“Forgive me!” Cornelia interposed, with a delightful wave of her hand flagging the onrush of the novelist’s volubility. “Before Mr. Willys begins to speak seriously, suppose we adjourn to the library. You remember that Oliver is likely to lose his temper if I keep him too long at the table fiddling with cigarettes.”
IV
VERNON WILLYS ON BACCHIC ECSTASY
I have never had leisure to examine the books in the library which range from floor to ceiling. Sargent’s portrait of Cornelia at twenty-five hangs above the fireplace. When we had relaxed in Oliver’s wonderful library chairs before a real log fire, and had been equipped with an ambassadorial type of cigar, which the elder Carib lighted for us, and had been fortified by the highest potency of a private stock of real Java coffee, we men, at least, were in a position to contemplate the approaching midnight with equanimity. As soon as this change of base had been fully effected, Cornelia, who seldom loses the connection of things, irradiated the novelist with her most hospitable smile. (I sometimes think my feeling for her is pure intellectual respect for her skill in keeping a good topic alive and not letting conversation die out in small talk.) She smiled and said:—
“Mr. Willys, you were just about to speak seriously, when I interrupted. Please speak seriously, Mr. Willys. We are all most anxious to have you.”
“Oh, my point of view, you mean?” said Willys. I admired his ability to find it again so quickly. “Speaking seriously, I can’t—for more or less obvious reasons—take as calmly as His Excellency does the poor man’s loss of pleasures. I appeal from the tyranny of our recent moral legislation to my constitutional guaranties of liberty and the right to pursue my happiness where I can find it. I agree with the Senator that the whole business is idiotic. It is idiotic impertinence to dictate what I shall eat and drink at my own table, or what I shall brew in my own cellar.”
“If you had a cellar?” suggested Cornelia, rather spitefully reminding us of Willys’s arrangements to leave his house in New Jersey to his wife, and his wife to his house. But, as I have said, she is firm on such points.
“Spare the wormwood, Cornelia darling,” Oliver blandly interceded. “But, Willys, if you have a better remedy for our present discontents than mine, don’t conceal it from the country. Everyone is clamoring for it. Only be sure it is a remedy. Be sure it rests firmly on the necessities of the situation. There is no use in talking of anything else.”
“I’ll tell you my remedy,” said Willys, “when I get done telling you my troubles. I object to governmental regulation of my diet. But I object even more to governmental corruption of my conscience. God knows I need what little I’ve got left, and I’d like to keep it pure. I protest against the creation of crime by Act of Congress. My conscience tells me that moderate drinking is not a crime, but one of the few certain solaces in this chaotic world.”
“I had always fancied,” said Cornelia, “that those who find drink a ‘certain solace’ are seldom very moderate.”
But the cork, so to speak, was out of Willys’s bottle. He flowed on unchecked.