Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII. Sunk deep in thought, Ambrose mounted the steps of his house. He felt there were ten thousand of them, and that it required a forty-horsepower effort to lift each foot. He wanted to break something, and what he wanted to break was the will of her whom he'd termed that red-headed hussy, for she had broken his heart. His golden deeds seemed to him the act of a quixotic fool,
and he wished he were out of the whole business, yet he knew no matter what price he had to pay, he was going to see it through. If you can't turn a dog or cat into the street that comes to you, how can you turn out a child, was what he asked himself. He had twice tried sending for the society to take trusting animals away, and found himself unable to let them go. There's nothing, he soliloquized, except a patrol wagon or an ambulance I could send for to take away Sonia.
Then when I saw them coming, I know how I'd feel. I know my weakness and limitations, and I'll abide by them even though they ruin my life. In this melancholy mood he entered his abode. Augusta, the colored maid, was sitting before the fire. Well, she inquired. For answer, Ambrose threw his hat across the room.
I guess Miss Camilla, she don't see her way clear to doing what you ask, do she? No, said Ambrose, she didn't. She says she won't marry me to be a mother to a full-grown child. The selfishness of the women of this generation is beyond belief. Now, Mr. Ambrose, you know as well as me, said Augusta,
that ain't no way to lure no young lady down to City Hall offering them the job to be mother to Sonia Mucha. Here it was that Sonia sat upright on the couch. Be a mother to me, she cried. Who's going to be a mother to me?
No one ain't going to be no mother to you, honey lamb, said Augusta. You ain't going to have no mother. I heard what Augusta said, she cried to the unfortunate Ambrose. You've been trying to get a woman to marry you to take care of me. Well, not exactly that, said Ambrose in a tone he tried to make soothing.
I've tried to get a young lady to do me the honor to take my hand. Oh, I thought better of you than that, cried Sonia. Marriage, it's a degrading institution, a horrible, limiting thing. Now don't you go get all wrought up, Augusta admonished. Her grandpa brought her up like that, not believing in marriage and all, Augusta explained.
Don't try to talk to me about marriage, said Sonia. Don't ever try to speak about it to me. I can't talk about horrid things like that. Look here, Sonia, said Ambrose. You can think what you like about marriage, and I can think what I like.
Oh, no, you won't. No, you won't. Marriage is the most degrading of all human institutions. Sonia, he said, do you believe in freedom? I do, and that's why I don't believe in marriage, she cried at him. Don't argue with her, said Augusta. Don't you know no better about women than to argue with them when they're all wrought up? Leave her lay. No, he can't leave me lay, said Sonia. Who will he marry, that red-headed girl? She's a grasshopper, a butterfly, a society
girl. See the moleskin coat she had on? Think of how many poor families that would keep alive. I won't, cried Ambrose. I won't think of coats and limousines in terms of poor families, and if you go on doing it, you'll make me a drunken wreck. I'm easily driven to drink, Sonia. I left my home because I was bored by the talk, and I can do it again. So easy you'd think it was my second nature. But here Sonia gave vent to an extraordinary fit of temper. It was to other
tempers that Ambrose had witnessed what one single spark might be to a pyrotechnic display. She cried out at social institutions and Camilla, mingling them all in her invective. Ambrose regarded her tranquilly. The more angry she became, the more desire he had to laugh. While his ears were appalled, there was something soothing to his heart in this unreserved rage. He had often felt like acting this way, but he never had.
He waited until it had run its course. Finally, she ceased. Are you through? Ambrose inquired. Yes, she said. She smiled at him, a funny and ingratiating smile.
Do you often do that? She shook her head and smiled again. Grandpa, she suggested, used to throw a glass of water in my face when I began. Oh, very well, said Ambrose. I'll have a glass handy.
Look here, he said. you and I may as well understand each other first as last. Now, you can go on and do what you feel like. You can turn handsprings in the street, and you can act like a hyena when you want to. But there's just one thing you've got to let be. I'm that thing. I'm going to turn the kind of handsprings I like. I'm going to go to church if I want to. Your talk about the marriage ceremony
has almost made me revere the altar. I've only twice in my life thought of getting married, and neither time for my own sake. Once for you and once for someone else, he ended virtuously. We're each to have our autonomy in this alliance, and, he continued,
I may as well tell you that my aunt Adelaide Babcock is coming to visit me. That's nice, said Sonia. She smiled at him again. She had curled herself up and was peering at him
from her shock of dark hair, and she seemed to him like some little shy animal. He took up a book. Augustus snored gently. All was peace.
Sonia reached forth her hand and took his and hers, and then he saw that slow tears were sliding down her face. What's the matter, he asked her. She turned her head and sobbed into the pillow. I want my grandpa, she said.
He patted her head. There was nothing he could say. It was as if he could feel her little heart breaking within her. Nietzsche, she sobbed with difficulty, don't help with death much. I never thought of him dying. I was going to be a great interpretive dancer and take care of him always.
Ambrose put his arm consoling about her. Don't cry, he said. Don't cry. You're here with me. Yes, but I haven't anybody to take care of. You can take care of me, said Ambrose courageously. This comforted her a little.
Clinging to his hand, she cried for a time and then stopped. Ambrose sat there with his hand in hers. Suddenly she sat up in bed, her big eyes on him. Ambrose, she said. Ambrose, you know what I said about being grateful.
I try not to be. I don't believe in it. I feel I should worry. But you can't do like you feel like always. I can't help feeling grateful, Ambrose.
He patted her hand. It was a difficult moment, as heartbreaking as if the dog you pick up on the street should open his mouth and speak. Ambrose's place was full of slumber, and yet it was not late. From next door came the swelling, heartbreaking sounds of the violin.
It was more than he could bear. The violin seemed to be rehearsing to him all the varied emotions of the day. He felt if the violin player didn't stop he would presently cry like a child. But as was right and proper at his age he was ashamed of his emotions. They made him feel weak to the very center of his heart.
So he hardened himself by thinking, I could cheerfully cut that young pole's throat. At last the playing stopped. There came over Ambrose an irresistible desire to see Camilla. He wanted to go to her and put his head in her lap and tell her how unhappy he was.
He tiptoed through the back bedroom out into the front studio. He cautiously knocked on the wall. There was a cautious little tap. Camilla put her head out of the window. Camilla, he asked, are you happy?
No, Camilla said, are you? I'm wretched, said Ambrose, utterly wretched. I've got to see you, Camilla. It isn't late. come then said camilla she was waiting for him at the door camilla he cried do you love me just a little bit say that you do i do love you she cried i do i do i don't want to love you but i can't help it i don't want to love anybody yet but you're such an idiot you're so foolish you need someone to take care of you
yes i do awfully need someone to take care of me there's no telling what will happen to me if i don't have someone to take care of me won't you won't you come right away she drew back from him a little some day some time not now not with the anarchist child around not till i've played and played and played and played not till i've forgotten my awful blue serge childhood i feel like a butterfly you know that can remember when it was nothing but a caterpillar that can remember sleeping in a cold cocoon hung upside down from the eaves somewhere and i love my golden wings and i want to fly right in the sun till they are all draggled and battered she looked at him wistfully would you be fool enough to love me even if my golden wings were draggled chapter seven recording by expatriate in bangor maine
