upon me to earn my living, to put all her ideals into daily practiceâshe was still as necessary to me as the shining, glorious sun is to the weeds that push sturdily up from the soil below. Robert Browning, inspired by Plato, spoke of the broken arcs on earth, the perfect round in heaven. The fact that my arcs were broken did not mean that I could not worship Alice's distant perfection.
And have I really lost all that? It seems so.
11
I HAD , of course, to adjust myself to my now confirmed loneliness. I should have to equip myself, not only with new friends, but with something of a new philosophy to guide me in the path into which I had been thrust. Like Marius of Pater's beautiful novel, in the golden Rome of the Antonines, I should have to keep sampling theories of life, with eyes wide open to find some pattern in seeming chaos. And I was also going to need a girl friend. Misery would not make me a monk.
For a considerable time now my evenings had been divided between work at the office and reading in my room at the Stafford. I had become so absorbed in the firm that I did not seem to need any interest other than my faithful classics and an occasional movie. But I came to realize that some kind of a social life was indispensable to the managing partner of a firm that was long on talent and short on personal connections, and of course there were the demands of sex. As I had always detested the idea of purchased love and thought it unwise to get involved with women in the office, whether lawyers or staff, it behooved me to look about.
Actually, it was through the office that I met Sylvia Sands, and through her that I reorganized both my social and sex lives. So you might say that I killed two birds with one stone. Not that Sylvia was a stoneâfar from it.
Al Cornelius, president of Atlantic Rylands, had taken a great liking to me and often wanted me with him, even on occasions where legal advice was not strictly necessary. He was a grim, silent, self-made man, astonishingly lean and youthful at fifty, with close-cropped thick gray hair, who was constantly analyzing people and their problems and coming up with terse, gruff, cynical and usually accurate appraisals. He had taken on the chairmanship of the board of the Colonial Museum, one of the cultural institutions enshrined behind white columns in the complex of buildings unhappily far north at 155 th Street on the Hudson. The job had challenged Al because it seemed so hopeless. The collection was priceless; the endowment tiny; the public absent. I met him there one afternoon in the board room to discuss a fund-raising program with a public relations expert. Two other trustees, members of the drive committee, were also present.
Mrs. Sands, the expert, was about my age, or even a touch older, a handsome blonde who spoke in a clear level tone with a very precise articulation.
"I suppose you're all aware that you're going to get most of your money from a few big donors in the early months of the campaign. Charity begins literally at home, and we'll start with the trustees. May I suggest an amount for you to pledge, Mr. Cornelius?"
"You may
suggest
anything you like, my dear lady."
"Could you see your way to pledging a hundred thousand dollars?"
"No way. I have too many commitments."
"I didn't say you had to pay it, of course. I said you should pledge it."
"Is that quite straight?"
"Perfectly straight. You pledge your 'best efforts' to raise it. That does not create a legal liability."
Cornelius turned to me. "Is that so, Bob?"
"Yes. That gives me no trouble, Al."
"But, Mrs. Sands," my client pursued, "mightn't people think I was legally committed?"
"Are we to be concerned about that?"
"Well, well. You
are
a cool customer."
"Put it this way, Mr. Cornelius. There are four members of your board who are too rich to be seen doing less than the chairman. They will give what he pledges. I have seen this happen again and again. A pledge from you will
And have I really lost all that? It seems so.
11
I HAD , of course, to adjust myself to my now confirmed loneliness. I should have to equip myself, not only with new friends, but with something of a new philosophy to guide me in the path into which I had been thrust. Like Marius of Pater's beautiful novel, in the golden Rome of the Antonines, I should have to keep sampling theories of life, with eyes wide open to find some pattern in seeming chaos. And I was also going to need a girl friend. Misery would not make me a monk.
For a considerable time now my evenings had been divided between work at the office and reading in my room at the Stafford. I had become so absorbed in the firm that I did not seem to need any interest other than my faithful classics and an occasional movie. But I came to realize that some kind of a social life was indispensable to the managing partner of a firm that was long on talent and short on personal connections, and of course there were the demands of sex. As I had always detested the idea of purchased love and thought it unwise to get involved with women in the office, whether lawyers or staff, it behooved me to look about.
Actually, it was through the office that I met Sylvia Sands, and through her that I reorganized both my social and sex lives. So you might say that I killed two birds with one stone. Not that Sylvia was a stoneâfar from it.
Al Cornelius, president of Atlantic Rylands, had taken a great liking to me and often wanted me with him, even on occasions where legal advice was not strictly necessary. He was a grim, silent, self-made man, astonishingly lean and youthful at fifty, with close-cropped thick gray hair, who was constantly analyzing people and their problems and coming up with terse, gruff, cynical and usually accurate appraisals. He had taken on the chairmanship of the board of the Colonial Museum, one of the cultural institutions enshrined behind white columns in the complex of buildings unhappily far north at 155 th Street on the Hudson. The job had challenged Al because it seemed so hopeless. The collection was priceless; the endowment tiny; the public absent. I met him there one afternoon in the board room to discuss a fund-raising program with a public relations expert. Two other trustees, members of the drive committee, were also present.
Mrs. Sands, the expert, was about my age, or even a touch older, a handsome blonde who spoke in a clear level tone with a very precise articulation.
"I suppose you're all aware that you're going to get most of your money from a few big donors in the early months of the campaign. Charity begins literally at home, and we'll start with the trustees. May I suggest an amount for you to pledge, Mr. Cornelius?"
"You may
suggest
anything you like, my dear lady."
"Could you see your way to pledging a hundred thousand dollars?"
"No way. I have too many commitments."
"I didn't say you had to pay it, of course. I said you should pledge it."
"Is that quite straight?"
"Perfectly straight. You pledge your 'best efforts' to raise it. That does not create a legal liability."
Cornelius turned to me. "Is that so, Bob?"
"Yes. That gives me no trouble, Al."
"But, Mrs. Sands," my client pursued, "mightn't people think I was legally committed?"
"Are we to be concerned about that?"
"Well, well. You
are
a cool customer."
"Put it this way, Mr. Cornelius. There are four members of your board who are too rich to be seen doing less than the chairman. They will give what he pledges. I have seen this happen again and again. A pledge from you will
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