Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Is My Heart

by Joyce Carol Oates

  too many guests. their names fly past even as Graice shakes hands and re peats their names. An old politician's trick, Duke Courtney said, repeating names: nothing is so sweet as the sound of one's name.

  But Graice Courtney is too dazed to re member much: a professor of history and his wife, a tall bald gentleman in a cleric's costume who resembles Adlai Stevenson, a young Renaissance scholar known in the department as doctor Savage's favored protege She's even introduced again to missis Wells and is about to shake missis Wells's hand when the older woman says smilingly, Ah, but we've already met!

  Graice, isn't it or, no, Irene?

  Next, doctor Savage himself advances upon Graice, intent on introducing her to. visiting professor, University of Rochester, specialist in the English neoclassic artist John Flaxman. this name too Graice doesn't catch.

  Too many guests. The din of voices is alarming.

  But a lovely room: a fifteen foot beamed ceiling, white mahogany woodwork, stenciled wallpaper, Chinese import furnishings, a fire gaily blazing in the fireplace which doctor Savage, abloom in the midst of his guests, frequently stokes. Above the mantel there's a mirror of old glass and absentmindedly Graice Courtney seeks her re flection in it. passes her own face by several times before recognizing it.

  In the amiable crowd there's a sudden black face. A strong boned walnut stained face. Graice is alert, curious. but the black woman is wearing a maid's costume, passing glasses of sherry and tiny shrimp canapes on a silver tray. How she smiles, how happy she appears! A fattish woman, fattish smiling bunched up cheeks.

  Smiling as she makes her way clockwise about the reception room resenting the tray to the Savages' guests, smiling as people take what's offered and murmur thanks without looking at her or, caught up in the intensity of their conversations, fail to murmur thanks.

  Not meaning to be rude of course and in this context not rude, surely?

  Graice Courtney too, taking a glass of sherry, mumbles thanks without looking up. She's stricken with embarrassment, an almost physical shame. The senseless words run singsong through her mind All the white cunts hot for Belafonte. all the white cunts hot for.

  As the time for dinner approaches it happens that some of the Savages' guests are leaving the house; evidently they were invited only for drinks. Graice's spirits rise tentatively.

  The sherry, to which she's unaccustomed, has warmed her throat.

  There's even a curl of something in the pit of her belly, a tickle of sexual desire. this, too, senseless.

  missis Savage and an admiring little circle of women are standing around what appears to be a bishop's throne, out in the grand hallway.

  It's French Gothic, missis Savage explains, stroking the beautifully carved oak with her beringed fingers, thirteenth century, isn't it exquisite! Graice Courtney joins the women with an air of schoolgirl interest. missis Savage is saying that her husband's grand father Ezra Savage became, in his old age, an avid, insatiable collector of good, old, solid things, things with the weight of time behind them: The imprimatur of history,' Byron used to quote him. He died at the age of ninety four, and they say he never had a day of illness.

  missis Savage is asked about Ezra Savage's background, and in an animated voice, as if the story were altogether new to her, missis Savage tells the group how her husband's grandfather began his career in Syracuse as a woodw re dealer at the age of fifteen.

  Fifteen! Imagine!

  So young!

  Ezra Savage had in fact run away from his home in Liverpool, England, at the age of fourteen, in 1860. He emigrated alone to the United States, knowing no one, was hired by the pioneer dealer in woodw re Matthias Goodwin in Albany, loaded a flatboat with woodw re broom handles, bowls, butter churns, ax handles and started down the Hudson River, making stops at various settlements by the time he reached Poughkeepsie he was completely sold out. So this enterprising young man re turned to Albany, got more supplies, and went into business for himself in Syracuse in 1862 his first store was downtown on State Street in the same block that Sibley's is now.

  Says one of the admiring women, with a gesture meant to indicate the entire Savage House, And the re st is history!

  Says missis Savage, It is.

  Seeing that missis Savage is smiling so warmly at her, with an air almost of expectation, Graice Courtney summons up her ingenuity to say thoughtfully, History can be interpreted, some theorists think, as the story of just a few individuals' destinies. a few very special men, geniuses. It's an innocent paraphrase of a re mark doctor Savage is given to make frequently in his lectures; a re mark Graice will one day discover is, in fact, a paraphrase of an aphorism of Nietzsche's. But in her ingenuous crystal clear voice it sounds wholly spontaneous.

  At any rate, Gwendolyn Savage doesn't recognize it. Her smile deepens, her lightly rouged cheeks dimple with pleasure. As if her own study of history has led her to this conclusion she says, Oh, it is.

  Hypocrite.

  Aren't you the one, though!

  To accept doctor Savage's invitation for Thanksgiving, Graice Court they was obliged to break a previous engagement. Sorry, she'd said guiltily, but something has come up: I have to go home after all to Hammond.

  She'd agreed to go to Cleveland with a friend, to meet his family; the young man is a doctoral candidate in chemistry at the university who imagines he's in love with Graice, and though Graice is not in love with him she'd said yes, thinking at the time yes; but when doctor Savage tempted her with his invitation how could she resist?

  Not that Graice Courtney is in love with Byron Savage as, it might seem, some of the art history majors are in love with him, female and male; but she admires him very much. Simply to hear the man lecture, to re ad even cursorily one of his monographs or books, is to admire him.

  And while Graice is fond of her friend Tom, who imagines he's in love with her and would like to buy her an engagement ring, she finds his high re gard for her disconcerting since she knows it's based upon a misreading of her, a romantic illusion, or delusion, of a kind.

  Each time he says I love you, Graice must suppress the urge to say, But you don't know me! She foresees a time, and very soon, when she won't be able to bear the young man's groping impassioned kisses and his hesitant hands on her. And those words, those words, those empty words: I love you, Graice.

  It isn't by design that Graice Courtney seems to have fallen into the practice of cultivating people, or allowing herself to be cultivated by people, for temporary and expedient purposes. then to move on, or break away, or, simply, forget. She means nothing deliberate by her behavior with friends, acquaintances, would be lovers. she's never cruel. and always re acts with surprise when others respond with anger. What did I promise you? What did you imagine I meant?

  Graice knows that only two people in her lifetime have ever known her intimately enough to love her, or not love her, and these are her mother Persia and Jinx Fairchild; and Persia is dead.

  Before accepting Tom's invitation to go with him to Cleveland Graice had been planning vaguely to go to Hammond, to have Thanks giving there with her uncle Leslie. That good hearted, lonely man, whom in fact Graice does love who writes to her often at college, calls her on the phone thinks of her as his only link Leslie doesn't say this, but Graice knows with Persia. But Graice has grown impatient with her bachelor uncle's bachelor ways, and his eccentricities seem less charming to her nowindeed, the profession, or trade, of photography seems less attractive to her nowsince her exposure to the high ground of art history and the great tradition. Byron Savage doesn't so much as mention photography in his survey course.

  But the plans to visit Hammond had been vague. And when the invitation came from Tom, who imagines he's in love with Graice Courtney, Graice had said yes, yes why not, and canceled her plans with her uncle.

  Sorry sorry sorry, she'd said, quite sincerely, but some thing has come up.

  Now Graice is thinking of these things, seated at the Savages' lavishly set dining table, listening eager
ly to what is being said, staring with such intensity she feels the strain at the tender roots of her eyes.

  Graice's cheeks will be permanently dimpled from so much smiling.

  How warm, how gracious the company. these dozen or so men and women who, seeing Graice Courtney, see a guest of the Savages and accept her, at least for the evening, as someone like themselves.

  And how lovely the dining room, which missis Savage declares to the company is her favorite room in the entire house: the French crystal chandelier overhead glittering like ice; the French Empire table and chairs the table has been opened out to accommodate twelve guests comfortably ; the built in English oak sideboard, elaborate as an altar, in Jacobean style; the Chinese carpet, all crimsons and greens, larger than any carpet Graice Courtney has ever seen in a private residence. From the re marks of others Graice knows that she's eating from Wedgwood china the Parthenon frieze design by John Flaxman, in fact , drinking from Waterford crystal; her silverware is Parisian, early nineteenth century; the white lace tablecloth is Portuguese, made by hand of course. And the gold plated many branched candelabrum with its tall slender candles and the apple green French moire wall covering So many courses! So much food!

  Graice has difficulty with the first course, a heavily creamed lobster bisque, though it's delicious, she knows it's delicious, but she can swallow only a few mouthfuls and sets her spoon down unobtrusively by her bowl, seeing that missis Savage sees. nothing at this table eludes missis Savage's eye.

  Then there's the giant turkey: doctor Savage radiant with pleasure as he carves the turkey, expertly, yet with a good deal of hilarious banter on all sides.

  And two kinds of stuffing mushroom, oyster , and two kinds of cranberry sauce sweet, tart , and whipped potatoes, and candied yams, and diced carrots, and several kinds of hot breads including cornbread. Never has Graice Courtney had so much food set before her in her lifetime, never has she felt so transfixed, so dazed, so.

  unreal. Impossible for me to dissociate, since P, the spectacle ofeatingfrom the spectacle of vomiting.

  Still, Graice tries. With missis Savage watching her and smiling, Graice tries.

  From time to time during the course of the elaborate meal the black woman appears, to help missis Savage serve her guests and to bear away dirtied plates and emptied bowls. missis Savage introduces her to the company as Mercedes: Mercedes and no last name.

  In her rich melodic North Carolinian accent missis Savage declares she wouldn't know what to do without Mercedes.

  Mercedes laughs, shakes her head, makes no audible re ply.

  She's a husky, capable woman, walnut dark skin, good natured eyes. In her mid fifties perhaps. Big drooping breasts, waist sliding into hips, her hairnet slightly askew on her oiled pressed hair.

  Moving behind Graice, re sting one end of the heavy platter on the edge of the table, Mercedes exudes a fruity smoky odor.

  When Graice hesitates, Mercedes says, half chiding, Doan you want any more, honey? There's plenty!

  Moving about the long candlelit table with Mercedes and the platters of food, missis Savage is flushed with happiness. She has slipped on a white ruffled apron over her black jersey dress, she's giving all credit for the meal to her mother, grandmother, great grandmother.

  old recipes handed down through the family dating back to Mary Washington herself: That's her recipe for oyster stuffing. Truly.

  You mean. George Washington's mother?

  His mother. Truly.

  doctor Savage is on his feet, pouring wine in his guests' many glasses as if nothing in the world could give him greater pleasure.

  Byron Savage, so radiant in his role of host, so seemingly trans ported. he's clearing his throat repeatedly but it's a contented sound, like a cat purring. All his guests adore him, and he adores his guests: Just a little more, Emma dear? A touch of re d? White?

  And you, Andrew? A little of both? Graice? No? Just a touch? Ah, yes, dear, good, you've hardly drunk any, and this is special, I think.

  doctor Savage is wearing a nattily checked suit with a glossy maroon vest, a holiday sort of vest, and a silk necktie affixed with a diamond stickpin.

  'A touch more, Julie? And you, Gwendolyn, dear? Yes?

  Good!

  Flickering candlelight that glitters in the crystal overhead and in the crystal on the table, a small galaxy of winks and sparks.

  White roses, baby bud roses, in beautiful white and blue Wedgwood vases.

  Graice Courtney drinks white wine, anxious to please.

  She's staring hard. She's listening. And talking too, with surprising quickness, animation. Sitting very straight in her French Empire chair in her borrowed Lanz wool dress that brings out the hazel in her eyes and the faint golden glow of her skin. How is it possible that I am here? That I am here?

  doctor Savage is seated again, beaming with pleasure, and missis Savage is seated again, fresh servings of food on everyone's plates, Mercedes unobtrusively in and out of the dining room, in and out of the kitchen through the soundless swinging door, the antique grandfather clock beside the sideboard companionably ticking, and talk resumes. talk of art, talk of politics, talk of the university administration and of the university's football team and of mutual acquaintances not present, talk of the weather, talk of the space program, talk of President Kennedy who is, or is not, trustworthy, since the farce of the Bay of Pigs: The man is a monster of egoism, says doctor Sewall the history professor, with a look of distaste; The man is our only hope, says doctor Savage, throwing his hands into the air. For some minutes there is an intense conversation, very nearly a debate, which most of the company joins in but which is dominated by doctor Savage, doctor Sewall, and the Reverend Andrew Reed the tall bald gentlemanly cleric is an Anglican minister , concerning the proposed Soviet American nuclear peace pact, the central issue being whether the Soviets can be trusted, whether Marxists who make no secret of their agenda can be trusted, and whether in fact America's leaders can be trusted. and Graice Courtney sips wine and listens, wondering at the vigor, solemnity, and passion with which these men talk, as if their opinions, so forcibly uttered at the Savages' dinner table, Thanksgiving 1962, Springdale Road, Syracuse, New York, were of profound, lasting significance were in fact expressions of political power.

  As she often does at such times, in such pockets of time, Graice allows her thoughts to drift: there's the perpetual memory, or is it by now sheerly fantasy, of herself in Jinx Fairchild's arms, in his car above the river, Jinx Fairchild kissing her gently butte asingly there was a playfulness to it, not mockery but playfulness, kissing her touching and fondling and kissing her breasts, and she'd wanted him to make love to her but had not dared speak though in memory, in fantasy, she makes herself speak, she's brazen, reckless, a little crazy maybe. that curl of desire in her loins flaring up, up, up into flame. I love you, I would die for you. You are the only re al thing in my life.

  Now they're talking animatedly of travel: Italy, Greece. missis Wells is reminiscing. mister Malone is re commending. missis Savage is asking advice on. doctor Savage makes everyone roar with laughter by telling an anecdote about missis Sewall speaks of a recent visit to Amsterdam, and doctor Reed speaks of a re cent visit to London, and there's The Hague, that remarkable museum there, and in Washington the Phillips Collection, and there's Brussels to which doctor Savage once journeyed solely to see the museum and, there, discovered to his horror. isn't that typical of travel: the unforeseen. There's Picasso who simply continues. There's Matisse rather like Yeats in his old age.

  There's El Greco, there's Titian, there's Vermeer, on whom doctor Savage's son Alan once worked, spending a year in the Netherlands, and he'd come up with some splendid things before, alas, moving on into the slovenly twentieth century. and there's Constable, with whom doctor Savage is now engaged. and there's Bosch, whom doctor Savage can bear only in small doses.

  doctor Reed speaks of Bosch's untitled triptych in the Prado Museum in Madrid, what a singularly unpleasant but powerf
ul work, and doctor Savage agrees; in fact as a young man he'd made a study of sorts of the painting's effect upon visitors to the gallery; he's entirely ambivalent about it himself, he's been puzzling over it for decades and has never felt certain that it is, or is not, a work of surpassing genius but surely it is a riddle: The Garden of Earthly Delights, so called. And he jars Graice Courtney out of her hazy erotic trance by asking her what she thinks.

  It isn't a cruel professorial tactic to trip up a daydreaming student, it's posed with genuine sincerity, even gallantry, but Graice Courtney is taken aback, feels the blood pound foolishly into her face. She's astonished that doctor Savage should believe that she thinks anything at all on the subject or that her thoughts, impressionistic and random, should merit articulating, in such company at least.

  Stumblingly she says, I. feel the same way, I suppose. In class, when you showed the slide, I could hear a collective intake of breath It is a code of some kind, at least on the surface. doctor Savage questions Graice further, a benign sort of catechism, and by degrees she begins to speak more knowledgeably: not only has she studied the rudiments of Hieronymus Bosch with doctor Savage but she proofread the galleys of a Journal article on an aspect of his iconography not long ago; thus she knows a fair amount, or can give a fair impression of so knowing, enough to acquit her with doctor Savage and with the company at hand. Recklessly she concludes that the code of the work doesn't matter anyway, the meaning doesn't matter, it's the fact of the work, whether, seeing it, you are stopped dead in your tracks. nothing else matters.