The Scarlet Letters by Louis Auchincloss Page B
Authors: Louis Auchincloss
Tags: General Fiction
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to see his friend rising to the top of a department that was a satisfactorily contributing part of the firm but not one that would ever be able to dominate management. For Rod still maintained secret doubts about Harry's innate sense of right and wrong and would not have cared to see him in a position where he could in any way alter the sacred tenets that maintained the firm's esprit de corps, tenets which, of course, had been laid down by Ambrose Vollard. But with his widows and young heirs and trusts Harry helped to run a lively department and kept the partners highly amused at the firm lunches with his merry tales of family frictions and extravagances. Oh yes, Vollard Kaye would always have a place for Harry.
And he amused Vinnie. That, alas, was becoming an important thing. Rod had been troubled that she did not seem to gain happiness with the years. She never complained, and always insisted impatiently that she was just fine, and for him not to be such a worrywart about her, but there it was: things were not as they should be for a woman of her looks and charm and general capability. And if Harry could take time off from his own busy social schedule to escort her to an occasional play or concert or opera, well, that was just fine, wasn't it?
7
O NE MORNING WHEN ROD had an uptown appointment, he decided after lunch not to go back to his office, but to spend the afternoon working in his apartment. The girls would be at school until five, and Vinnie had gone to Glenville for the day, so it would be quiet. He kept certain of his files in a closet that was also used as a liquor cabinet, and it was usually kept locked, as their cleaning woman was not above the temptation of an occasional nip. He had different hiding places for the key, and he now remembered that he had slipped it into one of the drawers of his wife's dressing table under a pile of her underwear. Reaching for it, his hands struck a notebook. Flipping its pages in surprise, he saw it was full of Vinnie's handwriting, and after he had made out one sentence, he sat heavily down, ice sliding over his heart like a rapid glacier, and read the journal through.
Vinnie had faithfully recorded what she and Harry had done. The journal was an inventory of their acts. What had induced her to record the shameful list? Some remnant of conscience, some throwback to her mother's puritan ancestry? For a wild moment he thought it might be fiction. But it was too graphic. For another his astonishment was so great that he could almost set aside the scarlet fact that his world was now in tiny pieces, scattered all over the room. When he rose at last to his feet, he tottered and almost fell. Then he returned the journal to its place and closed the drawer. He left the apartment and walked over to Central Park where he sat for an hour on a bench.
What he began to realize, slowly but with a creeping ineluctability, was that this experience, which was like nothing that had ever happened to him before, seemed to be occurring to a person other than himself, perhaps even an opposite. For what sort of man would have married a woman capable of doing what Vinnie had described on the last page of her abominably honest journal? Or did all women do it, or want to do it, and had he been living in a paradise of idiotic fools? Was it even conceivable that he would want a woman to do it to
him
? Was
that
why the horrid journal had an eerie fascination for him, over and above the wrath and indignation it inspired? How could he know what might or might not arouse the lust of the new man that Rod Jessup had become in a single morning?
He then walked rapidly around the reservoir, only to find that his head was aching, and there was a queer buzzing in his ears. He returned to his bench and sat there until this stopped. He then proceeded to face his problem with all the clarity his legal training had given him. Was there anything left of his life, and if so, what? There were his daughters, of course,
And he amused Vinnie. That, alas, was becoming an important thing. Rod had been troubled that she did not seem to gain happiness with the years. She never complained, and always insisted impatiently that she was just fine, and for him not to be such a worrywart about her, but there it was: things were not as they should be for a woman of her looks and charm and general capability. And if Harry could take time off from his own busy social schedule to escort her to an occasional play or concert or opera, well, that was just fine, wasn't it?
7
O NE MORNING WHEN ROD had an uptown appointment, he decided after lunch not to go back to his office, but to spend the afternoon working in his apartment. The girls would be at school until five, and Vinnie had gone to Glenville for the day, so it would be quiet. He kept certain of his files in a closet that was also used as a liquor cabinet, and it was usually kept locked, as their cleaning woman was not above the temptation of an occasional nip. He had different hiding places for the key, and he now remembered that he had slipped it into one of the drawers of his wife's dressing table under a pile of her underwear. Reaching for it, his hands struck a notebook. Flipping its pages in surprise, he saw it was full of Vinnie's handwriting, and after he had made out one sentence, he sat heavily down, ice sliding over his heart like a rapid glacier, and read the journal through.
Vinnie had faithfully recorded what she and Harry had done. The journal was an inventory of their acts. What had induced her to record the shameful list? Some remnant of conscience, some throwback to her mother's puritan ancestry? For a wild moment he thought it might be fiction. But it was too graphic. For another his astonishment was so great that he could almost set aside the scarlet fact that his world was now in tiny pieces, scattered all over the room. When he rose at last to his feet, he tottered and almost fell. Then he returned the journal to its place and closed the drawer. He left the apartment and walked over to Central Park where he sat for an hour on a bench.
What he began to realize, slowly but with a creeping ineluctability, was that this experience, which was like nothing that had ever happened to him before, seemed to be occurring to a person other than himself, perhaps even an opposite. For what sort of man would have married a woman capable of doing what Vinnie had described on the last page of her abominably honest journal? Or did all women do it, or want to do it, and had he been living in a paradise of idiotic fools? Was it even conceivable that he would want a woman to do it to
him
? Was
that
why the horrid journal had an eerie fascination for him, over and above the wrath and indignation it inspired? How could he know what might or might not arouse the lust of the new man that Rod Jessup had become in a single morning?
He then walked rapidly around the reservoir, only to find that his head was aching, and there was a queer buzzing in his ears. He returned to his bench and sat there until this stopped. He then proceeded to face his problem with all the clarity his legal training had given him. Was there anything left of his life, and if so, what? There were his daughters, of course,