by Saul Bellow
"Wharton is no kid. He knew what he was getting into, down in Mexico," said Angela.
"Ah, I don't understand any of that. I assume he's read some of those books you lent me-Bataille and other theorists-about transgression and pain and sex; lust, crime, and desire; murder and erotic pleasure. It didn't mean much to me, any of that stuff."
"I know it's not your kind of thing. But Wharton got his kicks out of that little broad. He liked her. Better than I liked the other man. I'd never see him again. But then on the plane Wharton perversely became jealous. Wouldn't let it alone."
"My only thought is that Elya might feel more at peace with you if he saw Horricker."
"I'm furious that Wharton should blab to Widick, and Widick to Father."
"I'm not prepared to believe that Mr. Widick would speak to Elya of this. He's decent enough in most ways. I don't know him well, of course. My main impression is of a stout lawyer. Not a villain. A big soft face."
"That fat sonofabitch. I'll curse him when I see him. I'll tear his hair out."
"Don't be so sure that it was some evil-doer. You may be wrong. Elya's extremely intelligent and quick to pick up hints."
"Who could it be, then? Wallace? Emil? But whoever dropped the hint, it began with Wharton, too weak to keep his mouth shut. Well, if he wants to visit Father that's all right. But I'm offended. I'm furious."
"You do have a feverish look, Angela. I don't want to agitate you. But in view of your father's preoccupation with all this, with Mexico, do you think you should arrive in such a costume?"
"This skirt, you mean?"
"It's very short. My opinion may be worthless, but it seems bad judgment to wear that kind of sexual kindergarten dress."
"Now it's my clothes! Are you speaking for him, or for yourself?"
The sunlight was yellow, sweet. It was horrible.
"Oh yes, I know I may be out of order, with bad puritanical attitudes from the sick past which have damaged civilization so much. I did read your books. We've discussed all this. But really, how do you expect your father not to be excited, to feel bitter, when he sees this provoking Baby Doll costume?"
"Really? My skirt? It never occurred to me. I dressed quickly and ran out. This is a strange thing to take up with me now. Everybody wears these skirts. I don't think I care for the way you put it."
"Undoubtedly I could have put it better. I don't want to be disagreeable. There are other things to think about."
"That's right. And I'm under a terrible burden. It is terrible."
"I'm sure of it."
"I'm in despair, Uncle."
"Yes, you must be. Of course you are. Yes."
"Yes, what? It sounds as if there's something more."
"There is. I'm in a state, too, about your father. He's been a great friend to me. I am sick, too, about him."
"We don't have to beat around the bush, Uncle."
"No. He's going to die."
"That's coming out with it all right," she said. She was for plain speaking, was this too plain?
"It's as terrible to say as to hear."
"I'm sure you love Daddy," she said.
"I do."
"Apart from the practical reasons, I mean."
"Of course Shula and I have been supported by him. I never concealed my gratitude. I hope that has been no secret," said Sammler. As he was dry and old, the beating of his heart, even violent beating, would not be evident. "If I were practical, if I were very practical, I would be careful not to antagonize you. I think there are reasons other than the practical ones."
"Well, I hope we're not going to quarrel."
"That's right," said Sammler. She was angry with Wallace, with Cosbie, Horricker. He did not want to add himself to the list. He needed no victory over Angela. He only wanted to persuade her of something, and didn't know whether even that was feasible. But he was certainly not about to make war on suffering females. He began to talk. "I'm feeling very jumpy, Angela. There are certain damaged nerves you don't hear from for years, and then they act up, they flare up. They're burning now, very painfully. Now I'd like to say something about your father, as long as we're waiting for him. On the surface, I don't have much In common with Elya. He's a sentimental person. He makes a point, too much of a point, of treasuring certain old feelings. He's on an old system. I've always been skeptical of that myself. One might ask, where is the new system? But we don't have to get into that. I never had much natural liking for people who make open…"never had much natural liking for people who make open declarations of affection. Being a 'Britisher' was one of my foibles. Cold? But I still appreciate a certain restraint. I didn't care for the way Elya courted everyone, tried to make contact with people, winning their hearts, engaging their interest, getting personal even with waitresses, lab technicians, manicurists. It was always too easy for him to say 'I love you.' He was forever saying it to your mother in public, embarrassing her. I don't intend to discuss her with you. She had her good points. But as I was a snob about the British, she was a German Jewess who cultivated the Wasp style (now outmoded, by the way), and I recognized it. She was going to refine your father, an Ostjude. He was supposed to be the expressive one, the one with the heart. Isn't that about right? So your father was assigned to be expressive. He certainly had his work cut out for him with your mother. I think it would have been easier to love a theorem in geometry than your poor mother. Excuse me, Angela, for going on like this."
She said, "It's like we're sitting on the edge of a cliff anyway, waiting here."
"All right, Angela. One might as well talk, then. Not to add to your difficulties… I just saw something peculiarly nasty, on my way over. Partly my fault. I feel distressed. But I was saying that your father has had his assignments. Husband, medical man-he was a good doctor-family man, success, American, wealthy retirement with a Rolls Royce. We have our assignments. Feeling, outgoingness, expressiveness, kindness, heart-all these fine human things which by a peculiar turn of opinion strike people now as shady activities. Openness and candor about vices seem far easier. Anyway, there is Elya's assignment. That's what's in his good face. That's why he has such a human look. He's made something of himself. He hasn't done badly. He didn't like surgery. You know that. He dreaded those three- and four-hour operations. But he performed them. He did what he disliked. He had an unsure loyalty to certain pure states. He knew there had been good men before him, that there were good men to come, and he wanted to be one of them. I think he did all right. I don't come out nearly so well myself. Till forty or so I was simply an Anglophile intellectual Polish Jew and person of culture-relatively useless. But Elya, by sentimental repetition and by formulas if you like, partly by propaganda, has accomplished something good. Brought himself through. He loves you. I'm sure he loves Wallace. I believe he loves me. I've learned much from him. I have no illusions about your father, you understand. He's touchy, boastful, he repeats himself. He's vain, grouchy, proud. But he's done well, and I admire him."
"So he's human. All right, he's human." She was, perhaps, only half following him, though she looked straight at him, full-face, knees apart so that he saw the pink material of her undergarment. Seeing that pink band, he thought, "Why argue? What is the point?" But he replied.
"Well, everybody's human only in some degree. Same more than others."
"Some very little?"
"That's the way it seems. Very little. Faulty. Scanty. Dangerous."
"I thought everybody was born human."
"It's not a natural gift at all. Only the capacity is natural."
"Well, Uncle, why are you putting me through this? What have you got in mind? You're after something."
"Yes, I suppose I am."
"You're criticizing me."
"No, I'm praising your father."
Angela's gaze was dilated, brilliant, smeary, angry. No fights, for God's sake, with a despairing woman. Still, he was getting at something. He held his thin body rigid; the ginger-gray brows overhung the tinted dimness of t
he shades.
"I don't like the opinion I think you have of me," she said.
"Why should that matter on a day like this? Well, perhaps I do feel that today there ought to be a difference. Perhaps if we were in India or Finland we might not be in quite the same mood. New York makes one think about the collapse of civilization, about Sodom and Gomorrah, the end of the world. The end wouldn't come as a surprise here. Many people already bank on it. And I don't know whether humankind is really all that much worse. In one day, Caesar massacred the Tencteri, four hundred and thirty thousand souls. Even Rome was appalled. I am not sure that this is the worst of all times. But it is in the air that things are falling apart, and I am affected by it. I always hated people who declared it was the end. What did they know about the end? From personal experience, from the grave if I may say so, I knew something about it. But I was flat, dead wrong. Anybody may feel the truth. But suppose it to be true-true, and not a mood, not ignorance or destructive pleasure or the doom desired by people who have botched everything. Suppose it to be so. There is still such a thing as a man-or there was. There are still human qualities. Our weak species fought its fear, our crazy species fought its criminality. We are an animal of genius."
This was a thing he often thought. At the moment it was only a formula. He did not thoroughly feel it.
"O. K., Uncle."
"But we don't have to decide whether the world is ending. The point is that for your father it is the end."
"Why are you pushing that, as if I didn't know. What do you want from me?"
Indeed what? From her, sitting there, breasts shown, diffusing woman-odors, big eyes practically merged; tormented, and at this moment strangely badgered by Caesar and the Tencteri, by ideas. Let the poor creature be. For now she was claiming to be a poor creature. And she was. But he could not let her be-not yet.
"As a rule these aneurysms cause instant death," he said. "With Elya there has been a delay, which gives an opportunity."
"An opportunity? What do you mean?"
"A chance to resolve some things. And it has made your father realistic-facing up to facts that were obscure."
"Facts about me, for instance? He didn't really want to know about me."
"Yes."
"What are you getting at?"
"You've got to do something for him. He has a need."
"What something am I supposed to do?"
"That's up to you. If you love him, you can make some sign. He's grieving. He's in a rage. He's disappointed. And I don't really think it is the sex. At this moment that might well be a trivial consideration. Don't you see, Angela? You wouldn't need to do much. It would give the man a last opportunity to collect himself."
"As far as I can see, if there is anything at all in what you say, you want an old-time deathbed scene."
"What difference does it make what you call it?"
"I should ask him to forgive me? Are you serious?"
"I am perfectly serious."
"But how could I-It goes against everything. You're talking to the wrong person. Even for my father it would be too hokey. I can't see it."
"He's been a good man. And he's being swept out. Can't you think of something to say to him?"
"What is there to say? And can't you think of anything but death?"
"But that's what we have before us."
"And you won't stop. I know you're going to say something more. Well, say it."
"In so many words?"
"In so many words. The fewer the better."
"I don't know what happened in Mexico. The details don't matter. I only note the peculiarity that it is possible to be gay, amorous, intimate with holiday acquaintances. Diversions, group intercourse, fellatio with strangers-one can do that but not come to terms with one's father at the last opportunity. He's put an immense amount of feeling into you. Probably most of his feeling has gone toward you. If you can in some way see this and make some return…"
"Uncle Sammler!" She was furious.
"Ah. You're angry. Naturally."
"You've insulted me. You've been trying hard enough. Well, now you have-you've insulted me, Uncle Sammler."
"It was not the object. I only believe that there are things everyone knows, and must know."
"For God's sake, quit this."
"I shall mind my own business."
"You lead a special life in that dumpy room. Charming, but what's it got to do with anything! I don't think you understand people's business. What do you mean about fellatio? What do you know about it?"
Well, it hadn't worked. What she threw at him was what the young man at Columbia had also cried out. He was out of it. A tall, dry, not agreeable old man, censorious, giving himself airs. Who in hell was he? Hors d'usage. Against the wall. A la lanterne! Very well. That was little enough. He ought not perhaps to have provoked Angela so painfully. By now he himself was shaking.
The gray nurse at this moment came and called Sammler to the telephone. "You are Mr. Sammler, aren't you?"
He started. Quickly he got to his feet. "Ah! Who wants me? Who is it?" He didn't know what to expect.
"The phone wants you. Your daughter. You can take it outside, at the desk."
"Yes, Shula, yes?" her father said. "Speak up. What is it? Where are you?"
"In New Rochelle. Where is Elya?"
"We are waiting for him. What do you want now, Shula?"
"Have you heard about Wallace?"
"Yes, I've heard."
"He did a really great thing when he brought in that plane without wheels."
"Yes, magnificent. He's certainly marvelous. Now, Shula, I want you out of there. You are not to prowl around that house, you have no business there. I wanted you to come back with me. You are not supposed to disobey me."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"But you did."
"I didn't. If we differ, it's in your interest."
"Shula, don't fool with me. Enough of my interests. Let them alone. You called with a purpose. I'm afraid I begin to understand."
"Yes, Father."
"You succeeded!"
"Yes, Father, aren't you pleased? In the-guess where? In the den where you slept. In the hassock you sat on this morning. When I brought in the coffee and saw you on it, I said, That's where the money is. I was just about sure. So when you went away, I came back and opened it up, and it was filled-filled with money. Would you think that about Cousin Elya? I'm surprised at him. I didn't want to believe it. The hassock was upholstered with packages of hundred-dollar bills. Money was the stuffing."
"Dear God."
"I haven't counted it," she said.
"I will not have you lying."
"All right, I did count. But I don't really know about money. I don't understand business."
"Did you speak to Wallace on the phone?"
"Yes."
"And did you tell him about this?"
"I didn't say one single word."
"Good, very good, Shula. I expect you to turn it over to Mr. Widick. Call him to come and get it, and tell him you want a receipt for it."
"Father!"
"Yes, Shula."
He waited. He knew that, gripping one of those New Rochelle white telephones, she was marshaling her arguments, she was mastering her resentment at his ancient- father's stubbornness and stupid rectitude. At her expense. He knew quite well what she was feeling. "What will you live on, Father, when Elya is gone?" she said.
An excellent question, a shrewd, relevant question. He had lost out with Angela, he had infuriated her. He knew what she would say. "I'll never forgive you, Uncle." And what's more she never would.
"We will live on what there is."
"But suppose he doesn't leave any provision?"
"That's as he wishes. Up to him, entirely."
"We are part of the family. You are the closest to him."
"You will do as I tell you."
"Listen to me, Father. I have to look out for you. You haven't even said anything to me a
bout finding this."
"It was damn clever of you, Shula. Yes. Congratulations. That was clever."
"It really was. I noticed how the hassock bulged under you, not like other hassocks, and when I felt around I heard the money rustle. I knew from the rustle, what it was. Of course I didn't say anything to Wallace. He'd squander it in a week. I thought rd buy some clothes. If I was dressed at Lord and Taylor, maybe I'd be less of an eccentric type, and I'd have a chance with somebody."
"Like Govinda Lal."
"Yes, why not? I've made myself as interesting as I could within my means."
Her father was astonished by this. Eccentric type? She was aware of herself, then. There was a degree of choice. Wig, scavenging, shopping bags, were to an extent deliberate. Was that what she meant? How fascinating!
"And I think," she was saying, "that we should keep this. I think EIya would agree. I'm a woman without a husband, and I've never had children, and this money comes from preventing children, and I think it's only right that I should take it. For you, too, Father."
"I'm afraid not, Shula. Elya may already have told Mr. Widick about this hoard. I'm sorry. But we're not thieves. It's not our money. Tell me how much it was?"
"Each time I count, it's different."
"How much was it the last time?"
"Either six or eight thousand. I laid it all out on the floor. But I was too excited to count straight."
"I assume it's much, much more, and I can't allow you to keep any."
"I won't."
Of course she would, he was certain of it. As a trash- collector, treasure-hunter, she would be unable to surrender it all.
"You must give Widick every cent."