by Conrad Aiken
Bores me. The sum.
The immediate engulfed him once more, the fine rain saluted him, a gust of cold wind lifted the tail of his coat, and here was Montrose Hall. Tom. Enter, to grow in wisdom. He entered, slipped on the marble floor, the worn wet heel slipping metallically, and slid toward the row of brass letter boxes and the double row of bell pushes: Diana of the Ephesians. Thomas Lowell Crapo. To ring or not to ring. He leaned his forefinger against the button and pressed prolongedly, at the same time lifting down the receiver and listening: he could hear the faint buzz in Tom’s apartment. Why must one hold one’s breath? Was life as exciting as all that? He breathed quickly, held his breath again, again listened to the far-off cicada trill. Is there an adulterous human in that room, sitting perhaps by the window with a book on his knee, or maybe a married woman? Is Troilus at home? Taking a bath? No answer. The room is dark, the cockroaches are scuttling in the pantry, the melting ice drips in the ice chest, the little gold clock ticks patiently by itself on the yellow table. Tom is abroad. Tom has gone forth. He is probably at the Faculty Club, or gone to a burlesque show, or a prizefight. He has gone to the Square to see Greta Garbo. He is playing the grand piano at the Signet to an admiring audience of sophomores and a pederastic philologist. He is walking back from the Square with two doughnuts and a cup of coffee in his belly. He hums the waltz from the “Rosenkavalier,” feeling the chords tensing his long fingers. He is dining with his aunt in Sparks Street. He is doing all these things simultaneously—Why? precisely to avoid doing anything else: safeguarding the world against a catastrophic suspicion: he runs from star to star protesting his innocence: he is a good fellow, a faithful friend. His pockets are full of spider wasps and colloids. He has tied a knot in his handkerchief to remind him of an innocent appointment. Come on, Bertha, come on, Andy, we’ll drive down to Duxbury and have a lobster and some steamed clams. Clam broth. A drive out to the Long Beach, the Gumett. Dead fish on the sand. The sea …
Christ, no.
He released the bell, turned, went out, was reimmersed in rain, walking rapidly and uncertainly, his eyes downward, watching the uncertain thrust of his mud-tipped shoes. Blood was in his face, his neck and throat felt swollen and vague, everything was dimmed and rushed and whirling. Garden Street. In this street once—you broke a watch-chain, wrote a valentine, threw snowballs at the feathered trees. In this street once. The red bricks glistened darkly, became near and important and highly organized, rich-patterned symbol of the complicated world. Speed must replace thought. Action must replace idea. You are now an automaton. Thank God, your revolver is at the bottom of the trunk; by the time you dug it out the impulse would have become ridiculous. Hurry—hurry—hurry—everything was hurrying. The world was hurrying. The rain was hurrying. The water in the gutter was hurrying. Be a child, why not, step into the gutter and walk along in the rushing water: it will conceal your spoor, you will leave no traces for the detectives to follow, and besides it will be such fun. Go on, I dare you. Wet feet? You have been drowned, and are wet all over. But these bricks, now, these dead leaves, now, these limpid braids of brown water, this elaborate pattern of the earth’s floor, this curious wall of star surface on which you walk like a fly—admire it, Andrew, be bewildered by it, let it confuse you in such a way as will be cosmically useful to you in the coming scene. But what if there were no scene? It will be useful anyway. It is your insulation. It is holding you off from your agony. The unimportant has become important in order that the important may become unimportant. Found it marble and left it brick. Bumwad, bumwad, bumwad.
Shepard Street.
The turning point.
A letter box.
Arc light.
Dripping forsythia bushes.
Turn right along boardwalk for fifth act of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” Real blood hounds. See Eliza crossing the ice. See little Eva go to heaven.
He walked with dizzy carefulness, tried in vain to place his feet on the dark cracks of the boardwalk, gave it up, and began to smile. It was probably not Tom at all. Or maybe it would be a party. Bert with a new poem. Celia with a new frock. Floyd with a new dance record. Why, for goodness sake, if it isn’t old Andy! But where are your things, Andy! Where’s your bag! What’s happened! Explain yourself! How come you’re back so soon! Welcome home and have a drink. But what about your bag? What indeed. Left it at the Harvard Club by mistake, after too many cocktails—as you can see. Yes indeed. Telephone for it: they’ll send it out in a taxi. All very simple.
Shepard Hall.
He stood, stared, the wind whipping his coat, held up his hand to shelter his eyes from the rain, regarded aslant and unseeing the large wet words of carved stone in the wild lamplight. In this house once. The little red table being taken up the stone stairs. The bedspring being juggled into the shaky old elevator. Old Mr. Macumber sitting on the steps in the summer evening to listen to the whirring of nighthawks. The bare floors, before the rugs had come. The bare walls, before the pictures had been hung. Old newspapers on the floor of the bathroom. The white enamel doors of the ice chest open, showing the lining of dull and stinking tin. Stale smells of former occupation: the history of the world. In this house once—but that was long ago. Prehistoric. Before the flood. Before Christ. Before Tom. Retreat, you idiot. Go back to the Harvard Club. Get your bag and hire a taxi and drive to Duxbury. Duxbury? Why Duxbury? Go to Concord. Go to Montreal. Anywhere. Let the rain and wind decide it for you: they are already shaking you to a decision: urging you towards Garden Street: obey them. This house has ghosts. Its walls are made of nasturtiums and Haydn, its ceilings are a gossamer of lost words and cries, forgotten embraces and tendernesses, rebukes, reproaches, and quick words of anger. Rain rain bubbling from right to left along the granite steps. This house has tears. This house has hates. It has arms, hands, and eyes, it listens to you with a conscious expression which is neither pity nor contempt: it knows you without remembering you. Bid it farewell.
He entered the rococo marble hall, ignored the elevator, feeling as he did so a sharp cessation of breath, and automatically thrust his hand into brass letter box number sixty-four. No letters. Of course not. Bertha would have removed them, as he perfectly well knew. Dishonest device to gain time. What for? Terror. Abject terror. His knees were trembling, blood was singing in the side of his neck, his wet hand still hung tremulously in the cold metal box. Remove it: bring it back to you, inform it that it is still yours. But the bell—what about the bell? Six rings, or seven, or the mystic nine? Something to alarm them and put them on their guard? He rang the bell twice, prolongedly, as at Tom’s, smiled suddenly at his own instant decision not to listen at the receiver, unsteadily entered the elevator, and ascended. At the third-floor gate a woman was waiting, holding an umbrella. On the fourth floor a rubbish box of canvas. On the sixth floor—exit to grow in wisdom. He let himself out, trembling horribly, smiling, feeling like an idiot, paused insanely with one finger uplifted, took out his key, crossed the oilcloth floor on which were muddy footprints, and let himself in, closing the door with a bang. Good God—are you going to faint? Are you so weak? Lean your back against the door, and regard Tom’s hat and stick on the chair, the fur-lined gloves, too, and the wet galoshes. Observe also that there is no light in the sitting room, but a dim light coming from the crack of the bathroom door. All very cosy. All very quiet. Christ. Rain flew across the Shepard Street window.
—Hello!… Hello, darlings! Lochinvar is home again.
He swept the gloves, hat, and stick onto the floor: the yellow stick clattered. In their place he flung down his own soaked hat and coat.
—View halloo! Tallyho!
The light in the corridor was switched on, and Bertha’s hand and face were motionless, frozen, inclining forward from the bedroom door. The mouth was relaxed, the eyes concentrated, with fright.
—It’s a melodrama, Berty. Will you come forward singly or in pairs?
—Andy!
—Andrew One-eye Cather himself!
&nbs
p; The surprised face disappeared, taking with it the white plump hand. The bedroom door creaked very slightly.
—Take your time about dressing: I’ll wriggle some cocktails.… Wriggle is the word.
He stumbled into the sitting room, turned on the light, stood in the center of the Kerman rug under the hideous brass chandelier, and stared out through the black window. Rain. All the way from Boston to New York. Rain devouring New England. Wonders of the Invisible World! And there were the Goddamned nasturtiums too—the nasturtium quid—and the damned little gilt clock, ticking subtly and complacently to itself, for all the world as if it were Tom’s own pulse. Break it. Dash it to smithereens on the red-brick hearth. Step on it, kid—let time be out of joint. But where were they? What were they doing? What were they saying? He listened. Nothing. Not a sound. If they were saying anything, it was in a whisper—a frightened whisper—they were pulling themselves together—wondering what line he would take—pulling on their stockings and shoes—perhaps not daring to look at each other. The room gave a streaming lurch, and to steady himself he put his hand on the corner of the yellow-grained mantelpiece. A Spanish grammar. He plucked the red book out of its place on the shelf, opened it at random, then flung it onto the couch. What about another little drink. Or the cocktails.
In the kitchen, unthinking, he assembled on the table a can of grapefruit juice, a lemon, a small sharp knife, the sugar bowl, the cocktail shaker, and began chipping the ice in the ice box. A cockroach ran out and fell to the floor. Then Bertha’s voice spoke oddly behind him.
—Andy.
He missed his stroke, his hand slipped along the smooth cold surface of ice, then he resumed his chipping, the chunks of ice clunking into the grooved pan.
—I’m sorry, Andy.
—Gosh, is that all. I said this was a melodrama, didn’t I?
He flung the ice pick point forward so that it stuck, quivering, into the wooden drainboard of the sink. Then he began gathering up the broken ice between his two palms and dumping it in the shaker.
—I think we’d better talk reasonably about it.
—Sure. Go ahead. Step right up with a wagonload of reasons. This is going to be fun, by God. Go fetch Tom and tell him to have a drink.
—Look at me, Andy!
—Why the bloody hell should I? But I will, if it’ll do you any good.
He put the cap on the shaker and started shaking, then turned and looked at her, smiling. She had on the Mandarin jacket, a band of black velvet was round her copper-colored hair, her eyes were deep, dark, tear-bright. She leaned against one side of the door.
—I see you, Berty! There you are—the known unknown at last.
—That ought to be something.
—Oh, it is, believe me. Hell, I forgot to put in the grapefruit juice. And the lemons.
He found the can opener, opened the can, breathing heavily, poured the contents into the shaker, sliced three slices of lemon, then shook black squirts of angostura over the floating ice. Five, six, seven, eight. He felt dizzy, and held an ice-cold palm against his forehead. Whoof. The world must be slipping sideways. Better grab on to something. Perhaps Bertha. The prop of your old age. Perhaps the rung of a sideways chair. A dish cloth.
—I don’t see what good it’s going to do you to get any drunker than you are already. For six months——
—For God’s sake, don’t talk to me about six months! Go on, get out of here, sit down and I’ll bring the glasses.… Oh, there you are!
He tilted his head to one side, elaborately, and grinned at Tom.
—Hello, Andy.
—Nice little surprise you planned for me. Have a drink.
Bertha turned abruptly on her heel, went into the sitting room, and sank onto the couch. She sat upright with her hands beside her, staring at nothing. Tom followed her awkwardly. As if to avoid the appearance of approaching her, he went to the farther side of the room and stood for a moment by the black piano, frowning. Then he took a step or two back towards the kitchen.
—I don’t think I’ll have a drink, if you don’t mind.
—Oh, sure, come on, might as well do it amiably, say the hard things amiably——
He put the shaker and glasses on the red table, and waved his arm over them.
—Go on—make yourself at home. Everything that’s mine is yours. Don’t try to smile, though, till you’ve got your face under better control.
—Look here, Andy, old man—I think I’d better go. You two had better talk it over first—don’t you think so, Bertha.
—Yes.
—Nope. Nothing doing. This is now a famille à trois. Family conference. Every one to be represented. Though I must say you don’t either of you seem to have much to say. Strikes me the scene is a little disappointing. Oughtn’t you to say you were waiting for a streetcar? Or came back for your umbrella? Did you lose your motor bike? You know, something like that. But of course the thing isn’t really a surprise to any of us, is it—we’ve all seen it coming for such a long time—months and months—Jesus, I’ve got to laugh.
He laughed, pushing his shoulders against the mantel, while Tom, his face white and strained, handed a cocktail to Bertha. She took it mechanically, without looking at it, and as mechanically drank it.
—Why did you come back tonight, she said.
—Why? Because a little bird told me.
—I don’t think it was very sporting of you.
—Neither do I. But what can you do. I’ve never faced a situation quite like this, my dear, and you must forgive me if my technique is a little crude. As I remarked to begin with, it’s a melodrama; and in a melodrama, you’ve got to behave like actors in a melodrama, haven’t you? Suppose I’d telephoned from the club. Everything spoiled, postponed, all of us left in doubt and suspense and agony, nothing settled. What the hell was the use of that? I thought of it, believe me—looked at the telephones—but, no, I decided it must be cut off with a knife. Psst—and done.… Here’s how.
Tom had perched himself on the arm of the big chair, and was tapping his glass with a finger-nail.
—You’re perfectly right, he murmured—Perfectly right. Of course I don’t need to say how sorry——
—Oh, no. We needn’t go into that. We all know how sorry. One of those awkward complexes, nicht wahr, in which delight and sorrow are so painfully and inextricably mixed. I’ll give you credit for the sorrow, which I know must be real. Of course. Naturally. You like me—I like you—we’re old friends, aren’t we—knew each other before we knew Bertha—grew up together—how couldn’t you feel sorry? Same here. I feel sorry, too, though it may surprise you. Sorry for you and Bertha and myself in about equal portions. Yes. A sort of weltschmerz. Perhaps a little sorrier for myself than for either of you, which is selfish of me, but you’ll forgive me. I suppose, as a matter of fact, I ought to kill you? I even thought of it. I thought of it at the corner of Garden and Shepard Street: had a vision of my revolver lying brightly at the bottom of my steamer trunk. But that would be ridiculous.
He walked over to Bertha, lifted her chin with his hand so that her eyes were raised toward his own, looked idly into them for an instant, saw that they were now hard and tearless, and turned toward Tom with a conscious brightening of expression.
—Besides, you’ve got on one of your most beautiful waistcoats, and the handsomest tweed suit in Cambridge, and I couldn’t bear to spoil them. And if I missed—good God. You’d kill me with one hand. In self-defense. And I’d rather go mad than die. Oh, much.… Jesus.
—Thank you, said Tom—I appreciate your esthetic tact.
—Don’t mention, old fellow—there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Step right up and help yourself.… But as I was saying. What was I saying?
He frowned into his glass, then covered it with his hand. Tired. His wits were gone. He was saying things badly, saying the wrong things, off the track somehow. Something else must be found, some other direction, something deeper, more to the point, more plangent and poigna
nt. Profound abstractions, self-sacrifice, nobility, a great constellation of bright and beautiful stars. A vast bouquet of planets in a purple sky.
—Why don’t you say something, Berty? God knows you usually have enough——
—What is there to say. It’s done.
—I suppose you didn’t think of consulting me about it.