The Golden Cup

  He looked down at his helpless hands.

  “It’s not fair to either Mimi or yourself to go ahead if you don’t care about her,” Hennie said at last.

  “I do care about her.”

  “But not the way you do about the other one.”

  “Differently.”

  “Have you told—Anna?”

  “Anna.” The very name was intimate and alive.

  “Have you said anything? Told her you love her and want to marry her?”

  “I think I said I love her. But one doesn’t have to say; one knows.”

  “Yes, yes.” Hennie sighed. “I shall be sorry, whatever you do, since each of them loves you. It’s terrible not to be wanted. It makes you feel worthless, not worth living.”

  He looked up, startled. She was staring at the carpet. Her face had settled into a sort of sadness.

  “We always want to measure it out exactly. You give this much, you get this much back.”

  Her voice was so faint that he had to strain to hear.

  “ ‘Measure,’ you said?”

  “Yes. That’s perfect love, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be? But you know that French saying about one who loves and one who is loved? Well, it’s true, Paul. It’s so unhappy and so unfair, but it’s true, believe me.”

  He was confused. Did she mean his own trouble, or could she be remembering some pain of her own? Surely it couldn’t be anything about herself and Dan.… Yet one never really knew about other people; it was hard enough to know oneself.

  More distressed than ever by these new thoughts, he faltered. “I’ve said it all, I guess. I’d better go.”

  “I haven’t helped you. I’m sorry.”

  “It helped to talk about it,” he told her, although it hadn’t.

  “But you need a solution.”

  He waited. Younger than his own mother, she was yet so motherly, she who fed and nursed other people’s children, who had taken a strange child into her home; he longed for her to tell him what to do, to abolish the problem for him, as if he had been a child.

  She came to a decision. “I tell you what, Paul,” she said rapidly. “I think you should speak to your parents today, before Marian and her family come tonight. Tell them the truth, and then all of you can go on from there together.”

  “Tell them I’m in love with the maid?” he asked bitterly.

  “ ‘The maid!’ Paul, that’s not like you. I despise the concept.”

  “All right. But it’s a fact, Hennie. And can you imagine my parents? You, of all people, should be able to imagine what it would be like.”

  “It would be very, very hard, I grant you.”

  “I feel as if I were on a bicycle. It has no reverse gear. You can’t go backward.”

  “You can turn it around.”

  He looked down again at his helpless hands. “I suppose I don’t have your courage, Hennie. I never have.”

  “How do you know? You’ve never had to test it before now.”

  Upstairs in his room, he was dressed and ready. He stood before the mirror, talking to himself.

  “Father, don’t announce, don’t say anything tonight. Give me time to explain. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I have to talk to Anna first … I don’t know what I’m going to say … she’ll be at the table, serving. Oh, Christ, when Cousin Dora was engaged he got up and made a little speech. He always does. I’ve got to get downstairs and catch him, before he says anything. I can’t wait till tomorrow. Oh, Anna, help me …”

  But the doorbell had rung. There were voices in the downstairs hall. He could hear happy birthday greetings and Mimi’s clear reply.

  At the table he sat opposite her, with his father at the head between them. She was dressed in summer blue; a wide collar made a lace frame around her slender face; she was a portrait out of almost any period during the last four centuries, an elegant young woman of refinement and means. A Dutch merchant’s daughter. An English squire’s sister—by Sir Joshua Reynolds.

  He wiped his forehead. The heat and the flower scents, which always bothered him, were sickening; the whole house was filled with flowers, like at a politician’s funeral. No, that wasn’t fair. The arrangements were really perfect; his mother had a feeling for flowers.

  But to escape someplace! On a ship over free water, in free air! To get away from dinner jackets and the cutlery, the mouths smiling, talking, chewing. Panic again.

  Mimi looked like a deer. Delicate as a deer, Mimi, with those large, slightly prominent eyes and the long cheeks. Once, in the Adirondacks, he had been persuaded against his will to go hunting. Out of the thicket and dry brown twiggy brush, had come the deer, stepping so daintily. She had raised her head and he had seen her eyes, the wonderful, pathetic eyes—people always said how pathetic their eyes were. It was a cliché, but, like all clichés, true—before she saw him, the enemy, and fled. He could have shot; there had been time enough, but he would not, he could not. He had been relieved to be alone, for the other men would have scorned his pity.

  He shook himself and brought himself back to the present.

  “… and you know how Paul loves raspberries.” That was Mimi’s voice, concluding some anecdote. It must have been an amusing one, for there was laughter, and Paul smiled, supposing that he was expected to. Mimi’s words repeated themselves in his ears. Already, they were possessive. “Paul loves raspberries.” She remembered everything about him, that Hardy was his favorite English novelist and that he liked striped ties.

  Could he just push himself away from the table, pleading sudden illness? He imagined himself giving an awful cry and running from the room.

  A platter of vegetables appeared at his left and he looked down into a mound of beets cut like roses, surrounded by a moist wreath of orange carrots. The platter trembled. He looked up to Anna’s eyes, looked not at them but into them; for an instant, a fraction of an instant, both pairs of eyes spoke, and properly flickered away.

  “We German Jews have always been Republicans.” That was his father speaking. “I know some turned to Wilson because he’s an intellectual, and they’re impressed because Brandeis is a close adviser, but I’m not impressed by any of that.”

  Cordially, Mr. Mayer brought Paul into the conversation. “And what do you think, Paul?”

  “I voted for Wilson.”

  His father raised himself in his chair. “What? You never told me! What made you do that?”

  “Because I think if there’s any chance of keeping us out of the war that’s brewing, Wilson is the man to do it.”

  “You keep saying there’s a war brewing,” his father objected. “I don’t believe it.”

  Paul forced himself to speak. “And I’m also hoping he will right some dreadful wrongs. All this strife, the strikes in Paterson and Lawrence, so bitter, so savage.”

  “You’re not turning into a radical, I hope.” His father joked, making light of Paul’s remarks for the benefit of Mr. Mayer.

  “You know I’m not,” Paul answered.

  “Good. Because one in the family is enough.”

  Mr. Mayer’s eyebrows went up, shaping two sharp black V’s, and Walter Werner made a quick explanation.

  “Oh, not really in the family! My wife’s sister’s husband. We don’t even see them.”

  “I see them,” Paul said.

  “Well, he loves his aunt. That’s his privilege and we don’t interfere. She’s a type, you know. Harmless enough. Marches down Fifth Avenue for every cause, woman suffrage, peace, God knows what all.”

  The father’s half laugh covered his exasperation with his son. He would be thinking: Of all nights, Paul has to make these challenging remarks. What’s wrong with him? No tact.

  Paul’s mother took over, apparently in answer to something Mrs. Mayer had said, and addressed the table at large. Now, she has tact! Paul thought bitterly.

  “This silver, you were asking me? Yes, the goblets and the dessert servers that you’ll be seeing in a minute were buried in a quarry during the Civ
il War, the one my mother still calls the War Between the States.”

  “I loved your mother,” Mimi said. “I have an idea she must have hundreds of marvelous stories to tell.”

  Indeed, Paul thought, hundreds. His heart made a sickening lurch. What had his mother said? The dessert servers? Oh, God, this will be the time for the announcement and the toast, if they’re going to do it tonight. Don’t, don’t, Father, please. God, please don’t let him do it. Keep talking, talk about anything, the damned old silver, Wilson, anything.

  The dessert was brought in and placed before his mother. It was the walnut cake, the famous family recipe, a celebration cake reserved for great occasions, standing high on the platter, like the crown in the Tower of London. And he felt his heart knocking, actually knocking in his chest.

  “Anna,” his father said, “will you please call Mrs. Monaghan and Agnes? Ask them to come in and bring the champagne.”

  Here it came. Too late, too late to do anything.

  Mrs. Monaghan brought the champagne bucket, and Agnes carried a tray of fluted glasses. Paul counted. There were glasses for everyone at the table and for the servants too. For her. Anna will raise her glass and drink a toast to Mimi and me.

  His father stood up. “I don’t need to tell you how happy we all are tonight,” he began. “To begin with, it’s Marian’s birthday.” His cheeks were actually dimpled; he was almost chuckling with pleasure and goodwill, in command of everything, as he raised his goblet. “And we all wish her the happiest one, with many, many more. But also”—here his voice rose in emphasis, calling attention to the importance of what was to follow—“also, oh, the Mayers’ announcement will appear tomorrow in proper fashion in the Times, but I’m sure they will forgive me if, just between ourselves, I make a short premature family announcement. Let’s all drink to the joy of this wonderful time in our lives. To Paul, our son, and to Marian, our Mimi, who will soon be our daughter!”

  And he kissed Mimi in European fashion, one cheek and then the other. Mimi said something, Paul couldn’t hear what; but there was a bubble of laughter, with everyone touching glasses so that they made crystal chimes.

  Mrs. Monaghan was saying something like, “Saints preserve us, a wedding in the house!” And kissing Paul, she said, “I knew you when you were sitting in a high chair,” then whispered, “Get up and kiss the bride.”

  Somehow he got up and walked to Mimi and bent to kiss her; the long pearl earrings, like little tassels, brushed his face and he went back to his seat, and his mother’s voice sounded above the general murmur and buzz.

  “Now I can confess this is what we’ve all been hoping for since you two were babies.”

  And more laughter.

  “I’ll have a second piece of that cake,” his father said, flushed with wine and excitement. “Where’s that girl?”

  His mother rang. She’ll be coming in again, Paul thought, looking down at his plate.

  It wasn’t she, but Agnes, the little kitchen helper who was clumsy and rarely served in the dining room, never when there were guests. Something had gone wrong with Anna, then. He knew it and went cold, so that he shivered and tried to suppress it.

  Somehow he got through the evening.

  How silent Paul was, they would say, with tolerant affection. He’s just in a daze, poor fellow, the typical bridegroom, and will be until the wedding’s over.

  “What a treasure,” his mother said as she moved about the parlor, turning off the lights. “You’re a lucky man, Paul. Such a lady! She could dine in a palace and talk to a queen. Such poise for a young girl! Well, breeding tells, it surely tells.”

  He got up early and left the house without breakfast. On the cleared table in the dining room, the enormous festive flowers still stood in the center: narcissi, crisp and white as a young girl’s ignorance, and tulips, richly red, concealing within their cups a scented moisture, fragrant, secret … He hurried past the door.

  In the office, on his desk, were stacks of papers and correspondence that he had neglected. Get to them, that’s the thing, get to work, get the brain whirring, do what has to be done. You have an office. You have clients waiting. You are going to be married.

  How was Anna today? Oh, God, Anna, I love you, believe me, I—

  In the outer office, telephones rang and typewriters clacked. An automobile horn blew in the street below. He heard the sound of hooves on the pavement.

  “Good Lord, what’s the matter?” his father cried.

  He raised his head. He had been sitting with his head in his hands.

  “I—I have suddenly developed the worst ache. My jaw. A tooth that’s been bothering me for the last week or two.”

  “Well, why on earth haven’t you had it attended to? Are you sure it’s a tooth?”

  “Yes. I’ve been awake most of the night. Probably infected.” He stood up. “Maybe I’d better see the dentist right now.”

  “I should think you should!”

  He walked. He had to walk faster and faster, while his reflection moved from one plate glass window to the next. Who is that in the windows? A young man in a good dark suit on his way to important concerns in a bank or a brokerage house or a law court, that’s who. A young man rising and fortunate. He passed the statue of Admiral Farragut in Madison Square, past the Garden and the Hippodrome, where he had been taken to the circus when he was a child, and later had taken Freddy. Oh, thoughtless, easy days!

  “What am I doing?” he said aloud. “What am I going to do?” And all the time he knew perfectly well what he was going to do, what he had to do. He groaned and despised himself.

  It began to rain. He descended into the subway and took the first train that roared in, whether uptown or downtown didn’t matter. For hours he rode. He watched the white city faces as they passed in and out. Bloated or wizened, handsome or misshapen, they were all bland, telling nothing; they were closed doors. He wondered what each might be hiding, and saw his reflection again, colored red by warning lights on the track.

  When he got out some hours later near home, the rain had turned to a downpour. He walked rapidly to get out of the wet, but when he reached the house he halted: What would he say to her? He wanted to turn around and walk away again, but instead stood there for minutes letting the rain beat and soak him, while he stared at the card left in the area window for the iceman, on which were marked for checking: Twenty-five pounds, fifty, seventy-five.

  With abrupt resolution he climbed the stoop and went in. His parents were already at dinner.

  “So late, Paul! Good heavens, you’re wet through! Why didn’t you take a cab?” And without waiting for an answer, “What do you think, we’ve lost our maid!” his mother said. “Anna left today. Just like that. Imagine, without more than a minute’s notice! Said she was sick, but I didn’t believe it.”

  Did he imagine that his mother’s look was searching? No. How could it be? Why should it be?

  “Too bad,” said Walter. “She struck me as a fine young woman. I hope you got your tooth fixed up.”

  “What?”

  “Your tooth. Was it an abscess?”

  “Oh, no. That is, he fixed it, it’s better.”

  “Well, I have another starting tomorrow,” his mother said pointedly, for the benefit of Mrs. Monaghan, who, Paul knew, didn’t like having to wait on the table.

  When Mrs. Monaghan had left the dining room, his mother continued, “You know, Paul, I really have a suspicion that the girl had a crush on you. I really think that’s why she left,”

  Crush. A cheap, ugly, mean, stupid word.

  “That’s ridiculous!” Paul cried, more emphatically than he had intended to.

  “Of course it’s ridiculous! Nevertheless, it’s been known to happen. These girls get ideas. They want to better themselves. And who can blame them?”

  Anna gone. Where to? And in what condition? And he thought of the rain, the bleak streets … what must she think of him?

  He had a wild thought that he should go afte
r her. And he had an absurd, humiliating vision of himself racing and shoving his way through crowds, who turned with curious, gaping mouths to stare as he pushed down avenues and through mean alleys, jolting around corners, searching for her. And after finding her, would he stand before her with nothing to say? Would she, too, stand there silently, despising him, pitying him or pleading with him?

  He was netted and trapped. He was a coward, a fool, a victim of rules and expectations and traditions.

  Yes, blame everything but yourself, Paul! Will you ever like yourself again?

  A wedding is an ancient mystery. The white bride comes slowly, pacing with the stately music, holding her father’s arm. He raises the face-veil for a kiss before he gives her to another man for protection and care. It is all so solemn, verging on tears.

  Only the flower girl in crocus yellow, ten-year-old Meg, clutching her bouquet, grins up at Paul with frank enjoyment in being part of the ritual. He gives her a slight smile in return, and thinks of Freddy, who was surely thinking of him at this moment, but would, understandably, not come because his parents had not been invited. And Leah—how that young one would revel in all this pomp and circumstance! As for Hennie, it is just as well she isn’t here, for how would he meet her eyes, knowing what she now knew? And yet he is sad that she is not here.

  The rabbi places Mimi’s ice-cold hand in his. In this place she is “Marian,” not “Mimi.” The rabbi is an old man; Paul has known him since childhood; he has always been an old man, somewhat austere. He wonders what the rabbi would have said if he had dared to ask him. He thinks that what they tell about a drowning man’s life passing through his mind in seconds must be true: He is a child in the park with Hennie, he is at the Yale commencement, on the ship with Freddy, at his desk in his father’s office, buying a ring with Marian … kissing Anna.

  The music has stopped. Words are being addressed to him and questions asked, to which the automatic answers I will or I do come to his lips. The rabbi’s tone is fatherly. He speaks fine, true words: Trust, family, love, God, faith. The bride’s bouquet trembles in the hands of the maid of honor, who is wondering when her time will come. The rabbi talks, changes emphasis, rises to a climax. It must be almost over. Yes, it is.