Part 50 (1/2)
Purse frowned terribly. He was jealous of his wife.
”Here's your dinner,” said she, holding out a plate to me. ”Do you like to hear singing? Mr. Tilbeck has a charming repertory. He sings epigrams. He makes up the tunes.”
”He sings Robert Frost,” Throw said.
”Sing Robert Frost,” Mrs. Purse wheedled.
He sang: ”HOW are we to WRITE the Russian NOV-el in America a-a-a-as long as LIFE GOES on so UNterrib-LEE?”
”Oh, that's funny. That's really lovely and hilarious,” said Mrs. Purse.
”I would like-” he had a mouthful of wing-”to set Plato's Dialogues to music. It's one of my ambitions. Only-” here he swallowed-”it would make a very boring opera.”
”I don't see why.”
”Too much recitativo.”
”Sing Robert Frost again,” Harriet Beecher said.
”Harriet Beecher, don't you nag. You let Mr. Tilbeck eat his meal.”
”I don't see that life goes on so unterribly in America,” Purse demurred. ”The problem of social justice remains, in spite of supermarkets. No one can say it's altogether solved, even in America. Pockets of unemployment all over the country, to take only one aspect. Or take the situation of the migrant workers.”
”Ghastly situation,” said Mrs. Purse. ”Babies in the fields right alongside the pickers. They suckle them in the furrows. That is nothing like roast chicken in the open air.”
”Or take the moral situation.”
”Ghastly moral situation,” said Mrs. Purse, discharging a cuc.u.mber from a basket. ”Have one of these, Mr. Tilbeck-you already have our grat.i.tude. I hope it's not too soon to tell you what a lovely and hilarious week this has been.”
”The conventions are loosening. The seams of society are opening. G.o.d means very little to the young. We're breeding atheists. The idea of love has lost its sanct.i.ty.”
Mrs. Purse said coquettishly, ”My husband thinks you might be an atheist, Mr. Tilbeck.”
”If a lady can make a motor out of chaos, surely G.o.d could make the universe,” Tilbeck said, ”out of similar material.”
”There, you see? Of course you're not an atheist.”
”She got it to work,” Throw said, ”I told you she would.”
”The universe? I shouldn't wonder. Though I did notice the Milky Way out of kilter last night. A little oil maybe? Observe the twilight, Mrs. Purse. A shade too dark for this hour. I hope you'll do something about it.”
”End of summer,” Mrs. Purse murmured. ”Charming. We'll miss your teasing, Mr. T.”
”More and more,” said Purse, gnawing at the k.n.o.b at the end of his joint, ”the old values fall. Honor becomes the appearance of honor. Authority becomes the appearance of authority.”
”For one thing,” Mrs. Purse said, ”your shear-pin was broken off clean. The universe is more reliable than that.”
”Reliability becomes the appearance of reliability.”
”Ghastly,” Mrs. Purse said. ”Rinse your chin, Walt Whitman. Who wants more?”
The second bird was brought to the table. They all wanted more. Further disputation over distribution of two drumsticks. Mohandas K. Gandhi got one. Purse-reserving decision in an access of fairness-got the other.
It was nearly night.
Mrs. Purse addressed me: ”Your father is a charming companion. Delightful.”
Purse said, ”Generous. Very generous.”
Mrs. Purse said, ”I look forward to a charming correspondence.”
Tilbeck said, ”There I'll fail you. I don't write much. As a rule.”
Moths were solemnly revolving.
”Here,” Mrs. Purse explained, ”we follow the universe slavishly. We go to bed with the stars.”
”There's nothing else to do,” Tilbeck said.
”The habit of electric light makes one forget the ordinances of the Lord,” Purse said. ”It's very black without a moon.”
”Fine moon tonight,” Tilbeck said, watching the children ' dance under it.
”The moon makes them go wild. They look so primitive.”
”It's only Dodge Ball.”
”But they use a stone. Poor Dee. He always gets trampled.”
”I should like to've known you in the Stone Age, Mrs. Purse. You would have advanced us to Iron in a month.”
”Charming. What a pity you don't correspond. My husband writes voluminously.”
Purse dug. Then he put down his spade and began fo bury the debris of dinner. Into the hole went the bones of two chickens.
”A paleontologist like yourself might dig all that up in the Fourth s.p.a.ce Age,” Tilbeck said, ”and then what?”
”Maybe by then this island will have disappeared,” Mrs. Purse reflected.
”Where could it go?”
”Oh, Mr. T., don't throw your bottle in.”
”Empty-”
”Yes, but the children would so like to put a note in it. And give it to the tide. Harriet Beecher asked me specially to ask you.”