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Solution Manual for Materials Science and
Engineering An Introduction 10th by Callister
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CHAPTER 2

ATOMIC STRUCTURE AND INTERATOMIC BONDING

PROBLEM SOLUTIONS

Fundamental Concepts
Electrons in Atoms

2.1 Cite the difference between atomic mass and atomic weight.

Solution

Atomic mass is the mass of an individual atom, whereas atomic weight is the average (weighted) of the
atomic masses of an atom's naturally occurring isotopes.

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 2.2 Chromium has four naturally-occurring isotopes: 4.34% of 50Cr, with an atomic weight of 49.9460 amu,
83.79% of 52Cr, with an atomic weight of 51.9405 amu, 9.50% of 53Cr, with an atomic weight of 52.9407 amu, and
2.37% of 54Cr, with an atomic weight of 53.9389 amu. On the basis of these data, confirm that the average atomic
weight of Cr is 51.9963 amu.

Solution
The average atomic weight of chromium is computed by adding fraction-of-occurrence/atomic weight

products for the three isotopes. Thus

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 2.3 Hafnium has six naturally occurring isotopes: 0.16% of 174Hf, with an atomic weight of 173.940 amu;

5.26% of 176Hf, with an atomic weight of 175.941 amu; 18.60% of 177Hf, with an atomic weight of 176.943 amu;

27.28% of 178Hf, with an atomic weight of 177.944 amu; 13.62% of 179Hf, with an atomic weight of 178.946 amu;.

and 35.08% of 180Hf, with an atomic weight of 179.947 amu. Calculate the average atomic weight of Hf.

Solution
The average atomic weight of halfnium is computed by adding fraction-of-occurrence—atomic weight

products for the six isotopes—i.e., using Equation 2.2. (Remember: fraction of occurrence is equal to the percent of

occurrence divided by 100.) Thus

Including data provided in the problem statement we solve for as

= 178.485 amu

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 2.4 Bromium has two naturally occurring isotopes: 79Br, with an atomic weight of 78.918 amu, and 81Br,
with an atomic weight of 80.916 amu. If the average atomic weight for Br is 79.903 amu, calculate the fraction-of-
occurrences of these two isotopes.

Solution
The average atomic weight of indium is computed by adding fraction-of-occurrence—atomic weight

products for the two isotopes—i.e., using Equation 2.2, or

Because there are just two isotopes, the sum of the fracture-of-occurrences will be 1.000; or

which means that

Substituting into this expression the one noted above for , and incorporating the atomic weight values provided

in the problem statement yields

Solving this expression for yields . Furthermore, because

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then

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 2.5 (a) How many grams are there in one amu of a material?

(b) Mole, in the context of this book, is taken in units of gram-mole. On this basis, how many atoms are there
in a pound-mole of a substance?

Solution

(a) In order to determine the number of grams in one amu of material, appropriate manipulation of the
amu/atom, g/mol, and atom/mol relationships is all that is necessary, as

= 1.66  10-24 g/amu

(b) Since there are 453.6 g/lbm,

= 2.73  1026 atoms/lb-mol

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 2.6 (a) Cite two important quantum-mechanical concepts associated with the Bohr model of the atom.
(b) Cite two important additional refinements that resulted from the wave-mechanical atomic model.

Solution

(a) Two important quantum-mechanical concepts associated with the Bohr model of the atom are (1) that
electrons are particles moving in discrete orbitals, and (2) electron energy is quantized into shells.
(b) Two important refinements resulting from the wave-mechanical atomic model are (1) that electron
position is described in terms of a probability distribution, and (2) electron energy is quantized into both shells and
subshells--each electron is characterized by four quantum numbers.

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 2.7 Relative to electrons and electron states, what does each of the four quantum numbers specify?

Solution

The n quantum number designates the electron shell.

The l quantum number designates the electron subshell.
The ml quantum number designates the number of electron states in each electron subshell.
The ms quantum number designates the spin moment on each electron.

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 2.8 Allowed values for the quantum numbers of electrons are as follows:

n = 1, 2, 3, . . .

l = 0, 1, 2, 3, . . . , n –1

ml = 0, ±1, ±2, ±3, . . . , ±l

The relationships between n and the shell designations are noted in Table 2.1. Relative to the subshells,

l = 0 corresponds to an s subshell

l = 1 corresponds to a p subshell

l = 2 corresponds to a d subshell

l = 3 corresponds to an f subshell

For the K shell, the four quantum numbers for each of the two electrons in the 1s state, in the order of nlm lms, are
1 1
100( ) and 100( - ). Write the four quantum numbers for all of the electrons in the L and M shells, and note which
2 2

correspond to the s, p, and d subshells.

Solution
For the L state, n = 2, and eight electron states are possible. Possible l values are 0 and 1, while possible ml

values are 0 and ±1; and possible ms values are Therefore, for the s states, the quantum numbers are

and . For the p states, the quantum numbers are , , , , , and

For the M state, n = 3, and 18 states are possible. Possible l values are 0, 1, and 2; possible ml values are 0,

±1, and ±2; and possible ms values are Therefore, for the s states, the quantum numbers are ,

, for the p states they are , , , , , and ; for the d states they

are , , , , , , , , , and

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 2.9 Give the electron configurations for the following ions: Fe 2+, Al3+, Cu+, Ba2+, Br-, and O2-.

Solution

The electron configurations for the ions are determined using Table 2.2 (and Figure 2.8).

Fe2+: From Table 2.2, the electron configuration for an atom of iron is 1s22s22p63s23p63d64s2. In order to
become an ion with a plus two charge, it must lose two electrons—in this case the two 4s. Thus, the electron
configuration for an Fe2+ ion is 1s22s22p63s23p63d6.
Al3+: From Table 2.2, the electron configuration for an atom of aluminum is 1s22s22p63s23p1. In order to
become an ion with a plus three charge, it must lose three electrons—in this case two 3s and the one 3p. Thus, the
electron configuration for an Al3+ ion is 1s22s22p6.
Cu+: From Table 2.2, the electron configuration for an atom of copper is 1s22s22p63s23p63d104s1. In order
to become an ion with a plus one charge, it must lose one electron—in this case the 4s. Thus, the electron configuration
for a Cu+ ion is 1s22s22p63s23p63d10.
Ba2+: The atomic number for barium is 56 (Figure 2.8), and inasmuch as it is not a transition element the
electron configuration for one of its atoms is 1s22s22p63s23p63d104s24p64d105s25p66s2. In order to become an ion
with a plus two charge, it must lose two electrons—in this case two the 6s. Thus, the electron configuration for a Ba2+
ion is 1s22s22p63s23p63d104s24p64d105s25p6.
Br-: From Table 2.2, the electron configuration for an atom of bromine is 1s22s22p63s23p63d104s24p5. In
order to become an ion with a minus one charge, it must acquire one electron—in this case another 4p. Thus, the
electron configuration for a Br- ion is 1s22s22p63s23p63d104s24p6.
O2-: From Table 2.2, the electron configuration for an atom of oxygen is 1s22s22p4. In order to become an
ion with a minus two charge, it must acquire two electrons—in this case another two 2p. Thus, the electron
configuration for an O2- ion is 1s22s22p6.

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 2.10 Sodium chloride (NaCl) exhibits predominantly ionic bonding. The Na + and Cl- ions have electron
structures that are identical to which two inert gases?

Solution

The Na+ ion is just a sodium atom that has lost one electron; therefore, it has an electron configuration the
same as neon (Figure 2.8).
-
The Cl ion is a chlorine atom that has acquired one extra electron; therefore, it has an electron configuration
the same as argon.

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 The Periodic Table

2.11 With regard to electron configuration, what do all the elements in Group VIIA of the periodic table
have in common?

Solution

Each of the elements in Group VIIA has five p electrons.

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 2.12 To what group in the periodic table would an element with atomic number 119 belong?

Solution

From the periodic table (Figure 2.8) the element having atomic number 119 would belong to group IA.
According to Figure 2.8, Uuo, having an atomic number of 118 belongs to Group 0 (or 18) of the periodic table. The
next column to the right is actually the left-most column, Group IA (or 1).

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 2.13 Without consulting Figure 2.8 or Table 2.2, determine whether each of the electron configurations given
below is an inert gas, a halogen, an alkali metal, an alkaline earth metal, or a transition metal. Justify your choices.
(a) 1s22s22p63s23p63d74s2
(b) 1s22s22p63s23p6
(c) 1s22s22p5
(d) 1s22s22p63s2
(e) 1s22s22p63s23p63d24s2
(f) 1s22s22p63s23p64s1

Solution

(a) The 1s22s22p63s23p63d74s2 electron configuration is that of a transition metal because of an incomplete d
subshell.
(b) The 1s22s22p63s23p6 electron configuration is that of an inert gas because of filled 3s and 3p subshells.
(c) The 1s22s22p5 electron configuration is that of a halogen because it is one electron deficient from having
a filled L shell.
(d) The 1s22s22p63s2 electron configuration is that of an alkaline earth metal because of two s electrons.
(e) The 1s22s22p63s23p63d24s2 electron configuration is that of a transition metal because of an incomplete d
subshell.
(f) The 1s22s22p63s23p64s1 electron configuration is that of an alkali metal because of a single s electron.

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 2.14 (a) What electron subshell is being filled for the rare earth series of elements on the periodic table?
(b) What electron subshell is being filled for the actinide series?

Solution

(a) The 4f subshell is being filled for the rare earth series of elements.
(b) The 5f subshell is being filled for the actinide series of elements.

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 Bonding Forces and Energies

2.15 Calculate the force of attraction between a K+ and an O2- ion the centers of which are separated by a
distance of 1.5 nm.

Solution
The attractive force between two ions FA is just the derivative with respect to the interatomic separation of

the attractive energy expression, Equation 2.9, which is just

The constant A in this expression is defined in Equation 2.10. Since the valences of the K+ and O2- ions (Z1 and Z2)
are +1 and -2, respectively, Z1 = 1 and Z2 = 2, then

= 2.05  10-10 N

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 2.16 The atomic radii of Li+ and O2− ions are 0.068 and 0.140 nm, respectively.

(a) Calculate the force of attraction between these two ions at their equilibrium interionic separation (i.e.,

when the ions just touch one another).

(b) What is the force of repulsion at this same separation distance?

Solution

This problem is solved in the same manner as Example Problem 2.2.

(a) The force of attraction FA is calculated using Equation 2.14 taking the interionic separation r to be r0 the

equilibrium separation distance. This value of r0 is the sum of the atomic radii of the Li+ and O2− ions (per Equation
2.15)—that is

We may now compute FA using Equation 2.14. If was assume that ion 1 is Li+ and ion 2 is O2− then the respective
charges on these ions are Z1 = , whereas Z2 = . Therefore, we determine FA as follows:

(b) At the equilibrium separation distance the sum of attractive and repulsive forces is zero according to
Equation 2.4. Therefore

FR = − FA

= − (1.07  10−8 N) = − 1.07  10−8 N

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 2.17 The force of attraction between a divalent cation and a monovalent anion is 8.02  10-9 N. If the ionic
radius of the cation is 0.060 nm, what is the anion radius?

Solution

To begin, let us rewrite Equation 2.15 to read as follows:

in which rC and rA represent, respectively, the radii of the cation and anion. Thus, this problem calls for us to

determine the value of rA . However, before this is possible, it is necessary to compute the value of r0 using Equation

2.14, and replacing the parameter r with r0 . Solving this expression for r0 leads to the following:

Here ZC and Z A represent charges on the cation and anion, respectively. Furthermore, inasmuch as the cation is

divalent means that ZC = +2 and since the anion is monovalent . The value of r0 is determined as follows:

Using the version of Equation 2.15 given above, and incorporating this value of r0 and also the value of rC given in

the problem statement (0.060 nm) it is possible to solve for rA :

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 2.18 The net potential energy between two adjacent ions, EN, may be represented by the sum of Equations

2.9 and 2.11; that is,

(2.17)

Calculate the bonding energy E0 in terms of the parameters A, B, and n using the following procedure:
1. Differentiate EN with respect to r, and then set the resulting expression equal to zero, since the curve of

EN versus r is a minimum at E0.

2. Solve for r in terms of A, B, and n, which yields r0, the equilibrium interionic spacing.
3. Determine the expression for E0 by substitution of r0 into Equation 2.17.

Solution

(a) Differentiation of Equation 2.17 yields

(b) Now, solving for r (= r0)

or

(c) Substitution for r0 into Equation 2.17 and solving for E (= E0)

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 2.19 For a K+–Cl– ion pair, attractive and repulsive energies EA and ER, respectively, depend on the distance

between the ions r, according to

For these expressions, energies are expressed in electron volts per K +–Cl– pair, and r is the distance in nanometers.
The net energy EN is just the sum of the two expressions above.
(a) Superimpose on a single plot EN, ER, and EA versus r up to 1.0 nm.
(b) On the basis of this plot, determine (i) the equilibrium spacing r 0 between the K+ and Cl– ions, and (ii)
the magnitude of the bonding energy E0 between the two ions.
(c) Mathematically determine the r0 and E0 values using the solutions to Problem 2.18 and compare these
with the graphical results from part (b).

Solution

(a) Curves of EA, ER, and EN are shown on the plot below.

(b) From this plot

r0 = 0.28 nm
E0 = – 4.6 eV

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 (c) From Equation 2.17 for EN

A = 1.436
B = 5.86  10-6
n=9
Thus,

and

= – 4.57 eV

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 2.20 Consider a hypothetical X+-Y- ion pair for which the equilibrium interionic spacing and bonding energy
values are 0.35 nm and -6.13 eV, respectively. If it is known that n in Equation 2.11 has a value of 10, using the
results of Problem 2.18, determine explicit expressions for attractive and repulsive energies EA and ER of Equations

2.9 and 2.11.

Solution

This problem gives us, for a hypothetical X+-Y- ion pair, values for r0 (0.35 nm), E0 (– 6.13 eV), and n (10),

and asks that we determine explicit expressions for attractive and repulsive energies of Equations 2.9 and 2.11. In
essence, it is necessary to compute the values of A and B in these equations. Expressions for r0 and E0 in terms of n,

A, and B were determined in Problem 2.18, which are as follows:

Thus, we have two simultaneous equations with two unknowns (viz. A and B). Upon substitution of values for r0 and
E0 in terms of n, these equations take the forms

and

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We now want to solve these two equations simultaneously for values of A and B. From the first of these two equations,
solving for A/10B leads to

Furthermore, from the above equation the A is equal to

When the above two expressions for A/10B and A are substituted into the above expression for E0 (−6.13 eV), the

following results

Or

Solving for B from this equation yields

Furthermore, the value of A is determined from one of the previous equations, as follows:

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Thus, Equations 2.9 and 2.11 become

Of course, these expressions are valid for r and E in units of nanometers and electron volts, respectively.

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 2.21 The net potential energy EN between two adjacent ions is sometimes represented by the expression

(2.18)

in which r is the interionic separation and C, D, and ρ are constants whose values depend on the specific material.
(a) Derive an expression for the bonding energy E0 in terms of the equilibrium interionic separation r0 and
the constants D and ρ using the following procedure:
1. Differentiate EN with respect to r and set the resulting expression equal to zero.
2. Solve for C in terms of D, ρ, and r0.
3. Determine the expression for E0 by substitution for C in Equation 2.18.
(b) Derive another expression for E0 in terms of r0, C, and ρ using a procedure analogous to the one outlined
in part (a).

Solution

(a) Differentiating Equation 2.18 with respect to r yields

At r = r0, dE/dr = 0, and

(2.18b)

Solving for C and substitution into Equation 2.18 yields an expression for E0 as

(b) Now solving for D from Equation 2.18b above yields

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Substitution of this expression for D into Equation 2.18 yields an expression for E0 as

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 Primary Interatomic Bonds

2.22 (a) Briefly cite the main differences between ionic, covalent, and metallic bonding.
(b) State the Pauli exclusion principle.

Answer

(a) The main differences between the various forms of primary bonding are:
Ionic--there is electrostatic attraction between oppositely charged ions.
Covalent--there is electron sharing between two adjacent atoms such that each atom assumes a stable
electron configuration.
Metallic--the positively charged ion cores are shielded from one another, and also "glued" together
by the sea of valence electrons.
(b) The Pauli exclusion principle states that each electron state can hold no more than two electrons, which
must have opposite spins.

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 2.23 Make a plot of bonding energy versus melting temperature for the metals listed in Table 2.3. Using
this plot, approximate the bonding energy for copper, which has a melting temperature of 1085C.

Solution

Below is plotted the bonding energy versus melting temperature for these four metals. From this plot, the
bonding energy for copper (melting temperature of 1085C) should be approximately 3.6 eV. The experimental value
is 3.5 eV.

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 Secondary Bonding or van der Waals Bonding

2.24 Explain why hydrogen fluoride (HF) has a higher boiling temperature than hydrogen chloride (HCl)
(19.4 vs. –85°C), even though HF has a lower molecular weight.

Answer

The intermolecular bonding for HF is hydrogen, whereas for HCl, the intermolecular bonding is van der
Waals. Since the hydrogen bond is stronger than van der Waals, HF will have a higher melting temperature.

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dislike seeing old women run down by motors, myself. No, I know
how badly you feel, just now. But these be the fair rewards of them
that love, you know? My own son is, of course, as the archangels. I
hear through his Housemaster at Harrow that he smokes cigarettes
and bets on all the races.”
Mark tried to take Gurdy’s absence with a fine philosophy. His broker
and his lawyer assured him that Saint Andrew’s was the best school
in the country. But the red, Georgian buildings spread on the New
England meadow and the impersonal stateliness of the lean
Headmaster seemed a cold nest for Gurdy. He missed the boy with a
dry and aching pain that wasn’t curable by work on five new plays,
Margot’s plump warmth on his knee or contrived, brief intoxication.
All his usual enchantments failed. He wore out the phonograph
plates of the Danse Macabre and the Peer Gynt “Sunrise.” He
worried wretchedly and the disasters of October and November
hardly balanced his interior trouble. Two, the more expensive two of
the five Carlson and Walling productions failed. Carlson cheerfully
indicated the shrinkage of applicants for jobs, hopeful playwrights
and performers in the office above the 45th Street Theatre. Mark
regretted twenty thousand dollars spent for shares in the Terriss
Pictograph Company. Yet young Terriss was a keen fellow and
Carlson thought something might come of motion pictures after a
while. His friends sighed about Mark that the “show business was a
gamble” and on visits to the farm Mark tried to be gay. A Military
Academy had been built in Fayettesville on a stony field owned by
Eddie Bernamer, the only heritage from Bernamer’s Norwegian
father. Gurdy’s brothers were transferred to this polished school and
Mark was soothed, in thinking that he’d made his own people
grandees. He wished that he could ape the composure of the
Bernamers and said so on a visit near Christmas time.
“But, great Cæsar,” Bernamer blinked, kicking balled snow from a
boot-heel, “this Saint Andrew’s is a good school ain’t it, even if it is
up by Boston? The buildin’s are fire proof, ain’t they? Gurdy can’t git
out at night and raise Ned? Then what’s got into you?”
“Oh, but—my God, Eddie!... I miss him.”
“You’re a fool,” said his brother-in-law, staring at Mark, “You’re doin’
the right thing by the boy. You always do the right thing—like you
done it by us. Sadie and me’ve got seven kids and I love ’em all....
They got to grow up. Stop bein’ a fool.... You don’t look well. Thin’s
a rail. Business bad?”
“We lost about forty-five thousand in two months.”
“That countin’ in the thousand you gave Sadie for her birthday?”
“No—Lord, no!”
Bernamer looked about the increased, wide farm and the tin roofed
garage where Mark’s blue motor stood pompous beside the cheap
family machine. He drawled, “Well, you’ve sunk about twenty-five
thousand right here, bud. You let up on us. Save your money and
set up that theatre of your own you want so. And I’m makin’ some
money on the side.”
“How?”
The farmer grinned.
“That no good Healy boy—Margot’s mamma’s cousin, come soft
soapin’ round for a loan last summer. He and another feller have a
kind of music hall place in Trenton. A couple of girls that sing and
one of those movin’ picsher machines. They wanted five hundred to
put in more chairs. I fixed it I’d get a tenth the profit and they’ve
been sendin’ me twenty-five and thirty dollars a week ever since—
and prob’ly cheatin’ the eye teeth out of me. Dunno what folks go to
the place for—but they do.”
“Funny,” said Mark.
A bugle blew in the grey bulk of the Military Academy. Boys came
threading out across the flat snow between ice girt tree trunks. A
triple rank formed below the quivering height of the flagpole where
the wind afflicted the banner. The minute shimmer of brass on the
blue uniforms thrilled Mark. The flag rippled down in folds of a
momentary beauty. He sighed and turned back to the pink papered
living room where Gurdy’s small, fat legged sisters were clotted
around Margot’s rosy velvet on a leather lounge. Old Walling smoked
a sickening cheroot and smiled at all this prettiness. Margot’s black
hair was curled expansively by the damp air. She sat regally, telling
her country cousins of Mastin’s shop where Mark bought her clothes.
She kissed every one good-bye when Mark’s driver steered the car to
the door and told Eddie Bernamer how well his furred moleskin
jacket suited him. In the limousine she stretched her bright pumps
on the footwarmer beside Mark’s feet and said, “Oh, you’ve some
colour, now, papa!”
“Have I? Cold air. D’you know you say na-ow and ca-ow, daughter,
just like you lived on the farm the year ’round?”
Margot gave her queer, chiming chuckle which was like muffled
Chinese bells. “Do I?”
“Pure New Jersey, honey. I used to. Mrs. Le Moyne used to guy me
about it when I was a kid.”
“Miss Converse says ‘guy’ is slang,” Margot murmured.
“So it is, sister. We ought to go to England some summer pretty
soon and let Miss Converse visit her folks.”
“I’d love to.... I’ve never been abroad,” she said, gravely stating it as
though Mark mightn’t know, “And every one goes abroad, don’t
they?”
“And what would you do abroad?”
She considered one pump and fretted the silver buckle with the
other heel. “I’d see people, papa.”
“What people, sis?”
“Oh,” she said, “every one!”
It set him thinking that she lived pent in his house with her stiff,
alien governess. She was infinitely safe, so, but she might be bored;
he recalled hot and stagnant evenings on the farm when his mind
had floated free of the porch steps and his father’s drawl into a
paradise of black haired nymphs and illustrious warriors dressed
from the engravings of the Centennial Shakespeare. Perhaps she
should go to school? He consulted the governess, was surprised by
her agreement, began to ask questions about schools for small girls.
“Miss Thorne’s,” said his broker, Villay, “She’ll really be taught
something there.... Miss Thorne was my wife’s governess. I’ll see if I
can manage....”
“Manage what?”
The broker clicked his cigarette case open, shut it and laughed, “You
know what I mean, Walling.”
“No, I don’t.”
“It was one thing getting Gurdy into Saint Andrew’s. The
Headmaster’s a broad minded man.... My dear boy, you’re Walling—
Walling, of Carlson and Walling and you used to be a matinée idol....
I don’t like hurting your feelings.”
“You mean you’ll have to go down on your knees to this Miss Thorne
to get her to take Margot?”
The broker said, “Not exactly down on my knees, Walling. I’ll have it
managed. The school’s a corporation and my wife owns some stock.”
Mark groaned and was driven uptown thinking sourly of New York.
Things like this made Socialists, he fancied, and looked with
sympathy at an orator on a box in Union Square. But Gurdy was
arriving by the five o’clock train at the Grand Central Station and the
lush swirl of the crowd on Fifth Avenue cured Mark’s spleen. Snow
fluttered in planes of brief opal from the depth of assorted cornices
above the exciting lights. A scarlet car crossed his at Thirty Fourth
Street and bore a rigid, revealed woman in emerald velvet, like a
figure of pride in a luminous shell. Her machine moved with his up
the slope. Mark examined her happily. She chewed gum with the
least movement of her white and vermilion cheeks. He despised her
and felt strong against the pyramidal society in which Walling, of
Carlson and Walling, was disdained. A cocktail in the Manhattan bar
helped. The yellow place was full of undergraduates bustling away
from Harvard and Yale. The consciousness of dull trim boots and the
black, perpetual decency of his dress raised Mark high out of this
herd. At least he knew better than to smoke cigarettes with gold tips
and the oblique, racy colours of neckties had no meaning for him
beyond gaudiness. He strolled to the clapboards and icy labyrinthine
bewilderment of the station, found the right gate and beheld
uncountable ladies gathered together with children in leather gaiters,
chauffeurs at attention smoking furtively. Here, he knew, was good
breeding collected to take charge of its sons. The cocktail struggled
for a moment with cold air. Mark retired to the rough wooden wall
and watched this crowd. The mingling voices never reached
plangency. The small girls and boys stirred like low flowers in a field
of dark, human stalks. Colours, this winter, were sombre. The
women walked with restraint, with tiny gestures that revealed
nothing, with smiles to each other that meant nothing. He had a
feeling of deft performance and a young fellow at the wall beside
Mark chuckled, lighting a cigarette.
“A lot of rich dames waitin’ for their kids from some goddam school
up in Boston, see?”
Mark nodded. The young fellow gave the grouped women another
stare and crossed the tight knees of his sailor’s breeches. The
nostrils of his shapely, short nose shook a trifle. He tilted his flat cap
further over an ear and winked comradely at Mark, “Wonder who the
kids’ fathers are, huh? A lot of rich dames....” He spat and added,
“Well, you can’t blame ’em so much. Their husban’s are all keepin’
these chorus girls. But it’s too much money, that’s what. If they’d
got to work some and cook an’ all they wouldn’t have time for this
society stuff. It’s too much money. If they’d got to cook their meals
they wouldn’t have time for carryin’ on with all these artists an’
actors an’ things—” He broke off to snap at a girl who came hurrying
from a telephone booth, “Say, what in hell? Makin’ another date?”
“Honest, I was just phonin’ mamma,” the girl said.
“You took a time!—Phonin’ her what?” He scowled, dominating the
girl, “Huh?”
The girl argued, “I’d got to tell her sump’n, ain’t I, Jimmy? I told her
I was goin’ to a show with a gerl fren’—”
“Some friend,” said the sailor, laughed at himself and tramped off
with his girl under an arm. The girl’s cheap suit of beryl cloth shook
out a scent of cinnamon. Mark sighed; she was young and pretty
and shouldn’t lie to her mother about men. But perhaps her mother
was bad tempered, illiberal. Perhaps the flat was crowded with a
preposterous family and exuded this slim thing often, hoping a
fragment of pleasure. A man couldn’t be critical. Mark went to meet
Gurdy and immediately forgot all discomforts in seeing that the boy
had grown an inch, that the lashes about his dark blue eyes were
blackening, in hearing him admit that he was glad to be at home
again.
Gurdy’s schoolmates had sisters at Miss Thorne’s, it seemed, and
Mark waited, fretting, through the Christmas holidays until his broker
wrote that Miss Thorne would be pleased to have Margot as a pupil.
Miss Converse, the governess, asked Mark bluntly how he had
managed this matter.
“You Americans are extraordinary,” she said, “You’re so—so
essentially undemocratic. It’s shocking. But we must get Margot
some decent frocks directly.”
The bill for Margot’s massed Christmas clothes lay on his desk. Mark
started, protesting, “But—”
“I’ve been meaning to talk of this for some time,” said the
governess.
“Her clothes?”
“Her clothes.—My people were quite rich, you know, and I had
things from Paris but really—O, really, Mr. Walling, you mustn’t let
her have every pretty frock she sees! I must say you’ve more taste
than most women—quite remarkable. But what will there be left for
the child when she comes out?”
He wanted to answer that no frock devised of man could make Miss
Converse other than a bulky, angular female but gave his meek
consent to authority. He resented the dull serges and linens of
Margot’s school dress and Sunday became precious because he saw
her in all glory, flounced in rose and sapphire. She was a miracle;
she deserved brilliancies of toned silk to set off the pale brown of
her skin, the crisp thickness of her hair. But in June on the Cedric he
heard one woman say to another, “Positively indecent. Like a doll,”
when he walked the decks with Margot and the other woman’s, “But
she’s quite lovely,” didn’t assuage that tart summary of Margot’s
costume. An elderly actress told him, “My dear boy, you mustn’t
overdo the child’s clothes,” and a fat lady from Detroit came gurgling
to ask where he bought things for Margot. He knew this creature to
be the wife of a motor king and looked down at her thoughtfully.
“I suppose you have daughters, yourself?”
“Yes, three. All of them married. But they still come to me for advice.
—Mastin’s? I thought so. Thank you so much.”
He watched her purple linen frock ruck up in lumps as her fat knees
bent over the brass sill of a door and pitied her daughters. He was
playing poker in the smoke room when Gurdy slid into the couch
beside him and sat silently observing the game. The boy was lately
thirteen and gaunt. His silence coated an emotion that Mark felt,
disturbing as the chill of an audience on an opening night. Gurdy
was angry. The milky skin below his lips twitched and wrinkled. The
luncheon bugle blew. The game stopped and, when the other
players rose, Mark could turn to him. “Was that fat woman in
tortoise shell glasses talkin’ to you?” The boy demanded.
“Yes.”
“Well, it was a bet. I was reading in the parlour place. It was a bet.
One of the women bet you got Margot’s things in New York and the
rest of ’em said Paris. And that fat hog—” Gurdy’s voice broke—“said
she didn’t mind slumming. So she went off and talked to you. They
all s-said that Margot looked like a poster.”
This was horrible. Mark saw some likeness between Margot’s pink
splendour and the new posters clever people made for him. He must
be wrong. He uncertainly fingered the pile of poker chips and asked
Gurdy, “D’you think sister’s—too dressed up?”
Gurdy loosed a sob that slapped Mark’s face with its misery and
dashed his hand into the piled chips. He said, “D-don’t give a dam’
what they say about her. I hate hearin’ them talk about you that
way!”
Mark waited until the nervous sobs slacked. Then he asked, “Do they
ever talk about me at your school, sonny?”
“No. Oh, one of the masters asked me why you didn’t put on some
play. Is there a play called the Cherry Orchard?”
“Russian. It wouldn’t run a week.” Mark piled up the chips and said,
“I may be all wrong—Anyhow, don’t you bother, son ... God bless
you.”
Olive Ilden gave him her view while Margot and Gurdy explored the
garden that opened from her Chelsea drawing room. She sat
painting her lips with a perfumed stick of deep red and mimicked his
drawl, “No, her things ar-r-ren’t too bright, old man. She isn’t too
much dressed up. It’s merely that this thin faced time of ours isn’t
dressed up to her. She’s Della Robbia and we’re—Whistler. It’s
burgherdom. Prudence. It’s the nineteenth century. It’s the tupenny
ha’penny belief that dullness is respectable. Hasn’t she some Italian
blood? Now Joan—my wretched daughter—simply revels in
dowdiness. She’s only happy in a jersey or Girl Guides rubbish. She’s
at Cheltenham, mixing with the British flapper. When she’s at home
she drives me into painting my face and putting dyed attire on my
head. If I had to live with Margot I shouldn’t wear anything gayer
than taupe.”
He stared out at Margot whose pink frock revolved above her
gleaming silver buckles on the crushed shell of the walk. Olive saw
his face light, attaining for the second a holy glow. It was a window
in the wall of dark night. He looked and doted. The woman
wondered at him. He had all the breathless beauty of a child facing
its dearest toy. His grey eyes dilated. In her own eyes she felt the
dry threat of tears and said, “Old man, I’m sorry for you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re such a dear and because you’re a pariah. I don’t
know that all this garden party petting is good for our player folk but
—over in your wilderness—no one seems to investigate the stage
except professors and the police. It must be sickening.... What’ll
become of Margot when she’s grown up?”
It had begun to worry him on the Cedric. He loosely thought that
her friends from Miss Thorne’s school would be kind to her. Wouldn’t
they? He said, “She’s only ten, Olive,” and sat brooding. It wasn’t
fair. Smart society, the decorous women of small gestures, hadn’t
any use for him. He looked at Olive who wrote letters to him and
called him old man. She wrote books. She knew all the world. She
had been to the king’s court and laughed about it. He went to
shelter in her strange kindness and sighed, “It isn’t fair. She ought to
have—she ought to go anywhere she wants to.”
“She probably will if there’s anything in eyelashes,” said Olive, “and
Gurdy will go anywhere he wants to, by the shape of his jaw. I’ve
been dissecting American society with horrific interest. It seems to
have reached a lower level than British! You haven’t even an
intelligent Bohemia.”
“There ain’t many literary people,” Mark reflected, “and they mostly
seem to live in Philadelphia and Indiana, anyhow. Or over here.
What’s a man to do? I can’t—”
“You can’t do anything. Whistle the children in. There’s a one man
show. Stage settings. Italian. I haven’t seen them and you should.”
She threw the stick of paint away and set about cheering him. She
liked him, muddled in his trade, labouring after beauty, unaware of
his own odd sweetness. She gave up the last weeks of the season,
guiding him about London, watching him glow when Margot wanted
a scarf of orange silk in Liberty’s, when Gurdy demonstrated his
Latin, not badly, before a tomb in Saint Paul’s. Margot was the
obvious idol, something to be petted and dressed. But the child had
a rich attraction of her own, graces of placid curves, a quiet
loveliness that missed stupidity.
“You don’t like Margot,” Olive told Gurdy in a waste of the British
Museum.
The boy lied, “Of course I do,” in his cracked voice but Olive took
that as the product of good schooling, like his easy performance of
airs on the piano. He was jealous of Margot and showed it so often
that the woman wondered why Mark didn’t see. But this wasn’t the
usual boy.
“You let him read anything he likes,” she scolded Mark.
“Sure. Where’s the harm? I haven’t got the Contes Drolatiques at the
house or any of those things. Aunt Edith used to make me read the
Book of Kings when I was a kid. Oh, Gurd knows that babies don’t
come by express,” said Mark, “He’s lived in the country, too much.”
“I thought the American peasantry entirely compounded of the
Puritan virtues, old man.”
“You missed your guess, then. You read a lot of American novels,
Olive. Some day or other some writer’s goin’ to come along and
write up an American country town like it is. The police will probably
suppress the book.... My father and Gurdy’s mamma are sort of
scared because I’ve got the kid at a rich school. You mustn’t believe
all the stuff you see in the American magazines and papers about
the wicked rich, Olive. I’ve met some of the rich roués at suppers
and so on. Put any of ’em alongside some of the hired men and
clerks and things that were in my regiment in Cuba—or alongside
Tommy Grover that’s blacksmith at Fayettesville and they’d look like
Sunday School teachers. I sort of wish the poor folks in the United
States’d leave off yawping about the wicked rich and look after their
own backyards a while! No, I don’t take any stock in this country
virtue thing. The only girl in Fayettesville that ever run off with a
wicked drummer had morals that’d scare a chorus girl stiff. Who’s
the fellow that hangs ’round the stage door of a musical show? Nine
times out of ten he’s a kid from the country that’s won twenty
dollars at poker. Who’s the fellow that—well—seduces the poor
working girl? Once in a hundred it’s a rich whelp in a dinner jacket.
Rest of the time it’s the boy in the next flat. When I was acting and
used to get mash notes from fool women, were they from women on
Fifth Avenue or Park Avenue? Not much! Stenographers and ladies in
Harlem that had husbands travelling a good deal. You believe in
talking about these kind of things out loud and I expect you’re right.”
“Gurdy’s not handsome,” said Olive, “but he’s attractive—charming
eyes—and women are going to like him a goodish bit, bye and bye.
And man is fire. What moral precepts are you going to—”
“Just what my father told me. I’m going to tell him that he mustn’t
make love to a married woman and that he mustn’t fool after an
innocent girl unless he means matrimony—but God knows it’s
getting pretty hard to tell what an innocent girl is, these days! Nine
tenths of ’em dress like cocottes.”
“Old man, where did you pick up that very decent French accent?”
Olive saw his blush slide fleetly from his collar to the red hair and
added, “I hope it was honestly come by. You’re a good deal of a
Puritan for a sensualist.”
“Oh ... I am a sensualist, I guess. But, I ain’t a hog.”
Olive said, “No, that’s quite true, my son. There’s nothing porcine
about you. My brother has a house this season and he’s giving a
dance tonight. There might be some pretty frocks.”
“Didn’t know you had a brother!”
“Sir Gerald Shelmardine of Shelmardine Cross, Hampshire. He’s
rather dreary. Will you come?”
She took him to several evening parties and his wooden coldness
before a crowd was enchanting. It occurred to her that individuals
wearied the man. He eyed pretty women, striking gowns, studied
the decoration of ball-rooms. He confessed, “I’ll never see any of
them again and shouldn’t remember them if I did. My memory for
people’s no good—unless they’re interestin’ to look at. My god, look
at that girl in purple. Her dressmaker ought to be hung! Skirt’s
crooked all across the front.” He gave the girl in purple his rare
frown then asked, “Well, where’s some place in France, on the
seashore, where I can take the kids until August?”
She recommended Royan and had from him a letter describing
Margot’s success among the ladies of a quiet hotel. His letters of
1912 and 1913 were full of Margot. Snapshots of the child dropped
often from the thick blue envelopes. When he sent his thin book,
“Modern Scenery” in the autumn of 1913 it was dedicated, “To my
Daughter.” The bald prose was correct, the photographs and plates
were well selected. Mark wrote: “Gurdy went over it with a fine
tooth comb to see if the grammar was O. K. Mr. Carlson is not well
and we have four plays to bring in by December. Spoke at a lunch of
a ladies’ dramatic society yesterday. Forgot where I was and said
Hell in the middle of it. They did not mind. Things seem to be
changing a lot. I am pretty worried about one of our plays.”
Olive saw in the New York Herald some discussion of this play and a
furious reference to it on the editorial page, signed by a clergyman.
This was at Christmas time when she was entertaining her tiresome
brother at Ilden’s house in Suffolk. She folded the newspaper away,
meaning to explore the business. She forgot the accident in the
hurry of her attempt to reach a Scotch country house where her
daughter Joan died of pneumonia on New Year’s Day. The shock
sent Olive into grey seclusion. Her husband was on the China station
with his cruiser. She suddenly found herself worrying over the health
of her son, then in the Fifth Form at Harrow, so took a cottage in
Harrow village and there reflected on the nastiness of death while
she wrote her next novel. The cottage was singularly dismal and the
daughters of the next dwelling were pretty girls of thirteen and
fourteen, with fair hair. “Sentimental analogy is the bane of life,” she
wrote to her husband, “I went to town yesterday for some gloves
and saw the posters of Peter Pan on a hoarding in Baker Street.
Joan liked it so. So I went to the theatre and squandered five
sovereigns in stalls and gave the tickets to these wretched girls who
would infinitely prefer a cinema, naturally. However I managed to
laugh on Saturday. The news had just reached Mark Walling by way
of Ian Gail who is in the States trying to sell his worst and newest
play. Mark cabled me a hundred words quite incoherent and mostly
inappropriate.”
Three days later Olive came in from a walk and Mark opened the
door of the stupid cottage. When she drew her hands away from his
stooped face they were hot and wet.
“But, my dear boy,” she said, presently, “what blessing brought you
over? In the middle of your season, too.”
“I’m in trouble. See anything in the papers about the Mayor stoppin’
a play we put on?—I don’t blame the Mayor, for a minute. Mr.
Carlson wanted it.... Well, it was stopped and some of the
newspapers took it up. And then Mr. Carlson had a sort of stroke. His
mind’s all right but his legs are paralyzed. Won’t ever walk again.”
His voice drummed suddenly as if it might break into a sob. He
passed his fingers over the red hair and went on, “I’ve got him up at
my house.”
“Of course,” said Olive.
“Sure. The doctors say he’ll last four or five years, maybe.—Say
you’ve always said we’re a nation of prudes. Look at this,” and he
dragged from a black pocket a note on formal paper. Olive read:
“The Thorne School, Madison Avenue and Sixty Sixth Street.
December 28th, 1913. My dear Mr. Walling, Will you be so good as
to call upon me when it is possible in order to discuss Margaret’s
future attendance. It seems kindest to warn you that several parents
have suggested that—”
“What is this nonsense?” Olive asked, “What’s the child been doing?”
“Doing? Nothin’! It’s this damned play!”
“You mean that there were women who seriously asked this Miss
Thorne to have Margot withdrawn because you’d produced a risqué
farce? But that’s—”
His wrath reached a piteous climax in, “Oh, damn women,
anyhow!... Well I took her out. My broker could have fixed the thing
up. What’s the use? Well, I brought her over with me. She’s at the
Ritz. What’s the best girls’ school in England?”
Olive said, “Oh, I’ll take her,” saw him smile and began to weep.
 V
Margot

G URDY BERNAMER kept his twentieth birthday in a trench. The

next week his regiment was withdrawn from the line to a dull
village where Gurdy was taking a warm bath in a zinc tub behind the
Mairie when a German aeroplane crossed above and lifted his
attention from a Red Cross copy of “The Brook Kerith” which he read
while he soaked. He dropped the dialectics of George Moore and
watched, then saw the whitewashed wall of the yard bend in slowly,
its cracks blackening. He spent a month in hospital getting the best
of the wandering, deep wound that began at his right hip and ended
in his armpit. He wrote to Mark, “I kept trying to remember a
quotation from Twain’s Tramp Abroad. ‘Not by war’s shock or war’s
shaft. Shot with a rock on a raft.’ They dug a piece of zinc out of me.
I feel fairly well. Mrs. Tilford Arbuthnot has the Y. M. C. A. cafeteria
in Bordeaux. Her brother was with me at Saint Andrew’s. She brings
me novels and things. I think she has a secret passion for you. She
says you were a great actor. My nurse also thinks you were. Her
name is Zippah Coe and she looks it. She says the immorality of
French women is too awful for words. She is coming to take my
temperature.” The temperature displeased the nurse and Gurdy
passed into a daze. The wet hemlocks beyond the window
sometimes turned cerise, inexcusably. Pneumonia succeeded his
influenza.
Through all this lapse he meditated and drew toward a belief that
life was a series of meaningless illusions, many painful. He expanded
“All the world’s a stage.” Suicide wasn’t universal as some of the
players acquired a thrilling interest in their parts, rose to be directors
—Wilsons, Northcliffes, Millerands. It was satisfactory to know this at
twenty. His education was complete in its departments passional,
athletic and philosophical. Saint Andrew’s school. Two and a half
years of Yale in smart company. The miscellany of his regiment. He
must certainly begin maturity as a critic. He lay composing an essay
on the illusory value of passion in a loop of paradoxes which
vanished as his pulse improved. Then he was conscious that a
surgeon took interest in him. Orderlies came from the hospital
adjutant inquiring. Gurdy sat up, read the papers and accepted five
thousand francs in mauve and blue bills from a bank agent. It
seemed that Mark had run him to earth by cabling. Soon he was
uniformed again and given orders that assigned him to duty in a
Paris military bureau. There Gurdy found Mark’s broker, decorated as
a Major.
“Of course, I got you up here,” said Major Villay. “Why not?”
“But—” With recovery Gurdy had shed some sense of illusions. He
stood thinking of his regiment rather sourly, rather sadly.
The broker-major grunted, “Rot, Gurdy. You’re all Mark’s got—Son,
and all that. Dare say Margot’ll marry some Englishman. Anyhow, it’s
all over. Bulgaria’s on the skids. Mark thinks too much of you.”
Gurdy was subtly pleased. He stood thinking of Mark fondly, with
annotations in contempt. Mark was nothing but a big blunderer
among the arts, a man who couldn’t see the strength of Russian
drama or disillusioned comedy, who didn’t admire Granville Barker’s
plays. But if Margot stayed in England Gurdy could steer his uncle
toward proper productions. Mark meant well, very well. He had done
some fine things, had a feeling for vesture, anyhow.
“I see the Celebrities people have bought the Terriss Pictograph,”
said Major Villay, “Exchange of stock. Funny. Mark hates the movies
so and he makes twenty thousand a year out of them. And the
movie people gave him fifteen thousand for that rotten Gail play.
Here, take this stuff and translate it. I can probably get you a pass
over to London if you want to see Margot.”
Gurdy didn’t want to see her. His last view of Margot had been in the
stress of her removal from Miss Thorne’s school. Mark had gone five
times to England on visits of a month, reported her beautiful, witty,
petted by Mrs. Ilden, by Mrs. Ilden’s friends. But he wrote her a note
dutifully and got an answer in three lines. “Glad you are out of the
silly mess. Try to run over. Frightfully rushed catching a train for
Devon. More later.” He was not offended. He thought that Margot
disliked him as he disliked her. He threw the note into the waste
basket and went on translating French political comments into
English.
The Armistice broke on the third week of this employment. The
bureau became a negation of labour. Gurdy roamed contentedly
about the feverish, foolish city with various friends—young officers,
sergeant majors on agreeable posts. He was tall, still pallid from
sunless convalescence. His uniform happened to fit a long, loosely
moving body and he liked dancing. He equably observed male
diversion with his dark blue eyes and was often diverted. This might
be the collapse of known society, the beginning of a hygienic and
hardworked future. This churning of illusions might bring something
fresh. Men might turn to new programs of stupidity, exhausting the
old. He danced and was courted. He wrote to Mark, choosing words:
“There will be plays about this, I suppose. I do not think any one will
believe it fifty years from now. It is an upheaval of cheap pleasure. I
keep thinking how Carlson calls people hogs.” He hesitated,
continued: “I do not know that there is an excuse for all of it. Some
of the Americans make bigger hogs of themselves than is necessary.”
Then he destroyed the letter. After all, Mark was your typical patriot.
He took America seriously, the American soldier seriously, the
American Red Cross had profited by his sentiment. There was no
point in hurting Mark. Gurdy wrote a gay tale of driving through
Paris in a vegetable cart with a drunken Australian colonel and went
to dine at Luca’s.
From Luca’s his party retired to the Opera Comique, stopped to drink
champagne in the bar and stayed there until it wasn’t worth while to
hear the last act. “And,” said a youth from San Francisco, “we can go
to Ariana Joyce’s. She’s giving a party.”
“But she’s dead,” Gurdy objected.
“Damn healthy corpse! Come ahead and see if she’s dead!”
They floated in a taxicab along Paris. The machine slipped from the
lavender rush of some broad street up a slope and Gurdy stumbled
into a brilliance of laughing people where his guide pushed him
toward a green dais and hissed, “She won’t know you from Adam.
Tell her you’re from Chicago.”
Her rounded beauty had come to death under much fat. She lolled in
a red chair waving a peacock fan. Gurdy’s friend kissed the arm she
thrust out and told her, “You look awfully well, Miss Joyce.”
The dancer nodded, beaming down at her painted feet in their
sandals of blue leather. Through her nose she said, “Feelin’ fine,”
then in throaty refinement, “Do get Choute Aurec to dance. She’s so
difficult now she’s had a success. So very difficult—Rodin used to say
—” Her empty and tired stare centred on Gurdy. With a vague
dignity she asked, “Do I know you?”
“Corporal Bernamer’s from Chicago,” the guide said.
Miss Joyce planted a thumb under her chin and drawled, “De mon
pays!” then her eyes rolled away. She reached for a silver cup on a
table and forgot her guests. Looking back, Gurdy saw her famous
head thrown back and, for a moment, comely as she drank.
“Bakst,” said his friend, jerking a hand about to show the walls of
grey paint where strange beasts cavorted among spiked trees, above
the mixed and coloured motion of the crowd. An American was
playing ragtime at the gold piano, in a clot of women. Choute Aurec
was teaching a British aviator some new dance. Beyond, a mass of
women and officers surrounded a lean shape on a divan. They
gazed, gaped, craned at the young man. His decorations twinkled in
the glow. His blue chest stirred when he spoke and his teeth flashed.
Gurdy’s companion murmured, “They say he’s got ten times more
sense than most prize-fighters.... I think that thin man’s Bernstein—
the one with a dinner jacket. You get drinks in the next room. Oh,
there’s Alixe!”
He ran off. Gurdy slid through the mingling harlots and warriors into
the next, cooler room, fringed with men drinking champagne. An
American colonel glared at him over a glass, shifted the glare back
to a handsome ensign who had penned a blond girl in a corner.
Gurdy found a tray covered with sandwiches and ate one,
pondering. He wondered whether the ensign would go on trying to
kiss the girl if he knew that she had been, last month, on trial for the
technical murder of an octogenarian general. Well, morals were
illusory, too. Some one slapped his shoulder. He saw Ian Gail. The
playwright was dressed as a British captain. “Intelligence,” he said,
“I’m too old and adipose for anything else. And we shouldn’t be
here, should we? A poisonous place.”
“Funny mixture.”
“Pride,” said Gail, “The poor woman can’t stand being neglected so
she gives these atrocious parties. But it’s nice running into you, old
son. I’d a letter from Mark yesterday. He told me you were here and
I was coming to look you up tomorrow in any case. I’m just from
London. Olive Ilden and Margot are hoping you’ll get leave to come
over for Christmas. Can’t you?”
“I don’t quite see how I can, sir.”
“But do try. I think you’d cheer Olive up. Margot’s a jolly little thing
but frightfully busy celebrating the peace. How decent of Mark to let
her stay with Olive! I fancied he’d take her back to the States
directly the war began.”
“Submarines,” Gurdy said, “But why does Mrs. Ilden need cheering
up, sir? She used to be an awfully cheerful sort of person.”
“Oh,” said Gail, “her boy—Bobby.”
“I hadn’t heard he—”
“Fell a year ago. Do try to run over.... How pretty Margot is!”
Gurdy ate another sandwich, correcting champagne. There would be
long illusions after this war. Grudges, idealized memories of trivial
folk. But he was sorry for Olive Ilden. He said, “I’ll try to get over. I’ll
—”
Choute Aurec ran through the doorway, yelped, “Ariane va danser,
messieurs, dames!” and darted out again.
“What did that incontinent little brute say?” Gail asked.
“I think Miss Joyce is going to dance,” said Gurdy.
“It’s disgusting,” the Englishman snorted, “Some cad always flatters
her into dancing and the poor woman falls on her face. Don’t go.”
The doorway filled with watchers. Women giggled. Some one played
slowly the first bars of the Volga Barge song. There was an
applausive murmur—then a thud. “She’s fallen,” said Gail and
suddenly Gurdy remembered that this was an American, that he had
seen her dance to the jammed ecstasy of the Metropolitan. The
women in the doorway squealed their amusement. The crowd parted
and he saw the green gauze wrapping her limp body as two
Frenchmen carried her back to her throne. The crowd applauded,
now.
“Swine,” said Gail.
Gurdy summoned up his philosophy and shrugged. The young prize-
fighter came through the press and snapped to a civilian, “Je me
sauve, Etienne!”
“Mais—”
“C’est nauséabonde! Elle était artiste, vois tu? Allons; je file!”
“The boy’s right,” said the playwright, “Sickening. Come along.” They
passed through the beginning of a dance in the great chamber and
down the stairs into an alley where motors were lined. In a taxicab
Gail concluded, “End of an artist.”
Gurdy thought this sententious but a queer oppression filled him. It
was hideous that any one should finish as a butt with a prize-fighter
for apologist. Of course, life was nothing but a meaningless
spectacle. Money, something to drink, a dancing floor drew this
crowd together. The fat dancer was rather funny, if one looked it all
over. Mark could contrive the whole effect on a stage if he wanted.
“Mark writes that he’s almost decided to build his theatre in West
Forty Seventh.”
“I wish he’d hurry,” said Gurdy, “He’s been planning the Walling for
years. Funny. He told Mr. Frohman all about it just before the
Lusitania.”
“Poor Frohman,” the Englishman murmured, “Awfully decent to me.”
There should be a certain decency, a cool restraint in life, the
philosopher mused. He thought of this next morning when Choute
Aurec telephoned hopefully for a loan of a thousand francs. By noon
he had discovered that he was flatly homesick for Mark and thought
of Margot in London as the nearest familiar creature. The bureau
permitted his departure. He crossed a still Channel and made his
way to London in the company of an earnest Red Cross girl from
Omaha who wanted Fontainebleau turned into a reform school for
rescued Parisian street walkers. She had a General for uncle and
Gurdy feared that she would be able to forward her plan to the
French government.
“D’you really feel that we’ve any business telling the French what to
do with their own homes?”
“But Fontainebleau could be made into a real home, Corpril!”
“So could Mount Vernon.”
“It’s too small. Fontainebleau’s so huge. All those rooms.”
“You don’t think that it’s any use just letting it stay beautiful?”
“But it isn’t really beautiful,” the young woman retorted, “It’s so
much of it Renaissance, you know?”
He was still hating this vacuity when the taxicab left him at Mrs.
Ilden’s house in Chelsea. The butler told him that “Lady Ilden” was
not at home and guided him through grey halls to a bedroom. Gurdy
washed, tried to recall Ilden’s rank in the British navy and the name
of Olive’s last novel. He strolled downstairs and met Margot in the
lower hall without knowing it. He saw a slim person in stark yellow
reading a letter and was startled when the girl said, “Good God, they
didn’t tell me you’d got here! Come and help me stick this holly
about in the library.”
She thrust a bowl filled with small sprays of holly into his hands and
frowned between the wings of her black, bobbed hair. He
remembered her plump. She was slender. She still wore glittering
pumps with silver buckles. When she chuckled it was in the former
chime. She exclaimed, “Of course! Uncle Eddie was born in Norway,
wasn’t he?”
“I think dad was born in the steerage, coming over,” Gurdy said.
“You’re not at all American, anyhow,” she announced, “and that’s a
relief. I’m quite mad about Scandinavians. Only sensible people in
Europe. Come along. There’s a rehearsal in half a minute and—”
“Rehearsal?”
“Charity show. Barge along. This way.”
He grinned and followed her into the long library where she tossed
bits of holly to and fro on the shelves. She said, “Cosmo Rand’s
rehearsing us. Better not tell that to dad. He mightn’t like it.”
“Who’s Cosmo?”
“Cora Boyle’s husband. They’re playing here. Don’t get shocked
about it.”
“Don’t see anything to get shocked about. So Cora Boyle’s over here
again? What’s she playing?”
“A silly melodrama. She’s at the Diana. Saw her the other night.
She’s getting fat. Ought to be a law against fat women wearing old
rose.”
“You’ve lost some weight,” Gurdy said.
“Work, old thing, work! Sewing shirts for snipers. Dancing with
convalescents.—It’s beastly you’ve got so tall. I hate looking up at
men.”
Gurdy laughed down at her and asked, “When did Mrs. Ilden get to
be Lady Ilden?”
“Jutland. It’s just the Bath, not a baronetcy. Olive’s at church.”
“I thought she was agnostic?”
Margot said gently, “It takes them that way, rather often. She’s been
to church a goodish bit ever since Bobby—”
“Oh, yes. Young Ilden was killed.—What sort of person was he?”
“One of the silent, strong Empire builders—but nice about it....
Olive’s aged, rather.” She planted the last holly spray on the lap of a
gilt Buddha then smiled at Gurdy across a yellow shoulder, “I’d
forgotten how blue your eyes are. Almost violet. Goes with your hair.
Very effective.... Your chin’s still too big.... Oh, a letter from Dad this
morning. He was thinking of running over. But Carlson’s worse....
D’you know, it’d be a noble deed to poison Carlson. There he is
stuck in the house. Why don’t useless people like that dry up and
blow away?”
“I don’t think he’s useless,” Gurdy argued, “He makes Mark put on a
comedy now and then. He swears better than any one I know. And
you ought to be grateful to him. If Mark hadn’t had him for company
you’d probably have been hauled home long ago.”
Margot opened a Russian, lead box on a table and lit a cigarette.
She said, “Don’t think so. Dad’s never made the slightest sign of
hauling me home. Especially after Mr. Frohman.... Ugh! I almost had
nervous prostration, when I heard Dad had sailed after the
Lusitania!” Her lids fell and shook the astonishing lashes against the
pale brown of her cheeks. Then she chuckled, “The joke is, I’d as
soon have gone home long ago. I’m mad about Olive, of course. And
I’ve had all sorts of a good time. But I’d rather be home.... How’s
your mother?” He was answering when the butler barked names
from the doorway. Margot whispered, “Run. The rehearsal. Go hide
in the drawing room. These are all bores.”
He passed out through a group of men and girls, encountered a
Colonel of the British General Staff in the hall and was cordially
halted. He stood discussing military shoes with this dignitary as Olive
Ilden let herself into the hall. Gurdy recalled her slim and tall. Now
that he looked down, she seemed stout, no longer handsome but
the deep voice remained charming as it rose from her black veils.
She led him off into the drawing room and said, at once, “Margot’s
pretty, isn’t she?”
“Yes. Mark’s been raving about her but I thought—”
“You thought he was idealizing, after his customary manner? He sent
me a picture of you, so I’m not surprised. Don’t sit in that chair. It’s
for pygmies.... I want to talk about Margot and it’s likely we won’t
have another chance. You two don’t write each other letters. Had
you heard from Mark that she wants to play?”
“Play?”
“Be an actress. I thought I’d better warn you,” Olive laughed, “I
don’t know when it started. I know Mark wouldn’t like it. Otherwise
the child’s the delight of my life.” She sank into a couch and asked,
“Now, what are these diplomatic idiots doing in Paris? I don’t like the
look of things.”
“Arranging for another war.”
“I do hope they’ll arrange it for twenty years from date. I’ll be past
sixty then and I won’t care. I’ll be able to sit and grin at the women
who’re going through what—Only, of course, I shouldn’t grin. I’m a
true blue Briton of the old breed when it comes to an emotion. I
simply can’t enjoy an emotion when it’s my emotion.... Had you ever
thought that that’s why bad plays and cinema rubbish are so
popular? It’s the unreality of the passions.... I dare say that’s why
I’ve just been to church.... Perhaps that’s why Margot wants to go
on the stage. She’s never had an emotion worth shedding a tear for.
Well, how’s Mark?”
“Putting on three plays after Christmas and thinks they’re all
winners.”
She drew her hands over her eyes and murmured, “Mark’s
extraordinary. Endless enthusiasm. Like a kiddy with a box of water
colours. I suppose it’s belief. He really believes in his job.... I once
thought he needed education.... If he’d been educated, he couldn’t
have believed so hard.... There has to be something childish to get
along in the theatre.... If he were worldly wise he’d have known half
these plays were rubbish and the rest not very good.... But I’m not
sure what a good play is, Gurdy. Tell me. You’re young, so you
should know.”
He flushed, then laughed and asked what play Margot and her
friends rehearsed. The loud, spaced voices came across the hall. He
felt an unruly curiosity stir.
“It’s a one act thing of Ronny Dufford’s—Colonel the Honourable
Ronald Dufford. Quite a pal of Margot’s. That was he talking to you
in the hall just now—the Brass Hat. What are you laughing at?”
“Wondering what would happen to an American General Staff man if
he wrote plays.... Dufford? Mark put a thing of his on in nineteen
sixteen. It failed.”
“His things are rather thin. He’s been nice to Margot, though. He
took her about when I was in mourning—He’s a good sort. Forty
eight or so. I dare say he lectured Margot on the greatness of
Empire and the sacredness of the House of Lords. It didn’t hurt her.
She hears enough about the sacredness of the plain people, in the
studios.”
“I thought you were an anti-imperialist and an anarchist?”
The tired woman laughed, “So I am.... It was tremendous fun being
all the right things when I was young and anarchists were rather
few. I expect you’re a cubist and a communist and agnostic and
don’t believe in marriage. So many of them don’t. Then they get
married to prove the soundness of their theory and get hurt; then
they’re annoyed because they’re hurt and get interested in being
married. Most amusing to watch.... The world’s got past me and I’m
frightened by it.—We had such a good time railing at the Victorians
and repression. And now all the clever young things tell their
emotions to cab drivers and invent emotions if they haven’t any.—All
the gestures have changed and I feel—You look rather like Mark. You
know he was stopping at Winchester when he heard Margot’s
father’d been killed. I tried to shock him. He.... Oh, do go and watch
them rehearse, Gurdy!... I’ve just come from church.... The music’s
made me silly. I don’t know what I’m saying....” The artifice smashed
into a sob. Gurdy swung and hurried across the hall. Certainly, the
woman’s illusion of pain was notably real.
He sat smoking on a window seat of the library and tried to follow
the rehearsal at the other end of the wide room. The men and girls
strode about talking loudly. A slender man in grey broke the chatter
from time to time and gave directions in a level, pleasing voice. This
must be Cosmo Rand, the husband of Cora Boyle. Gurdy looked at
him with interested scorn but the amateurs took his orders in docile
peace and only Margot answered him from a deep green chair, “Rot,
Cossy! I’m supposed to be lost in thought, aren’t I? Then I shan’t
look interested when Stella giggles. Go on, Stella.”
Gurdy became intent on her posture in the dark chair. She was
smoking and her hair appeared through the vapour like solid, carved
substance. She seemed fixed, a black and yellow figure on the
green. A vaporous halo rose in the lamplight above her head. He
stirred when she spoke again, shifting, and a silver buckle sent a
spark of light flitting across the rug. He remembered that she had
Italian blood from her grandmother. She looked Italian. Mark was
right. She was beautiful in no common fashion. The other girls
vibrating against the shelves were mere bodies, gurgling voices.—
The butler stole down the room and spoke to Cosmo Rand who, in
turn, spoke aloud.
“I say, Margot, Cora’s brought the motor around. Might I have her
in? Chilly and she’s been feeling rather seedy.”
A tall woman in black velvet entered as if this were a stage and
reposed herself in a chair. Gurdy had never seen Cora Boyle perform.
She was familiar from pictures when she drew up a veil across an
obvious beauty of profile and wide eyes. Presently she commenced a
cigarette and the motion of lighting it was admirably effected. An
expanding, heavy scent of maltreated tobacco welled from the
burning roll between her fingers. The line of her brows was
prolonged downward with paint. The whole mask was tinted to a
false and gleaming pallor. Grey furs were arranged about the
robustness of her upper body. She was older than Mark, Gurdy’s
father said. She must be passing forty. She should be weary of tight
slippers. A glance stopped Gurdy’s meditation. He looked away at
Margot’s effortless stroll along the imagined footlights. Cora Boyle
spoke to him in a flat and pinched whisper.
“Isn’t your name Bernamer?” He bowed. She came to sit with him
on the window seat and dusted ash from her cigarette into the
Chinese bowl. Her eyes explored his face with a civil amusement.
“You look awfully like your father. You startled me. Let me see.... You
and Miss Walling live with Mark, don’t you? Sweet, isn’t she? And
how is Mark? I’ve played over here so long that I’ve rawther lost
touch. Mr. Carlson’s still alive?”
“Oh, yes. He’s bedridden, you know? Lives with Mark.”
She inhaled smoke, nodding.
“That’s so characteristic of Mark, isn’t it? But of course, Carlson was
kind to him. The dear old man’s bark was much worse than his bite.
Good heavens how frightened I was of him! I see that Mark acted in
a couple of Red Cross shows? I expect that all his old matinée girls
turned out and cried for joy.... But I do think that Mark was
something more than a flapper’s dream of heaven. Still, he must like
management better. He never thought more of acting than that it
was a job, did he?” She sighed, “One has to think more of it than
that to get on.”
Gurdy wished that this woman didn’t embarrass him, resenting her
perfumed cigarette and the real, frail loveliness of her hands. The
embarrassment ended. Rand told the amateurs that they weren’t
half bad and departed with his wife, a trim, boyish figure behind her
velvet bulk. Colonel Dufford implored the grouped players to learn
their lines. Margot was much kissed by the other girls, dismissed
them and came in a sort of dance step to ask Gurdy what he
thought of her acting.
“Couldn’t hear you. I had to talk to Miss Boyle. Ugly voice she has.
Are people really crazy about her here?”
Margot frowned and pursed her lips, tapping a cigarette on a nail.
“Oh, she has a following. They don’t dither about her as they do
over Elsie whatsername and some of the other Americans. Dull, isn’t
she?”
“Very. She made a point of talking about Mark.—Lady Ilden’s all
broken up, isn’t she?”
“She’s too repressed,” Margot explained. “Tried not to show it when
Bobby fell and so she’s been showing it ever since. And Sir John’s
been at sea constantly and that’s a strain. He’s in Paris, now.—You
don’t show your feelings at all, do you? I was watching you talk to
the Boyle and you beamed very nicely. And you must have been
bored. One of those rather sticky women. Come and play pool.
There’s an American table.”
He played pool and stolidly listened to her ripple of comments. She
had a natural disrespect for the American army that flashed up. “The
men did all they could, I dare say, but, my God, Gurdy, what thugs
the officers were! Some of them turned up at a garden party where
the King dropped in and he went to speak to one. The thing was
cleaning its nails in a corner and it shook hands with its pocket knife
in the other hand. I fainted and Ronny Dufford lugged me home in a
taxi. I say, do let me have St. Ledger Grant do a pastel of you. Dad
would love it and St. Ledger needs ten pounds as badly as any one
in Cheyne Walk.”
“Who’s Sillijer?”
“Artist. Poor bloke who got patriotic and lost a leg in the Dardanelles
mess. Serve him right and so on but he’s ghastly poor.”
“You a pacifist?”
“Rather!”
“That’s why you like the Scandinavians? Because they stayed out?”
“Right. I forgive you though because you’re young and simple and
your legs are rather jolly in those things.” She twisted her head to
stare at his leggings and the black hair rose, settled back into its
carved composure below the strong, shaded lamp. The clear red of
her lips parted as she laughed, “Not a blush? Made the world safe
for democracy and aren’t proud of it? How did your friends get
through? That rather sweet lad who used to come to lunch when
you were at school? Lacy—?”
“Lacy Martin. Lost a leg.”
She frowned. “Doesn’t matter so much for a chap like that with
billions but—the artists. I must have St. Ledger do you. We’ll go
there tomorrow. I had Cosmo—Rand have himself done.”
Gurdy made a shot and said, “Rand’s a much prettier subject than
I’d be.”
“Don’t get coy, my lad! You’re rather imposing and you know it.—
Like to meet Gilbert Chesterton? You used to read his junk. I can
have you taken there. Never met him, myself.”
“No thanks.—What’s that bell?”
“Dress for dinner. You can’t. I must.—I say, you’re altogether
different from what I thought you’d be.”
“What did you think?”
“I couldn’t possibly tell you but I’m damned glad you’re not. The
butler can make cocktails. Dad taught him in nineteen seventeen.”
The butler brought him an evil mixture. Gurdy emptied it into the
fireplace and leaned on the pool table wondering what Margot had
expected. It didn’t matter, of course. Yet she might recall him as a
sixteen year old schoolboy much absorbed in polevaults and stiff
with conceit for some acquirements in English letters. How people
changed and how foolish it was to be surprised at change!
Sophomoric. Mark really knew a pretty woman when he saw one. A
man of genuine taste outside the selection of plays.—She must know
London expertly. She must have a sense of spectacle. She must
meet all conditions with this liberal, successful woman as a guide. If
she wanted a pastel made for Mark she should have it. Gurdy dusted
chalk from his leggings, evenly taped about the long strength of his
calves, strolled into the drawing room and played the languid
movement of the Faun’s Afternoon. Illusory or not there was always
beauty in the blended exterior of things. A man should turn from the
inner crassness to soothe himself with the fair investiture, with the
drift of delicate motions that went in colour and music.—Olive
thought him like Mark as she came in. She was worried because Gail
had written of meeting the boy on Montmartre.
“You’ve been enjoying Paris?”
“More or less. It’s a holy show, just now. I don’t suppose the
barkeepers—and other parasites—will ever have such a chance
again.”
“I hope you’ve not been in too much mischief. Ian Gail wrote me
that he met you in some horrid hole or other.”
“A party at Ariana Joyce’s. I wasn’t doing any more harm there than
the rest of the Allied armies. But it was pretty odious.” The memory
jarred into the present satisfaction. He halted his long fingers on the
keys and Margot came rustling in, her gown of sheer black muslin
painted with yellow flowers and gold combs in her hair.
“Were you playing L’Après Midi?—And he’s only twenty, Olive! Most
Americans don’t rise to respectable music until they’ve lost all their
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