ Adirondack camp and came back to entertain them at dinner with accounts of canoe trips and cookouts with trout he had caught.

  “It’s called ‘roughing it in comfort.’ You should have gone, Hennie. You’d have had a great time.”

  Alfie knew how to enjoy the pleasures of luxury. Nothing was ever wasted on him.

  “I’m sure I don’t know why she didn’t,” Mama said. Serving the dessert, she dropped the spoon into the pudding with a stern splash. “This insufferable heat! Hanging around the settlement house all summer! Nobody stays in the city who has a chance to get out of it, except Hennie. Well, charity is one thing, but there’s no need to be a martyr for it.”

  Alfie promptly reversed himself. “Oh, Ma, it wasn’t all that wonderful. And everybody doesn’t like the mountains, anyway.”

  Dear little Alfie, once a nuisance, and suddenly a grown-up ally! Tears pressed the back of Hennie’s eyes. She was in terror that they might fall, one slow, piteous drop after the other, forcing her to flee from the room and later to face questions. Questions …

  The happy family at dinner. You could make a nice lithograph and put it in a gilded frame on the parlor wall: the father in his dark suit, the presiding mother, the jolly schoolboy son, and the marriageable daughter.

  Oh, if they knew! Schemes and possibilities whirled through Hennie’s brain. Maybe Papa could offer Dan a job that paid more than teaching? No, he wouldn’t take it. He loved to teach. Anyway, Pa had no job to offer. If ever there were one in that struggling partnership, it would go to Alfie.

  Pictures floated through her brain. White weddings. Music, blessings, and safety. Above all, safety …

  The months revolved and fall came again. She bought a copy of The Scarlet Letter. My God, what cruelty! But that, after all, was two centuries ago, wasn’t it?

  It’s not all that different now.

  She rarely stopped in to visit Uncle David anymore. When she did, he never mentioned Dan, which made her wonder what he knew or suspected. Maybe nothing at all.

  At the settlement house, Miss Demarest, with an expression both curious and envious, dropped remarks about “you and your young man.” She must have seen Hennie walking in the neighborhood with Dan. Even in a city as enormous as New York, one could not go unnoticed.

  Having a painfully growing need to confide in someone, she was almost prepared to take Olga out for coffee some evening and trust her. But then, one day, somehow their conversation took a turn that made confidence impossible.

  “In Russia we had nothing,” Olga had said. “We still have nothing. But as long as I am with my husband, everything is bearable.”

  “Did you know each other a long time before you were married?”

  “We grew up in the same village, but we didn’t really know each other … and then all of a sudden it happened. You know how it is … we decided to get married.”

  Hennie’s thoughts moved gingerly, like fingers not quite daring to touch.

  “But surely you loved, you knew love, for some time before you were married?”

  Olga looked up. “Knew love? You don’t mean that we slept together? Why, he would never do that before we were married. He’s not that kind of man.”

  Hennie flushed. “I didn’t mean that,” she said quickly. “Of course not.”

  She was, then, entirely alone with her secret.

  “We haven’t seen much of Daniel Roth lately,” Angelique observed.

  Dan hadn’t been at Hennie’s house in weeks, since now they met elsewhere.

  When Hennie did not reply at once, her mother inquired, “Has he stopped courting you, then?”

  “Courting! That’s ridiculous. He’s my friend. Everything is not ‘courting,’ as you put it, Mama.”

  “A man is either interested in something permanent or he is not. It’s as plain as that. And if he is no longer interested, I can tell you plainly that your father and I will be much relieved. We’ll be sorry for you, but you’ll get over it and be all the happier.”

 
Hennie said coldly, “You were going out at ten o’clock, weren’t you? Well, you’re late, it’s ten after.”

  A man is either interested in something permanent or he is not.

  Eileen was singing in the kitchen, her song rising freely now that the lady of the house had gone out. Hennie went into her room and shut the door against that strong, cheerful voice.

  * * *

  When had she really felt the beginning of the drift? It was impossible to know precisely when. A drift was just that: gradual and vague, veering like a night breeze.

  Women glanced, inviting, and he responded. Nothing came of it really, except that whenever it happened, she felt left out and afterward, reflecting, humiliated by her own jealousy. She knew one thing: never to let him know that she saw or cared, lest she become that ridiculous creature, a suspicious and possessive woman.

  They had been at a beach picnic to celebrate the end of the school year; that had been one time. There had been a lively group of teachers with wives and daughters. It was a marvelous day, too cool for bathing but perfect for walking on the hard sand near the water’s edge.

  We are in line, somehow arranged by twos, to the jetty and back. I find myself with Mr. Marston, the Latin teacher. Dan is ahead of us with the daughter, Lucy Marston. She is about my age and is as noisy as my brother Alfie. Does she really think that her explosive laughter is alluring?

  Mr. Marston keeps talking about his wife, recently dead, and of the responsibility he has to be both mother and father to Lucy. I am sorry for him, but I am bored with his troubles, although I offer the proper sympathy. My eyes are on Dan and the girl ahead. After all, I can’t help seeing them, can I? The wind carries their voices away, all except her giggling treble, so I don’t know what they are talking about, but I can see by Dan’s enthusiastic gestures that he is happy.

  When she stumbles in the sand, he offers his arm and they go on walking that way. When we arrive at the jetty and make the turn to go back, I shall manage, I think, to walk back with him. But, still arm in arm, they swing about. Her brown hair has gold streaks. It’s beautiful hair. She has a pug-face like a doll’s, pretty but stupid. She doesn’t stop talking. Dan likes quiet women, he says. He can’t bear chatter, he says.

  It’s time to eat. Some people have brought blankets to spread on the sand. I sit on the rocks beside Dan. Lucy Marston wanders uncertainly holding her plate, looking for a place to sit. Dan calls to her.

  “Over here! There’s room.”

  He moves to make a place for her on his other side. I do not know if it is truly he who has invited her, or she who first made certain that he would. Something has been felt between them. Why doesn’t she find a man of her own?

  I try to see the girl through Dan’s eyes, which are now so bright that the clear whites are almost blue. I study her, saying nothing, while they talk as if I weren’t there. She has a lively energy that I don’t have. She raises her arms above her head to stretch, and arches her back as if she were in bed; her body is an invitation and a promise. If I see it, surely Dan does. I imagine that he is imagining her in bed, and I feel such a terrible, frenzied jealousy that I could smash my fist into her face.…

  Was that day the beginning? Hennie dared not ask.

  From time to time, Dan mentioned the girl. The mother’s death had been such a brutal shock. Lucy and her father had come home to find her dead in the parlor. She had never been sick. Terrible. Mr. Marston was a changed man. But Lucy was so spirited, he was lucky to have a daughter like her to cheer him.

  From time to time, though, Dan mentioned other women too. The new assistant at the library. A red-haired nurse at the settlement. So really it must be just a kind of game. A game of the eyes, of compliments and admiration. That was what Uncle David had seen and failed to understand.

  Yes, Hennie assured herself in moments of optimism, it is his way, harmless in spite of being painful to me. I will have to accept it. He must be loosely held and then he will always come back.

  And yet the second year was ending.

  On the Sunday before Thanksgiving they went for an afternoon walk in Central Park. The day was hazy, the air warm and still, vaguely depressing in a season that ought to be brisk.

  People wandered slowly; children kicked at the piled leaves along the paths. A little group had gathered to watch an old man feeding pigeons; earnest as a farmer going about his labor, he dipped his hand into the sack and scattered the grain.

  “Out of place in the city,” Dan observed. “Look at his rosy cheeks.”

  “He’s the same old man Paul watches when I bring him to the park.”

  And lines of a Stevenson poem, memorized at school, came to her suddenly, something about country places.

  “Where the old plain men have rosy faces

  And the young fair maidens

  Quiet eyes.”

  My eyes are not quiet, she thought.

  They walked on. They had spoken very little all the way. Presently Dan remarked that it was so warm, one scarcely needed a coat, that it was amazing weather, but that they would probably make up for it with tons of snow in January.

  “I suppose so,” she answered.

  A flock of sparrows rushed up out of the grass at their approach.

  “Funny, nobody feeds them,” Dan remarked. “Not pretty enough, I suppose. I call them the poor people because the Lord made so many of them.”

  You don’t even believe in the Lord, she thought, without replying.

  Why are you doing this? Talking about sparrows, when we should be talking about ourselves? Tell me, say it, get it over with. Say: I’m tired of you, I’ve changed my mind.

  Dan was staring at her. They had come to a stop in the middle of the path.

  “What is it, Hennie?” Impatience crept into the voice of concern. “You look miserable. What’s bothering you?”

  Humiliation stripped her naked in the park. Surely every passerby could see her naked misery. As if he did not know!

  Her lips were so dry that she could feel them sliding over her teeth. “A mood, I guess.”

  “Well, you’re entitled to a mood. I’ll forgive you,” he said lightly.

  Forgive me for what? she cried silently. How dare you forgive me! Oh, God, Dan, won’t you understand? I need to know where I’m going!

  They went on again, breaking the silence now and then when it became too heavy, with some desultory remarks about things passing: a pair of handsome collies, or a maroon barouche containing three girls in identical white feathered hats. They came out onto Fifth Avenue among the Sunday strollers, elegant pairs on their way to tea at the Plaza, and affable families taking the air after midday dinner. They caught the omnibus downtown.

  “I forgot to tell you,” Dan said, “there are some cousins of my mother’s coming in from Chicago. They’ll be staying at a hotel, since I surely have no place to put them up, but naturally I’m obligated to take them around the city. They’ve never been here. So the next week will be a busy one for me.”

  “Yes, of course,” Hennie answered quickly.

  When they got off at the last stop, she said, “You needn’t walk home with me. No, really, I know you’ve got things to do.”

  “Not coming back with me?” Dan asked without urgency.

  “No, my sister’s coming to tea. Walter’s got one of his Sunday meetings.”

  He did not insist.

  “As a matter of fact, I can use the time. I’ve a pile of papers to go over.” He smiled. “Cheer up, Hennie. The world hasn’t come to an end.”

  Oh, turn the knife in the wound!

  “I’m very cheerful, I’m quite fine, don’t worry about me,” she said, walking away.

  I will not look back to see whether he is looking after me. I will not. But I have lost him.

  She had, in fact, not been expecting Florence; the sight of the familiar carriage and dappled grays at the curb was a surprise. She went inside with a sense of dread, hoping there was other company in the house so that the
conversation would have to be impersonal. But Florence and Angelique were alone in the parlor with the inevitable tea service between them. How would New York life be conducted without the tea service, the important gossip, the marriages arranged for the sons and daughters?

  “Where is Papa?” Hennie inquired.

  “Taking his Sunday nap. My goodness, you look so pale!”

  She answered without thinking, “It’s getting cold, a wind’s come up.”

  “Cold!” Angelique said. “And Florence has just been complaining of the unseasonable heat! Where have you been, Hennie?”

  “For a walk in the park.”

  Over Hennie’s head, as she sat down, the glances passed and vanished.

  “Do try this cake.” Florence passed a plate. “My new cook made it. She’s Irish, but surprisingly good. They are not famous for their cooking, as we all know. I do wish I could afford a French chef. Walter’s parents have one and he’s marvelous.”

  A congress of nations, Hennie thought. French chefs, Irish maids, and German governesses. An English butler would be the ultimate, but that’s beyond the Werners’ reach … Why do I pick on my sister’s foibles? Because I’m wounded and I need to lash out at somebody, that’s why.

  The conversation that Hennie’s entrance had interrupted was now resumed.

  “The furniture was all Louis Seize. Half the women wore tiaras. You can’t imagine what a scene it was. I have been telling Mama about the Brocklehurst dinner. Another world, not Jewish, of course. I was really flattered to be invited, although it was a business thing, I don’t delude myself. The apartment must cost heaven only knows what. Twenty rooms on Fifth Avenue. I know Walter’s cousin pays one hundred a month for seven rooms on Fifth Avenue, so this one must have cost …” Florence’s voice trailed off in awe. “Right near the Harmonie Club they are.”

  “I have never been in the Harmonie Club,” Angelique remarked wistfully.

  “You wouldn’t like it, Mama. Naturally I have to go because of Walter’s parents, but it’s so German! The Kaiser’s portrait in the hall! And it’s just this year that German stopped being the official language. I wish it would stop being the official language in my in-laws’ house too. After all, they’ve been forty years in America. And they still think of themselves as German. Carlsbad and Marienbad every other summer.”