- then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
"They were the same age, you know?" she said, as Henry glanced into the drinks tent.
"Who?"
"Keats and Eric. When they died. Twenty-five. Though of course Keats had written a good deal more and of much finer quality. But there we are. Correspondences - they keep you company."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"No, I don't expect you do."
"Over here," he said, leading them across the way into a second, quieter marquee, this one artificially cooled and full of elaborately set tables. He pulled out two chairs for them to sit.
"Why on earth did we come here?" she asked.
"You were invited, remember? By Glenda Holland."
"Ah, yes. The woman who's trying to pull the ladder up behind her. She thinks siding with me and the Historical Association will somehow absolve her of her wretched taste."
"Why is that woman staring at us?"
"Which one?"
"That black woman over there," Henry said. "In the beige dress."
"I haven't a clue," Charlotte said.
Eventually, the woman approached. Apparently she'd heard Henry pronouncing on something or other down in the swamps of Florida.
Once she had left, Charlotte examined the place card in her hand. The number one was written on it in elaborate script. A very fine pen had been used to make such a mark, she thought, the ink strained through the nib to near perfection, not seeping at all into the crevices of the linen paper. A quick, sure stroke. You would have such place cards at a wedding. And tables like this. Eric's family being Catholic, the ceremony would have been important to them. Who wouldn't like it to look as it had for Henry that day he danced with Betsy on the parquet?
In what dim hollow of her mind, she wondered, had such fantasy never died?
Guests began filtering in for dinner. A bass drum sounded from the stage, followed by the heraldic notes of horns, as the assembled musicians struck up Fanfare for the Common Man.
"I've always rather liked this piece," Henry said. "You remember Daddy used to love Copland."
"I suppose he did."
"With the record player in the window. Out on the porch. You remember."
Late Sunday mornings with the newspaper and the breakfast tray and Charlotte in one of her blue cotton dresses and afterward their father would go back into his study and keep working. The never-ending work on behalf of the People. The work of justice conducted in the dependable medium of statute and brief.
The second burst of horns ceased, followed by a bar of silence and then again the low rumble of percussion.
"It's just the right sort of optimism," Henry said. "Confident without the swagger."
"But isn't it amazing," she said, "what context does. The emigre Socialist homosexual cheering on the New Deal. And yet what becomes of Copland here? Pure bombast. Congratulations for pirates."
"I'm just saying it's a good bit of music."
"Well, it's certainly a simpler world if you can cabin things like that. One discreet experience after the next."
"For Christ's sake, can't you give it a break? I didn't have to come up here, you know. It's not as if you enjoy my company."
"Oh come on, Henry, there's no need to revert. We're not playing house. I say these things because I think you understand them and most people don't. I'm sorry if it sounds like criticism. It's just conversation, as far as I'm concerned. I know you want to help me. I appreciate that."
"Then why don't you tell me what's going on?"
"How do you mean? We won. The law did what it's supposed to do. I would think you'd take some satisfaction in that."
"I don't mean about the land." He watched a few familiar faces - the head of State Street, the head of Credit Suisse - coming through the entrance of the tent with their wives. "How am I supposed to say this? You're my sister."
"Ah. I see. You think I'm losing my mind."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. You meant it."
"You're barely eating," he said. "And the way you talk to those animals of yours."
"I knew it would come to that: the old lady and her pets. But the world's bigger than you think, Henry. It always has been."
"Meaning what?"
"Do you imagine Betsy is entirely dead?"
"Charlotte, please. Give the woman a little