FullReads

“I thought he was a fine old coot, Dad. ”

“Mon pre! No, my boy, you are again being conciliatory and trying to spare my feelings. This Titus is a man for whom I have neither esteem nor—in fact, we have nothing in common. Besides, the old hellion, he did me out of eleven hundred and seventy dollars on a grain deal sixteen years ago! But as I say, your impressions of Paris! It must seem like a dream wreathed with the vapors of golden memory.

“Now, I believe, you intend to stay here for two months. I have been making plans. Even in this wretched mid-western town, I think that, with my aid, you will be able to avoid the banalities of the young men with whom you were reared. There is a splendid new Little Theater under process of organization, and perhaps you will wish to paint the scenery and act and even design the costumes.

“Then we are planning to raise a fund to get the E. Heez Flemming Finnish Grand Opera Company here for a week. That will help to occupy you. You’ll be able to give these hicks your trained European view of Finnish Grand Opera. So, to start with this evening, I thought we might drop in on the lecture by Professor Gilfillan at the Walter Peter Club on ‘Traces of Mechanistic Culture in the Coptic. ’”

“That would be splendid, sir, but unfortunately—On the way I received a wire from Stuyv Wescott asking me to the dance at the country club this evening. I thought I’d dine with you and Mother, and then skip out there. Hate like the dickens to hurt their feelings. ”

“Of course, of course, my boy. A gentleman, especially when he is also a man of culture, must always think of noblesse oblige. I mean, you understand, of the duties of a gentleman. But don’t let these vulgarians like Wescott impose on you. You see, my idea of it is like this … ”

As he drove his father’s smaller six to the country club, Whit was angry. He was thinking of what his friends—ex-friends—at the club would do in the way of boisterous “kidding. ” He could hear them—Stuyv Wescott, his roommate in Yale, Gilbert Scott, Tim Clark (Princeton ‘28) and all the rest—mocking:

“Why, it’s our little Alphonse Gauguin!”

“Where’s the corduroy pants?”

“I don’t suppose you’d condescend to take a drink with a poor dumb Babbitt that’s been selling hardware while you’ve been associating with the counts and jukes and highbrows and highbrowesses!”

And, sniggering shamefacedly, “Say, how’s the little midinettes and the je ne sais quoi’s in Paris?”

He determined to tell them all to go to hell, to speak with quiet affection of Isadora and Miles O’Sullivan, and to hustle back to Paris as soon as possible. Stick in this provincial town, when there on Boulevard Raspail were inspiration and his friends?

Stay here? What an idea!

He came sulkily into the lounge of the country club, cleared now for dancing. Stuyvy Wescott, tangoing with a girl who glittered like a Christmas tree, saw him glowering at the door, chucked the girl into the ragbag, dashed over and grunted, “Whit, you old hound, I’m glad to see you! Let’s duck the bunch and sneak down to the locker room. The trusty gin awaits!”

On the way, Stuyv nipped Gil Scott and Tim Clark out of the group.

Whit croaked—Youth, so self-conscious, so conservative, so little “flaming,” so afraid of what it most desires and admires!—he croaked, “Well, let’s get the razzing over! I s’pose you babies are ready to pan me good for being a loafer while you’ve been saving the country by discounting notes!”