As to your unstated but implicit allegorical suggestions:
I had known, of course, through our Academy agents, that you were working for some nebulous Third Force, and that you hoped to save the world with some message from Kleinbach. I knew even that you were present at Kleinbach’s deathbed. (Did it never occur to you that that baritone was too typically Populist to be anything but an Academy agent among Populists?)
I had not expected the message to come in this form, or with this, to me, peculiarly forceful impact.
Science and humanity have made of Parva something which she could never have become without science—and yet something which the more absolutely perfect Marchesi could never become at all.
The analogy may be worth pursuing.
Respectfully yours,
James Weddergren
As Arthur finished, Steele Morrison zoomed across to the unsorted welter of papers which he termed his filing cabinet.
“I got me a letter today too, babies,” he stated, brandishing a leaf of the same official note paper. “At first—hell, I don’t know—I thought it was a rib maybe. It’s about would I consider a cabinet post—me yet! And would I call at my earliest convenience with any suggestions as to psychological methods of preparation for a possible reintroduction of elections . . .”
Faustina opened her mouth and her throat. A three-octave run was as good a comment as any.
“Damn it,” Arthur exclaimed, “I feel like singing myself. Something great and stirring and human and free—Battle Hymn of the Republic or Thaelmanns-Kolonne or La Marseillaise!”
Faustina began it. Her voice was Man’s freedom, technically freed by science, spiritually free in its own ardor. “Allons, enfants de la patriel. . .”
“Hell!” shouted Steele Morrison, zooming toward the bar. “I know how to translate that: Come on, kids, let’s have a party!”
So they did.
Mr. Lupescu
The teacups rattled, and flames flickered over the logs.
“Alan, I do wish you could do something about Bobby.”
“Isn’t that rather Robert’s place?”
“Oh, you know Robert. He’s so busy doing good in nice abstract ways with committees in them.”
“And headlines.”
“He can’t be bothered with things like Mr. Lupescu. After all, Bobby’s only his son.”
“And yours, Marjorie.”
“And mine. But things like this take a man, Alan.”
The room was warm and peaceful; Alan stretched his long legs by the fire and felt domestic. Marjorie was soothing even when she fretted. The firelight did things to her hair and the curve of her blouse.
A small whirlwind entered at high velocity and stopped only when Marjorie said, “Bob-by! Say hello nicely to Uncle Alan.”
Bobby said hello and stood tentatively on one foot.
“Alan . . .” Marjorie prompted.
Alan sat up straight and tried to look paternal. “Well, Bobby,” he said. “And where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“See Mr. Lupescu ’f course. He usually comes afternoons.”
“Your mother’s been telling me about Mr. Lupescu. He must be quite a person.”
“Oh gee I’ll say he is, Uncle Alan. He’s got a great big red nose and red gloves and red eyes—not like when you’ve been crying but really red like yours’re brown—and little red wings that twitch only he can’t fly with them cause they’re rudder-mentary he says. And he talks like—oh gee I can’t do it, but he’s swell, he is.”
“Lupescu’s a funny name for a fairy godfather, isn’t it, Bobby?”
“Why? Mr. Lupescu always says why do all the fairies have to be Irish because it takes all kinds, doesn’t it?”
“Alan!” Marjorie said. “I don’t see that you’re doing a bit of good. You talk to him seriously like that and you simply make him think it is serious. And you do know better, don’t you, Bobby? You’re just joking with us.”
“Joking? About Mr. Lupescu?”
“Marjorie, you don’t— Listen, Bobby. Your mother didn’t mean to insult you or Mr. Lupescu. She just doesn’t believe in what she’s never seen, and you can’t blame her. Now, suppose you took her and me out in the garden and we could all see Mr. Lupescu. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Uh-uh.” Bobby shook his head gravely. “Not for Mr. Lupescu. He doesn’t like people. Only little boys. And he says if I ever bring people to see him, then he’ll let Gorgo get me. G’bye now.” And the whirlwind departed.
Marjorie sighed. “At least thank heavens for Gorgo. I never can get a very clear picture out of Bobby, but he says Mr. Lupescu tells the most terrible things about him. And if there’s any trouble about vegetables or brushing teeth, all I have to say is Gorgo and hey presto!”
Alan rose. “I don’t think you need worry, Marjorie. Mr. Lupescu seems to do more good than harm, and an active imagination is no curse to a child.”
“You haven’t lived with Mr. Lupescu.”
“To live in a house like this, I’d chance it,” Alan laughed. “But please forgive me now—back to the cottage and the typewriter . . . Seriously, why don’t you ask Robert to talk with him?’
Marjorie spread her hands helplessly.
“I know. I’m always the one to assume responsibilities. And yet you married Robert.”
Marjorie laughed. “I don’t know. Somehow there’s something about Robert . . .” Her vague gesture happened to include the original Degas over the fireplace, the sterling tea service, and even the liveried footman who came in at that moment to clear away.
Mr. Lupescu was pretty wonderful that afternoon, all right. He had a little kind of an itch like in his wings and they kept twitching all the time. Stardust, he said. It tickles. Got it up in the Milky Way. Friend of mine has a wagon route up there.
Mr. Lupescu had lots of friends, and they all did something
