Mrs Anderson was very busy one Friday evening. She went to bed early, scurried about in the night and had a good deal to say to herself. When she was having breakfast she put her finger on a spot of coffee and remarked:
‘Wet. Those who travel understand a lot. For example, I was told, a certain man told me, that “wet” in Dutch means “law”; Wetstraat means Law Street. Naturally, a man with a gift for languages. You’re either born with it or you’re not. However, you can talk for an hour and not say anything.’
She continued disgustedly: ‘I prefer those who speak plain.’
‘Then you must speak plain and not in crossword puzzles,’ said her son Gilbert, laughing.
She spat fire. ‘Plain! Yes, it’s very suitable for a plain old woman. I speak plainly—others do not.’
Gilbert and his wife Nellie laughed. Said Mrs Anderson:
‘Very well, laugh. I know what I’m talking about.’
‘I know you do, but we don’t,’ said Gilbert.
‘You can judge a man by the way he treats old people. If a man has respect for old people, then he is a fine man. A man who never gives a thought to anyone but himself is either a miser or he’s greedy. He never puts his hand in his pocket! A miser! An egotist! That’s disgraceful for a young man, unmarried.’
‘What is the trouble, Mamma?’ said Gilbert.
‘Never mind, never mind.’ She sat grieving. When asked to have more coffee she said: ‘Never mind, not for me, not for the old.’ But later she took some.
When Gilbert went shopping he asked: ‘Is there anything you would like, Mamma?’
‘Oh, don’t trouble yourself, you’re very kind,’ she said charmingly, making her little bow. Before he had made a step she went up close and remarked sagely:
‘Old is old. We must not complain. There’s nothing can be done about it. Arsenic cure in Romania perhaps. Bogomolotz they said; but who knows? They advertise. I digest nothing. For example, sardines are greasy and hard to digest. Even the best—say, Portuguese or French. They’re dear, also they’re just as indigestible. Then they smell out the icebox. What a pity! Who can eat a whole box, too? So much money thrown in the street, you might say. Of course, there is the taste, very good. I read in a medical magazine that doctors are beginning to discuss whether it is more than a question of calories and vitamins; there is taste, too. Why is taste given to us? There must be a reason. Nothing exists without a reason. Well, there you see, perhaps a nice-tasting sardine makes a nourishing sandwich.’
‘Well, I’ll get some sardines, then.’
‘Sardeenkee, Gilbert, sardeenkee, do you know that is what the Russians say?’
‘And what else, Mamma?’
‘Oh, but Russian is such a pure language, no one, no foreigner could learn it. No, it’s no use. It is too pure.’
‘Mamma!’
‘Sardines, I am sorry to say, are a very good taste, but what is there to them? A bite and they’re gone! It’s not practical, my dear. The young cannot understand and it is better so. An old woman is better off taking oatmeal. Only it happens in my case that I cannot digest oatmeal. Besides, what is it but an excuse for taking milk and sugar? I would do better to take milk and sugar in my tea; and then the tea remains hot longer. At the same time, I prefer lemon tea—it’s more delicate. They say eggs have come down; did you hear that ? Of course, eggs are bad for the liver. I knew a woman, a lovely woman with twenty-seven rooms, she ran a boarding-house and she never ate an egg. Oh, my dear, she had bright eyes, like stars! “What is the reason for your remarkable health, Mrs Saxon,” I asked. We used to meet in the afternoons, in the park. “I have a very poor liver,” she told me; “and my son too. We never touch eggs.” You can learn from everyone.’
‘Well, I’ll get eggs,’ said Gilbert.
Standing there, in the same bright, touching and philosophical manner, Mrs Anderson discussed the way to make omelettes (above all, a special pan, oiled but never washed, though she never touched oil), meatballs (a combination of veal and beef, finely chopped), string beans (bad for the liver); and she also mentioned several surgical cases she had heard of. There was a man, a native-born citizen, who had his stomach removed and the large intestine joined to the oesophagus, and after walking bent double for eighteen months he had been able to become a waiter in the Palace Hotel. Gilbert observed that he knew a literary man who remained a literary man after the same operation. Mrs Anderson became worried. She said in a gloomy manner:
‘And there are some who live entirely on salads; but in my opinion salads are full of water and lead to dropsy.’
‘Anything else, Mamma?’ said Gilbert, opening the door.
Mrs Anderson clung to the doorpost and peeped around it, looking frail and irresolute. It was hard for her to mention anything outright; it was a breach of diplomacy. She said shamefacedly:
‘Who knows if brown bread is better that white?’
‘Well, I shall get some brown bread.’
‘Brown bread—naturally, some people live on nothing but that. As for the Russians, what beautiful teeth! Oh, like pearls! Every tooth in their heads sound until they’re a hundred, perhaps more. But as for their cooking, it’s that of barbarians. And the Romanians broil bits of raw meat hard over an open fire. No, give me barley soup or some white fish, even a pancake—I can manage that sometimes.’
Gilbert said: ‘Well, I’d better write this down.’ He made a note. He knew something more was required and waited. There was a silence. Mrs Anderson crept to the doorsill and coming very close, took hold of his arm and said:
‘Supposing anyone comes in the afternoon—suddenly, unannounced! There’s tea—what’s that? In China, even when you’re doing business, people put a cup of tea before you: it’s mere custom. Coloured water! There should be more. Say, a chocolate cake!’
Having thus expressed her wish, Mrs Anderson drew back and looked quite cross.
‘Why, is anyone coming this afternoon?’ he asked, knowing that someone must be. She turned her back and looked sulkily around.
‘Who knows? Who knows? Strangers knock at the door. They say: How are you? Must I turn them away? They say: Don’t you remember me? We met twenty years ago, perhaps. Or ten years. I have a head like a cat. And who remembers a child? But men are boys. A chocolate cake is never wrong.’ Gilbert said; ‘Ah-ha! So it’s cavaliers now, gigolos at teatime! Valentines!’
Mrs Anderson turned pink; but she smiled roguishly. ‘What an idiot!’ She pretended to be waspish: ‘Naturally, here I sit all alone, no one visits, no one knows me. Incognito! Life draws to evening and I must sit like a mouse in a hole.’
Gilbert laughed outright: ‘Don’t try your tricks on me, Mamma! Tell me the name of the man.’
She half turned: ‘Go on, go! I must put the dishes together. A person lives with you three years and never brings you as much as—’ (she showed the tip of her little finger) ‘that of a cake. No thought, no heart. Another person, who scarcely knows you at all, calls upon you and brings you an iced cake with cherries on top. I call that good manners. Manners are born, not taught: they come from the heart. To be kind to the old is a sign of good character. We have nothing to offer; so if they love us, we are grateful!’
Gilbert cried out; ‘Theodore! My cousin Theodore is coming.’
‘Theo! Pooh! You know nothing—a grown-up child.’ Suddenly she cackled angrily: ‘Theo! He spent three years in my house and never thought of bringing home so much as a sausage, not a solitary piece of chicken, not an egg.’
‘But he paid us rent,’ said Gilbert. He became enthusiastic. Theodore, his cousin from Germany, had knocked at the door when Gilbert was fifteen and Theodore about twenty-six: ‘I’m your cousin Theodore from Hamburg.’
Gilbert reminded his mother of this. She now said:
‘Yes, it could have been a highway robber; I come back and there I find a man in my house.’
‘But it was Theodore.’
‘It could have been Al Capone—a gangster! At five you had more sense than at fifteen.’
Theodore had studied medicine, qualified, become a sailor, joined the merchant marine for three years, skipped ship on the New York docks. He had nothing but the address of an aunt he had never seen. Aunt Mollie Anderson. Mrs Anderson said now, looking angrily at Gilbert:
‘You would believe any story. You work in Wall Street. Where did it get you? You should get a degree.’
Gilbert chuckled: ‘They don’t give you degrees in Wall Street.’
Theo had found a job as a labourer and lodged with them for three years, paying rent; a quiet steady man who read books and went to bed at ten o’clock.
‘And then he got married suddenly to an Italienische, without telling me and without inviting me,’ said Mrs Anderson.
They had a few words about Theodore, Mrs Anderson getting sourer and sourer.
Gilbert said: ‘Well I want to see old Theodore. I like him. He’s sedate but he’s honest.’
‘Honest! What do you know? Your tongue wags but you say nothing. It’s George who’s coming.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He appeared.’
‘When?’
‘Mm-mm! Such good manners!’
‘When, Mamma?’
‘He paid me a visit about a week ago. I don’t know. He had to hurry away—he had business.’
Gilbert went to do the shopping. When he returned he talked about the family. He also wanted to see his cousin George. George and Theodore were the sons of a dead brother of Mrs Anderson, a man full of promise, a man of genius, she said, who died early in life. He was too modest, said Mrs Anderson. It was only after his death that they found in his desk his gold medals for law and philosophy. He was not one to boast. Mrs Anderson’s family was medal-bespangled.
‘Mother always calls him Emil, the Genius, the Soul of Honour,’ said Gilbert to his wife, at table.
‘They talk most who know least,’ said Mrs Anderson.
Gilbert continued: ‘And then we have Heinrich the Angel, and Herr Doktor, the Professor, my father; but you will never hear Mother mention Moritz der Zwerg, yet Maurice the Dwarf was the brightest of all. He turned Catholic, took his wife’s name and taught philosophy in France. The name of Maurice the Dwarf is never mentioned by us. He was as small as Mamma; he barely scraped five feet. And there was Aunt Thekla who wrote romances for servant-girls.’
‘Pfui! Trash!’ said Mrs Anderson, ‘but a so rich woman, never mind.’
After lunch, the table was laid with an embroidered cloth, the tea-things were set out; the chocolate cake put in the centre. George, when he had ‘appeared’ the week before, had brought an iced cake with cherries on top, which the two of them had eaten. Now it was right to reciprocate, mere good manners.
‘It is a nice cake,’ said the old woman, ‘yes, very nice, chocolate is good. Of course, there are no cherries, but never mind; it is nice as it is. Imagine, so poor! He had no coat, only a shirt with no tie.’
‘And he had been in Holland,’ said Gilbert.
‘Holland! What nonsense!’ she cried angrily.
‘Not in Wetstraat?’
‘Tt, tt! Never mind. Who knows? People don’t talk. I ask no questions.’
They lived on the ground floor, right on the lobby. Beyond their front door, which was up two steps, was a considerable space, with two lifts, one near them and one near the front door, the doorman’s desk, palms in tubs and in the middle a staircase. Immediately to the left of the building was a park built on a cliff-face and descending into Harlem.
George arrived in a jacket, a tieless shirt, cotton trousers, and sandshoes, a middle-sized man with a harassed boy-face. He carried a big unframed painting. He rushed past Gilbert, who opened the door, hurried along the L-shaped passage, looking into the rooms, found a bedroom to the left, ran in, opened a cupboard door and placed the painting inside. Meanwhile they stood in the passage with welcoming smiles, dodging as he ran past them. He came out of the bedroom saying:
‘It’s a painting someone gave me to sell. It’ll be safe here. I’ve just been put out of my room and the weather’s so tricky I can’t take it with me. Tonight I’ll have to sleep in the park.’
Mrs Anderson grasped his hands, reached up to kiss his cheek, hastily begging for details.
‘Are you so poor, Georgie, you can’t pay your rent?’
Gilbert said in a jolly tone that it was all right, we need not worry, the painting could stay there ‘until the cows come home’. Where did he intend to sell it? George had had an offer; he expected to get $10,000 for it. But he must lie low for a couple of days. The police were after him on account of his rent. Then, unluckily, the room in which he had spent only a week, had before that been rented to a sneak-thief. The police had mistaken him for the thief. He had had to make a getaway over the roofs.
‘Over the roof, George!’ said Mrs Anderson with anxiety. She looked him over; no bruise, no broken limb. ‘But couldn’t you explain who you were? You have papers!’
‘Get beat up first, explain afterwards,’ said George, walking to the table, which he could see through the glass doors. George sat at one end of the table, his legs stretched out, talking in an undertone to his aunt, who hung over him, her little white head and her big black eyes nodding at him. He was tired and hungry; he seemed exhausted. But he ate and drank with excellent manners and only glanced once or twice at the chocolate cake before he was asked to have some. Then he took four slices, as they were pressed on him. He was polite to everyone, yet in an absence, like a sick person. He suddenly said:
‘You don’t know what trouble I’m in, Aunt.’
He had not eaten properly for a long time, had nowhere to sleep, no clothes. He could come back here and spend the night on a divan in the livingroom; and he would be no bother. Then he seemed anxious to leave. She lifted her hands high, pressed back the loose hair, straightened his collar.
They stood at the door. George left them in a curious way. He opened the lift door, next to them, and went up in the lift. Perhaps he had a friend in the building. They shut the door.
A little while later the doorbell rang and there stood a policeman to ask if a Mr Joe Miller was there. Did they know him, a young man with dark hair selling men’s shirts? At that moment another policeman entered the building and seeing his mate in conversation, approached. Behind him a young man’s quick slight figure, carrying a valise, slipped down from the stairway and hurried into the street, turning towards the park.
‘He is somewhere in the building,’ said the policeman.
Gilbert, full of friendly, lively denials, left the policeman with the doorman at the desk. He closed the door.
Back in the diningroom Mrs Anderson was weeping. Oh, the troubles of poor young men with nowhere to go! At the same time it was evident that she was very nervous. George had seemed so worried. He had brought nothing, so unlike a boy with his manners. Something else worried her—what was it? Gilbert said:
‘I think there’s something fishy about George with the good manners; I think he’s a phony, Mamma.’
‘Your tongue’s wagging like a clapper in a bell and doesn’t know what tune it’s playing,’ she cried, darting up and seizing the tea-things to carry out. ‘Such a remark! A poor man with nowhere to sleep and he’s fishy. I gave Theodore a place to sleep for three years; and you, Gilbert—all of your life.’
‘Don’t be angry, Mamma.’
‘And who was that at the door?’ she asked hysterically. ‘Who, at the door? Such a nuisance. Nothing but magazines and vacuum-cleaners. We’re on the ground floor, never in my life—anyone could walk in. Who ever heard of such a thing? You’re old enough to know better.’
‘It was the police at the door,’ said Gilbert.
At this Mrs Anderson froze, grasping the dishes tighter; then set in motion, like a machine, she ran out to the kitchen.
‘The police! What nonsense! They call on everyone these days. What a state things are in!’
‘The police,’ repeated Gilbert, who had had time to get upset. ‘They are looking for a young man selling shirts.’
Mrs Anderson was silent.
George came back at a quarter to twelve at night. He looked worn and tear-stained but he said confidently that he had been at a business conference and that now he would remain with them for a few days; he had the promise of a room soon.
They all slept badly on account of the police; and then there were quiet noises in the house. It was Mrs Anderson ‘creeping about like a mouse,’ as she said; and there was a soft light in the hall. George was on the divan in the livingroom.
Mrs Anderson was sitting in her best dressing-gown, her hair in two tiny plaits, by the bedside of the young man. He was lying on his back with his large dark eyes open and looking upwards. From time to time he turned his face to her, with an expression of trust and intimacy.
Her hand was lying on the eiderdown pleating it and she said:
‘You were right to come to me, darling. Here they are all selfish—in America they have hard hearts. They laugh and enjoy themselves. And it’s no use talking to those here about your mother. Least said soonest mended. I realise she could not look after you, a widow. Leave it to me. I’ll write to her. But hush! Not a word to them. Here you might as well be in a robbers’ den. He and she, he and she; that’s all. A bird fell in the courtyard, they took it in and fed it, but it died. They threw it out with the rubbish, a living creature that had died. They will do the same to me. They will throw you out if they know. Not a word, you hear!’
The young man, turning his thin face to her said very low:
‘Aunt Mollie, I knew I could come to you. The trouble is nowadays people simply don’t believe anything and don’t want to help. And then, about mother…’
‘Sh! Walls have ears. They ask questions in this house. No one is safe. You are safe with me. I am penniless. I haven’t a bankroll sewn in my drawers, as you might think.’ Here she laughed. ‘But if anything comes my way, if I can save or get from them—never mind, I’ll give it to you for her, poor Rosa. I know you, you would never beg. You stay here, darling, and never mind what is said. I’ll give you some money—a little bit, no more than chicken-feed, for what have I? Selfish is the world, my poor boy. Stay with me. I’m alone, you sec. And there’s room: it’s as big as a palace.’
She leaned over and kissed him. He put both hands on her ears and drew her head down:
‘Dear Aunt! I was right to come to you.’
She whispered: ‘Sleep now! Stay here and don’t go out till evening. There was a giant on the esplanade, a policeman, a giant, when I went out. Giants to frighten people! I’ll say you’re ill, have a fever.’
The next day he was querulous and feverish. He said:
‘Don’t answer the doorbell. I have a terrible headache, I’m feverish. I’m worried. I can’t trust my business partner.’
After dark, he went out and returned with a valise. He brought it into the diningroom and opened it on the table. He said to Gilbert:
‘A friend of mine got a lot of shirts, very cheap, a bargain, from the warehouse, no middleman: do you want any? I can let you have them at $2.50, but it’s for a quick sale. Look at the material.’
Mrs Anderson laughed with pride and joy, drooped when Gilbert refused. She ran to show him a shirt, so well made, such a good design, modern. He had paid $5 for the last one and you could sift peas through it.
Gilbert calmly shut the valise, picked it up and put it into one of the large unused cupboards in the old kitchen.
She was shocked: ‘Such a shame not to help, and the boy shows enterprise; he is trying to get money to open a men’s store, all the latest for men, on Broadway.’
The young man went out on business very early the next day, and when he was gone Gilbert told her about the shirts:
‘They’re hot, Mamma!’
She believed him; she was terrified. But when Gilbert came back from work on Monday, in the afternoon, the two were in the kitchen, the gratified old aunt and the yarn-spinning youth, cutting into an iced cake with cherries on top, which he had provided.
Christina Stead (1902 – 1983) was an Australian novelist and short-story writer.
