H. M. Pulham, Esquire

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  H. M. Pulham, Esquire

  A Novel

  John P. Marquand

  TO A. H. M.

  FOR HER SCRAPBOOK

  Contents

  To the Gentle (or Otherwise) Reader

  I PLAY UP—AND PLAY THE GAME

  II MR. HILLIARD TELLS ALL

  III THE THOUGHTS OF YOUTH ARE LONG, LONG THOUGHTS

  IV WE WERE GOING OUT TO DINNER

  V THE GOLDEN AGE

  VI I CONSIDER MR. CHIPS

  VII IT NEVER HELPS TO TALK ABOUT IT

  VIII MAY I HAVE THIS DANCE?

  IX ADVENTURES IN COMPANIONSHIP

  X BOYS AND GIRLS TOGETHER

  XI YOU’D BETTER ASK FRANK WILDING

  XII A GREAT EXPERIENCE, THE WAR

  XIII SOMETHING BASIC

  XIV LET ME DRAW A DIAGRAM

  XV I MAKE MY LETTER

  XVI I MUST GO DOWN TO THE SEAS AGAIN

  XVII WHEN THE GIRL YOU LOVE LOVES YOU

  XVIII I REMEMBER MARVIN MYLES

  XIX IT HAD TO HAPPEN SOMETIME

  XX FOR I’LL COME BACK TO YOU

  XXI GOOD–BY TO ALL THAT

  XXII KISS AND DON’T TELL

  XXIII FRANKLY, ONLY A SYMBOL

  XXIV I BREAK THE NEWS

  XXV IT’S A LONG, LONG WALK

  XXVI THE MUSIC GOES ROUND AND ROUND

  XXVII WE WESTERNERS LIKE OUR FISH

  XXVIII IT ALL ADDS UP TO SOMETHING

  XXIX WHAT DID I DO WRONG?

  XXX THEY POSSIBLY MIGHT START TALKING

  XXXI YOICKS—AND AWAY

  XXXII PALE HANDS I LOVE

  XXXIII RHINELANDER FOUR—

  XXXIV WITH PLEASURE RIFE

  XXXV HE WAS CERTAINLY LOW IN HIS MIND

  XXXVI TWO IN THE BOWL

  XXXVII HOME FROM THE HILL

  About the Author

  To the Gentle (or Otherwise) Reader

  If this novel, which deals with the imaginary problems of the imaginary Henry Pulham and his imaginary friends, is well enough written to hold a reader’s attention, it will be because my characters have assumed a transient reality in the reader’s mind, and on the strength of that illusion rests this book’s sole prospect of artistic success. If my characters can stand up by themselves in their inky world, the reader cannot help associating them with certain types of living persons, familiar to him in the realm of his own experience; for characters worth their salt in any novel from Richardson’s works down inevitably fall into some familiar life group. From this association, the reader may conceivably go further and state that one of these fictitious individuals is exactly like So-and-so of his own acquaintance. If he has ever known the writer, or has even known anybody who has known of him, he can speculate from whom in the author’s experience this character was drawn. This sort of thing forms the basis of a great deal of literary gossip among persons who have never written fiction.

  Of course any writer in any field whatever, every time he sets down a sentence, is translating his observation of life as he has known it. But when it comes to drawing a character from life and setting his personality upon the printed page, nearly every writer whom I have ever met will tell you that no actual human being is convincing in this highly artificial environment. Living men and women are too limited, too far from being typical, too greatly lacking in any universal appeal, to serve in a properly planned piece of fiction. A successful character in a novel is a conglomerate, a combination of dozens of traits, drawn from experience with hundreds of individuals, many of them half known and half forgotten; and all these traits have been transformed by passing through the writer’s mind. From a writer’s standpoint it takes a vast number of disconnected memories and impressions to create a satisfactory illusion of reality.

  Take Bo-jo Brown in this book for instance—he is intended to be recognized at once as a familiar type formed by college athletics. If he assumes any shape in these pages there should be something in him that strikes a responsive note in any reader who knows or has ever heard of his kind. I have seen a good many college athletes in various parts of the country, but Bo-jo Brown does not resemble any one of them. He is intended for a book. If he were to step out of the pages into a room he would be pathetically distorted. The same is true with Henry Pulham, Kay Motford, Bill King and all the rest of them. The same is true with the setting, and even the element of time must not be taken seriously. Only for the purpose of a dramatic frame and to illustrate changes in attitude and manners, the action begins and finally ends in 1939. Thus Henry and his classmates fall arbitrarily into the Class of 1915 at Harvard University, of which I am a member—but I never knew Henry or any of the others there, and neither did anybody else. They are intended to represent the ideas and thoughts of a certain social group, not limited to Boston or Cambridge, since this group exists in every other large community.

  When it comes to names, Sinclair Lewis has remarked that you must call characters something. In christening the characters in this book I have endeavored to give them simple names suitable to an everyday environment. If there are any real Bill Kings or Henry Pulhams or any others I assure them that their names appear by coincidence and with my apologies and that their namesakes are not patterned after them.

  This is not an essay on the art of fiction. It is only intended to explain the meaning and the purpose of the statement appearing so frequently in novels and repeated here—that all incidents and characters herein are entirely fictitious, and no reference is intended to any actual person, whether living or dead.

  JOHN P. MARQUAND

  Kent’s Island

  Newbury, Massachusetts

  1940

  I

  Play Up—and Play the Game

  Ever since Bo-jo Brown and I had gone to one of those country day schools for little boys, Bo-jo had possessed what are known as “qualities of leadership”; that is to say, he had what it takes to be the Head Boy of the School. Thus when we went on to St. Swithin’s it was almost inevitable that Bo-jo should end up in his last year as Head Warden, whose duty it was to administer the rough-and-ready justice of that period. They say that they don’t paddle recalcitrant boys as hard as they used to in our day, but then perhaps the younger generation doesn’t turn out such strong boys as Bo-jo.

  I heard him make some such remark himself on one of those numerous occasions when our college football team was not doing as well as one might have hoped.

  “The trouble with kids now is,” Bo-jo said, “they suffer from moral and mental hebetude.”

  Of course he knew perfectly well that none of us knew what “hebetude” meant—Bo-jo always had some trick like that up his sleeve.

  “My God,” Bo-jo said, “don’t you know what ‘hebetude’ means? You took English, didn’t you? If you don’t know, look it up in the dictionary.”

  It was safe to assume that Bo-jo hadn’t known what “hebetude” meant either, until he had read it somewhere a night or two before; but Bo-jo always had a way of using everything, because he had the qualities of leadership. That was why he became one of the marshals of the Class at Harvard and why he married one of the Paisley girls—and of course he didn’t have to worry much after that. He naturally became the president of the Paisley Mills in time.

  Some of the boys used to say Bo-jo was conceited, but Bo-jo was always able to do everything he said he could. He could walk up and down stairs on his hands, for instance, and he could memorize whole pages out of the telephone directory. It was only natural that he should have had his name on the Humphrey I. Wal
ker silver cup for THE BOY WHO MOST NEARLY TYPIFIES THE IDEALS OF ST. SWITHIN’S—and he could have had his name on other cups in later life, if they had given cups like that.

  I wondered occasionally why it was, as time went on, that there seemed to be quite a clique that did not like him. It certainly is a fact that when Bo-jo used to come around, five or six of us would always get into a corner and say things about him. Bill King, for instance, always used to say that Bo-jo was a bastard, a big bastard. Perhaps he meant that Bo-jo sometimes threw his weight around.

  “Some day,” Bill said, “someone is going to stop that bastard.” But then Bill never did like Bo-jo and Bo-jo never liked him either.

  I remember when Bill discussed him once at a big dinner party where everybody got swept together from odd corners and all the men were in the library and didn’t seem anxious to join the ladies. Bo-jo was telling what was the matter with the football team and what was going to happen to Electric Bond and Share, so you can guess the date, and I was sitting next to Bill, listening to Bo-jo’s voice.

  “My God,” said Bill, “I don’t see how you stand him.”

  “Bo-jo is all right,” I said.

  “Well,” Bill said, “it’s my personal opinion he’s a bastard.”

  “You said that before,” I said. “As a matter of fact, there’re lots of nice things about Bo-jo.”

  “The trouble with you is,” Bill said, “you always play the game.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with playing the game?” I asked.

  “Because you’re old enough not to be playing it,” Bill said.

  I knew what he meant in a way, because Bill came from New York and he had a different point of view.

  “Now, here’s one instance,” Bill said, “that brings out my point. What does everybody keep calling him Bo-jo for?”

  “Everybody’s always called him that,” I said.

  “That’s it,” Bill said. “As a matter of fact, his name is Lester—Lester Brown—and as you say, everybody has always called him Bo-jo. And I can imagine who called him Bo-jo first. His mother did. Probably the first thing he ever said was Bo-jo. Now, don’t you frankly think that’s perverted? If he had ever had a good kick in the pants—”

  “You never did like him,” I said.

  “He’s a bastard,” Bill said, “and he’s never had a kick in the pants.”

  “Well, if you only tried to know him—” I said. “If you only tried to like him, there are lots of nice things about Bo-jo. After all, he does a lot for the Class.”

  “My God,” said Bill, “what’s that got to do with it? Just because I was thrown by accident with six hundred people into an institution of learning why do I have to be loyal to the Class?”

  “You don’t really mean that, Bill,” I said.

  “Are you being serious?” Bill asked.

  “Well, more or less,” I said. “Of course it all was an accident, but the Class means something to a lot of people. A lot of people have got a lot out of it.”

  “What have they got?” Bill asked.

  “Well, I don’t know exactly,” I answered, “but we shared a common experience.”

  “And what sort of an experience?” said Bill. “And why should anyone be any better for sharing an experience with Bo-jo?”

  “Well,” I said, “you’re different. I’ve known Bo-jo almost all my life. He can be awfully nice when he wants to. I think a good deal of what you don’t like in his manner is because he’s shy.”

  “That’s the excuse they always make about snotty people,” Bill said. “They’re always shy. He ought to get a kick in the pants.”

  “You said that before,” I said.

  “And I’ll say it again,” said Bill, “because I like to say it. It gives me solid satisfaction. Someday he’s going—”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t believe he will, and if it ever happened, he would be too tough to feel it.”

  Bill began to laugh. It always pleased me when I made him laugh. He laughed so that his shirt bulged out in front and several people stopped talking.

  “Hey,” Bo-jo called across the room, “what’s the joke?”

  “Harry said your behind’s so tough you wouldn’t feel a kick in the pants,” Bill answered.

  Bo-jo thought it over for a second and then he began to laugh too.

  “You have to get on with people if you’ve known them all your life,” I told Bill, “and if you’re living in the same town and if their wives went to school with your wife, and besides we both belong to the same Lunch Club.”

  Bo-jo and I never ate at the same table at the Lunch Club, because he usually sat with old Mr. Blevins, who ran the Lowe Street Associates. Sometimes, however, we would find ourselves side by side at the row of washbasins downstairs.

  I don’t exactly know why I keep bothering so much about Bo-jo Brown. The reason must be that he signifies something which in some way explains a good deal about Bill and me. I was certainly surprised and pleased when he called me up and asked me to the Downtown Club for lunch, because nothing like that had happened for a long while and there was no reason why it should.

  We had called him Bo-jo so long that I did not know who he was when Miss Rollo told me that there was a Mr. Brown on the Number 3 extension.

  “I think he wants to speak to you personally,” Miss Rollo said.

  This sounded a good deal like Miss Rollo. She had been in the office for fifteen years, came from East Chelsea and lived with her mother, but sometimes she still got confused by the telephone.

  “Did he give any other name,” I asked, “besides Brown? There are lots of Browns.”

  Miss Rollo put her finger up to balance her pince-nez, which always had a way of slipping down the bridge of her nose.

  “I’ll ask him what his name is,” she answered.

  A minute later Miss Rollo was back. I had almost forgotten about the telephone call when she returned, because I was busy going over Mrs. Gordon Shrewsbury’s investment list, and I was wondering whether it would be better to sell out her Atchison. Rodney Graham only yesterday had said that they were selling out all their clients’ Atchison—not that there was anything bad about it, but that it was obvious that railroads no longer had any future.

  “The name is Lester,” Miss Rollo said.

  “I don’t know him,” I said. “What does he want?”

  “He wants to speak to you personally,” Miss Rollo said. “He seems to know you, Mr. Pulham. Perhaps he’s someone you play squash with.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Someone you play squash with,” Miss Rollo said. “Someone in the bumping tournament.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “All right. I’ll speak to him.”

  I walked across the room to the desk which had the Number 3 extension.

  “Hello,” I said. “Who is it?” And then I heard Bo-jo’s voice.

  “Is that you, Harry?” he called. “What’s the matter with you? It’s Bo-jo, Bo-jo Brown.”

  “Why, yes,” I said. “Hello, how are you, Bo-jo?”

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Bo-jo asked. “Are you so busy you can’t talk?”

  “No,” I said. “There was just a little mix-up here. They didn’t give your name right. How are you, Bo-jo?”

  “Fine. How are you?”

  “Well, I’m fine too,” I said.

  “Everything going all right?” Bo-jo asked.

  “Yes,” I told him, “everything is swell.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen you for quite a while. Why don’t you ever call me up, Harry?”

  “Well, you know the way it is,” I said.

  “Yes,” Bo-jo said, “that’s the way it is with me too. I’m so pushed around I never see the people I want to see. We ought to get together more often, shouldn’t we?”

  “Yes,” I said, “that’s right, Bo-jo.”

  “You and Kay must come out to dinner sometime.”

  “Yes,” I said, “that would be swell, Bo-
jo.”

  “Well,” Bo-jo said, “we’ll have to fix it up. We don’t see enough of each other, do we?”

  “No,” I said, “not nearly enough.”

  “Well, that’s the way it is,” Bo-jo said. “Now, we’ve got to stop it, Harry.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “We’ve got to stop it, Bo-jo.”

  The corners of my lips hurt and I discovered that they were twisted into a mechanical, cordial smile. I was rather touched by his just thinking of me and picking up the telephone, and I wondered why I never did things like that.

  “Well,” Bo-jo said, “I’ve been meaning to get hold of you for a hell of a long time. What are you doing for lunch today, Harry?”

  “For lunch?” I said. “Why, nothing, Bo-jo.”

  “Well,” Bo-jo said, “that’s swell. How about coming up to the Downtown Club where we can talk? Let’s see—it’s twelve now. Twelve-thirty, how about it?”

  “Why, thanks, Bo-jo,” I said. “I’d love to.”

  “Twelve-thirty,” Bo-jo said, “sharp.”

  I hung up the telephone and looked out of the window at the parking space opposite, where the office building had been torn down on account of taxes, and at the policeman in his white pulpit directing traffic. The sky was blue and cloudless, a clear April day. I was pleased that Bo-jo had called me up, but the idea of talking to him for an hour at lunch struck me as a little difficult.

  “Miss Rollo,” I said, “I’m having lunch with Mr. Brown at the Downtown Club. That was Bo-jo Brown, All-America tackle. We went to college together.”

  “Oh,” Miss Rollo said. “When will you be back, Mr. Pulham? Mr. Waterbury is coming to see you at two.”

  “Well, if I’m late tell him to wait,” I told her. “Or if he can’t wait, all the names for the bumping tournament are in the right-hand drawer of my desk. And if Mrs. Pulham calls up tell her I won’t be able to take Gladys home from dancing school this afternoon. Is there anything else, Miss Rollo?”

  Outside in the hallway the rear elevator came down very slowly. Once it had made me impatient to wait for it and once we had even complained about the service, but now its deliberation was not annoying. It was better to take things easily. The elevator was like a London lift. It was somewhere up above me, moving down in its iron-grilled cage with the marble staircase twisting about it. First there came a network of steel cables, looped beneath the car, and when they disappeared the car was there. The woman who ran it was in soiled gray with an overseas cap and she looked something like a hostess in the old American Expeditionary Force. Her name was Tilly and that was all I knew about her. Except for Tilly the elevator was empty.