Special Friend
At least once in a lifetime, everyone should experience the opportunity of meeting and exchanging a few words with a truly well-known personage. More often than not, the effect of such encounters has been known to initiate the stuff of dreams, or, at least food for thought, that might even lead to influencing one’s life.
As a young boy growing up in a diplomatic family moving about throughout the world, I found myself meeting a number of high-profile personalities from time to time: politicians, warlords, maharajas, khans, beys, ambassadors, and even movie stars. Early on, I began to appreciate how privileged I was in meeting such distinguished individuals. In those formative years, however, I never fully appreciated either their intellect or their contributions to society. That is, until Dad came up with a suggestion. Very simply, he encouraged me to research beforehand each individual of note I was to meet. Dad’s was a powerful, lasting lesson. After all, even people of note enjoy talking about themselves.
In 1951, at 14 years of age and a new freshman at St. George’s School in Middletown, RI, I befriended a day-student classmate, Reuel Wilson. Most of my new friends seemed like regular, but sometimes boring, cool guys. Reuel wasn’t like most of the other freshmen. While of average stature, though big-boned and solid he didn’t come across as being athletic. His wide natural face had great expression further enhanced by tousled reddish hair, freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, and a quirky, but subtle smile that often telegraphed his thoughts. Much of the time he kept to himself. To some extent, Reuel came across as shy. His interests were dissimilar from most of my friends. In class it soon became apparent he was smart and inquisitive. It took a while before Reuel and I got to know one another. After all, I too came across as being somewhat shy and, by some, as a loner. From my perspective many of his attributes appealed to me.
Mother: Mary McCarthy
During our growing but all-to-short friendship, one Saturday, Reuel invited me to visit his home in Middletown just outside Newport, RI. Having been dropped off at his house by Mom, Reuel took me into his house to meet his mother. I recall the house was old with large rooms and high ceilings. In stark contrast with my home, Reuel's house was in total disarray. Once inside, we arrived in a spacious, lighted, obviously busy office. Hundreds of books were scattered everywhere. Several pairs of spectacles, packs of cigarettes and partially filled glasses could be seen lying about on a large working table desk in the room. Scads of crumpled, yellow sheets from legal pads had been discarded haphazardly across the floor. The two waste baskets were nearly empty. I realized how interesting sleuthing (the art of observation) had recently captured my fancy, another discipline encouraged by my father.
As Reuel and I walked into the busy office, we met Reuel’s mother. Earlier I had learned that Reuel was her only son. His mother was sitting in front of her desk facing us with a lighted cigarette between her lips. Her eyes smarted from the smoke swirling about her. With little expression, she stood up with welcoming arms outstretched. She hugged both of us perfunctorily rattling off motherly expressions of welcome in her gravelly voice. In turn, I responded, “How do you do, Ms. McCarthy?”
Having arrived at Reuel’s house and before I left our car, Mom in her usual fashion had reminded me of the appropriate introductory salutation, “How do you do?” Mom always worked at brushing up her children’s social graces. But this time she reminded me pointedly that Reuel Wilson’s mother’s name was not “Mrs. Wilson.” Rather, her nom de plume was “Mary McCarthy.”
Other than she being Reuel’s mom, I knew little about “Mary McCarthy,” the least of which was her huge, and then still-growing, literary reputation. Nor had I been informed that Mom had actually known of Mary McCarthy ever so slightly through their common alma mater, Vassar College. They had attended Vassar during different years.
Later I would learn that Mary McCarthy was considered one of America’s premier literary critics and a novelist of considerable repute. Some years later, The Group, one of her best-received novels about a class of Vassar undergraduates, was eventually made into a movie. Later I was taken aback to hear that Reuel’s mother was said to be an avowed atheist and, according to some, a Marxist sympathizer in her early years. She was very different from most mothers I knew and, likewise, a giant literary figure by any standard.
Given Reuel’s mother’s radical political and atheist leanings as publicized, I often wondered why Reuel was then attending St. George’s, a high-church, Episcopal school.
Father: Edmund Wilson
Some weeks later Reuel invited me to join him in upstate New York for a few days of vacation with his father. Mr. Wilson’s elegant invitation was accepted by my parents on my behalf.
It took all day to drive to Talcottville, a small village just west of the Adirondacks. As we pulled up to "The Stone House" located just off the road, I somehow sensed this location was going to be a fascinating place to spend a few days with my new friend. The house was grand, a two and a half story, granite, country house. A wide wooden porch extended the full-length of the house along with a similar full-length balcony on the second floor. Reuel and I explored the house before venturing out into the surrounding woods, chatting as two fourteen year old boys are apt to do.
Edmund Wilson House (image source)
On being introduced to Mr.Wilson by his son later that afternoon, once again I had no idea about the reputation of this unusual man. Reuel’s mother was Mr. Wilson’s third wife. Even in 1952, as a man of letters he is said to have been the leading American literary critic of the 20thC. He was an essayist, editor, journalist, and author of a few novels. He also served as managing editor of Vanity Fair (1920 and 1921). In the ensuing years, it is said his critical works on novelists such as Hemingway, Dos Passos, Faulkner, and Fitzgerald played an important role in their respective successes. One of Mr. Wilson’s popular collections of essays and comments on the Russian Revolution was To the Finland Station.
The following day, Mr. Wilson suggested we three go fishing. We drove west to Lake Ontario where we stayed for two nights, the purpose being to bait-fish for two days.
Evening dinner that first night was informal: blue blazers, white shirts, ties and slacks for Reuel and me while his father appeared in a white linen suit, tie, vest and black shoes. I found both evenings tested me to the fullest as Mr. Wilson took charge of much of the dinner conversation. In his controlled elocution, his low gravelly voice reflected the “Queen’s English.” I had to “keep on top of my game” in anticipation of his poignant questions throughout both dinners. The narrative was tailored to two freshmen. All the while I sat ramrod straight on the edge of my chair in military fashion. I was absorbed by his manner of speaking, his ideas and his way of conversing.
High Class Fishing
The next day was memorable. All three of us, along with a fishing guide, boarded a 15foot lapstrake, a beautiful lake fishing boat. A prepared picnic basket was in the bow. Reuel and I were in khakis, sport shirts and hats -- ready to go. When Mr. Wilson appeared ready to fish with rod in hand, he was a picture to behold. He was wearing a three-piece, white linen suit and a gold watch chain hanging across an ample midriff. He was a rather portly, big-boned man with a powerful face, his eyes serving as beacons. He smiled infrequently, but when he did speak, everyone listened. So there he was, wearing a top-grade, broad-brimmed, white Panama hat, sporting round-rimmed sunglasses and holding a long, lighted cigar. He settled into a comfortable, padded stern seat just behind amidships facing forward under a parasol. The guide sat amidships. Mr. Wilson also had brought along a book. I could not believe what I was seeing. It was difficult not to stare at this fascinating man. Clearly the guide had fished with this client many times before. His rod was baited and placed loosely across his lap, the line trailing behind in the water as he opened his book. His cigar smoke initially circling his head wafted sternward quickly dissipating across the surface of the lake.
We were in the boat a good part of the day under the blazing sun. I was touched by this busy man who had taken time to invite his son and me to go fishing. I have little recollection of Reuel’s and my actual fishing experiences both days other than snagging a few unremarkable fish. But I do recall vividly that our specially-prepared picnic basket contained unusual luncheon items such as cucumber sandwiches, canned sardines, select hors d’oeuvres, and a bottle or two of wine. There must have been some plain sandwiches and soft drinks set aside in the hamper for us two boys. But I fail to recall.
The three or four days of visiting with Reuel and his father at “The Stone House” left me with a lasting impression of having been in the presence of yet another American literary icon. Perhaps even most importantly, I came to appreciate more than ever the beauty and power of the English language.
The following fall, Reuel did not return to St. George's for our sophomore year. Despite several attempts by mail, I was unable to reconnect with him. But the fond memories of Reuel and his formidable parents have remained with me over the years.
