The Henry Clay Slip Covers

THE slip covers are dark brown with a pattern of pale yellow roses, gray plumes, and silver grapes. I chose the material willfully at a New York shop even though the neighbors in Scarsdale advised against chintz as being out of fashion. Also I made still another gesture of independence. I ordered the shop to send one of its own men out to my house to cut and fit the slip covers, rather than have them made by a dressmaker from White Plains or a tailor’s assistant from New Rochelle.

The man arrived promptly on the promised day. I opened the door for him, and, once he stood in the hallway, could not help feeling faintly astonished at his appearance. I don’t know just what I had expected, but certainly not this slender, rather haughty young Jewish gentleman with a pince-nez, who bowed to me austerely. He was very well dressed, and held his pale gray hat with a white, rather elegant hand.

Almost as breathlessly as a pupil in the presence of a professor, I explained my preferences about slip covers. The large chairs, the davenport, and the side chairs were pointed out to what seemed like an indifferent and somewhat disdainful gaze. However, politely enough, though a trifle brusquely, he discussed ruffles and pipings. Then he took off his coat, produced scissors, and unrolled the material.

Apparently I was no longer needed. I remarked hesitantly that I was upstairs, and if he found any difficulties he could call to me. I went back to my desk in my bedroom, prepared to forget him, since he seemed so capable and assured. Rut after about fifteen minutes I heard a very excited voice cry out, ‘Madam! Madam!’

It astonished me, and I went down on the run, thinking that at least he had run the scissor blade into an artery. As I came to the foot of the stairs, I saw him standing in the centre of the living room. His eyes were glistening behind his glasses, his narrow, intellectual face seemed almost luminous with the reflection from some inner flame of enthusiasm, his air of austerity was quite gone.

‘Oh, madam,’ he exclaimed joyously, ‘you have a picture of Henry Clay!’

I stared at him stupidly.

‘I have a what?’

‘A picture of Henry Clay,’ he repeated, still glowing, ‘right here in this room.’

‘But I haven’t,’ I contradicted mildly, ‘I haven’t at all.’

‘But, madam, you have. I know a great deal about Henry Clay. I have seen many pictures of him. That is certainly a picture of Henry Clay over there in the corner.’

I looked in the direction of his pointing finger, which appeared to be actually trembling with his excitement, and saw the miniature which he had mistaken for Henry Clay.

‘Oh, that!’ I said. ‘That’s Grandpa.’

I wanted to laugh, but he evidently was a painfully serious young man, who didn’t like to be wrong. His bewilderment and disappointment made him almost pathetic.

‘I suppose it does look a little like Henry Clay,’ I went on soothingly. ‘The same sort of collar, and the style of the coat and all.’

He went over to the miniature, and, adjusting his glasses more firmly on his nose, peered at the little painting for some time. Then he drew up with a deep sigh, shaking his head.

‘I would certainly have thought that was a picture of Henry Clay.’

He surveyed me somewhat broodingly for a moment, then he said sharply, ‘You know who Henry Clay was, don’t you?’

Completely disregarding my murmur that I had heard of him, he burst out in a torrent of explanations: —

‘He was one of our greatest conservative statesmen. I have a big book all about our statesmen. Every evening, after my work, I go home and I read about them. Henry Clay I admire most of all. A conservative — a great man. Ah, that’s what we need in this country to-day — conservative statesmen! ‘

‘Don’t you think conservatism is a little unpopular at present?’ I managed to inquire.

‘Oh no, no,’ he replied earnestly. ‘It is our greatest need.’

He went across the room for another long stare at my grandfather’s miniature, then again straightened up, this time brightening with a hopeful idea.

‘Perhaps you’re some relation of Henry Clay’s?’ he suggested.

‘No,’ I said, ‘absolutely no relation of Henry Clay’s.’

By that time I began to look around me, wondering if all his time, up to this point, had been spent examining my shabby old belongings, or if any work had been done on the slip covers. Perhaps he interpreted my glance, for he relinquished Henry Clay momentarily and went over to the davenport, where the chintz lay spread out, and began snip-snipping once more.

At noon I carried in some luncheon for him on a tray. He sat down at a small table to eat it, almost entirely surrounded by a sea of brown chintz. I thought he had forgotten his obsession, but I was mistaken. When I returned later to ask him if he would like anything more, he looked up at me very graciously, and said, ‘Now these beans — I must say I like the way you cook them. Usually I never eat green vegetables. They don’t agree with me. But these beans — well, they’re cooked .’

He emphasized the word so strongly that I got the ridiculous impression that ordinarily, in the course of his day’s work, he was turned out in a garden to chew on raw ones. We chatted very amiably for a few moments about cooking and eating. Then I saw the candor of his face clouding over. The eyes behind the glinting glasses watched me sorrowfully, hopefully. Finally, he said, ‘Are you sure you’re not any relation to Henry Clay?’

Probably I should have lied to him. It would have made his day a memorable one, and he could have carried home a piece of the brown chintz to use as a marker in his book about statesmen. But I clung with steady brutality to the truth.

‘ Yes, I’m sure,’ I said without a smile. But he merely looked baffled as he took up his fork to spear the remaining beans.

About half past three I heard my eleven-year-old son James come hanging in from school. James is a thin, scholarly, ascetic boy who dislikes changes, innovations, or any variation of routine. I supposed he must be surveying the chintz all over the living room, as well as the strange man at work there, because I heard him say, ‘Well, well, what’s all this confusion about?’

Apparently there was a well-meant murmur from the slip-cover man, but it didn’t suffice.

‘Mother!’ roared James up the stairs. ‘What’s going on here?’

I shouted, ‘Slip covers!’ and he went back to the living room. I heard voices carrying on what seemed an endless conversation. I thought to myself that, between Henry Clay and James, the slip covers either would never be finished in one day or else would be an abominably bad job. After a long while James went out and silence descended.

Finally the man was done. I went downstairs to find that he had tidied up the living room, his work was rolled up in a neat package under his arm, and he stood in the hall buttoning his fashionably cut coat. I offered to drive him to the station, but he refused, saying that he enjoyed walking through the country landscape. Such a description of cluttered Scarsdale so stunned me that I did not realize for a moment that he was still speaking. The first words that I really heard had a somewhat ominous sound.

‘One thing I want to say before I leave this house — ‘

(‘Oh, oh, what now?’ I thought.)

‘You have here a very bright boy. He has a great grasp of the English language. He chooses his words. He thinks before he speaks.’

(‘What did that wretched boy say?’ I agonized.)

The slip-cover man paused for a moment, eyeing me steadily before he fired his parting shot.

‘He is very conservative,’ he added at last. ‘Some day he should be a statesman!’

He went out, closing the door softly behind him.

The slip covers came home eventually. They are neatly and smartly finished, they fit to perfection. They give my dilapidated room such an air that sometimes I wonder, myself, if I am not related to somebody else besides Grandpa.

WINIFRED WELLES