The Last Gentleman

sniffed it, it smelled not of Montaigne but of a person who might quote Montaigne on such a night as this, an entirely different matter.
    â€œWait—” he stopped in a dapple of light and leaves and snapped his fingers softly. That was what his father used to say. He too quoted Montaigne on a summer night but in a greener, denser, more privy darkness than this. The young man in the park snapped his fingers again. He stood a full minute, eyes closed, swaying slightly. He raised a hand tentatively toward the West.
    Yonder was not the alp but the levee, and not the lamp in the trees but the street light at Houston Street and De Ridder. The man walked up and down in the darkness under the water oaks. The boy sat on the porch steps and minded the Philco, which clanked and whirred and plopped down the old 78’s and set the needle hissing and voyaging. Old Brahms went abroad into the summer night. West, atop the levee, couples sat in parked cars. East, up De Ridder, from the heavy humming ham-rich darkness of the cottonseed-oil mill there came now and then the sound of Negro laughter.
    Up and down the man walked and spoke to the boy when he passed the steps. More cars came nosing discreetly up the levee, lights out and appearing to go by paws, first left then right. The man grew angry.
    â€œThe prayer meeting must be over,” said the man ironically.
    Out poured old Brahms, the old spoiled gorgeous low-German music but here at home surely and not in Hamburg.
    â€œWhat do they expect,” said the man now, westbound. He took his turn under the street light and came back.
    â€œNow they,” he went on, nodding to the east. “They fornicate and the one who fornicates best is the preacher.”
    The Great Horn Theme went abroad, the very sound of the ruined gorgeousness of the nineteenth century, the worst of times.
    â€œBut they,” he said to the levee—“they fornicate too and in public and expect them back yonder somehow not to notice. Then they expect their women to be respected.”
    The boy waited for the scratch in the record. He knew when it was coming. The first part of the scratch came and he had time to get up and hold the tone arm just right so the needle wouldn’t jump the groove.
    â€œWatch them.”
    â€œYes sir.”
    â€œYou just watch them. You know what’s going to happen?”
    â€œNo sir.”
    â€œOne will pick up the worst of the other and lose the best of himself. Watch. One will learn to fornicate in public and the other will end by pissing in the street. Watch.”
    The man stayed, so the boy said, “Yes sir.”
    â€œGo to whores if you have to, but always remember the difference. Don’t treat a lady like a whore or a whore like a lady.”
    â€œNo sir, I won’t.”
    The record ended but the eccentric groove did not trip the mechanism. The boy half rose.
    â€œIf you do one, then you’re going to be like them, a fornicator and not caring. If you do the other, you’ll be like them, fornicator and hypocrite.”
    He opened his eyes. Now standing in the civil public darkness of the park, he snapped his fingers softly as if he were trying to remember something.
    Then what happened after that? After he —
    Leaning over, he peered down at the faint dapple on the path. After a long moment he held up his watch to the lamplight. After a look around to get his bearings, he walked straight to the corner of the park and down into the BMT subway.
    Yet he could scarcely have been in his right mind or known exactly where he was, for what he did next was a thing one did at home but never did here. He dropped in. He walked up to Rita’s apartment in the Mews and knocked on the door at eight thirty in the evening.
    Kitty answered the door. Her mouth opened and closed. She could not believe her eyes. He defied the laws of optics.
    â€œOh,” she said, fearing either to look at him or to take her eyes from him.
    â€œLet’s walk up the street,” he said. “It’s a nice night.”
    â€œOh, I’d love to,” she cried, “but I can’t. Give me a rain check.” She was managing somehow both to stand aside and to block the doorway.
    â€œLet’s go ride the ferry to Staten Island.”
    â€œOh, I can’t,” she wailed like an actress.
    â€œAren’t you going to ask me in?” he said after a moment.
    â€œWhat? Oh. Oh. ” But instead of standing