Conversation; or, Pilgrims' Progress: A Novel
Page 17
“Darling, will you forgive me—”
“Of course, Tip, dear, if you’ll forgive me, too—”
“No, I’m afraid I was the naughty one—but oh, what a relief—!”
“Isn’t it heavenly—!”
“Just to be together again, after all these days and days—”
“I’ve been very hard and mean and selfish, Tip, I’m so dreadfully ashamed, but I’ll do better—”
“No, darling, no. It’s only that things have been difficult for us—”
“Do you think so? But aren’t we silly to hurt each other so much!”
“I didn’t mean any of it, darling. I didn’t mean a single word. Don’t you believe a thing I said—”
“And you too, Tip dear, I was demented—”
“Not a single word. I didn’t know what I was saying. I don’t know what got into me, I just wanted to hurt and hurt you, and said anything I could think of that would hurt you—”
“That’s just what I did, Tip. It’s as if a demon had got hold of us, isn’t it, and jangled us—do you suppose for some purpose? It’s all so meaningless!”
“I know. Good god, what a pair of fools we are—you’d think after all this time together we’d have a little more sense, wouldn’t you?”
“We mustn’t do it again, we must promise not to do it again—”
“No, Ee darling, we won’t—and isn’t it absurd—”
“What, dear?”
“—that it’s really because we love each other so much that we can hurt each other so, and perhaps feel we have to—I wonder if that’s it? And I do love you so much, Ee, I simply adore you—all day, in spite of everything, I’ve been adoring you, you don’t know how much—”
“Really, Tip?”
“Really, Ee—like anything. Even in my rage about things I couldn’t forget it, it seemed to me I’d never loved you so much. It was all really damned funny—what with that blasted cesspool, and Jim Connor, and that dreadful little ‘artist’ in the taxi, and everything—and all the time I was simply bursting with love—”
“Darling, how sweet and funny you are!”
“And you, darling, what a cold and clammy cheek you have—aren’t you ashamed of crying like that? Were you crying?”
“Yes, I was crying—It was funny, it’s a long time since I’ve cried—I guess maybe it took you to make me cry—perhaps it’s a good thing! Anyway, it’s a testimonial to your power!”
“What a thing to say to your husband!”
“Oh, dear—!”
She sighed, smiled, looked up at him quickly, then began rubbing her nose rabbitlike against his coat. It suddenly occurred to him how comic the whole thing was, their standing here in the bathroom door, for such a purpose, but then, abruptly, he remembered—
“Listen, darling,” he said.
“Yes, Tip, dear.”
“No—I don’t know. Perhaps I’d better not?”
He shook his head.
“What, dear—what is it!”
“My lovely Endor, it’s nothing to do with this—but I suddenly thought of it, it’s been so much on my mind all evening. It’s a terrible thing that Terence told me tonight, I met him down at the lower village—”
“Ought I to hear it?”
“Yes—it will shock you, darling—but as a matter of fact it ought to do us both good. Maybe at least it will remind us to come to our senses! Miss Twitchell was found drowned this morning in Indian Pond.”
“Oh, no, Tip—!”
“Yes. Some small boys found her. And they now think she’d been dead for two days. I wanted so much to tell you, Ee—I thought it might even bring us together—but I couldn’t, somehow, with things so unhappy between us—”
“Oh, the poor, poor creature—! But why, Tip, why?”
“Nobody seems to know. It was suicide, though. There doesn’t seem to be much doubt about that.”
“And I meant to call on her, and didn’t—or to have her to tea—and she was so nice, remember, about those lilies of the valley—”
“Yes, I know—those lilies of the valley have been haunting me. I’ve been thinking about them ever since, and about how typical it was of her.”
“Oh, how awful, how simply awful. Oh, Tip—”
“Yes, darling—”
“Don’t ever stop loving me. Don’t ever let me stop loving you, will you? Don’t believe the dreadful things I say!”
“Of course not, darling, of course not—”
“Poor, poor little Miss Twitchell, all by herself. What could have made her do such a thing?”
“Now, Ee, darling, I didn’t mean to start you crying again—you’ve done enough for one day—and in the bathroom of all places!”
“It’s a very good place—! But, yes, I mustn’t. Can I dry my eyes on your sleeve?”
“Of course!”
She gave a quick smile, a last tear fell as she closed her eyes to rub them against his shoulder, and as he held her he felt the suppressed shudder rise in her breast and then slowly subside again. She sighed, leaned her head on his shoulder, and relaxed sleepily, her eyes still closed. He kissed the white forehead, ran a fingertip along the curve of one eyebrow—but then he thought he heard an odd little sound from upstairs. He turned his head to listen. The Unitarian Church clock began striking at the same moment, he would have to wait till it was finished (—and an early start in the morning, good lord—) eight! nine! ten! And then, yes, the same obscure sound again—
“Listen,” he said.
“Yes, darling?”
“I think it’s Buzzer—I’d better go up and see. And I suppose, my darling, we ought to go to bed—It’s Boston for me in the morning!”
“Oh, of course! Well, if you’ll go up to her, Tip, dear—unless you’d rather I did—”
“No, I’ll go, if you’ll put the house to bed. There’s a light I left in the kitchen—”
“All right then, darling, run along!”
He took the candle from the top of the piano, and went lightly, swiftly, up the stairs into the smell and sound of night, the smell and sound of rain. And cold, too—the upper hall was damp and cold, a little cave of autumnal rain-sound—good lord, it would be winter in no time. The room whirled as he moved the candle, above the sound of the rain he could hear Buzzer’s low continuous crying, and when he stooped through the low door he found her sitting up in her bed, and crying with her eyes closed, the backs of her hands pressed to her cheeks.
“Why, Buzzer, what is it, my pet? Did you have a bad dream?—There, that’s right, you lie down, you’ll get all cold—and tuck these hands in—Was that what it was, my pet? Did you have a bad dream?”
“Mmmmmm!”
“I guess so. But don’t you worry—everything’s going to be all right now, see?”
“Mmmmmm.”
“Good night. And go to sleep.”
He stooped and kissed the already sleeping head, stroked the small forehead—once, twice, thrice—heard the breathing pause and deepen. What had she been dreaming about—what truth, what terror, what despair? Perhaps the dead starling—the starling which hadn’t been dead? Or perhaps, was it possible—for children had such extraordinary divinations in these things, a sort of sixth sense, like cats—perhaps she had somehow known? How dreadful—if so, how dreadful! He must tell Ee about it—they must never do it again.…
His candle uplifted, he waited at the head of the narrow stairs—he wanted to see her come up the stairs. When at last she came, holding her own candle before her, he said:
“Would you mind standing still, right there, till I tell you something? Till I ask you a question?”
“Why, what is it, Tip? Was it Buzzer?”
“Yes, it was Buzzer. She’s all right—it was only some funny little dream she had.”
“Well—!”
She looked up at him, from halfway up the stairs, one lovely knee in the silvery corduroy skirt advanced above the other—her face candlelit, smiling doubtfully, a li
ttle puzzled.
“It’s only that I thought it would be nice to ask you from a distance, just to see you when I ask it—these things are usually settled at such close quarters, see?”
“Yes, darling, go on—”
“Well, it’s only this. How would you feel, my darling, if I was to say that I thought it would be nice if we were to have a son.”
“Oh, Tip!”
“And if a woman can look as lovely as that, it’s high time, too!”
“What nonsense! Darling!”
“No nonsense at all. Besides, there’s an omen. I had an omen!”
“What was your precious omen?”
“Cut all things or gather, the moon in the wane—
But sow in increasing or give it his bane.
“Two lines I suddenly remembered out of an old book.”
“But what do they mean?—Tip?”
“What do they mean? You just come up and go to bed, my darling; and I’ll go down and brush my teeth; and then—well, we’ll just see!”
“But, Tip, have you considered—I mean, all the things—”
“There aren’t any things—and I have considered. And to hell with considering anyway! I want a son, see? Even if he’s born, like me, with a cleft palette in his hand!”
“How ridiculous you are, darling!”
“Yes, I guess maybe I am—I guess maybe I am! But being ridiculous isn’t always such a bad thing to be.…”
About the Author
Conrad Aiken (1889–1973) was an American poet, novelist, and short story author, and one of the most acclaimed writers of the twentieth century. His numerous honors include the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the National Book Award for Poetry, the Bollingen Prize, and the American Academy of Arts and Letters Gold Medal. Born in Savannah, Georgia, Aiken was orphaned at a young age and was raised by his great-great-aunt in Massachusetts. He attended Harvard University with T. S. Eliot and was a contributing editor to the influential literary journal the Dial, where he befriended Ezra Pound.
Aiken published more than fifty works of poetry, fiction, and criticism, including the novels Blue Voyage, Great Circle, King Coffin, A Heart for the Gods of Mexico, and Conversation, and the widely anthologized short stories “Silent Snow, Secret Snow” and “Mr. Arcularis.” He played a key role in establishing Emily Dickinson’s status as a major American poet, mentored a young Malcolm Lowry, and served as the US poet laureate from 1950 to 1952. Aiken returned to Savannah eleven years before his death; the epitaph on his tombstone in Bonaventure Cemetery reads: Cosmos Mariner, Destination Unknown.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1940 by Conrad Aiken
Cover design by Michel Vrana
ISBN: 978-1-4804-2009-0
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
EARLY BIRD BOOKS
FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY
BE THE FIRST TO KNOW ABOUT
FREE AND DISCOUNTED EBOOKS
NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!
EBOOKS BY CONRAD AIKEN
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia