The Early Stories of Truman Capote by Truman Capote
The covers on a huge, medieval bed stirred and a sleepy head turned on the pillow as a knock sounded on the door.
Two freshly shaven, trim young men filed into the room.
“Good morning, Uncle. Your orange juice,” greeted one as his brother stepped to the windows and raised the blinds. The eager sun thus welcomed streamed into the room.
“You’re late, Gregory,” growled the man in bed. He sipped his juice, then raised himself. “And damn it! If Minnie leaves seeds in this drink once more, I’ll get rid of her.” He spat the seed on the rug.
“Pick it up, Henry, and throw it in the wastebasket,” he commanded.
“Uncle,” grinned Gregory as he returned from the receptacle. “How’s your leg? We’ve good news—”
“Shut up,” the older man rasped. “When I tell Henry to do something, I want Henry to do it. You may be twins but I can tell you apart. So, Gregory, pick that seed out of the wastebasket and let Henry do as I said.
“All my life I’ve seen to it that things were just so. I’ve kept my library exactly the same way. I’ve kept my room exactly the same way. I’ve kept the house the same way. I’ve gone to town and worked. I’ve gone to church and prayed—exactly the same way. I’ve thought and acted as I should have. My great strength as mayor has not been in myself but in my sound habits—”
“Oh, you’ll be elected again, Uncle,” cheered one. “But right now, we’ve good news for you—”
“Hell, boy, of course I’ll be elected!” interrupted the invalid. “I’m not talking about that. He signaled impatiently for an extra pillow. “My greatest worry is you two. Your dead father wanted me to take care of you. But God, what can I do? I break my leg—it’ll have to come off, you know. I send for you two to be in my office until I recover. Hell! It’s one thing to lose a leg, but it’s too much to lose an election because of someone else’s stupidity. And, say, did you touch that cross word puzzle on the floor?…Good, I’ve got to have some relaxation.”
“We’ve good, news, Uncle—”
But he had sunk back in his covers. His rage was abating. He noticed sunshine playing on the top of his bed. “Listen to me first.” His voice was sad.
“I’ve lived a good life.” He turned to them. “But I’ve never had any fun. Not a bit. Being too busy to marry. I’ve left women quite alone. I didn’t smoke, or drink, or sw— Hell. I could swear, but it’s no fun. And I never enjoyed golf, couldn’t break ninety. Never liked music, either—or poetry, or—” He thought of his cross word puzzle. He became silent, remained silent….His mind followed a strange course, one it had never taken before.
The sun was saying “hello” to his face now.
“By Jove, boys!” he cried, “I’ve never looked at it that way! Politics is one big cross word puzzle—delightful. And”—he sat bolt upright—“so is life! Aaaaaaa!” He had never smiled like this. “Last night, Henry, I thought I might make something of myself, if I only had two legs. But now, lame or not, I see I can be just like—just like”—he glanced around the room—“Yes! just like the sun!”
He pointed a trembling, happy finger at the ball of fire.
“Our uncle!” laughed the twins, and Henry said, “Your legs are your own. That is the good news! The doctor has declared the amputation unnecessary. You should begin walking as soon as possible. Tomorrow afternoon the three of us will take the bus to town!”
II
A ten-inch record whirled on the turntable. From a small speaker issued a beautiful, stirring trumpet solo. The girl rose from the bench on which she had been seated. She reached for the switch and the high trumpet tones died away in a gurgling gasp.
The music had disturbed her; she was dreaming of her childhood.
Outside the little try-out room, row upon row of record albums hemmed in two men. One pulled out a Beethoven quartet and handed it to the other.
“You can try this out, sir, as soon as the young woman is through with the machine.”
“No need,” laughed the other. “I think I can trust the Budapest String Quartet without hearing them.” The girl appeared from the booth and laid fifty-five cents on the counter.
“I’ll take it,” she said, holding up the disc. And so, man and girl left the Music Shop, records under their arms.
“It’s a warm day,” she began.
“Oh,” he replied, “the day holds nothing for me. Nor does the night anymore.”
“Do you feel that way, too?” she returned quickly. “Do you feel that—that you’re like an engine on a track—just going you don’t know where?” She turned red—he was a stranger after all. “But I’m serious, do you see any point in living?”
“I have no night; I have no day,” he replied sincerely. “I really have only one thing.” He held up his album. “My very life hangs on music.” He turned to the girl. He saw that she was pretty, but it was more her charm than her face. With a friendly motion, he put his hand in hers. “Are you going through the park?”
“I can,” she replied, and they stepped along the pathway. A minute later they came upon a wooden bench between two trees.
“I always stop here for a spell,” he said, loosening her hand. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”
The color mounted on her cheeks. She trembled slightly and, touching his coat with one hand, whispered. “Do you mind if I sit with you? Oh please! I must!” She stood silent.
He bit his lips, gently took her record, and, placing it on the bench with his album, pulled her down beside him. A moment later he drew her closer, then, slowly, placed one arm behind her.
“I was afraid to hope it,” he murmured, “for from the moment I first saw you, I knew why music meant so much to me. It was sort of a substitute—a glorious substitute, for something finer—for something—something”—he looked at her—“like you.”
They sat there, each thrilled by the other.
“The earth spins round us now like one huge record,” he went on. “This record plays—hear, listen, see—it is the song of life!
“Now, music is everywhere. These trees, this grass, this sky, swing to our rhythm.” He stretched out one arm. “Oh love!” He bent down and kissed her.
“Tomorrow afternoon we’ll take the bus, and go to town for a license, and the rest.”
“Yes,” she sang, fixing his collar.
I
Dear Mother,
I write this note, dear Mother, with truly humbled pen. I see beyond my weaknesses and those of fellow men. Yet only as the sun rose up this morning.
My first ten years of life I filled with self, self, self, and self alone. Only cared I for the things you gave me. I wanted food, sleep, and pleasure. I was as a monkey self-intent. I cared not who was near me nor cared why.
And then, the next few years instilled in me a growing sense of “presence.” Presence of what cared I not, but only knew that if I did a right, this “presence” smiled. But when on self I thought—and, so thinking, wronged another—this “presence” scowled.
At length I grew to love this “presence” and to call it God. It helped me see it was the truth of life. I saw it should be followed and I tried to draw it near. But it said, “You are not ready,” and hovered near.
I was discouraged when I found I had it not. I flatly told it off, returned—almost to the first stage of my life. I took up smoking, swore, had a good time—thought I didn’t care.
But then this “presence” whispered encouragements to me. I listened. It held before me such a light, I couldn’t help but try. I only feared this light I might not reach before I die.
In struggling, I found my frailty. And God, in whisperings, showed me, too, my strengths. And so I did discover another method: failing that, a personal creed to cover both talents and setbacks was necessary.
Indeed, it did great wonders, for the difficulty of fulfillment gave me a chance to know and try my strength.
Yet found I that this creed could not be filled, and so I added to it “Presence of God,” which
Even with this addition, would the light not come. I now was struggling only for HIS PRESENCE within me; yet, I had it not. I let Him talk to me; I begged Him to. I followed what He would: His will, I tried to do.
And so, the sun bore a gift for me today. Dear Mother, “it” has come to me—and on the perfect day. The perfect day, because in my hand I hold acceptance to the Armed Forces of the United States of America. I’ll take the bus tomorrow.
Your loving son _____________
0
Associated Press—“Ten people were killed tonight in the worst traffic disaster of the season. A late afternoon bus collided with an oncoming truck and overturned. The dead included four business executives, the mayor of a small town, and a young woman. For a complete list of the deceased, turn to page thirty-two.”
—
“For every man must get to heaven his own way.”
Kindred Spirits
“Of course, it did give me rather a turn; he fell an enormous distance from over the bridge railing to the river: made scarcely a splash. And there was absolutely no one in sight.” Mrs. Martin Rittenhouse paused to sigh and stir her tea. “I was wearing a blue dress when it happened. Such a lovely dress—matched my eyes. Poor Martin was very fond of it.”
“But I understand drowning is pleasant,” said Mrs. Green.
“Oh, yes indeed: an extremely pleasant method of—of departure. Yes, I think if the poor man could have chosen his own way out, I’m certain he would have preferred—water. But, harsh as it may sound, I can’t pretend I wasn’t considerably cheered to be rid of him.”
“So?”
“Drank, among other things,” confided Mrs. Rittenhouse grimly. “He was also somewhat over-affectionate, inclined to—dally. And prevaricate.”
“Lie, you mean?”
“Among other things.”
It was a narrow, high-ceilinged room in which the two ladies talked: a comfortable setting, but without any special distinction. Faded green draperies were drawn against a winter afternoon; a fire, purring drowsily in a stone fireplace, reflected yellow pools in the eyes of a cat, limply curled beside the hearth; a cluster of bells, wound round the throat of the cat, pealed icily whenever he stirred.
“I’ve never liked men named Martin,” said Mrs. Green.
Mrs. Rittenhouse, the visitor, nodded. She was perched stiffly in a fragile-looking chair, persistently churning her tea with a lemon slice. She wore a deep purple dress, and a black, shovel-shaped hat over curly, wig-like grey hair. Her face was thin, but constructed along stern lines, as though modeled by rigorous discipline: a face which seemed content with a single, stricken expression.
“Nor men named Harry,” added Mrs. Green, whose husband’s name was precisely that. Mrs. Green and her two hundred odd pounds (concealed in a flesh-colored negligee) luxuriously consumed the major portion of a three-seat couch. Her face was huge and hearty, and her eyebrows, plucked nearly naked, were penciled in such an absurd manner that she looked as if someone had startled her in the midst of a shamefully private act. She was filing her nails.
Now between these two women was a connection difficult to define: not friendship, but something more. Perhaps Mrs. Rittenhouse came closest to putting a finger on it when once she said, “We are kindred spirits.”
“This all happened in Italy?”
“France,” corrected Mrs. Rittenhouse. “Marseille, to be exact. Marvelous city—subtle—all lights and shadows. While Martin fell, I could hear him screaming: quite sinister. Yes, Marseille was exciting. He couldn’t swim a stroke, poor man.”
Mrs. Green hid the fingernail file between the couch cushions. “Personally, I feel no pity,” she said. “Had it been I—well, he might have had a little help getting over that rail.”
“Really?” said Mrs. Rittenhouse, her expression brightening slightly.
“Of course. I’ve never liked the sound of him. Remember what you told me about the incident in Venice? Aside from that, he manufactured sausage or something, didn’t he?”
Mrs. Rittenhouse made a sour bud of her lips. “He was the sausage king. At least, that is what he always claimed. But I shouldn’t complain: the company sold for a fabulous sum, although it’s beyond me why anyone would want to eat a sausage.”
“And look at you!” trumpeted Mrs. Green, waving a well-nourished hand. “Look at you—a free woman. Free to buy and do whatever you please. While I—” she laced her fingers together and solemnly shook her head. “Another cup of tea?”
“Thank you. One lump, please.”
Sparks whirred as a log crumpled in the fire. An ormolu clock, set atop the mantel, tolled the time with musical shafts of sound that played on the quiet: five.
Presently, Mrs. Rittenhouse, in a voice sad with memory, said, “I gave the blue dress to a chambermaid at our hotel: there was a tear in the collar where he clutched at me before he fell. And then I went to Paris and lived in a beautiful apartment till Spring. It was a lovely Spring: the children in the park were so neat and quiet; I sat all day feeding crumbs to the pigeons. Parisians are neurotic.”
“Was the funeral expensive? Martin’s, I mean?”
Mrs. Rittenhouse chuckled gently and, leaning forward, whispered, “I had him cremated. Isn’t that priceless? Oh, yes—just wrapped the ashes in a shoebox and sent them to Egypt. Why there, I don’t know. Except that he loathed Egypt. I loved it, myself. Marvelous country, but he never wanted to go. That’s why it’s priceless. However, there is this one thing I find extremely reassuring: I wrote a return address on the package and it never came back. Somehow I feel he must have reached his proper resting place, after all.”
Mrs. Green slapped her thigh and bellowed, “The Sausage King among the Pharaohs!” And Mrs. Rittenhouse enjoyed the jest as much as her natural inscrutability would permit.
“But Egypt,” sighed Mrs. Green, brushing tears of laughter from her eyes. “I always say to myself—‘Hilda, you were intended for a life of travel—India, the Orient, Hawaii.’ That’s what I always say to myself.” And then, with some disgust, she added, “But you’ve never met Harry, have you? Oh, my God! Hopelessly dull. Hopelessly bourgeois. Hopelessly!”
“I know the breed,” said Mrs. Rittenhouse acidly. “Call themselves the backbone of the nation. Ha, not even nuisance value. My dear, it comes down to this: If they haven’t money—get rid of them. If they have—who could make better use of it than oneself?”
“How right you are!”
“Well, it’s pathetic and useless to waste yourself on that sort of man. Or any man.”
“Precisely,” was Mrs. Green’s comment. She shifted position, her huge body quivering under the negligee, and dimpled her beefy cheek with a thoughtful finger. “I’ve often considered divorcing Harry,” she said. “But that’s very, very expensive. Then, too, we’ve been married nineteen years (and engaged five before that) and if I were to even suggest such a thing, I’m positive the shock would just about—”
“Kill him,” ended Mrs. Rittenhouse, quickly lowering her eyes to the tea-cup. A flush of color kindled her cheeks and her lips pursed and unpursed with alarming rapidity. After a little, she said, “I’ve been thinking of a trip to Mexico. There’s a charming place on the coast called Acapulco. A great many artists live there: they paint the sea by moonlight—”
“Mexico. Me-hi-co,” said Mrs. Green. “The name sings. Ac-a-pul-co, Me-hi-co.” She slammed her palm on the couch’s arm. “God, what I wouldn’t give to go with you.”
“Why not?”
“Why not! Oh, I can just hear Harry saying, ‘Sure, how much will you need?’ Oh, I can just hear it!” She pounded the couch-arm again. “Naturally, if I had money of my own—well, I haven’t, so that’s that.”
Mrs. Rittenhouse turned a speculative eye towards the ceiling; when she spoke her lips barely moved. “But Henry does, doesn’t he?”
“A little—his insurance—eight thousand or s
“It would be ideal,” said Mrs. Rittenhouse, pressing a thin, crepey hand on the other woman’s knee. “Ideal. Just us two. We will rent a little stone house in the mountains overlooking the sea. And in the patio (for we shall have a patio) there will be fruit trees and jasmine, and on certain evenings we shall string Japanese lanterns and have parties for all the artists—”
“Lovely!”
“—and employ a guitarist to serenade. It shall all be one splendid succession of sunsets and starlight and enchanting walks by the sea.”
For a long time their eyes exchanged a curious, searching gaze; and the mysterious understanding between them flowered into a mutual smile, which, in Mrs. Green’s case, developed to a giggle. “That’s silly,” she said. “I could never do a thing like that. I would be afraid of getting caught.”
“From Paris I went to London,” said Mrs. Rittenhouse, withdrawing her hand and tilting her head at a severe angle; yet her disappointment could not be disguised. “A depressing place: dreadfully hot in the summer. A friend of mine introduced me to the Prime Minister. He was—”
“Poison?”
“—a charming person.”
The bells tinkled as the cat stretched and bathed his paws. Shadow-like, he paraded across the room, his tail arched in the air like a feathered wand; to and fro he stroked his sides against his mistress’s stupendous leg. She lifted him, held him to her bosom, and planted a noisy kiss on his nose; “Mummy’s angel.”
“Germs,” declared Mrs. Rittenhouse.
The cat arranged himself languidly and fixed an impertinent stare upon Mrs. Rittenhouse. “I’ve heard of untraceable poisons, but it’s all vague and story-bookish,” said Mrs. Green.
“Never poison. Too dangerous, too easily detected.”
“But let us suppose that we were going to—to rid ourselves of someone. How would you begin?”