Fancies and Goodnights

CANCEL ALL I SAID

Give the commuter Spring! Because, where the white walls are clustered close among the rocks and woods, the first daffodil is a portent most regarded; because among the companionable roofs there are more planes, more variously coloured lilac, plum and rose, for the last hoarfrost to moisten, glisten, and steam upon; because of the ice-break tinkle in the voices of children, and the appeal of their small rubbers; because of the untrustworthy lustre of the sky over Tarrytown and the east wind yet guerrilla on the plain, because of the glad heartbreaking babble at the breakfast table, and the bill beside the plate, give the commuter Spring!

Henry Sanford II, somewhat sloping about the shoulders, but dark, slim, and hollow of abdomen, clad in loosely fitting grey with a tweedy touch to it, and a well-worn tweedy touch at that, was granted his full share of this delectable season. It was the last morning in April. The wood's edge, round two sides of the garden, smoked and flashed in the stainless air, the buds were bursting, the twigs glistened, birds flickered in and out, their songs were liquid among the awakening trees. Edna's foot was on the stair. She, too, was early for breakfast

Last night she had been so tired, having come all the way from California — and little Joyce a handful all the way — that it might have been said she had not got home at all, but, having slept, was arriving now, and with this spring morning to welcome her. «After breakfast,» thought Henry, «there'll be time to walk round the garden together, before I catch the train.»

Little Joyce, earliest of the three, was out there already. Her curls floating, golden, a daffodil child, a fairy child, she ran squeaking from new planted apple to new planted pear and plum, and looked up into their frail little branches as if in hope to find blossoms there. Or, since new fruit trees have the naïve uncertain lines of a child's drawing, as if she had come back, like a kindergarten Proserpine, to add the flowers herself. As a matter of fact, being more optimistic than her father supposed, and a good deal less poetic, the child was looking for fruit.

She now ran in as Edna came down, and they seated themselves for breakfast, smiling like a family in an advertisement. There was so much news to exchange, it was like opening a tremendous mail. Edna had been visiting her parents; her father was a professor at U.C.L.A.

«He is postponing his Sabbatical year,» said Edna. «He wants to wait till the wars are all over. Maybe he'll take it the year before his retiring date. Then he'll be able really to see China.»

«Lucky old devil!» said Henry. «I wish they gave us a Sabbatical year at the museum. My God, with a morning like this, and you back, I could do with a Sabbatical day. It's a pity you were so tired last night. Damn the museum!»

«That reminds me,» said Edna. «I've a dreadful confession to make, darling.»

«Dreadful?» said Henry. «No vast expenditure, I hope. We're pretty pinched.»

«Not that sort of thing,» said she. «Perhaps it's worse. To me, at the time, it seemed just sort of super-silliness. You know how different things seem out there.»

«Why, what was it?» said Henry. «What are you driving at?»

«Joyce,» said Edna. «Is your milk all gone? Go out in the garden, darling. Go and see if your little table and chair are still there.»

«Mummy, I want to hear what you did, that was silly.»

«You can't hear that, darling. It's not for a little girl to hear.»

«Oh, Mummy!»

«Joyce,» said Henry. «Your mother said 'go out.' Go at once, please. Right away. That's right. Now, Edna, what on earth is it?»

«Well, it was when I spent that week at the Dickinsons. There was a man there, at lunch one day …»

«Oh? Go on.»

«He was in pictures.»

«An actor?» cried Henry. «Not an actor!»

«No, not an actor. Though, after all, why not? However, he was just in one of the big companies. He seemed quite all right. Well — I know it was ridiculous of me —»

«Do go on,» said Henry.

«He saw Joyce. She was showing off a little — you know how she shows off. Anyway, he begged me to let him have a screen test made.»

«Of Joyce?» cried Henry. «Well! Well! Well! Is that all? Ha! Ha! Ha!»

«But I did. I let him. I took her down.»

«Well, after all, why not?» said Henry. «If it gave you pleasure. Of course, nothing will ever make you scrupulous, darling, about wasting people's time and money. It's just the same in shops. Did they give you a print?»

«No. They don't give you a print. I don't know why I let them do it. It was just silly. I didn't want to seem stuffy.»

«I wish you hadn't done it,» said Henry. «It's not the right thing for a child. She's self-conscious enough already. I really don't know, Edna, how you could do such a thing. One has no right to be silly, as you call it, where a child is concerned.»

He went on in this strain for some time. «You are perfectly right,» said Edna. «But you need not go on so long. I've said I was a fool, and I'm sorry. Now it's late: we shan't see the garden. You must get your tram.»

«It is your fault,» said he, «for taking the child to a damned film studio. The garden must wait. Goodbye, I'm off.»

Henry caught his train, and vastly enjoyed the landscape all the way to the edge of the city, where the spring haze had thickened and greyed a little, and the day had lost its bloom. The park, outside Henry's office in the museum building, looked pinched and mean and dull compared with the neighbourhood of Tarrytown. The morning was rather tedious, lunch was dull; after lunch, Henry's telephone rang. «Mr. Sanford? This is the New York office of Cosmos Films.»

«Yes. Go on.»

«Mr. Sanford, you heard of your lovely little girl's screen test? Well, I've been calling your home, Mr. Sanford. Seemed like nobody was in. Finally we located you at your office.»

«So I observe. But why?»

«Very good news, Mr. Sanford. In fact, my very heartiest congratulations. I wonder if we could get together for a little chat.»

«Better tell me about it right away,» said Henry, seeing what was coming. «I'm afraid I'm having a very busy spell.»

«The fact is,» said the other, «our Hollywood end is mighty interested in the results of your little girl's screen test. I think if we can get together I can tell you something that would interest you a lot.»

«I don't think you could,» said Henry, luxuriously sadistic. «Thanks very much. Goodbye.»

«Mr. Sanford. Mr. Sanford,» came the voice at the other end. «You don't understand. Please don't hang up.»

«I take it you are offering my child a … a screen contract?» said Henry.

«Well, yes, Mr. Sanford. I think I can go as far as that.»

«And I think I can go so far as to refuse,» said Henry.

«But, Mr. Sanford, do you realize? Do you realize what sort of money's involved in this, what it can build up to? The fame. The world-wide prestige … Mr. Sanford, I'm just asking you to think, to consider.»

«My dear sir,» said Henry, «I consider it all a very bad joke.»

«Oh, no,» said the other voice in a positive anguish of earnestness. «This is Cosmos Films all right. Call me back if you doubt it. Maurice Werner. Just call me back.»

«I mean,» said Henry, «I think the fame, prestige, and all that is a bad joke. I should not like my child to have anything whatever to do with your industry. I dislike theatrical children. Now I must say goodbye.»

So saying, he hung up, cutting off a squeal of protest

He turned to his work, which, it so happened, had to do with tenders for the electric wiring of showcases. The relish with which he had rebuked the powers of spiritual darkness abated a little in face of these figures on cultural light He fondled the flake from a stone cheek that served him as a paper-weight. All winter it had exuded a little of its stored four thousand years of sunshine into the grey of his office. Today, however, it seemed just a lump of stone. Yet somewhere in the general greyness there was something — it was very vague, very elusive — a mere memory of a golden gleam.

Suddenly, he found himself thinking of the yellow waistcoat. Or rather, he just saw it. He saw the waistcoat, and he saw himself inside that waistcoat, on the steps of a small but solid country house; a man of leisure, a scholar, a gentleman.

This vivid but very secret waistcoat, of a colour strong as corn colour, but bright as canary, was not wholly imaginary. Seven years ago, on their honeymoon, Henry and Edna had been to Europe, including England, and, in England, to the races. In the paddock Henry had noticed an old man with a red face and white hair. Even as he looked at him he overheard someone saying, «See the old man with the red face and white hair. That's Lord Lonsdale. The one in the yellow waistcoat»

Henry had had a good look at him; he found his red-faced lordship more interesting than the horses. He noted the unusual amplitude of the whitey-grey tweeds, which gave the old boy, with his side whiskers and apple cheeks, the appearance of a bluff old farmer as he stood among the fashionable crowd. Henry, whose taste was of the best, recognized this bucolic touch as the mark of the true prince.

The yellow waistcoat was unquestionably the key and signature to this masterpiece. «For a fat man,» thought Henry, «it is certainly necessary to be a prince to wear a waistcoat of that colour. But a dark, slim man, if he was very rich, and lived the right way …»

«Who is it you are staring at so hard?» Edna had asked.

«No one in particular,» he had said. «Do you see that old man with the red face? I think they said he was Lord Lonsdale.»

«He looks an old darling,» she had said.

Since then, when in vacant and in pensive mood, Henry had found this glorious waistcoat flash upon his inner eye with an effect much like that of Wordsworth's daffodils. When he read of Lord Lonsdale's death, he felt almost like a missing heir.

He once saw a waistcoat, not quite so arrogantly unwearable, but nearly, in the window of Abercrombie & Fitch. He thought of the long history of man, and his own poor seventy years of it. And in that — no yellow waistcoat.

Who else was to wear it? Henry reviewed the trivial lives and unsatisfactory appearances of the very rich. One could hardly imagine Mr. Ford in a waistcoat of that description. His soul cried out to the waistcoat, and the waistcoat cried out to him. They needed one another. A sliver of plate glass and a paltry million or two utterly divided them.

«That man, the slim one with the shining dark hair, is Henry Sanford, the millionaire archeologist»

«He looks a darling.»

Never had the yellow waistcoat gleamed so persistently in the dark recesses of Henry's thoughts, never had all it symbolized of leisure, and position, and the good life, and being a darling, been so clear as this afternoon. A full hour had passed, and the reports were almost where they were. Then Henry's telephone rang again.

«Is that Mr. Sanford? Will you hold the wire, please? This is Cosmos, Hollywood. Mr. Fishbein wishes to speak to you.»

«Oh, hell!» said Henry to himself.

«Mr. Sanford, I've called up personally to make you a very, very humble apology.»

«What's that? Oh, no.»

«I gather our New York branch has been wasting your time, bothering you.»

«Oh, no. Really. They just called up.»

«We know what the museum stands for, Mr. Sanford. Several of our stars make it their first port of call just as soon as ever they hit New York. Here in Hollywood we've come to realize what a museum means in the way of background, authenticity. I'm afraid our New York office was a little brash.»

«Not at all,» said Henry. «Not in the least.»

«I've often wondered what the people thought when the first Greek produced the first statue,» pursued the imperturbable voice, smooth and irresistible as that of an after-dinner speaker reading from notes. «I guess maybe they put it down as just a phase, something that hadn't come to stay. I don't expect a Greek aristocrat would have liked the idea of his child sitting for a nymph or cherub. Mr. Sanford, there's a very great deal of difference between the spoiled prodigy of the Victorian theatre phase, and the natural, simple, thoroughly wholesome and normal child genius of motion pictures, who is to all intents and purposes unconscious of the lens.»

«Oh, quite, quite,» said Henry.

«I wish you had met up with one or two of our principal Hollywood children,» continued Mr. Fishbein. «I mean the top one or two, raised under parental control, with a qualified psychiatrist in the background. You would enjoy a romp with these unspoiled youngsters. Has it ever struck you, Mr. Sanford, that in any up-to-date school your daughter will be called upon to take part in little playlets, calculated to foster the instinct for dramatic art?»

«There is a very great difference,» said Henry.

«There is a difference,» said Mr. Fishbein, «of two or three million dollars. I am not talking salary to you, Mr. Sanford, though this is a big vehicle we are casting, about the biggest child-opportunity in film history. But do you ever think of royalties, royalties on toys, children's underwear, that sort of thing? However, I don't expect that phase interests a man of your standing. I know you feel all the publicity and ballyhoo might spoil the kiddie. If you saw some of the screen mamas we have to cope with here, you'd know who did the spoiling. With parents of your background, your little girl might go to Bryn Mawr when she was through out here, and, apart from her dress, no one could pick her out from any bunch of sub-debs on the campus. Well, it's been very nice to chat with you, Mr. Sanford. I hope you'll let me drop in at your museum next time I come East — have a look at some of those splendid pictures and busts. By the way, how do you folks in the art world regard the screen drama in its present phase?»

«Well …» said Henry.

He was still saying «well» fifteen minutes later. Mr. Fishbein seemed determined to say a great deal.

«There is a great deal in what you say,» said Henry. «I must admit I hadn't thought of one or two of those points before. I'll call you up tomorrow morning, Mr. Fishbein. I'll let you know definitely.»

Henry hung up. He found himself in a state of peculiar excitement. His breathing was affected. His mind seemed to be working furiously, yet produced no thought. «There is a good deal of difference, to a child,» said he at last, «between having an overworked, undistinguished, hard-up, eternally bothered sort of father, and the sort I might be.»

«Who is that dark, slim, distinguished-looking millionaire archeologist in the yellow waistcoat? He looks a darling.»

«He's my daddy.»

It was on the campus at Bryn Mawr. The girls were a lovely lot that year.

«Oh, hell!» said Henry. «I must keep myself out of this. But that cuts both ways. I must keep my prejudices out also.»

In the end he got up and caught his usual train, being, as not infrequently happened, very nearly run over near the entrance to Grand Central. «If I had been killed by that cab,» thought Henry, «what would my life have been?»

Bates was on the train. Bates was a publisher. With him was another man from the Tarrytown district, a man called Cartwright, a plump and merry man, with shining eyeglasses. A fourth came in shortly after Henry had taken his seat. This was a man whose name none of them knew, because he seldom opened his mouth. He was sallow, lantern-jawed, with a wry smile and an attentive, understanding eye. They seemed to know him very well, God knows how; he always joined them when he travelled on the train, ventured nothing, replied briefly, and nodded cordially when they got off at Tarrytown. He himself went on. When he was not there, they missed him. His nod and his astringent smile were valued.

The train started. Henry waited till they got out into the daylight. Then he launched his news, watching carefully for their reaction. «You'll never guess who rang me up today,» said he. «The great Fishbein. In person, as they love to say. Speaking from Hollywood. He talked for pretty nearly half an hour. It seems this brat of mine, Joyce — well, they want to make a child star of her. 'The child star of the next seven years,' he said.»

The others laughed heartily. «Can you beat that?» said Cartwright. «For sheer unmitigated gall!»

«Probably thought you'd jump at it,» said Bates. «When I think of what they do to books of ours!»

«I can see Sanford as a screen daddy,» said Cartwright. «Especially in the later years. What did you tell him — rather see your daughter dead at your feet, or what?»

«Well,» said Henry, «I said I'd think it over.»

«Oh, but … Well, of course, it's your business, old man,» said Cartwright. «But I shouldn't think it required much thought»

«My reaction was exactly the same as yours — at first,» said Henry. «All the same, he mentioned — and I imagine the man is not a downright liar — he mentioned two or three million dollars. Yon have to think a bit before you turn that sort of thing down. For someone else, mark you, not for yourself.»

«It's a lot of money,» said Cartwright. «They don't want an old male actor, I suppose — butlers and clergymen? I'd go like a shot. But a kid …»

«I was rather impressed by one or two things Fishbein had to say,» said Henry. «The man's no fool, you know. He quite agreed about some of these child stars. He says it's their god-awful parents. Apparently the studios are very careful about the brats. Psychiatrists in attendance …»

«Oh, hell!» said Bates, «listen, I've been out there twice, about books.»

«But it shows the right spirit,» argued Henry. «He told me another thing. It seems the I.Q. of these youngsters is always very notably above the average.»

«So much the worse,» said Bates, «for I.Q.»

«I.Q.'s not everything,» said Cartwright. «What do they grow up like?»

«It's too early to know,» said Henry. «Maybe very well. After all, it's a form of experience. If a child has that sort of talent…»

«Oh, come!» said Bates.

«She has a right to develop in her own way,» said Henry obstinately. «After all, my wife and I would be there.»

«Henry,» said Bates, «you sound like some of our authors when they get offers to go out there. They have it all worked out on paper, poor bastards!»

«I think there's a difference,» said Henry. «Two or three millions is…»

«Quantity makes no difference,» said Bates, «when the quality of the money is lousy. It's not real money, Henry. It's dead leaves; that's what it is.»

«Or sour grapes,» said Henry, glancing at their silent companion for approval. «I feel that Joyce, when she is old enough, might view it differently. I must say I don't care much for your reaction. The same goes for you, Cartwright. If you're sincere, you're about ten years behind the times. There's such a thing as being narrow-minded, stuffy. Film people in these days are very often people of culture. After all, they're artists, in a way.»

«They say money talks,» said Bates. «I think I can hear it. Henry, it has an ugly voice.»

«So has envy,» said Henry. «I must say I …» He broke off. «What do you think?» said he to the silent man.

«I don't know,» said that worthy, rubbing his lantern jaw, and twisting his mourn abominably. «I don't know. For Christ's sake! I earn much about what you fellows do. God damn it! I live in a sort of cottage — four rooms. That's all I could afford. Why? Because I wanted it solid. Try to buy a bit of seasoned wood, that's all. Just try it. You talk about children, wives, God knows what. How the hell do you manage it? Probably eat margarine. Everything's margarine, pretty nearly. An old woman cooks for me — I said, 'Don't give me any of that stuff; I don't like it. I don't like to be insulted. Don't give me food out of cans, don't give me food made with something-eeta, or something-ola.' I want leather on my feet and I want wool on my back. That's all. I'd as soon have them spit in my face as sell me their damned -olas and -eetas. It costs me all I earn to run a four-room shack. Wives! Families! Taps to Hollywood! Smells of margarine to me.»

After this surprising outburst, he relapsed into his habitual silence. Obviously he had not heard, or understood, anything about the stupendous offer. It had been strained out, as by a filter of prejudice. The train began to slow up, approaching Tarrytown. «Well, gentlemen,» said Henry with acridity, as he collected his things. «If I'd been in doubt before, you would have made my mind up for me. Thank you. And goodbye! I shall accept Mr. Fishbein's offer tomorrow.» Compressing his lips, he nodded a bitter farewell.

Bates and Cartwright, both a little red about the gills, responded as stiffly, sitting tight, waiting for him to go first out of the train. The lantern-jawed man looked at him in obvious bewilderment. Henry looked away. He got off the train.

He drove home, still fuming. «Hello, darling!» said Edna.

«Hello, Daddy!» cried little Joyce, running toward him, all smiles and dimples, arms out, giving her curls a twitch — it really looked damned effective.

«Hello, daffodil!» said he, gathering her up. «Did you like California, honey? Would you like to go back there?»

«What's that?» said Edna.

«Never mind,» said he. «Look, it's seven already. That child should be in bed. She wants to keep that dancing quality.»

«Listen,» began Edna.

«I can't,» said he. «I've a letter to get off. I can just make it. Have dinner held up for once, there's an angel.»

He went to the writing desk in his bedroom, irritated into an overmastering urge to do something definite, final He needed to deliver just one kick that would shatter the world of Westchester and museums. «Petty, highbrow snobbery!» said he to himself as he took up his pen.

He wrote to his chief at the museum. The letter started as a formal resignation, with the request that some over-due leave might coincide with the normal period of notice, so that Henry need not appear at the office again.

Henry leaned back and surveyed these formal paragraphs, and found them rather negative. «It was not thus,» he thought, «that the yellow waistcoated should bid farewell to the grey minded.» Curling his lip, he added an urbane and scarifying word or two, such as would leave no doubt at all as to the sort of man they were dealing with.

He hurried downstairs. «Can dinner come on?» said Edna. «It will be spoiled.»

«Let us bring it in ourselves,» said he. «I want May to rush down to the village with this. She can just get the mail.»

Soon they were seated at the table. «Henry,» said Edna, «you needn't go on making cracks about that business.»

«What business?» said he. «What cracks?»

«The way you talked about her 'dancing quality,'» said Edna. «I said this morning you were right. Today, back here, I've been thinking about it, and I'm sorrier than ever. But, Henry, some people can do a fool thing once, and it doesn't mean they don't take standards and things absolutely seriously. It's just being a weak woman. I'm glad you're not a weak woman, Hen.»

«Edna,» said Henry. «There's such a thing as instinct. From our point of view — our old point of view — you were wrong. Because you did what you did without knowing certain things that justified it. As a matter of fact, I've been investigating the whole thing today, and I've discovered that your instinct was perfectly tight.»

«I don't understand,» said Edna.

«Today,» said Henry, with a smile, «I have decided to accept a quite amazing offer for Joyce, I have resigned from the museum, and …»

«What are you saying?» cried Edna. «Do you mean for Joyce to go on the films? No!»

«But yes,» said Henry. «Precisely that. It will develop her. The system is marvellous. I had it out with Fishbein himself. In person. Psychiatrists, dieticians, everything.»

«Stuff and nonsense!» said Edna. «Henry, what's come over you?»

«Do you remember that mink coat?» said Henry.

«Is this some new sort of joke?» said Edna. «But it's not. You're serious. You're telling me that I should let Joyce go into pictures so that I can get a mink coat. You? Henry? Good God, we've been married ten years, and …»

«Don't be silly,» said Henry. «It's not a mink coat. I used that just as a sort of symbol for all sorts of things.»

«And a very good symbol,» said Edna. «No, thank you.» She got up and walked over to the window. «Wait a minute,» said she, turning as Henry began to speak. «This still seems a bit unreal, as if it was in a rather bad play or something. But there it is. You've just smashed everything up. Everything. The way we've lived, the things we've valued — and yourself, too. I don't know who you are. I don't know who I've been living with.»

«This is absurd,» said Henry. «I can see it's no good arguing with you at present. When you hear all the facts, you'll change your mind.»

«Do you think so?» said Edna grimly.

«Whatever you do,» said Henry, «it's settled. I've resigned from the museum. I'm accepting the offer.»

«I am Joyce's mother,» said Edna.

«And I am her father,» said Henry. «And your husband.»

«No,» said Edna. «Good Lord! How funny this is! You might have produced a mistress, you might have taken to drink. We might have had tears and storms and misery for months and years. And still you would have been my husband. And now you say a few silly words, and you're not. You're just not.»

«Keep your voice down,» said Henry. «I heard May come in.»

May came right in to the dining-room. «Did you catch the mail?» said Henry. «My resignation,» he added to Edna.

«You'll have to withdraw it,» said Edna.

«You should have read it,» said he, smiling.

«Yes, sir,» said coloured May, «and that Western Union boy caught me up and give me this here telegram.» She handed the wire to Henry.

«Probably from Hollywood,» said he, as he opened it. There is a huge difference between the way in which people in different walks of life open their telegrams. Henry dealt with this in the superior manner of one already waistcoated in yellow. The telegram stripped him naked. It was from Hollywood all right:

CANCEL ALL I SAID.

FISHBEIN.