actually could—”
Lavinia’s tone has been deeply, genuinely troubled, and sad. But then she shrugs, and the tone shifts. “Oh!” she cries out, “if he’d only leave me alone! Why won’t he catch
on!
”
Megan is wholly concentrated on absorbing the fact of crippledness, Harvey’s legs. And her mind has made a connection, which she would like to reject, between crippledness and romantic extremity; she thinks, and she wishes that she did not think, that of course (and maybe only) a crippled man would fall in love like that, and especially with Lavinia, so tall and blond, so
perfect.
And she further makes another, highly unwelcome connection, this time between crippled and fat. She thinks of herself, fat Megan, and “madly in love” with George Wharton, who in his way is also perfect. She thinks of her own obstinate refusal to “catch on” to the fact that George Wharton does not love her.
Escaping back to Harvey, she sees too that he would have to be rich; otherwise, a cripple, he would not have dared, would not even have aspired to Lavinia. (Would George love her if she were rich?)
And: of course Lavinia would have to break it off, eventually. Even being seen with a crippled man must have been acutely painful to her, actually more painful than rumors of financial insecurity, irregularity. Megan starts to say, You know, really you’re still a virgin because of Harvey’s crippled legs. But of course she does not say that.
“Oh,
shit,
” then says lovely Lavinia. “I’ve forgotten my billfold. Darling little Megan, would you pay? I’ll get it next time, okay?”
“Of course.”
5
“I just don’t know,” Lavinia’s mother, who was once a fabled golden Southern beauty, is saying, vaguely, fuzzily, to her daughter. “I just don’t know,” Mrs. Harcourt repeats; she smells of lavender, and of sherry. “If this boy is coming all the way down here, I just don’t see—” As so often happens, she then forgets what she is talking about, beyond a distant sense that she was about to say something important.
Lavinia’s stomach knots in a familiar way, and she thinks as she has a thousand times before, Thank God, I don’t even look like her.
She tries then to remind her mother of their earlier conversation, to bring her back. “But we always used to have Christmas at Fredericksburg,” Lavinia states, “and I thought it would be so nice. It has nothing to do with Gordon.”
That last was a total lie. The fact is that Lavinia is anxious, desperately anxious, that Gordon not visit them in Georgetown, in the huge house in which she and her mother now sit, in what is called the breakfast room, although no one has ever eaten a breakfast there. The Fredericksburg house is big too, but it is simpler; it can be passed off as a farm, and so it is called, by the Harcourts. But this Georgetown house, set back from P Street, with its weight of marble, and family portraits and delicate French antiques and ponderous draperies—this house could intimidate anyone, and especially Gordon, with his strong feelings about being Boston Irish, his father a policeman, living in Dorchester. In a house that Lavinia has never been allowed to see.
The irony of this fear, this anxiety about the impressiveness of her family house, is not lost on intelligent Lavinia; it is very ironic that she who has always loved her house so much should now be worried about its effect. She has even thought of it as her perfect setting (Harvey used to say, “It’s the perfect house for the childhood of a princess. Now I’ll have to get you an even bigger house, and don’t think I won’t.” Well, probably he would have). And prior to the advent of Gordon in her life, Lavinia also saw her house as her perfect refuge; it kept people away, it put off those whom she chose to be put off. And now, for her to worry that Gordon, whom she absolutely loves, in this setting will love her less—well, it’s very funny, very funny indeed—but
Lavinia’s tone has been deeply, genuinely troubled, and sad. But then she shrugs, and the tone shifts. “Oh!” she cries out, “if he’d only leave me alone! Why won’t he catch
on!
”
Megan is wholly concentrated on absorbing the fact of crippledness, Harvey’s legs. And her mind has made a connection, which she would like to reject, between crippledness and romantic extremity; she thinks, and she wishes that she did not think, that of course (and maybe only) a crippled man would fall in love like that, and especially with Lavinia, so tall and blond, so
perfect.
And she further makes another, highly unwelcome connection, this time between crippled and fat. She thinks of herself, fat Megan, and “madly in love” with George Wharton, who in his way is also perfect. She thinks of her own obstinate refusal to “catch on” to the fact that George Wharton does not love her.
Escaping back to Harvey, she sees too that he would have to be rich; otherwise, a cripple, he would not have dared, would not even have aspired to Lavinia. (Would George love her if she were rich?)
And: of course Lavinia would have to break it off, eventually. Even being seen with a crippled man must have been acutely painful to her, actually more painful than rumors of financial insecurity, irregularity. Megan starts to say, You know, really you’re still a virgin because of Harvey’s crippled legs. But of course she does not say that.
“Oh,
shit,
” then says lovely Lavinia. “I’ve forgotten my billfold. Darling little Megan, would you pay? I’ll get it next time, okay?”
“Of course.”
5
“I just don’t know,” Lavinia’s mother, who was once a fabled golden Southern beauty, is saying, vaguely, fuzzily, to her daughter. “I just don’t know,” Mrs. Harcourt repeats; she smells of lavender, and of sherry. “If this boy is coming all the way down here, I just don’t see—” As so often happens, she then forgets what she is talking about, beyond a distant sense that she was about to say something important.
Lavinia’s stomach knots in a familiar way, and she thinks as she has a thousand times before, Thank God, I don’t even look like her.
She tries then to remind her mother of their earlier conversation, to bring her back. “But we always used to have Christmas at Fredericksburg,” Lavinia states, “and I thought it would be so nice. It has nothing to do with Gordon.”
That last was a total lie. The fact is that Lavinia is anxious, desperately anxious, that Gordon not visit them in Georgetown, in the huge house in which she and her mother now sit, in what is called the breakfast room, although no one has ever eaten a breakfast there. The Fredericksburg house is big too, but it is simpler; it can be passed off as a farm, and so it is called, by the Harcourts. But this Georgetown house, set back from P Street, with its weight of marble, and family portraits and delicate French antiques and ponderous draperies—this house could intimidate anyone, and especially Gordon, with his strong feelings about being Boston Irish, his father a policeman, living in Dorchester. In a house that Lavinia has never been allowed to see.
The irony of this fear, this anxiety about the impressiveness of her family house, is not lost on intelligent Lavinia; it is very ironic that she who has always loved her house so much should now be worried about its effect. She has even thought of it as her perfect setting (Harvey used to say, “It’s the perfect house for the childhood of a princess. Now I’ll have to get you an even bigger house, and don’t think I won’t.” Well, probably he would have). And prior to the advent of Gordon in her life, Lavinia also saw her house as her perfect refuge; it kept people away, it put off those whom she chose to be put off. And now, for her to worry that Gordon, whom she absolutely loves, in this setting will love her less—well, it’s very funny, very funny indeed—but
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