The Bridge of San Thornton Wilder

Notes on a Lamentable Accident to Five Ambitious Writers, Who Wanted to Be Artists

JOHN RIDDELL

ON Friday noon, May the twentieth, 1928, the finest bridge in Modern Literature broke and precipitated five travelers into the gulf below. This bridge was on a very important highway, but only a few best-sellers had ever passed over it. Most of the travelers, laden with their numerous editions and their movie contracts and their lecture tours, had been content to go quietly down hundreds of feet below and pass one by one out of sight; but of the particular five of which we are speaking not one, not even Dona Fannie nor little E., not George Jean Esteban nor Don Vechten, not even old Uncle Tullio, had been content to descend with the other baggage rather than attempt to cross the famous bridge of San Thornton Wilder. Mr. Wilder himself had crossed it successfully not six months before, and now rested comfortably on the other side, in the little shrine that bears his name; and there was no reason that they could see why they should not follow him. It was in this way that the accident which we know befell them.

There was a great service in the Cathedral. The works of the victims were approximately collected, and approximately separated from one another, and there was a great reaction against Art (at least with a capital "A") in the beautiful city of New York. Authors returned phrases and sentences they had stolen from the classics, and resolved never again to attempt the pursuit of belles lettres. Writers wandered about in a trance-like state, writing; they had the hallucination of seeing themselves falling into the same gulf.

Every one was very deeply impressed, but only one person did anything about it, and that was Brother Riddell. By an odd series of coincidences, this little Critic from North Wales happened to be in New York, converting the Philistines, and he happened to witness the accident. Any other Critic might have said to himself with secret joy: "Five less books to review . . . !" But it was another thought that visited Brother Riddell: "Why did this happen to those five? Why, among the whole crowd of present writers, were these five particularly chosen to drop out of sight? Why not lose the whole bunch of them?" And so on that instant Brother Riddell made the resolve to inquire into the secret Ambitions of these five persons, that moment falling into oblivion like gesticulating ants, and to surprise the reason of their taking off.

The result of all this diligence was the present book, which, as we shall see later, was publicly roasted on a beautiful morning in the great square. Yet for all his diligence Brother Riddell never could decide the real reason for Dona Fannie's fall; nor for Uncle Tullio's, nor George Jean Esteban's, nor even little E.'s, nor Don Vechten's. For some say that these five had completed their work and were ready to be forgotten anyway, and some say, on the contrary, that it is what always happens when a Best-Seller tries to cross the narrow bridge from Prosperity to Posterity, and to become a Work of Art.

PART TWO: THE MARQUESA DE LUMMOX

Dona Fannie could have told you more good things about herself in a page of advertising copy than Brother Riddell could discover in years of research. But the Marquesa de Lummox has erred in one direction almost as much as Brother Riddell did in another: she has tried to invest herself with a host of graces, beauty, pace, meaning, which she did not possess; whereas all knowledge of this remarkable woman must proceed from her own published novels.

She was married to her Public while she was still in her tender thirties, and soon the lists of the best-sellers fairly teemed with her successes. Still she was not satisfied; and Avhen an exquisite Purpose was suddenly born to her, she fastened upon that child an idolatrous love. But her Purpose would have none of her. She soon began to criticise her mother's speech, her grammar, even her plots, and presently regard her with an astonishment and repulsion. The knowledge that she would never be loved in return by her Purpose acted upon Dona Fannie like salts upon a goose. In desperation she resorted to the flamboyant prose of her novels. She adopted a Style, in the faint hope her daughter might murmur: "My mother is charming." She wrote sentences for paragraphs, and words for sentences. She invented the adjective "fastidious". She insinuated herself into the Round Table of those who were celebrated for their conversation, and brought home their jewels of wit. At length, having completed her latest and most Artistic novel, she set out with it under her arm to attract the attention, perhaps the admiration, of her cherished Purpose.

Moreover she took as her companion in this journey an orphan known as little E., who wrote best-sellers about Napoleon and Lord Byron and the Exquisite Perdita, and who was prepossessed with the idea of Art herself. She chose little E. because she was the only one who could show Dona Fannie a thing or two in Fine Writing. It was hard, indeed, to tell which of them was the more Artistic, as they set out for Posterity together, clad in their flowing purple sentences, their plots knotted tightly about their waists and their fingers glittering with borrowed gems, and approached the narrow bridge of San Thornton Wilder.

Of course, that is the trouble with this kind of plot. As soon as I said that they were approaching the bridge of San Thornton Wilder, you knew perfectly well what was going to happen.

And sure enough, it happened.

PART THREE: GEORGE JEAN ESTEBAN

One day twin boys were discovered in the foundlings' basket before the door of the Convent of Santa Borzoi Alfred Samuel de las Blanches. Names were applied to them almost before the arrival of the wet-nurse, and indeed names have been applied to them with considerable vigour ever since. There was no way of knowing who their parents were, but local gossip, noticing as the boys grew older how aloof they held themselves and how smart and cynical they were, declared them to be Germanic and laid them in turn at all sorts of European doorways. As they grew up they gradually assumed the profession of the scribe, and made a fair living condemning plays, criticising books and publishing a monthly magazine called The Smart Set, wherein they printed advertisements of the merchants and achieved a reputation of sorts by refusing to approve of anything.

From the years when they first learned to speak, they invented a language for themselves, one that no one else could understand. This language was a curious mixture of old Teutonic phrases and 1890 slang words, such as sitzplatz and flapdoodle and weltschmerz, and it was the symbol of their profound identity with one another. No word is adequate to describe the tacit oneness of these brothers. There existed between them an admiration of one another so terrible that they could not recognize anyone else as their intellectual equal. Other people were stupid and queer and not quite bright. All the world was out of step except one's brother.

But at last the first shadow fell across this unity, and the shadow was cast by a mysterious lady in green. They had returned to the city and resumed the criticism of books and the theatre when the incident occurred of which we are speaking. It was almost midnight. George Jean Esteban had gone to bed, and lay gazing out from beneath the blankets at the candle by which his brother was still working. There was suddenly a light tap at the door, and H. L. Manuel opened to admit a visitor in a conspicuous jade-coloured jacket.

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She said hurriedly: "Quick, paper and ink. You are H. L. Manuel, yes? You write about letters for people, do you not? I want you to write about letters i for me, please."

"Yes, senora. You can trust me to do anything for you—anything."

"Do you swear by everything holy?"

"There is nothing holy to me, senora, I will do my best."

"There is your reward." She showed him his name, printed in very large letters: "H. L. Manuel, Editor of the Mercury," and then gathering her green jacket about her again, she left the room. Manuel put his hands over his ears, rested his elbows on his knees, and stared at his name fascinated. He became aware that Esteban was preparing to leave.

"Come back, you dummkopf." He was talking in their secret language. "Was ist los mit dir, Esteban?"

George Jean Esteban stood in the dark of the open door. In the unnatural voice in which we make the greatest declarations of our lives, he muttered: "I'm in your way," and turned to go.

Manuel leaped up and grasped his arm. "Come back here, Esteban, you fool. We shall be editors of the Mercury together."

Esteban came back and went to bed, and the matter was not mentioned again for many months. At the end of that time, for some reason or other, Manuel's name alone remained. Ceorge Jean Esteban packed his own ideas in a very small bag and set out by himself on the road to Posterity; and it was in this manner that he approached the bridge of San ThornI ton Wilder. Look out, Esteban. . . .

Heigh ho! Too late.

PART FOUR: UNCLE TULLIO

In one of her broadsides (the XXIXth) the Abbess of Santa Borzoi tried to describe the impression that Uncle Tullio "our Tramp Poet" made upon her: "Where have I seen that curious gesture ivith which he arrests the attention of a passing editor or publisher's nark and tvhispers, his lips laid against his victim's ear? He knows all the gossip of Our Ladies of Los Angeles, and I doubt whether the whole Pacific could wash him clean again. But what divine slander he speaks, and how little he says in it. That is what one gets by hanging around the studios and hearing only the conversation of Hollywood."

You should know first that Uncle Tullio was the handmaiden of Art. He was also her errand-boy, her confidante, her severest critic; rumour added: her lover.

Uncle Tullio came of a long line of hoboes, illegitimately. At an early age he ran away to New York and wrote his autobiography. He possessed the six attributes of a biographer—a memory for anecdotes; the gift of crude epigram; inexhaustible invention; bad grammar; the talent for falling into conversation with strangers; and that freedom from conscience that springs from contempt for friends. For a time he rode the rails; he traveled with a circus; he cooked, and mixed punches, sometimes with Jack Dempsey; he became a bum, and so drifted naturally to Hollywood. Here he hung about the backstairs of Los Angeles and whispered information into travelers' ears. He wrote biographies at so much a biography. As he approached maturity Uncle Tullio began to see that his life had three ambitions: In the first place he wanted to know the Best People. In the second place, he wanted to be always near Beautiful Women, and to be allowed, like a friendly and slightly foolish dog, to come and go in their rooms and write about them for the Fan Magazines. In the third place he longed to become an Artist. It was this third ambition, as we shall presently discover, that led to his downfall.

When Uncle Tullio discovered La Cinema, he immediately attached himself to her. Here at last was someone who was less intelligent than himself, someone who might consider him a great Artist. Here he could be crude, and virile, and daring. But La Cinema had decided to become a lady; and the first attributes of a lady were to get rid of her disreputable associates. In the earlier stages of her progress she had intimated to Uncle Tullio that he was not to be seen with her in public; finally she dismissed him altogether. Tearfully he bade her farewell in her million-dollar early Spanish villa in the hills.

"I shall tell Art on you," he began. "I shall go to Posterity without you."

"Mother of God," she cried impatiently, "when shall I be rid of this dreadful person. Go. Stay away from me. And take my little Carl away with you!"

"Who is Carl, Milady?"

"He is that odd little boy who is also hanging around here, writing about me. His real name is Don Vechten, and he is the plague of my existence. You will find him at the Hotel Ambassador (adv.). Go to Art."

The next day Uncle Tullio and little Carl set out together, with their books on Hollywood packed under their arms. They were both bound for Posterity and the Higher Things; but Don Vechten was often given to convulsions, especially in print, and consequently their progress was slow. As they reached the bridge of San Thornton Wilder, they set foot simultaneously on the passageway. Oooops. . . .

Zowie!!!

PART FIVE: PERHAPS AN INTENTION

I shall spare you Brother Riddell's generalizations. They are always with us. His book being done was promptly declared heretical, and it was ordered to be publicly roasted, along with its author. As he was being led from his cell, strange thoughts passed through his mind. "Even now," he thought, "almost no one remembers George Jean Esteban and Dona Fannie and Uncle Tullio and Don Vechten and little E. but myself. And when I die these five and perhaps many others, will be entirely forgotten. All these shall perish with me. It is the least I can do for Literature."

And so he called twice upon San Thornton Wilder, and leaning upon a little flame he smiled and died.