So Little Time (52 page)

Jeffrey did not answer. There was no reason why Minot should not have nice hands and a nice sit, since he had given a great deal of attention to them.

“An old friend?” the Prince asked.

Considering everything, it seemed kind of the Prince to be interested.

“Ever since the last war,” Jeffrey said.

The horse was trotting now, snorting and throwing its head. The Prince's voice was warmer. All Russians had a social sense, and now he and the Prince had something in common.

“Ah,” the Prince said, “you were a soldier?”

“Aviation,” Jeffrey said.

“Ah,” the Prince said, and he laughed for no particular reason. “That was a war.”

“Different from this one,” Jeffrey said.

“Ah, no,” the Prince answered. “All war is the same, I think. Just war.”

“I suppose you know,” Jeffrey said.

A part of Jeffrey's attention was upon Minot and that horse, now moving at a slow, collected gallop, and part on what the Prince was saying, and part on his own thoughts. The Prince had wrinkled his forehead in a polite, exaggerated interrogation.

“Perhaps you can tell me something, sir,” he said. “With my people, war has seemed natural. With so many here, they do not seem to understand this. It seems to shock them very deeply.”

“They're far away from it,” Jeffrey said.

“Yes,” the Prince said, “yes. It is amusing for me to think of.”

“How do you mean, it's amusing?” Jeffrey asked.

“For me it is amusing,” the Prince said, “to hear them talk. For me, I am lonely in this war. I can stand and look, because I do not care.”

His detachment was tranquil and refreshing.

“I see what you mean,” Jeffrey said.

There was the sound of thudding hoofbeats all around them.

“I can see the combinations,” the Prince said, “and I wish that I might care.”

“I don't know—” Jeffrey said—“I wish I didn't.”

“No,” the Prince said, “believe me, it is better to care.”

They were silent for a moment, and then Jeffrey asked a question because the answer that the Prince might give to it could have some authority.

“Who's going to win?” he asked.

“I think,” the Prince said, “no one will win. You see, I know about war very well, I think.” Then he called to Minot. “He does better today.”

“Yes,” Minot called back, “he's all right.”

Then Jeffrey asked another question and he was reluctant to ask it, because he was afraid that he would believe the answer. “Do you think we'll get into it?” he asked.

“Why, surely,” the Prince said. “Our friend has nice hands.”

The riding ring felt cold and the Prince seemed to be lost in thoughts of his own.

“If I might fight,” he said, “I should like to fight the Japanese. I do not like those people very much.” The Prince reached in his pocket and drew out an enameled cigarette case. “Please,” he said. “People here are so disturbed by what is inevitable. I do not understand it.”

“You're a fatalist, aren't you?” Jeffrey said.

The Prince laughed very heartily.

“My dear,” he said, and it sounded like a literal translation from
War and Peace
, “I and all my people are, I am very glad to say. Shall we set the jump up now?”

“Yes,” Minot called. “Put it up at three feet six. Let's go.”

The Prince gave a sharp order and the man in overalls moved the jumping standards.

“That fellow,” the Prince said, “was a soldier. Please.”

The Prince lighted a match unhurriedly, and held it out to Jeffrey.

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, “thank you,” and he bent over the Prince's small, delicate hand to light his cigarette. For some reason it was comforting to stand by someone who could view the future without emotion.

“Our friend,” the Prince said, “tells me you leave for Hollywood.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “next week.”

“I do not understand,” the Prince said. “Most of them ride poorly in the films. I might teach them, do you think?”

“Do you mean,” Jeffrey said, “you want to go to Hollywood?”

Of all the places the Prince might want to go, it seemed the least plausible.

“It has always been my dream to go there,” the Prince said. “If you should see a chance for me, tell me please.”

Jeffrey nodded. Suddenly the Prince had shrunk into a fallible little man, no longer to be taken seriously, slightly sad, perhaps amusing, like Jeffrey himself and like everyone else. His words had lost their value. He still wanted something; he still had something to lose and something to gain, like everyone else, and what was worse, the thing he wanted was exactly the same as the thing desired by some little girl behind a drugstore lunch counter.

The jumping standards were up just opposite them, and Minot walked the horse to the center of the ring, so close that Jeffrey could feel the warmth from the animal's sweating shoulder.

“What are you two talking about?” Minot asked.

“Philosophy, my dear,” the Prince answered.

“Well,” Minot said, “let's go.”

He put the horse in a canter and went squarely at the jump. It looked effortless and easy.

“All right,” Minot called, “put it up to four.”

There was the same thudding of the hoofs. The Prince's eyes narrowed and he flicked the ash of his cigarette.

“He is very nice,” the Prince said softly.

“Have you tried him over five?” Minot called.

“No,” the Prince called back, “not five. The ring is small.”

“All right,” Minot called, “put it up to five.”

Minot looked as young as he had looked years ago. His face was lighted by a sort of concentration that was entirely selfless.

“I thought so,” Jeffrey said, “he wants to break his neck.”

“Do you think?” the Prince asked, and he glanced at Jeffrey quickly and back to the jumping standard. “I do not think. I think it is he likes to live.”

The Prince's face was like Minot's, absorbed and watchful.

“Very nice,” the Prince said. “He is—very nice.”

You could not tell whether he meant that Minot was a very nice horseman or a very nice man. You could not tell anything about the Prince. As the horse rounded the curve and approached the short stretch before the jump, Minot brought his crop down hard and Jeffrey watched his friend's face. Minot seemed to have recaptured something that Jeffrey never could. He was leaning forward. The horse reached with its neck toward the jump and Jeffrey could see the reins slither through Minot's fingers.

“Now,” he heard the Prince say softly, “now,” and then the Prince raised his voice. “Very nice,” he called, “very nice.”

His eyes were on the jump, watching the horse sail through the air. Then there was a bell-like sound, made from wood struck heavily, followed by a crash. The horse had landed, entangled somehow with the falling bar, stumbling, throwing Minot forward, half out of the saddle.

“The wrong lead,” the Prince called, “was it not?” The horse stood trembling, and Minot slid from the saddle. Minot seemed to be considering the proper answer to the Prince's question. He turned back toward the fallen jumping standard and pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his riding breeches and mopped the perspiration from his forehead.

“No, the lead was right,” he said. “He wasn't going, that's all.”

He turned and looked at the horse. “Maybe I didn't give him enough. Maybe I'm getting old.”

“Oh, no,” the Prince said, and he laughed. “No, no, not that.”

Minot slapped his hands softly against the horse's neck and looked back at Jeffrey and the Prince. His face no longer looked young.

“I've seen it happen,” Minot said. “You get too careful. You think too much.” He smiled. “Maybe I should have died young.”

The Prince laughed very heartily.

“Oh, no,” he said, “not that. In this ring, five feet is very high.”

Then Minot laughed.

“There you go,” he said. “You wouldn't have put it that way, either—once.” The Prince was silent and Jeffrey could hear the twittering of the sparrows on the iron girders over head.

“I was a very big fool,” the Prince said, “once.”

Then Jeffrey cleared his throat.

“All right,” he said, “you're old, so what? You're both old enough to know better.”

But Minot and Prince Valsky only looked at him as though he were speaking another language, and then Minot ran his hand carefully over the horse's forelegs.

“He isn't cut,” he said. “Put it up again.” He climbed back into the saddle and took off his coat and then he walked the horse to the little grandstand and tossed the coat over the railing.

“Old enough to know better,” the Prince said to Jeffrey. “I do not like that saying. One should never know better.”

Jeffrey did not answer.

“He wasn't going,” Minot called across the ring. Minot walked the horse slowly toward the jump, halted in front of it and touched the bar with his hand, and turned the horse. The Prince reached in his pocket and drew out his enameled cigarette case.

“Please,” he said.

“Oh,” Jeffrey said, “thank you.”

Minot had turned the horse back toward the jump.

“In war,” the Prince said. “I say all war is the same in the end. I shall tell you why. Please.”

He struck a match and Jeffrey leaned forward to light his cigarette.

“War is a matter of killing,” the Prince said. “In this war, not enough have been killed. In this war, no one will win, unless more are killed. I ask you, how can it happen? There is not an opportunity.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “I see what you mean.”

“Now,” the Prince said, “he will try again.”

The Prince blew a cloud of cigarette smoke and stared through it at the jump. The ring was very still again. The whole procedure proved absolutely nothing, and yet Jeffrey felt very nervous, very tense.

“Mr. Wilson,” the Prince said softly, “I shall tell you something.”

An intensity in the Prince's dark eyes made it seem as though the Prince had touched him.

“I think it is what living is for, perhaps. I think, I am not sure.”

Jeffrey's thoughts were pounding through his head with the gallop of the horse. The horse was rounding the turn and straightening into the stretch. He saw the white of Minot's shirt and heard the crack of Minot's riding crop, and suddenly he felt envious. Minot had everything he wanted, everything.

“Hi,” the Prince called, “hi,” and he slapped his hands together as though he could raise that horse into the air.

“Ah,” the Prince called. “Bravo!” And he slapped Jeffrey's shoulder hard.

They had cleared the jump and when it was over the whole thing seemed simple. Minot was resting his weight in the saddle again, pulling the horse down gently to a stop.

“It was just the way he was going,” Minot said. “Well, that's all.”

The attendant was holding the horse's head and Minot walked quickly across the ring and reached for his coat.

“Well,” Minot said, “it's getting late. Good-by, Ermak,” and he shook hands with the Prince.

“Good-by,” the Prince said, “it was very nice. Good-by, Mr. Wilson. If you should think, remember me at Hollywood.”

Minot was singing beneath his breath:—

“I'm going to a happy land, where everything is bright,

Where highballs grow on bushes, and we stay out every night.”

“What is that,” the Prince asked, “that tune?”

Minot laughed. His face looked warm and gay.

“‘Where highballs grow on bushes,'” he said, “‘and we stay out every night.' Well, I'll be in next week, Ermak. Jeff, you'll come back to the apartment with me, won't you?”

They were in the reception room by then, and the woman in black was helping them with their coats.

“It has been a pleasure,” the Prince said, “believe me, really.”

“You're coming back with me, aren't you?” Minot asked him again.

“Yes,” Jeffrey answered, “I want to talk to you about something.”

The car was moving eastward to the Drive through Central Park. The afternoon was like so many other incidents which Jeffrey had experienced: time would smooth it the way water smoothed a rock, removing from it all the edges of individuality. He would not remember, because he had seen too much—too many people, too many faces, all of which were merged in the trivialities of every day. As Minot leaned back, Jeffrey envied him, not only his happiness, but the simplicity of his happiness. Minot could make everything he saw and did fit into definite standards, as though he had worked out some problem to his satisfaction when he was young, and had kept working it out again and again, without erasing or correcting the addition or adding new equations and proportions.

“‘I'm going to a happy land,'” Minot was humming, “‘where everything is bright, Where the highballs grow on bushes, and we stay out every night.'”

They were crossing Central Park. Jeffrey could see the bare trees and the melting snow, reflecting faintly the color of the sky in the late afternoon, but he knew Minot did not notice. Minot was thinking of the war.

He was like all those other people in the Contact Club, whose minds continually turned back to 1918; and the Prince had been thinking about the war—in a different way, but thinking of it, wanting it back again. They had not considered it as something that was over, and perhaps Jeffrey had been wrong, and they had been right. Perhaps it had never been over.

“‘I'm going to a happy land,'” Minot was humming.

“Minot,” Jeffrey said, “if you'd just as soon, would you hum something else?”

32

He Didn't Have Much Time