Spider Boy/Chapter 5
Ambrose, awakened early by floods of California sunshine which invaded his room, rang the bell for his plum-coloured valet who prepared his bath and brought his breakfast. After he had dressed, feeling more light-hearted in spite of himself, he descended the grand staircase and strolled out into the deserted garden. It was very still save for the twittering of birds and the occasional distant moan of an automobile siren. The air was lighter than he had expected to find it in this semi-tropical climate.
Walking beyond the tubs of cacti and the palms, around a group of shrubbery, Ambrose was astonished to come upon an old-fashioned garden in which azure pyramids of larkspur kept company with balsam and geraniums. If, he thought wistfully, I could only remain alone here in this garden I would be happy and I could write again. Stories of my boyhood would recur to me. I should be able to work.
Almost immediately, indeed, such a story did arise in his mind: the story of Emma Flummerfelt and her dahlias. Emma Flummerfelt had been a familiar figure in his home village and he wondered why it had never occurred to him to put her story on paper. Her father had been a baker, successful enough to buy a small house on several acres of farming land. Emma, when it became certain that she was not likely to marry, began to raise dahlias on a part of this land. He could see her now, her low bosom deflected over her corset, as she worked in a brown Mother Hubbard in her garden, a sunbonnet protecting her head.
Emma Flummerfelt began to experiment with dahlias when she was thirty. At the age of thirty-five she had become an ardent collector of these bulbs and an expert at their culture. She corresponded with all the known dahlia fanciers of America and England and exchanged varieties with them. By the time she was forty her garden during the blossoming season was one of the show places of the town and, through her assiduity in exchange and purchase, it had achieved an almost international reputation.
When she was forty-three a strange incident occurred. She was visited by a Colonel Redwood of Sussex, retired, late of some Anglo-Indian regiment. Colonel Redwood looked past the fat, middle-aged little woman in her sunbonnet to the glory of the garden and without hesitation made her a proposal of marriage. Emma Flummerfelt may have been stirred by this belated attention, unique moreover in her experience, but she rejected the offer with dignity. As the story was told and retold afterwards at the grocery store, Ambrose gathered that the dahlias had been responsible both for the proposal and for its rejection. Colonel Redwood burned to own this splendid garden and Emma Flummerfelt could not entertain the idea of sharing this honour. Colonel Redwood had retired in some confusion, but as he walked to the station down the dusty, unpaved road, he had been observed to glance back longingly at Emma Flummerfelt's dahlias. It was not known that he had ever looked at Emma Flummerfelt at all.
When Emma Flummerfelt arrived at the age of forty-five, she possessed, or believed that she possessed, all the known varieties of this cultivated Mexican flower. Single dahlias flourished in great profusion, the small pompons in reds and yellows and magenta had a plot to themselves, while the great double blooms, striated and self-colour, many of them as huge as small cabbages, tossed their heads high in the air. Emma Flummerfelt had devoted herself so completely to her hobby for twenty-five years that she lived and breathed only for her blossoms and bulbs. Their care required her complete attention. They represented to her her only excuse for existence. The neighbours, indeed, began to note a curious phenomenon: Emma Flummerfelt held conversation with her dahlias! She could be heard now whispering to them, now chiding them, now discussing local gossip with them in an audible tone. With infinite patience and no little success she began to experiment with the creation of new varieties. It was at this period that she produced the dahlia which has since become popular and staple: the Emma Flummerfelt, a variety which soon became her favourite. She showered words of love on its blossoms and was even seen to kiss them. Blue ribbons fluttered in from various shows, ribbons won by this hardy newcomer. Emma Flummerfelt pinned the ribbons on her Mother Hubbard and returned to her garden.
When she was forty-seven she begot a new ambition. She determined to accomplish that which no dahlia culturist had yet succeeded in accomplishing: she determined to create a blue dahlia, not a purple blue or a magenta blue, but a blue of the gentian or the larkspur. For several years Emma Flummerfelt worked to solve this problem, selecting freak flowers which contained a semblance of the sought-for colour and treating their bulbs with especial tender ness. After many discouragements she assured herself that she had at last been successful. She believed that when the buds of a certain plant opened they would prove to be tinged with sapphire. She attended this specimen with the greatest care, spraying it to dishearten vermin, watering it, fertilizing its roots, and searching the ground about the bulb for noxious grubs. On the morning on which she expected the buds to burst open, arising at five o'clock, she repaired to her garden to personally observe the thrilling spectacle. Towards seven, when the sun was high enough so that one might feel its warmth, her old father, now eighty-seven, heard her call not once, but again and again. As he drew on his clothes with some effort, her joyful voice came from the garden crying, Pa! Pa! At last he was ready to join her. Grasping his cane he limped with difficulty down the stairs and out to the garden. Twenty yards away Emma Flummerfelt waved her arms triumphantly while she shouted, Pa, I've got it! I've got the blue dahlia! She seemed beside herself with happiness. He hobbled on down the path to her side. Near-sighted as he was, he was not colour-blind and he had no trouble in discerning that the flower in question was a violent brick-red. Emma Flummerfelt was quite mad.
Ambrose mopped his brow with his handkerchief and sighed.
I do not think, he assured himself, that the story of Emma Flummerfelt would make a suitable scenario for a moving picture.
At this moment he became aware that he was no longer alone. A ponderous figure in white was careening towards him down the flagged walk.
Good morning, she called out as she approached.
Good morning, Mrs. Starling, he responded, thinking at the same time how much this ridiculous woman in her white dress resembled Emma Flummerfelt in her Mother Hubbard. At any rate he felt at home with her. She was his kind.
You're up early, she panted, fatigued by even this minimum of exertion.
I was admiring the flowers, he said.
Mrs. Starling sank to an adjacent bench and beckoned him to join her. I ain't so spry as I used to be, she confessed. I reckon it's my heart and all. 'Tain't so good any more. This is my garden. Imperia can't abide it. She likes orchids and suchlike posies. The palms seem to belong more to her. Why, sometimes on the train runnin' through the desert she goes wild over the tumbleweed and organ cactus, but she don't care for pretty flowers like pansies and phlox and petunias. That's the kind I like best.
I do too, Ambrose agreed, feeling comfortable for the first time since he had left New York.
When I come out here I says I was going to have some plants like the kind I—we had at home. Imperia says go ahead, tell the gardener what you want and all and he'll fix it for you. So I did, and he did. We sent for seeds and cuttings and it began to grow like this. It ain't so much trouble as the orchids—I guess you ain't seen the hothouse yet—but it's prettier. Anyway I think so.
Where do you come from, Mrs. Starling? Ambrose queried, his heart warming towards this homely creature, lost, like himself, in this exotic locality.
I—we come from Ohio, Chillicothe, Ohio. It's more homelike there, don't you think?
I certainly do.
The sun don't shine so much, of course, and it gets cold in the winter, but sometimes I think I'll die if this sun don't stop shinin'. I wake up some mornings and I pull down all the shades and turn on the electric lights to pretend it's rainin' outside. Sometimes it does rain, but not often. Some days I get just crazy to see a snowdrift and feel a chill. Then Imperia sends me up in the mountains in one of her cars. She gets back East two or three times a year to make personal appearances, but she don't take me very often.
The old woman sighed and then jumped.
What was that? she cried. I thought I felt a shock.
Shock? Ambrose repeated in alarm.
Yes, an earthquake. I guess not. It seems all right now.
Do you have earthquakes here?
Mercy, yes. Sometimes a couple in one day. They usually last about three minutes and I feel sick I can tell you. Sometimes the birds in the cages get knocked off their perch. . . . She sighed again. . . . Mr. Deacon, I can tell you that ain't the only kind of quakes we have, nor the worst. . . . She turned to him and spoke in a heavy, portentous tone. . . . Mr. Deacon, I'm glad you've come.
Ambrose felt his composure oozing away, but he replied with a kind of hollow heartiness, I'm glad too this morning.
You don't know, she went on, now in a mysterious whisper, what this house is like!
His composure was gone for the day.
She shook a pudgy finger at him as she continued, Things are going on here, such things! It's nerve-racking, that's what it is, nerve-racking.
Still no word from the thoroughly alarmed Ambrose.
She ain't to blame. Imperia's a good girl, spoiled, but at heart a good girl. She's put upon too easily, that's all. They uses her.
This ambiguous they!
Some days I don't think I can stand it any more, and I plan to go back to Ohio. It's only that my little girl needs me that keeps me here.
Mrs. Starling was so overcome by her honest emotion that her voice had developed a tremolo and she remained silent for so long a time after this outburst that Ambrose felt constrained to find courage to ask feebly, Wha—at's the matter?
Mrs. Starling peered behind her apprehensively to make certain that no eavesdropper was in sight. Placing one chubby finger to her lips she whispered, Sh! Then bending towards Ambrose, she cupped his ear with her palm to ejaculate in a really tremendous crescendo, Matter enough! It's that Count!
Recalling the scene he had witnessed the day before, Ambrose recoiled.
I couldn't talk to anybody before you came. There wasn't nobody to talk to. . . . You see my grandfather was an F.F.V., one of the best Virginia families. I ain't used to things like this. Imperia now . . . well, I didn't bring her up like this. . . . After all, she's the best-natured girl in the world and it does give you independence to star in the movies and make so much money and all. . . . This Count . . .
The effect on Ambrose of Mrs. Starling's incoherence was appalling.
This Count is in it for what he can get out of it, she continued tragically, once again peering about nervously, still apparently suspicious that she might be overheard. He's no more'n love with her than President Coolidge. Not half so much, I dare say, because Coolidge always goes to see her pictures and you can't see Imperia's pictures without loving her. Well, this Count eats his five or six meals a day and drives round in her cars. He treats her like . . . she hesitated while she searched for a competent simile but finally contented herself by adding weakly, mud. He's ruining her health and disposition. He's a lemon, a pill, a false alarm. . . . She paused to muster up a stronger epithet and then surprisingly burst out with it: a dirty bastard!
That's not the worst, she went on heatedly, by no means the worst! Again she leaned towards Ambrose to confide effusively, He's no more Count than you are!
It cannot be said that Ambrose received this announcement with astonishment. He hardly listened to it, in fact, so bent was he on getting away.
No present opportunity was offered him to effect his escape as Mrs. Starling now firmly seized his right arm as she asserted, Here is where you come in!
I come in! Disengaging his captured arm, Ambrose sprang to his feet.
You come in, she repeated firmly. Sit down, please. I'm only beginning.
He obeyed her. What else, he demanded of himself, could he conceivably do?
Imperia likes you. She more than likes you. . . . Her emphasis reminded Ambrose unpleasantly of Wilhelmina Ford's remarks on this subject. . . . I know her. She'd never bring you here unless she had her eye on you.
She said . . .
I know what she said. She told you she wanted you to write a film for her. She does, too. That's her business, and if she had her way every writer in the world'd be busy writin' stories for her to pick an' choose from and all, but don't you think for one minute she'd ask you up here to the bungalow if she didn't have something else in the back of her mind.
I'm sure . . .
So am I. Absolutely. Now here's what I want you to do: encourage her. Make love to her. Get her for yourself. Drive this cheap titled piece of cheese out of here!
Why, I don't . . . I can't . . . Ambrose rose once more to wildly cry out his protests.
You can. You gotta. It's only a question of time before she'll get you anyway, but let's hurry it up. Let's get rid of this lounge lizard right away. Yesterday was too much. Here she's scarcely come home when he asks her for a Rolls-Royce. His middle name is Gimme. The man has no feeling, no romance in his soul. He's just playin' her for a sucker, that's all.
Ambrose thought rapidly. I must go away from here at once, he announced.
You . . .
Ah, there you are!
The bright figure of Imperia in stiff pale-green organdie made an abrupt appearance. Ambrose perceived at once that she was frowning.
Mama, the telephone's ringing every instant and you know Manuel never gets messages right, isn't it? Do take the job off his hands for a while.
Mrs. Starling, obviously extremely ill at ease, approached the star and embraced her. Then she walked unsteadily away. Her age or some infirmity condemned her legs always to behave as though she were intoxicated.
How did you sleep? Imperia inquired of Ambrose in her gentlest tone.
Not very well. I think . . .
It's the climate. It does that at first to every one. After a week or so you'll sleep like a baby.
I think I'd better go, Ambrose announced.
Go! Why, you've only just come!
Yes, I know, but I think I'd better go.
Before you write me a story! I won't hear of it!
I think I'd better go down to the Ambassador, he urged breathlessly. I'll see what I can do there. I feel I'm imposing on you here.
Imposing on me! Imperia laughed. Nothing imposes on me. If you weren't here the servants would have nothing whatever to do, isn't it? I won't hear of your leaving. Besides you could never work at the Ambassador. It's full of people that would disturb you . . . Auburn Six, for instance . . . Imperia glowered as she mentioned this celebrated name. . . . She'd flatter you and persuade you to write a story for her. I'm not going to let you fall for that blondined fade-out. The exhibitors are tired of her. She's getting less money than she got last year.
I never heard of Auburn Six. I . . . .
You'll stay here, I tell you. . . . Now a note of petulant command was noticeable in the actress's voice. . . . In a week or so I'll take you up to talk to Lee Schwarzstein: he's the general manager of Invincible, you know.
A week or so!
At least. I'm sorry, but he's the busiest man in Culver City. We can't make an appointment before then.
But I've got to go to New Mexico. If dismay were written across Ambrose's face, he also knew that this would be his last weak protest, that he was incapable of making any move in defiance of the wishes of the domineering personality who stood beside him.
I thought we'd been all over that. . . . Imperia was becoming impatient. She brightened, however, as she rapidly went on: Now I just can't bother with you today. I'm much too busy. I have an appointment with Schwarzstein at twelve. That'll keep me an hour. I must have tests made. I have rendezvous with the photographer and the dressmaker. A man from Photoplay is coming to interview me cooking in the kitchen. Tonight there's a preview. . . . Well, you can see I'm busy. Tomorrow I'll try to get together a dinner party for you. Today, work on my story if you feel like it. Schwarzstein's sure to buy anything you write. Or take out one of the cars. I have twelve: Pierce-Arrow, Marmon, Chrysler 80, Packard, Lincoln . . . whichever you prefer. I use the Hispano. Can you drive?
No.
It doesn't matter. There are two chauffeurs. If you do go out, remember that our climate is treacherous. Always carry an overcoat to wear in the shade or you'll catch cold. Why don't you drive down to the Casa del Mar at the beach? Or stay at home and read or sleep or stroll around in the garden. Whatever you like, but . . . her brow darkened again . . . don't talk too much to Mama. Mama means well, but she's a fool.
A new presence made itself felt in the garden, a presence which caused a complete alteration in Imperia's manner.
Jaime! Yes, I'll come with you at once.
She playfully reached for the Count's arm and the two disappeared behind the shrubbery.
Ambrose mopped his brow.