The Thompson house was east of the cathedral, on a street leading down to the park, in an old section of the city with small houses often freshly painted. The snow was shoveled from the sidewalks along the street and it was easier walking. The soles of his shoes came down evenly on the cement walk. Putting his feet down so firmly on the clean cement he had a long springy stride. The heel and sole, sounding firmly, gave him more confidence. Hardly anyone was on this street at ten o’clock. The sound of his own shoes on the pavement reminded him that he was a solitary man, apart from everybody, and a new exultation exhilarated him till his warm flesh tingled. The method John had been groping for had worked itself out so neatly he could hardly believe he had ever had any trouble with it. Isabelle, in bed, would probably be dozing, hardly aware of anyone moving near her, and it would be easy to smother her, and he could have the feeling in his hands. It might turn out to be the same as a death from natural causes.
John intended to go into the house quietly without disturbing anyone, and upstairs to Isabelle’s room without being seen. It was important that her mother should be asleep so he would not see her. John was trembling again, his whole body affected by a sudden fever.
The house was only half a block away. Down the street was one park gate leading into the zoo. The sea lion cried out hoarsely. Many people in the neighborhood had protested in the paper the other day against the roaring of the sea lion, urging that the beast have its vocal cords removed.
Slowly he went up the front sidewalk to the veranda, listening carefully. A light was in the hall, one light in the front room upstairs. So far he had walked up to the house like an ordinary man, an old friend of the family, who knew where he was going. None of the excitement inside him affected the way he climbed the veranda steps, a stocky man, a little pale under the light, moving with assurance.
Turning the handle of the door he expected it to open readily, for the Thompson’s, an old family in the district, often did not lock the door at night. It was enormously important, suddenly as he turned the handle and stepped into the hall, that he should not see the mother at all.
On tiptoes he climbed the stairs, moving noiselessly on the thick carpet, always found on the stairs in these old houses. The smallest sounds were heard by him. A clock was ticking somewhere downstairs. Someone was breathing heavily in a room at the head of the stairs, and in the upper hall, leaning forward on his toes, listening outside the bedroom door, he was sure it was Mrs. Thompson. All his confidence was restored. His temples began to throb. He could hardly get his breath, trying to draw it in a great gulp and let it out noisily. His whole body was light, every muscle moving easily and feeling strong. Slowly he opened the front room door, shoving his head through the gap and seeing Isabelle lying on the bed, her body stretched out, her head turned to the wall. A small reading lamp was on the table at the head of the bed. She was lying there so calmly he carelessly walked across the floor to the bed.
A few days ago she had look ill, but now, fascinated, he could only stare at her. Her eyes were closed, the lids puffed and swollen, and her lips a brilliant red. Two faint red spots glowed high in the pallor of her thin sunken cheeks and the cheekbones stuck out whitely. There was the hollow and the shadow in her cheek, and the light spot over the bone. Though she was dozing, her thin dry upper lip moved imperceptibly back, showing the dead bluish red of her gums. John could hardly move and only stood there, bending over, and waiting for some of the strong feeling to return and the muscles of his arms and hands to move of their own accord. It was not good hoping to do anything, forcing himself, and he waited for a muscular movement to become part of the thoughts in his head.
Isabelle moved, opening her eyes slowly, staring at him, smiling. “Hello, John,” she said. “How did you get in here?”
The uneasiness went out of him hearing her calm voice. Her face and her body had seemed beyond him, but now her calm voice restored all his confidence. Bending over her he took hold of the edge of the bedclothes, ready to pull them up over her head smothering her.
“You look ghastly,” she said, still speaking calmly.
“Eh, what’s that?” he said, startled to hear her speaking when everything was ready for him.
“You look ghastly. What’s the matter?”
“Shut up, do you hear?”
“Where’s Mother?”
“In the other room.”
“Please don’t wake her. We should have had a nurse for me, but we couldn’t afford it and she’s all tired out now.”
Even yet he was sure of himself, smiling at her, thinking he was not going to be disturbed in the house. Holding his hands still only with a steady effort, while he had the necessary satisfaction of telling it to her, he said quietly: “You know what I’m going to do, Isabelle? I’m going to kill you. I’m going to wring your neck. I told you I would. Now I’m going to do it. If you yell, I’ll strangle you.”
“No.”
“I’m going to.”
“Don’t. I don’t want to die.”
“You’re going to.”
“What’s the use, John?” she said, trying to get her breath. Twice she tried to speak, still looking at him, but could not get her breath. Still he enjoyed waiting for her to speak, curious to hear the words she would use, hoping to interest him. The effort to breathe was so difficult two faint drops of perspiration appeared on her forehead. They were there, and he saw them on her forehead and then they were gone again.
“God damn you!” he said, working himself up. “This is good for both of us. It’s good for you and it’s good for me.” He put one hand on her throat, pressing her neck down on the pillow. Her neck felt soft and warm. She was muttering: “I don’t want to die, John.”
“Shut up!” he whispered.
“I’m dying anyway,” she said. “Sometime next week. I’ve got pleura-pneumonia. The doctor says I’ll live about a week. He told me and didn’t tell Mother.”
“Damn you!” he said, shaking her. “You’re lying now. You’re trying to cheat me. That’s it.”
“Look at me,” she said.
He was looking at a woman who was going to die quickly and was so close to death his own strength, which might have killed her, seemed weak and unimportant beside the slow movement of the force destroying her. His own resolution seemed a little foolish now, looking at her in this way, aloof from her and despising her, and watching her dying. His head, which had been so hot, began to sweat; all his body, held so tensely before, began to relax. His clothes felt heavy, hanging on his shoulders.
“There’s no chance?” he said.
“None.”
“What happened? You got a cold on top of the flu, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll go.”
“Wait. I don’t want to die. But you felt like killing me, didn’t you?”
“I did. I really did. I had to. I’ve got to get rid of you.”
“You would have killed me, then they would have caught you and hanged you. They would have put you in the jail down in the corner of the park, in the cell where they put Fred. They put them all there don’t they?”
“There’s no use talking about it.”
“It would be odd, you and Fred dying the same way.”
“Stop it, do you hear? Stop.”
“A crowd might have gathered around the jail, too. I read about the way they gathered around the jail the night before they hanged Fred. Do you remember?”
“Please stop talking, Isabelle.”
“I ought to, but you know you wanted to kill me. Fred didn’t want to kill anybody, but you’d both be there. Only you’re alive now and he’s dead, but you’re one together now.”
“You’re delirious. I’ll call your mother.”
“No, you’d both be there. So there’s the bond between you, the living and the dead. You can’t get away from it now.”
Helpless, he shuddered, watching her lips trying to move into a smile, and feeling she had hold of him more tightly
than ever before, till he was one with her and her brother and all of them, only now he was not longer anxious to get away from it; almost calmly, and with a new, unexpected humility, accepting it.
“I think I’ll sit down on the end of the bed,” he said.
Isabelle had closed her eyes and was almost asleep. The flushed spots on her cheeks were glowing more brightly, her lips holding the half smile. It was quiet in the room, the faintest noises in the house clearly heard; the ticking of the clock downstairs was distinct.
“You were cruel about it,” he said.
Opening her eyes lazily she said: “You were away from me and had become beyond me and wanted to remain beyond me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you were running away from the whole thing. Everybody runs away from it.”
“I didn’t want to go on thinking about it.”
“You were selfish.”
“I know. I wanted to get away from it.”
“So was I selfish. But I don’t want to die now. If only I could go on living.”
He said quietly: “Dear Isabelle, why did you have to spoil everything?”
“I didn’t want to. Perhaps I always loved you.”
“You still love me?”
“I think so, John.”
“Lord, Lord, I should have gone on loving you. I don’t know. I can’t go on thinking any more.” Unable to find any more words, he was tired and ready to cry weakly. Isabelle, who had been talking too long, moved restlessly, hardly looking at him. Her eyes, hard, and bright, turned to him no longer seemed to see him. In the next room he heard Mrs. Thompson moving. The old lady came into the room, a black woolen shawl over her shoulder, and offered her hand to John, shaking hands firmly, without smiling.
“I heard someone talking,” she said. “It was good of you to come in without waking me. You were always a good boy around here, John.”
Looking at Isabelle she moved the bedclothes around her neck, trying to keep from crying. She implied, smiling a little, she was being weak because she was old, though even if Isabelle died she would accept it quietly with confidence in her own strong faith and its superiority over everything she knew about living.
“She’s pretty low,” Mrs. Thompson said.
“She’d better sleep. I’ll go now.”
“Come soon again, John.”
“I will.”
Back home in his room, he got into bed quickly, hardly thinking of anything, he was so tired. Paul Ross had gone. There was satisfaction in being so tired and ready for sleep. After turning out the light he remained awake only a few minutes, making a new pattern out of all the thoughts of the last six months, and then he fell asleep.
Chapter Nineteen
All the next week John was more contented than he had been all month. Sometimes he thought of trying to find Lillian, but his new notion of her was always stronger. It was better, he thought, to have her go her own way, for between them there would never be any of the calmness he had found for himself now she was sure she had loved Fred, and he knew of the confusion that always would be in her thoughts of him. In the afternoons he went swimming in a Y.M.C.A. tank, paying each time for it. Hardly anyone was in the tank, the kids were at school, and only one gray-haired old man, his skin wrinkled like a roasted apple, sitting at the end of the tank where the sun came through the glass, was always there, his feet dangling in the water. The water looked green and cool and deep in the tiled tank and John swam slowly length after length, following with his eyes on the water the strips of dark tiles wriggling, snakelike at the bot om of the tank, when the surface of the water was disturbed. Sometimes he swam underwater, holding his breath a long time, going the length of the tank and feeling the cool water slipping down his body and over his face. Sometimes he swam for half an hour on his back, dipping his palms in the green water, and kicking his legs infrequently. He rested, sitting under the glass dome at the end of the tank where the sunlight fell on his shoulders. Then he dropped into the green water, swimming easily and contentedly until his shoulders were tired, and then he got out and rubbed himself with a towel til his skin was red and tingling, and talked casually with the old man, who was a good swimmer.
Later in the afternoon he walked over to the Thompsons’ and sat for an hour having a cup of tea with the old lady, who was glad to see him. She knew Isabelle was dying and was waiting patiently. She would suffer bitterly, but always there was something to fall back on, for she was a good Catholic and believed that she, too, would soon die, and it would be only a little while before everything would be finally understood, and so sure was she of an inherent goodness in everybody, because of the compassion in her own nature, she thought death was often beautiful. Sitting at the table, a small woman, a little stout, with a smooth face, she asked him about his music and commented on the slow advancement in the city. He told her he intended to go to Maestro Cavalcanti, the most expensive teacher of opera in the city, who was well known in the old countries, and pay him to arrange for a year of training in Italy. It would take every cent he had, but he wanted to try it. Nothing might come of it, but he would always be easier in his own mind. Mrs. Thompson encouraged him.
She never talked about Fred, and hardly even talked about Isabelle.
John saw Isabelle only twice. Once she did not seem to know he was in the room. The second time she held out her hand to him and he kissed it, but they did not talk.
He could not understand why he spent so much time talking to her mother, whose calmness, hopefulness, and superiority over the circumstances of death almost embarrassed him. Mrs. Thompson told him Lillian had written to her, asking about Isabelle, and was coming to the city to see her.
The day Isabelle died Father Mason and John and Lillian and Ed Henley came to the house. Father Mason was almost too cheerful, because he was used to the notion of death, and said to John: “It’s the best thing for her. What’s there to worry about now? She died quite peacefully, didn’t she?”
They had expected her to die, but Ed Henley had never thought about it till now and his eyes were red and he hardly talked to anybody. There was no excitement in it for him, someone he had loved was dead and he couldn’t get used to it.
Afterward John and Lillian walked over to the corner together, talking carefully, speaking slowly, both anxious to be polite and friendly and yet reticent. It was a cold day and the wind was blowing up from the lake and chilling them. It was a dark day in the week, when the sun hardly came out at all. After the January thaw the cold days came when the slush on the streets hardened overnight and a cold wind blew steadily. All the signs on the streets were swinging high on the poles and few people came out. Two men holding their hands over their ears went running down the street to a car stop. The snow was falling only thinly. If it had snowed it would have got warmer, but it would not snow all week. The hard cold days of February were ahead.
“These are cold bad days,” John said.
“It will last all month,” she said.
“Shall we go into Childs’ and have a cup of coffee? It will warm us.”
“I’d rather not,” she said. “I made an appointment at my place for half an hour from now, with some pupils.”
“What are you going to do in the city?”
“Go on teaching the piano. I’ll get back my pupils and I was doing fairly well. What about you?”
“I’m going away, if I can – if old Cavalcanti can arrange it.”
“That’s what you ought to do.”
“Old Mrs. Thomspon is rather wonderful, don’t you think?”
“She has more calmness in the face of life or death than anyone in the city.”
“It’s funny. Neither Fred nor Isabelle was much like her. They were so excitable.”
“Isabelle used to be a little like her.”
“She was. In her way she had her own strength and her own pride and had to try and satisfy it, and things got a little mixed up for her.”
“She was always very fo
nd of you.”
“I’ve been thinking so.”
“She was, I know. She loved you.”
“It sounds a bit funny, Lillian, but in a way I must have gone on loving her, only I was always trying to get away from the feeling.”
“Well . . .”
“Oh, well . . .”
They were at the corner where the streetcar stopped. The wind was blowing and Lillian was holding her hat on with one hand and her coat down with the other. A car was coming and they went to speak, but the wind carried the words away. It was such a cold wind it was more important Lillian should not miss the car than they should go on talking.
End Note
(to the 1972 edition)
One of life’s small ironic satisfactions came to me from this book. When I was writing it in Paris in 1929, the only one I talked to about it was Scott Fitzgerald. The last time I saw him, early one afternoon at the Café Deux Magots, I went over the whole story with him and he was full of questions and lively interest. A few months later we were exchanging insults over my boxing match with Hemingway. Fitzgerald had to make a formal apology to me. Years passed. In the early sixties, reading the Letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald, my eyebrows went up. He had written, “If you think Callaghan hasn’t completely blown himself up with this deathhouse masterpiece, just wait and see the pieces fall.” Then I got a letter from Edmund Wilson, who at the time was in Rome, asking me how it was that the “deathhouse masterpiece” was the one book of mine he hadn’t read. When Wilson returned to America he got hold of the book. One night he telephoned me from Talcotville. He said he had been unable to put the book down he liked it so much, and then he told me not to kid myself about Fitzgerald: “Scott would know how good a book that was.” Wilson insisted the Fitzgerald comment came out of his emotional involvement with Hemingway after the insults. As everyone knows, Fitzgerald regarded Wilson as his literary conscience. Well, it took some years, about thirty-five in fact, but I was able to say to myself, “Well, there you are, Scott.”
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