Fundvogel

By Hanns Heinz Ewers 1928

Translated by Joe E. Bandel 2009

Copyright Joe E. Bandel

Chapter 1

The Way Things Lie

“The winds were foul, the trip was long,

Leave ‘er Johnie, leave ‘er!
But before we go, we’ll sing this song-
An’ it’s time for us to leave ‘er!

We’ll sing: oh, may we never be,

Leave ‘er Johnie, leave ‘er!
On a dirty bitch the like of she!
An it’s time fer us t’ leave ‘er!

The rats have gone-an’ we the crew,

Leave ‘er, Johnie, leave ‘er!
It’s time, by God, that we went too!
An it’s time fer us t’ leave ‘er!”

-sailors song circa 1850

Andrea Woyland held the check in her hand and looked at it, ten thousand dollars. The
ink was still wet. She heard the footsteps of the man that had written it on the stairs
below. He was Parker Aspinwall Briscoe from Central Trust Bank.

The Briscoe of Amalgamated Steel Co., he was the man that controlled all the Wolfram
and Iridium in the entire world. Three large railroads carried his name along with a
copper works in Chile, a platinum mine in the Urals, oil fields in Oklahoma, Mexico and
Persia.

He was that Briscoe, and this ten thousand was only a beginning. More would be coming,
much, much more. She would have a solid million in her own name, in her own bank
account, free to use as she wished.
She would have it, if-

Yes, “if” and “perhaps”!

That is really why she, Andrea Woyland, had first been willing to listen to him for two
minutes just now. That is what he had promised her, nothing less than that.

She had been willing, Dear God, what was going on with this woman, Andrea Woyland?
The life she knew was over. This month, this past year, it was over.

And now with this slip of paper in her hand? Now after everything Parker A. Briscoe had
said to her! Ah, the possibilities! If it should come true, then she still had time. Then it
wouldn’t go so fast. There was still a lot to do, lengthy preparations, a difficult working
out of intricate details.

How great Briscoe's capabilities, his power and wealth must be! He can’t even know. He
said that he really wanted to hire someone that could put everything in order for him.
Well good, that was what he wanted, but in the meantime he couldn’t find anyone in this
land or in general that could do such a task for him.

In any case she was going to Europe, he was very clear on that. That was lucky.
Unfortunately she was based in the United States, in New York City.

Yes, in this city where she had so gladly lived in the gypsy quarter, in Greenwich Village.
Her junk cluttered two-room apartment and kitchenette with her black housekeeper. Her
housekeeper had been really sad when she heard about it.

Andrea Woyland put her hand on her brow and laughed out loud.

Ah, she could buy something! Today! Right now! She looked at her watch, it was just
past noon. In a few hours she could be in a hotel. She heard the black woman at work in
the kitchen and called out to her.

“Pack my things Dinah,” she commanded. “I’m going out.”

She paid no attention to the chatter of the old Negress as she went through the rooms,
considering what she should take with. She owned a lot of furniture, clothes, linen and
lots of knick-knacks but she decided to leave them all, leave everything just as it was.

The more she looked, the less valuable her things seemed. She finally filled two suitcases
and didn’t completely fill her wardrobe.

Then she called up the Plaza, ordered a room and commanded a page to quickly come by
her apartment, pick up her things and take them to the hotel. Her glance fell on the
telephone. She should call the young Rossius from the Herald Tribune. He had been
wanting an apartment in the village for a long time. They were hard to find and expensive
as well. He would be very happy. She still had a one-year lease and this month’s rent was
already paid. He could have all her knick-knacks, those that she didn’t give to Dinah.
Dinah could easily take care of him, she was used to messes.

She called him up. “He could move in this evening,” she said. “Dinah would be waiting
for him. There was already tea, a couple bottles of wine and all sorts of supplies. Dinah
would show him where everything was.

She? No, she would already be gone, would never again be seen by the people of the
‘Village’. Yes, Dinah had the key.”

She laughed as she hung up the receiver. Rossius, why him? Him or anyone else, it didn’t
really matter! Once, twice, they had gone out together to Romany Mary’s where the
Bohemians partied and drank bad whiskey late into the night. She had slept with him,
yes, and with others now and then.

Now she would forget him, never again think of him, like the others she had forgotten.

She went through the room once more and her glance fell on the writing table, which she
had overlooked. Paper, stapler, all that could stay where it was. She only took the
feathered writing quill. She pulled the drawer open, took out the bills. Ten, twelve- it
looked like a thousand dollars all together. She would let the bank take care of them.

She ripped the letters to shreds and threw them in the wastebasket. Five were from
Gwinnie Briscoe, Parker’s daughter. She considered them a moment, then utterly
destroyed them. Gwinnie, Gwinnie Briscoe. Everything was for her alone! She would be
getting more letters, many more, dozens, hundreds of them, because Gwinnie was in love
with her.

A final drawer contained only two letters from her cousin Jan Olieslagers. She looked at
the dates. The one from Bermuda was a year old and the other from Peking was already
three years old. She picked them up, ripped them halfway through and stopped. Then she
carelessly put them into her purse.

She went past the mirror, cast an involuntary glance into it and quickly looked away. No,
no, she didn’t want to know how she looked now. She had sat in front of that mirror for a
good hour that morning skillfully putting on her makeup for Parker’s visit.

But mirrors, mirrors were everywhere. She could look at them for hours in the hotel if she
wanted to say goodbye to Andrea Woyland, to herself.

She was ready. She gave Dinah some money and final instructions. Then she went down
the stairs, out of the house, through the alley, out of the alley into the street and out of the
“village”. She never once looked back. That was all behind her. Never again would she
see the house, never again see Minetta Lane, never again see Greenwich Village. Thank
God!

Indian summers, late October days, the sunlight over the concrete of the giant city…

*******************************

She took the subway to Wall Street, walked under William Street, Pine Street and turned
at Nassau Street where Central Trust was. She cashed her check and got an account for
herself. She kept out a couple hundred dollars and put the rest into the account. It didn’t
take long.

As she was going out the door she bumped into Briscoe. She nodded at him. He took off
his hat.

“Ah, Miss Woyland!” He cried. “Cashed your check?”

“Yes,” she said. “And I’m living at the Plaza now. Just in case you need to speak with
me.”

“Good,” he nodded. “I was just talking with Gwinnie. I was home with her. That’s why I
am so late getting here. I have told her about our decision. At least the biggest part of it.”

“Oh,” she said. “How’s it going with her?”

“Better, thank you very much, she is much better,” cried Briscoe enthusiastically rubbing
his hands together.

“She is in agreement and this news seems to be lifting her spirits. She is out of danger,
since her doctor Nisbet pumped out her stomach in time. But she will still experience
many pains until everything is back to normal.

No one can drink Lysol with impunity! Perhaps it will be a good reminder. Perhaps now
she will be more sensible.”

He sighed. Then it occurred to him that he was still standing in the open door.

“Excuse me, Miss Woyland,” he said. “I am being inattentive. Permit me to invite you up
into my private room.”

She couldn’t very well avoid it, so she nodded and followed him. They entered the
elevator, went up, and then into his office. She looked around; thinking this is where
Parker A. Briscoe rules.
It meant nothing. She wanted to be in the hotel, by herself, alone. She thought, “Seule
avec mon âme!” Who was it that said that? Robespeirre or some such! She had already
heard enough this morning. She regretted now that she had come to Central Trust. Why
hadn’t she gone to a different bank?

He pushed an armchair toward her, near the desk, then sat down himself. He spoke
through the intercom and gave the order not to be disturbed for ten minutes. Then he
turned toward her.

“It means a lot to me that we have met Miss Woyland. It means very much. What I told
you this morning was about business, I considered it for a long time and told you almost
word for word. It was the result of my conversations with Edison, Steinmetz and—. Oh,
I’ve told you this already. You might be wondering what I have been doing this week.

First this dreadful suicide attempt by my only daughter-- only seventeen, only seventeen!
Then Gwinnie’s revelation, her reason for it, for what she did! In love— In love with a
woman!

Jesus, I know that it happens, know that no plant is against growing, know how such a
person finally finds her happiness!”

She saw how this vigorous broad shouldered man kept a grip on himself as if he were lost
in thought and not exposing his innermost nature. His pale dentures showed for a
moment, his jaw muscles were working as if he had gum in his mouth. His hand
drummed on the table.

“See here, Miss Woyland,” he continued. “I loved my wife very much, have never
touched another woman, only her. I would never do it, and I tell you, I am happy today
that she is dead, am happy that she has not experienced this.

I, —I understand, yes, must understand. But she would never accept it! To think that her
daughter, Evelyn Briscoe’s daughter, loves another woman and attempts suicide because
this woman will not return her feelings!”

He became silent.

Andrea realized that she must say something.”

“And to tell the truth,” she began. “I have given it an honest effort. Gwinnie is very
beautiful, neat and clever. A blind man could see how enchanting she has become. She is
kind and flattering. She took to me at first sight. I noticed very soon how it stood with
her, noticed how she grew more and more tormented. Her love for me grew with every
day.
I always tried to steer her away from me at every possible opportunity, but Gwinnie has
her will. She is very strong-willed, like you, Mr. Briscoe. She doesn’t mince words, but
goes straight after what she wants. She explains herself—and—“

He interrupted her, “Yes, and you have compassion for the child. I know, Miss
Woyland.”

“That’s it,” she replied. “It is compassion. In every woman’s love there is a little bit of
compassion. But it was, I won’t lie, much more than that. It was also vanity.

Parker Briscoe’s daughter hopelessly loved my very feet. There was curiosity too. There
was something that wanted, something slumbering deep within me, an unknown feeling
that suddenly appeared full-grown.

Perhaps it was an itch, a desire, some allure or fascination that I had for her. Her
slenderness perhaps, the boyishness of her young body.

In short, I tried it, thought it might work out. But it didn’t work out, not at all. I did all
that was possible for me to do. But it was a failure, a pathetic, wretched failure. The more
I forced myself to return her affection, the more unbearable it became for me.”

“I know, I know,” Briscoe interrupted. “Gwinnie has told me all about it. You are such a
true female, a completely—how do I put this, completely normal woman! I understand
you so well, how you could become disgusted. How it became so bad that you couldn’t
see her anymore, couldn’t stand the sound of her voice anymore!

And when you would not give in, she became possessed with her love for you. Now you
know!

Then something cracked, exploded! You spit on her, threw her out and Gwinnie finally
realized that it was over and done with, that there was not the smallest possible glimmer
or spark of hope for her.

That’s when she took Lysol, Lysol, like a housemaid!”

“Well, it was close at hand,” Andrea said.

He shook his head, “No, no, it was not close at hand. She went out and bought it. She
probably read about it in the newspaper. It is very popular in such cases.

Gwinnie spoke of the freedom of death! Freedom of death! Like a suffering word starved
literary youth, as if it were different than suicide!

Still Miss Woyland, don’t believe for one minute that I am blaming you for all this. You
have handled everything quite properly and have done more than enough for my
daughter.
But, I love Gwinnie, she is all that I have, is a gift from my wife. I must hold on to her. I
am accustomed to seeing things the way they are and not the way I want them to be.

I have no foolish hopes, no vague sentimental feelings, nurse nothing that is a lie. I tell
you, it does not happen to me.”

He picked up his pipe; “May I smoke?”

She nodded.

He silently filled his pipe, lit it, and took a few puffs.

“The idea, Miss Woyland,” he continued. “That I requested of you, continues to grow in
my brain. I once read something in a newspaper; I don’t know which one. It was certainly
on the subway. It made an impression on me has stayed with me, and now it occurs to
me.

I present the facts. Gwinnie is—just the way she is. There is nothing to change nothing
that can be done. They have been around since the days of Sapphos these—forgive me!
These God damned Island Lesbians! Gwinnie’s in love with a woman, so hopelessly, so
passionately in love that she will take poison over this woman.

Gwinnie has declared that she will love only this woman, only this one and never
another! That is what each and every unhappy, pathetic lover says.

But Gwinnie is my daughter. Haven’t I told you already that I have had only one love in
my life? Only one woman, my wife! That is why I believe what Gwinnie said. It is her
inheritance.”

He put his hands together and rubbed them briskly as if he were washing them. His voice
became gentle.

“Who is Gwinnie? She is my child, the child of my wife, her flesh and blood and of mine.
Is she, Gwinnie, responsible for that? Her parents are, I am! I must do whatever I can do.
I want to see her happy. If there is the smallest possibility, I will take it.

That’s when I remembered the article I had read many months ago, perhaps in a
newspaper. It appeared that there might be such a possibility. I went to my friends. I
needed them; it goes without saying that they are the best heads in the United States.

I spoke with Thomas Alva Edison, spoke with Hiram P. Mazim, spoke with Proteus
Steinmetz, and with Jacques Loeb of the Rockefeller Institute. They didn’t laugh at me.
They told me that theoretically what I wanted to attempt lay within the sphere of
possibility.
That is why I sought you out, gave you my proposal, and you, you took it!”

“Yes, that I did,” said Andrea Woyland.

She hadn’t understood what he really wanted when he left that morning. He had been so
reserved, so businesslike, always conversing with enticing dollar signs.

“I am almost finished,” he began again. “Forgive me if I have delayed you. There is

something else that I must still tell you.

I had only seen this entire affair from my own point of view and from Gwinnie’s. I only
questioned our own interests. Then I spoke with you. Naturally I saw you, but I didn’t
really know you, know who you were, what you were, how you saw things. That was my
first mistake as I went out into the street.

Then, on the way from Gwinnie to the bank, I was thinking about you, not only about
Gwinnie. That was the moment I ran into you in the doorway.”

He looked at her, quietly examining her.

“You are a beautiful woman,” he said slowly. “Beautiful, perhaps clever and certainly
valuable.”

She made a motion, but he would not let her get a word in.

“You can judge people at the first encounter, know them. I’ve always done it that way
and seldom been wrong. You can feel how they are if you have a gift for it. Feel it. Even
if you don’t know any reason, can’t find any reason for how you feel. That is why it is
my pleasure to meet you here today.

I will tell you that, perhaps, I might not permit this sacrifice that I have requested from
you. Perhaps I caught you off guard this morning. I know how to sway people, bring
them to my position. That has been the basis of my success in this country.

Do you need some time to think this over? To consider if there is more we need to
discuss? Perhaps I have played with your good heart and touched it, your compassion for
poor Gwinnie. Perhaps you will someday regret what you are so lightly—.“

The woman stood up. “You are wrong, Mr. Briscoe. No one has convinced me to do
anything that I don’t want to do. I require no more time to consider. I’ve made up my
mind and I give you my word that I won’t regret it.

I have absolutely no sympathy for your daughter. Out of the goodness of my heart—,”
she broke off and laughed.

He laid his pipe on the ashtray, stood up and went over to her.
“Would you tell me why you are doing this, why you are making this sacrifice for us?”

“Yes, that I will,” she replied quietly. “I bring you this sacrifice, as you call it, because it
is no sacrifice for me. I accept your proposal willingly because of your money.
Understand me clearly, only because of that!”

He listened to the deep Alto of her voice, looked straight at her and said very decidedly.

“That is not the truth, Miss Woyland.”

That disconcerted her, she nervously knotted her gloves together.

“It is a half-truth,” she whispered.

Parker Briscoe cradled his head. “Then good,” he said. “You don’t want to tell me
anymore and I have no right to ask.”

He tore a slip from the notepad, took a pencil and wrote, “Here is my private number.
Give me a call if you want. With your permission, I stand at your disposal.

If you will still permit me, your—occasionally, I mean—in the name of Gwinnie
naturally—”

He stammered, rubbed his hands together like a fly does its forelegs.

She understood him, helped him quickly.

“Yes, yes, you are permitted,” she said with a hard laugh. “To your hearts content! I will
not be offended. I permit both you and Gwinnie to. She can send me flowers, as many as
she wants, fruit, candy, books, furs, jewelry, anything.

Money too, don’t forget the money, the more, the better!”

Briscoe laughed shook his head.

“Thanks,” he said. “I did not make a mistake about you. By the way Gwinnie is going on
vacation to my brother-in-law’s in Florida. He has a place there. She wanted to travel as
soon as she could. She probably wouldn’t now that she can visit you, but I think it’s
better this way. She appears to be seeing things differently now and she has promised me
that she will not try again.”

Andrea nodded. That was good news. They went to the door; he opened it and went with
her out to the elevator. She took her gloves out, shook hands with him, but she scarcely
returned his grip.
She held his gaze and Briscoe knew. This woman knew what she was doing, what she
was giving him. He could never give her anything, would always be in debt to her.

************************

He went back into his office. Tex Durham, his private secretary, was waiting for him. He
was a young fellow, blond, blue eyed and fresh out of Harvard. He came straight up to
Briscoe.

“You are finally here Mr. Briscoe,” he cried. “I must speak with you.”

“Get the mail first, Tex,” commanded Briscoe. “Lay it on the desk.”

The young man cried, “It is already there! Haven’t you looked through it yet? It’s a letter
that I want to talk to you about, before you read it!”

“My God, Tex!” Laughed Briscoe. “What’s going on? Can’t you wait half an hour? Is it
that urgent?”

“Very urgent,” answered Durham. “If you would like to know, my life hangs on it, and
perhaps that of your daughter, Miss Gwendolin, as well.”

Briscoe laughed again, “Ah, the things you won’t say! What’s so important then? Would
you like to first explain why you call my daughter, Miss Gwendolin? Doesn’t it seem a
bit comical? No one calls her anything except Gwinnie. Why don’t you?”

“Gwin—Miss Gwendolin has forbidden me,” said the secretary. She has expressly
commanded me to speak of her and think of her only as Miss Gwendolin. May I speak
now?”

Briscoe nodded, “God yes, if you must!”

Tex Durham went to the desk, took a letter, pushed it back and forth. “This letter is from
Ralph Webster. He is also in love with Miss Gwendolin. Naturally, he is passionately
addicted to her. That is why he has written this. It is a dirty trick. He was my best friend,
was with me in school and then in Harvard.”

“Yes, yes,” pressed Briscoe. “I know this. Make it short Tex, I really have no time.”

The young man took a new start.

“What it says in the letter is completely correct. Naturally it is not everything. Ralph
doesn’t know everything. But it’s better that I tell you since you will find out soon
enough anyway. So listen to why I have been sneaking in your office and reading your
mail. It’s because—“
Briscoe interrupted him, “Don’t speak such astonishing nonsense, Tex! I have given you
this position, you are free to—I sent your predecessor back to Mexico as you know. I
gave you this position because your late father was an old friend of mine, because you
come from a good family, are well brought up and because you got the best marks at the
university. Then to, because I like you and I can laugh over your antics. Finally, because I
imagine that you can learn more of business from me than from anyone else.”

“But I don’t want to learn those things!” Durham burst out. “They are completely
unimportant to me! I want to play golf, play baseball and fly airplanes! I have lied to you
Mr. Briscoe, been smooth with you. Really, it’s the truth. Ralph knows it too and that’s
what’s in this letter.

I’m here because of Gwendolin. How can I get any closer to her than in this position as
your personal secretary? Naturally I have made myself useful, put out my best effort. But
also, I’ve learned where she goes, then I go there as well, to the Opera, the Theater, the
Concert Hall, in all the stores! Naturally at home with you too. Nowhere has she been
safe from me. Gwendolin knows about it. I have no secrets from her. She laughed about it
and took it very lightly.”

Briscoe sat on the desk, lit his pipe again.

“A question Tex. Do you know that Gwinnie is sick?”

“Of course I know,” cried Durham exasperated. “Jerry, your butler, calls me every few
hours to inform me of how it’s going with her. She has a bad stomach ache, from the
perpetual ice water she drinks most likely.”

“Yes, yes, a stomach ache!” Briscoe confirmed offhandedly. “Something else, have you
had any success with Gwinnie? Have you gone out with her?”

Tex nodded, “Really, she likes me. Miss Gwendolin has expressly told me, and more than
once that she doesn’t like Ralph or any of the others in the slightest. She doesn’t care at
all if they want to get into a big fight over her. She said that and much more. Of all her
admirers, I am by far the dearest and most comfortable!”

“So,” said Briscoe. “The dearest and most comfortable. Tell me, have you heard this from
Gwinnie herself? I mean, have you held her hand, kissed her, taken her in your arms?”

The young fellow shook his head, “No, not that, not yet. Miss Gwendolin is funny that
way. She doesn’t like to be touched. She is very ticklish, she says. But you can believe
me, it will happen!”

“You think?” Laughed Briscoe. “No Tex, I really don’t think so, no matter how much
you lament over it.”
The secretary stared at him, helpless enough with those true blue eyes. “Lament—I
lament? I thought—that you—Then you are not going to fire me?”

Briscoe shook his head. “I have a condition though. You chattered about, what was it—
That your life hangs upon it! Now, I have a very strong aversion against suicide, free
death and all those things that hang together with it. I don’t like to hear such talk.

Finally, we will let Gwinnie decide. She is her own man and you will know soon enough
if she will or if she won’t. But you, Tex, must be satisfied with whatever she decides.
Will you promise me this?”

He stuck his hand out to the young man who gave it a mighty shake.

“Certainly,” he cried. “Absolutely certainly and with a full heart? But you sir, you have
nothing against it?”

Briscoe laughed though his laugh rang with bitterness.

“I’ll tell you this Tex, I would want nothing more than if you could be together with
Gwinnie, day and night. Listen to me, day and night!

His voice rose and it sounded almost desperate and as if it threatened to break as he
continued.

“If it was up to me Tex, I would like you to carry her naked to her bed—tonight even, my
boy!”

He covered his face with both hands as if he were wiping away hot sweat. Then he took
his pipe out again.

“We will speak no more about this. Now, finally bring me the mail!”

Tex Durham had nothing to laugh about that afternoon at Central Trust. He was not
allowed one minute of peace. It was five o-clock before Briscoe released him.

It was completely clear what he had to do. He certainly didn’t understand Briscoe’s
motive; there had been no time to think about it. But he understood very well that there
would be no problem with her father. He bought a large bouquet of orchids and drove
down Park Avenue to Gwinnie’s house.

Jerry, the housemaster, saw him coming and started a fight with the nurse so she
wouldn’t know he was there and try to stop him from going into her room. But Tex
Durham’s courage had defeated worse enemies today. Soon he was standing in front of
Gwinnie’s bed radiantly smiling.
“Hi Tex,” she cried in greeting. “It’s good that you could come! And you brought flowers
too. Lay them there on the table.”

He thought she meant to lay his orchids on the nightstand, but she quickly corrected him.

“Can’t you see there is no room there? Put them in the back there.”

He obeyed, went through the large room and came back. He stood in front of her, looking
at her and savoring this moment to the fullest.

Pageboy locks curled around her head and fanned out sharply on the pillows. He saw her
naked neck and arms, her fine and delicate collarbones. Her face looked like it had been
carved out of ivory with blooming red cheeks and lips.

The thumb of her left hand must have had something sweet on it, it was stuck in her
mouth and she was sucking and nursing enthusiastically on it.

“You don’t look sick, Gwendolin,” he said admiringly. “Completely healthy, and your
color-“

“You are an idiot, Texie,” she laughed. “Give me the lipstick.”

He took the lipstick from the nightstand, held it tightly.

“First take your thumb out of your mouth,” he demanded. “You know I can’t stand that.
You’re not a baby anymore!”

She obeyed. There was a red ring around her thumb. She wiped it carelessly on the
pillow, took the lipstick and put a bit more on to make her look healthier. Then her body
spasmed, she pressed both hands against her stomach, turned this way and that groaning
out loud.

He was frightened. “Are you in pain? He asked.

She came back at him, “Don’t ask dumb questions. Naturally I am in pain-here! In my
stomach, my throat and in my mouth too. Bring the bowl with the ice, Tex, it’s back there
on the vanity.”

He took her hand, which she quickly pulled away.

“How often have I told you not to touch me! Get the ice.”

Durham sighed, “How can a person’s hands be so ticklish! I will certainly not bring you
any ice. Gwendolin, your entire illness comes from eating too much ice and drinking too
much ice water. No wonder you have a belly ache!”
She pursed her lips, whistled softly, then said, “All the same, bring me the ice that I asked
for.”

He went there and got the dish.

“Put a piece in my mouth,” she commanded. “And when it’s gone put in another and
another, do you hear me? Just so you know, it is very good for me. Dr. Nisbett
specifically prescribed it! It burns everywhere inside and the ice is cool.”

He would have sat on the chair but it was covered with clothes.

“Sit on the bed,” she said. “Would you like a piece of ice?”

“No,” he said. “But you could get me a cup of tea and a few butter bread. I haven’t had
anything to eat today.”

She rang and ordered tea for him. Meanwhile, she gave him no minute of peace, always
had a new command. He had to turn the heat off because it was to hot for her, right after
that- another-must get her cigarettes, then chocolates. He didn’t know what to do with the
bowl of ice so he carried it around with him. He was glad when the nurse finally rolled
the tea table in. He could set the dish down on it for a bit.

He looked mournfully at the thin sandwiches with a little lettuce and mayonnaise on
them. He turned to the nurse.

“Would you ask the butler to bring me some sandwiches?”

“He should bring tongue, ham, crab and chicken salad,” commanded Gwinnie. “He
should bring everything he has. You see, Tex, I won’t let you go hungry like my father.”

“Don’t say anything against your father,” he answered chewing. “He has a very good
heart.”

She nodded, then said thoughtfully. “I do believe he must have, otherwise he would have
gotten rid of you a long time ago.”

The tall youth took the bread out of his mouth.

“Why would he fire me, Gwendolin?”

She laughed, “Because you are so terribly silly, Texie, that’s why!”

He laughed with her, “Then perhaps he doesn’t know yet. But you are right, Gwendolin, I
would like to do something serious…“
He interrupted himself. Jerry brought in a large tray that was piled high and set it in front
of him.

“Eat, Texie, eat,” Gwinnie reminded him.

“Don’t you want any?” He asked.

“No,” she said. “It doesn’t go well-inside! Give me another piece of ice instead.”

Tex obeyed, pushed some ice into her mouth.

“Gwendolin,” he said. “What’s with this dreadful ‘alas’ that you keep saying?”

“Ah,” she said. “You find it dreadful? Believe me Tex, it is very noble and classical. The
heroines say it in all the classical pieces of French literature. Furthermore, I can do it so
well. Would you like to see?”

She shut her eyelids, opened them slowly, pushed out a long sigh, pursed her lips, pulled
herself together, inhaled deeply, and breathed out a languishing “A-las!”

“Well, Texie?” She asked.

She was quite good. Tex Durham had to give her that.

He ate quietly thinking things over. Yes, it was really the best to speak with her now.
Free-open-straight from the heart. Then he noticed how quiet she was. He looked at her
and saw that she was holding a small photo in her hand and staring at it.

“Who is that?” He asked.

She startled, then held the photo out to him. “Do you know her?”

“Oh, a woman,” he said, completely relieved. “I was afraid for a moment that it might
have been Ralph Webster or one of the other idiots that always flocks around you. Only a
girl friend-you can have dozens of them around you!”

“Do you know her?” Gwinnie asked again.

He took a closer look at the photo. Her? He considered.

“I think I saw her once with you at Carnegie Hall at one of those ridiculous concerts, and
weren’t you riding with her at Central Park another time? By the way, she is a beautiful
woman, a very pretty woman,” he finished pointedly.

“Well, what do you think?” Gwinnie asked. Then in a dreamy voice, “She is beautiful, so
very beautiful. Her name is Andrea!”
Her glance lovingly kissed the photo that her narrow hand so carefully and lovingly held
like a rare jewel.

Her hair is brown, she thought, but it glows, has a red shimmer when the light falls on it.
It’s very long. What woman in New York or in the entire world wears long hair
anymore? She does, Andrea Woyland does, pinned up in plaits. When she lets it down, it
covers her like a coat.

Oh, Gwinnie shivered as she thought about it. Her eyes are gray, large and gray and
glistening. They are so deep you can look into them and look into them and get lost
forever. Her features are regular, lips strongly curved.

Gwinnie closed her eyes so she could see all the details more clearly, cheeks, ears,
eyebrows, eyelashes, brow and chin. Everything so well formed, so beautiful, as if they
were fashioned by a great artist. The entire effect was a proud symmetry with no missing
parts. Her slender neck, how graceful it was from the start at the nape of her head down
to her back. What shoulders, what arms, oh, and her breasts-

At last the youth was finished. There was not much left over.

He pulled himself together, said quickly; “I have spoken with your father today, very
seriously about you and me, about the two of us.”

She didn’t answer.

“Gwinnie, didn’t you hear?” He cried. “Would you put that dumb photo away!”

“The way she walks,” thought Gwinnie, “and her figure.”

“She is as tall as you Tex.” She whispered.

“As far as I’m concerned, she can be two heads taller,” he cried. “Haven’t you been
listening-“

She looked up, “Yes, I heard.” She sighed. “You’ve spoken with father, about you and
me, very seriously.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “Very openly, eye to eye, like one man to another.”

“So,” she expounded. “Like one man to another. That must have been very boring. Give
me the small mirror, Texie.”

“Gwendolin,” he attempted. “I would like to ask you some-“

She cut him off in mid-sentence. “Give me the mirror, Tex, can’t you hear?”
He handed her the mirror; she painted her cheeks again.

“Tell me truthfully, do you find me attractive? Nothing out of place?”

He got up off the bed, clicked his tongue impatiently. “Tsa, of course you are very
attractive.”

“What’s out of place?” She persisted. “I want to know what you think is out of place,
nothing?”

“Well yes,” he cried valiantly. “You have all sorts of things out of place. You are much
too thin, Gwendolin. The bones in your neck are showing. Your arms- too skinny. You
must eat more. No one can gain weight by eating ice, and the thumb sucking is just not
right.

Then there are your breasts and your-behind-“

“The things you say,” she laughed. Well then, have you been paying attention to these
things? What should I do about them?”

“Naturally,” he stressed. “You need to take up swimming. It would be perfect.”

“Maybe you are right,” she gave in. “What else?”

He began, hesitated, “I can’t say enough about putting on some weight. Your breasts, you
know they should be a good handful, not yours, mine, perhaps just a bit larger. And your
behind, just a little more like this-“

He moved both arms in the air describing a curve.

She took it all in very seriously. “You might just be right,” she concluded. “I will think
about it. Andrea is certainly much fuller.”

She put the mirror down and picked up the small photo again.

“You see,” he said triumphantly. “Take her as your example!”

Then he continued. “So, I spoke with your father eye to eye and he is in complete
agreement. To him it’s right, proper, even better.”

She didn’t look up from the photo.

“What’s alright with him?” She asked inattentively.

“If we got married!” He cried. “We have his blessing. Will you marry me? Consider and
make your decision. Please decide- please say so, dearest Gwendolin. I want it very much
and your father wants it even more. It would make him very happy if you would. He even
said that, in words. Do this for him. He really deserves it, and he is the only father you
have!”

“Yes,” she sighed. “I haven’t thought about that. I’ve always believed that I had a
dozen.”

Tex furrowed his brow.

“You always make fun of me,” he cried indignantly. “You know very well what I mean.
Please say ‘Yes’!”

“Don’t you think I should put on some more weight first?” She evaded.

“No,” he decided. “That is not important at all. I was only teasing you.”

“Yes, and then you want me to take you seriously? You know Tex, I just couldn’t endure
it.”

“Dear Lord Jesus,” he cried. “Get past this ticklish stuff! Let me touch you a little just
once. You should see how quickly you will get used to it!”

“What do you mean, Texie?” She answered. “You don’t like that I eat ice and say ‘Alas’
all the time.”

He cried very desperately, “It doesn’t matter to me if day and night all you do is sigh
‘Alas’, eat ice cubes and suck your thumb! Say ‘Yes’ Gwendolin. You have told me
yourself that of all the fellows, I am your favorite.”

She nodded, “That you are Texie, really, that you are. Especially because you are so
dumb, that’s why I like you. And you have no idea how terribly silly you can be. I will
promise you this. If I ever marry a man, his name will be Tex Durham.”

“Good,” he cried. “Good! Now just tell me when-“

“Never, Tex!” She interrupted him firmly. “I’ve had enough of all this dumb foolishness!
You are never to speak of this to me again unless I give you permission. Do you hear me,
never again, not a word? I hope we are very clear about this and that you understand me
correctly.”

He didn’t understand anything. He timidly lowered his head and whispered, “Yes,
whatever you want Gwendolin.”

She touched his hands lightly, almost tenderly. “It’s alright, my boy. Now you can go.”
He obeyed instantly and stood up to go.

“Wait a minute, Tex,” she hesitated. “You can make a phone call for me. Dial ---“ She
considered, then continued. “Dial SPRING 6688. Ask for Miss Woyland. Tell her-tell her
that you have seen her picture and find her very attractive-“

“But I don’t find her attractive at all-“ he turned back toward her.

“Do what I say,” she cried.

He obeyed, picked up the receiver and dialed the number. A man’s voice answered him,
he asked for Miss Woyland.

“What?” He cried. “You say she is not there? Is gone?”

Gwinnie flew up, ripped the receiver out of his hand, “This is Gwinnie Briscoe,” she
cried into it very much agitated.

“Andrea-Miss Woyland is gone? When? Where did she go? Oh, thank you very much,”
she whispered, then, “The Plaza, thank you very much, thank you!”

She let the receiver fall, sank back into the pillows. The burning pain attacked her belly
again and she doubled up in agony.

Durham fished the last piece of ice out of the bowl and pushed it into her mouth. She
slowly relaxed.

“Are you better?” He asked.

She nodded, looked around the room searching for something.

“Where are your flowers?” She demanded. “Bring them here!”

He got them and held them in front of her.

She didn’t take them. “Orchids,” she breathed them. “I don’t like them. Maybe Andrea
will like them?”

She raised her voice, continued, “You must go to the Plaza and deliver these flowers to
Miss Woyland.”

“But Gwendolin,” he attempted. “I brought these for you-“

She shook her head.

“Oh, Tex, Tex!” She cried in exasperation. “Must you always argue? Can’t you ever just
do what I tell you?”

He nodded, then turned to go. As he was leaving the door she called after him, “Let the
nurse know there is no more ice, ‘Alas’.”

She lay still on the bed, like a sweet thing of painted ivory. Slowly her left hand crept off
the covers; she lightly put her thumb between her red lips.

* * *
Andrea Woyland found the flowers in her room when she came back to the hotel late that
evening. After her visit to Central Trust bank she had gone to Columbus Circle, then
wanted to go past the park on her way back to the Plaza so she walked down 59th Street.

She still felt restless and nervous, so she took a taxi out to Riverside Drive and even
further along the Hudson over to Fordham and Spuyten Duivel Creek to Abby Inn. She
dismissed the taxi, went into the Inn and drank some tea.

She wanted to think things over, to consider them. But her thoughts were disordered,
confused and wandering, running crazy.

She paid and walked back toward New York on the Highway hoping to meet a taxi on the
way. There were none so she remained on foot. She was tired; the October air was
unusually fresh and gripped her making her head ache.

She cried out to every auto going into the city, but they were all full and didn’t stop.
Bitterness welled up within her. She had been in this land now for over five years and
never once had a single auto stopped for her!

Finally one stopped. Loud noises and yells were coming out of it as it pulled up to her.

“Take me with you!” She cried.

“Where are you going?” The man at the wheel asked.

“The Plaza”, she replied.

“Good, the Plaza,” he laughed good-naturedly. “There is always room for one more!”

It was apparently a booze party, a cheerful company that was going somewhere to party
some more. There were three boys and four girls in the car and they were all drunk. She
crushed in between them and one grabbed her knee laughing. She grasped some body
part as well. Everyone was singing and bellowing, two females were abusing each other,
quarreling and nagging. The fellow at the wheel drove like a madman.
They were stepping unintentionally on her feet and she couldn’t get out of the way,
grabbing her unintentionally where she couldn’t protect herself. The girl next to her slung
an arm around her neck slurring, “Kiss me Sissie!”

A boy in the front by the driver began to yell, demanding to be let out of the car, and then
he threw up. Oh, it was nasty.

They stopped somewhere in Washington Heights. She climbed out, finally found a taxi
and drove to the hotel. She ran straight to her room, ordered the evening meal, bathed, put
on her kimono and unpacked her things.

She ate very little and sent the rest of the food away, opened the window, and looked out
into the clear October night over the dead park. Shivering, she closed the window and let
herself fall into an armchair. She stood up again, searched for some cigarettes and lit one.
It didn’t taste good to her and she threw it away.

No, today just wasn’t her day.

She couldn’t concentrate. If only she had someone that she could talk to about all this!
Just one, someone that she knew well, someone that she could leave her notes with. But
who in the world would that be? She thought of all the people that she knew in the city.
Who should she call? There was no one, no one!

There was her cousin naturally, Jan Olieslagers. She could speak with him. Where in the
world was he? She took out his letters, the ones she had put in her purse. She read
through them both, then tore them up with fierce emotion.

She sprang up very agitated and strode back and forth across the room. What now? She
only knew the last letter contained news out of Germany from their Grandmother, his and
hers. News that her, Andrea Woyland’s, daughter had gotten engaged and married to a
former Navy Officer, a Commander, now a capable and wealthy farmer in Allgäu in
Baveria near the alps. He had taken possession of land Woyland and it was now private.
He had brought a new splendor to the property.

Her cousin had written three lines about it, three entire lines! That was a year ago, over a
year. What about the girl, what about her daughter? What was her name? Wasn’t it
Gabriele? No, that wasn’t it. She had never known the name of her baby.

It had been a year since the child had gotten married. Ah and there was a strong
possibility, a very strong possibility, that she had a child by now as well! That would
make Andrea Woyland a grandmother!

She calculated. She had been sixteen years old when she gave birth to this girl, this young
woman that was now probably a mother. That was almost twenty years ago, twenty long
years. That meant she would be thirty-six years old in less than a week!
She couldn’t sleep, searched around and finally found some sleeping pills. She put them
in her mouth and washed them down with water. Then she walked up to the mirror and
laughed.

What was it Parker Briscoe had said? That she was a beautiful woman, perhaps clever
and most certainly valuable.

Valuable, valuable, where was her value then? Why was her life so valuable? Clever?
Wouldn’t she be a lot more intelligent if she was clever?

And beautiful too! That which was standing before her, that which grinned out from the
mirror, that was the real Andrea Woyland! Only that. Not what Briscoe and little Gwinnie
saw!

There was no color anywhere. Her face was pale. Her skin was no longer smooth and
firm. A couple of crow’s feet showed around her eyes. Light wrinkles appeared around
her ears and the corners of her mouth.

There were no gray hairs. Hadn’t she carefully pulled them all out this morning before
Briscoe came? But more would come and more, everyday more of them. Her breasts
would sag and her neck-

She walked away from the mirror and sat down on the bed, covered her face with her
hands. Then she took a deep breath and she felt good. She had done the right thing when
she had told Briscoe “Yes” and shook hands with him, when she had declared that she
was ready to do it, to do what he asked of her.

Andrea Woyland was ready, entirely and completely ready. Andrea Woyland had
outlived her life and it was time to step away from this monkey show. Time to let go and
let it happen, Andrea Woyland would disappear, would be no more. That would be good,
so very good!

She stood up again, took a scissors and cut the long plaits of hair from her head. You
need to begin somewhere, she thought. Then she went to the desk, picked up the writing
quill and wrote with small timid letters at the top of a sheet of paper:

Andrea Woyland

She considered awhile and then thought, “I will write down everything that I know about
her!” But she let the feather fall. She suddenly felt very tired, completely drunk with
sleep. The sleeping pills were working. She got up, staggered to her bed, fell into it and
pulled the covers up. Soon she was asleep.