Mr. Bridge_ A Novel - Evan S. Connell [86]
91 Houyhnhnm
Soon she was gone. Each evening when he returned from the office he hoped to find her at home, or to hear that she had called from New York saying she was coming home; and each evening he inquired if there had been a letter. She wrote seldom, and briefly, addressing the letters to Mr. and Mrs. Walter G. Bridge, and although these letters were meant for them both he knew that she wrote with her mother in mind.
But one day there was a letter for him at the office. He hesitated before slitting the familiar lilac-tinted envelope; he was holding it in both hands like a gift when Julia marched in carrying her stenographic pad. He said he would be ready in a moment and as she returned to the outer office he opened the letter, sniffed the perfume, and then began to read. She had found a job with a women’s magazine, so that was good news, yet he sensed there was more to the letter than this announcement. On the fourth page she got around to it; she wanted money for an avant-garde magazine called Houyhnhnm, which was to be published by some new friends of hers. The first issue already was laid out, and as soon as there was enough money it would be printed. A corporation was being formed. “Friends of Literature and Art” were cordially invited to buy shares of stock in this company at five dollars per share. Ruth was positive he would like to buy at least one hundred shares. As soon as the magazine was a success—as soon as it had a national reputation, plenty of advertising, and a big subscription list—the Board of Directors would decide how much of a dividend to pay the shareholders. This was a marvelous opportunity to make money, the magazine was going to be a tremendous success because so many talented people were working on it, and she hoped he would send the five hundred dollars as soon as possible. The certificates had not yet been printed because the printer insisted on his money in advance; but she was sure there was not going to be any problem because Houyhnhnm already had more than a dozen one-year subscriptions and one two-year subscription, and her friend Steve Cook, who was the advertising manager, had an appointment to see the vice-president of one of the big publishing houses about the possibility of a full-page ad.
With the letter she enclosed a mimeographed sheet announcing the imminent publication of this magazine, described as a “long-awaited Quarterly of New Writing, Ideas & Art,” listing the contents of the first issue, a partial table of contents for the second issue, and giving biographies of the editors. Glancing through this information he noted that the editor-in-chief and at least two other members of the staff, judging from their names, were Jews. When anything having to do with art or music was announced there were Jews involved. Why this was, he did not know, but he faintly resented it. In any case, he had made up his mind about Houyhnhnm the instant he realized what it was. He dropped the mimeographed sheet in the wastebasket.
Then he read Ruth’s letter again, not for what she was telling him about her job or the avant-garde magazine but because it came from her. He thought he would keep the letter in his desk instead of taking it home. Months might pass before she wrote to him again at the office.
The magazine, of course, would fail. The so-called corporation would never pay one cent to anybody. Shares of Houyhnhnm would always be as worthless as they were at this moment. Yet he wanted to send her the money. But that was buying her love, which he could not do. When he answered the letter he wrote that they could discuss the magazine’s prospects while he was in New York; he was coming East on business in about two weeks, would be in New York for approximately three days, and looked forward to seeing her.
92 7:42 A.M.
He arrived in New York after midnight, so he did not telephone her; he took a taxi from the station to his hotel and after leaving a call for seven thirty he brushed his teeth,