Progress of Stories

by Laura (Riding) Jackson

  And they called Miss Banquett their Muse, and themselves her Votaries. And they did not make hay with Miss Banquett's beauty, but delayed it in a kind of worshipful bad weather which they called their art, and for which she rewarded them with prizes. For she did not herself want the last word to be written—yet; she did not want to hurry herself. And they were blue-in-the-face from disappointment. And Miss Banquett rewarded them with prizes, as if to say: "It is well to regret that the last word has not been written, and it is well that the last word has not been written."

  She rewarded each of them with prizes. And each prize was like the other, but went by a different name. And each prize was a medal engraved on one side with the legend 'Continuez'; and the reverse of the medal was blank. Thus Miss Banquett helped them to keep their minds on their work. And they were, on the whole, steady-going fellows. This was exactly what had begun to worry Miss Banquett. They were almost too steady- going. She had thought that by imbuing them with a critical sense she would encourage their professional vanity and at the same time discourage any vulgar spirit of competition—there could be no competition, except as a joke, where Miss Banquett was concerned. But they seemed incapable of joking. "If only I were not so serious myself," Miss Banquett said to herself.

  Then the idea came to her of creating a new prize—the Prix Désespoir. "I will give this one to the true-bluest of them all," she said to herself. And having been given the prize, the true- bluest of them all fell into an uncritical ecstasy and no longer took care what he wrote; and what he wrote was very foolish and last-wordish; and he was not ashamed. Miss Banquett carried him off to her closet, to have her pleasure of him. How immature she felt! "No, no," she said to herself, "the story is far from finished."

  And having had her pleasure of him she returned him to his fellows. They were rather ashamed of him, but they kept him among them because he made them feel wise, in criticizing him. And some criticized him more severely than others. And so some became professional critics, and others remained authors. And the authors no longer cared what they wrote; and what they wrote was very foolish and last-wordish; and they were not ashamed—they felt that they were pleasing their Muse. And the critics said, "This is all very pleasant in its way, but the story is far from finished." And there was much coming and going among them; everyone was saying a great deal, and there was no danger of a sudden cessation of activity. And Miss Banquett felt that this was how she wanted things to be for the time being.

  7

  But Miss Banquett was not happy. She was so powerful that she was only, after all, a figurehead. She was so powerful that she had nothing to do but be powerful; that is, she was entirely vested in the instruments by which her power was expressed. So she decided that she would for seven days be as one of her own instruments; to be something definite. Not that Miss Banquett wished to back out: for, even had she so wished, she had now nowhere to back out into—she had gone too far. She had, because of the compulsion in her beauty, wished to experience finality; and in order to experience finality she had had to create a continuum of her desire to experience finality; and a continuum was only a continuum; and she knew this, yet could do nothing about it but continue it, since cessation would mean uncertainty once more, not finality; and she had forsworn uncertainty—as when someone says, "I shall never speak to you again," she cannot go back on that. And so she must not in any way be understood as backing out, but only as submitting herself to a purification. And she went among her white people, who lived in that part of Cosmania which is always on the verge of summer yet always in spring, and who were to Miss Banquett a symbol of the economical side of her beauty, by which she was sparing, and, because sparing, modest; and, because modest, youthful; and, because youthful, selfishly prone to those conventionalities of conduct by which one sometimes saves oneself a great deal of abstract problemizing.

  She went among them incognito, a shy woman among shy women, and they did not know her. It was beginning of the Festival of Birds, which lasted seven days. During this time, the population of this portion of Cosmania, which was twelve, had to do with certain birds, which were called Birds of Secrecy. And on the last day, at noon, the birds, the number of which was twelve, laid each a clear, pale egg in the lap of each of these women, and made a tiny hole therein with the tip of its beak, from which, in the evening, after nursing it all afternoon, each woman sucked in the substance of the egg, which affected her in no visible way, but seemed to make all things continue as they were—their white skin to be white as ever, their green lawns to be green as ever, their primroses faint and fresh as ever. And all was as from youth, or, it might be hinted, shyness; or, it might be urged, economy—a swallowing back of anything that quivered on the tip of their tongues; or, it might be put, the not-saying of things not yet said. All of which was done in the name of Miss Banquett, who was to them a mathematical symbol of prosperity; she was their exemplary Thirteenth. And when they had sucked the eggs all dry, they danced the shells into a fine dust and blew it upon one another tenderly. And it made a clear pale down upon their cheek, a modest blush that lasted them the year round, till the next Festival of Birds.

  And Miss Banquett went among them incognito, and she was a thirteenth, and they hated her. But they could not drive her away because she was Miss Banquett, although they did not know it. And she was a blush more beautiful than the others, which they held blasphemous, and for which they hated her all the more. And so they persecuted her. They set her to combing them and dressing them and sweeping their lawns and pampering their primroses, to make their appearance and their surroundings in all respects as shyly beautiful as possible. By reason of which Miss Banquett was obliged to neglect the discretion of her own person; and by reason of which they called her a bold wench; and by reason of which she was happy.

  It was, as has been said, the beginning of the Festival of Birds when Miss Banquett went among them. And they set her to care for the birds as well, which previously had always been left to look after themselves. And she had done this with a sweet diligence, watering them at a spring that she found among the green lawns, and feeding them with worms that she found among the primroses. Whereas previously they had been only ritualistic birds, they now became pet birds. And they seemed to know Miss Banquett, and they flew about her dotingly, and she was not a little pleased—although she realized that this was strictly out of order and that something awful was bound to happen.

  What happened was that the birds, on the seventh day at noon, laid all their eggs in Miss Banquett's lap. At which the twelve shy women were so enraged that they all fell upon Miss Banquett at once, and the eggs were crushed and spoiled. But Miss Banquett herself received no harm. For the shy women, seeing what they had done and being afraid, began quarrelling among themselves, as to which was responsible for breaking the eggs. And by evening their white skins were red with age and anger, their green lawns were blackened, their primroses were grown too full and stale, and everything about them was of an ominous maturity, indiscretion and hysteria. And Miss Banquett was alarmed.

  "I must intervene," she said to herself, "or they will ruin me." And she knew that her time among them was at an end. And she was very sad.

  She determined that she must provoke them still more violently against her. So she went to them and said boldly, "I am Miss Banquett." Which had the desired effect: they then visited upon her the death of a blasphemous impostor, sucking the breath out of her. And the birds devoured her obscure, speechless remains, dotingly, since they were Birds of Secrecy.

  When this was done the white women looked at one another with relief and said: "The Unlucky One is now gone from among us." And they were twelve once more, and shy once more, in the name of her who was to them a mathematical symbol of prosperity, their exemplary Thirteenth.

  As for Miss Banquett, she was delivered up again by these same birds at their death, which was before the next dawn, and made one again, one out of one, a figurehead. "For their sake as much as for my own," she comf
orted herself, "for the sake of those who I so uniquely am. We must not be afraid of the truth, however metaphysical it may seem. After all, one is not metaphysical oneself."

  8

  The pleasure of Miss Banquett in her beauty had, until now, been sufficient to her beauty. But now she wished to have both pleasure and content in it, to have in it not only a being beautiful but a being as well. Her desire for content and her desire for pleasure fanned each other into a single flame—a flame which did not burn and which was yet fire—which she could not make to burn because of her desire for content and which she could not yet put out because of her desire for pleasure. And while she considered this flame there sprang from it a whole woodlandful of fire-people, red-bright but quite cool to touch.

  "We are your fire-people, O Spark of Sparks," one called out to her.

  "I know," she replied perfunctorily. And she walked among them, and each of them was a fire-self, a burning vegetation. And when she came to the one that had called out to her she said, "This is the most beautiful." And it seemed to be nearly really burning, the sight of it both pleased and soothed her. "O Bush of Bushes," she said, "how nearly really like home!"

  "I know," it replied perfunctorily.

  And Miss Banquett disappeared into the bush of bushes.

  Within all was burnt bridges. She stood on an island, a just extinct volcano, quite unharmed. All was quiet. "Are you there?" she asked hopefully. But she was surprised to receive no answer. She felt half-sleepy, half-irritable. She took a strong, high step forward, but remained stuck to the spot. She laughed. "This is like an exciting adventure with nothing and nobody," she said. She took another and another step. "Lovely, lovely me," she said experimentally. "Spark of sparks," all around her echoed somewhat enthusiastically.

  Miss Banquett now began to regain possession of herself. The cool lava hardened. And from all sides appeared the fire- people in human form, a little commonplace, all dressed in the latest fashion. But she did not despise them.

  "For," she said, "they represent that side of me by which I do not pursue my beauty beyond the limits of reason. Not, of course, that I would sacrifice my beauty to reason. But I am thoroughly acquainted with their nature and do not deplore it. It was never my intention to do anything unreasonable, at least not from my own point of view. Whatever is natural is reasonable. I would never do anything that did not come naturally— though, on the other hand, I would never be stopped by an artificial sense of shame."

  And they surrounded her with respectful indifference and said, "Here we are, Miss Banquett." To which Miss Banquett replied with polite nonchalance, "Good afternoon." Whereupon a dapper young man, of a more romantic disposition than the others, stepped out from among them and said, "My name is Mr. Warm—Bush on my mother's side; and I understand you are a Spark on both sides." "Quite so," replied Miss Banquett. "There are no obstacles then?" "None," said Miss Banquett. At this the company applauded as family parties applaud the announcement of a marriage—a little cynical, a little proud that there should be a family event.

  A stout, somewhat impudent-looking gentleman then came forward and took charge.

  "Principals," he called out, "in central depression. Relatives on craterial ridge. Friends and casual acquaintances in crevices."

  The ceremony was accomplished in a way not to move anyone deeply. Miss Banquett fell into the spirit of her new surroundings.

  "What a funny place!" she said.

  "We are glad you like it," they replied tepidly. "Nothing ever happens here."

  "I hide myself away a great deal of the time," said Mr. Warm. "That is how I preserve my vitality."

  "This will be an excellent place to settle down in quietly," said Miss Banquett to herself.

  But Miss Banquett was wrong. For one thing, Mr. Warm spent most of his time in hiding. This was worse than being entirely by herself. Then she was alone. Now she was left alone. The presence of the general population aggravated her loneliness; it would have been better if they had not been there at all. For they were there and yet not there. They refused to commit themselves one way or the other. They fidgeted and looked askance at everything, without, however, seriously objecting to anything.

  "I am thoroughly acquainted with their nature," she said, "and I do not deplore it. But I cannot permanently abide it."

  So for the time being she had a child. At the first opportunity it ran away. When it returned, its mother said to it, "What have you been doing?" And it answered, "I have eaten up everything. After I ate up everything, I met a man who said that he was Mr. Warm." "And what did you do to him?" asked its mother anxiously. "I put him in my mouth to swallow him," said the child, "but when I swallowed there was nothing to swallow. And now…" "And now?" asked Miss Banquett. "Now I am going to eat you up." And Miss Banquett found herself inside an empty, abysmally warmish mouth. She was shivering—as one does in hot underground caves. And so it was a relief to be swallowed. "Why," she said, "what a pig I am!" For she had swallowed herself. She felt herself solidly inside herself.

  9

  "Enough, then," said Miss Banquett. "I must not be ashamed to admit that I am a thoroughly selfish character—in the best sense of the word. That is, I am a thoroughly unselfish character: myself is enough for me. I have no wish to be more than I am. I am thoroughly satisfied with what I am: beautiful. Anything more would be—others.

  "Enough, then," said Miss Banquett. "There can be no doubt. I have populated Cosmania. I have not, perhaps, seen all of it, but I have seen enough; enough to establish the death of the uncertainty of my beauty.

  "Now, in the uncertain world of knowledge," she went on to herself, "they who knew my beauty lived. Here, in the fearful world of self, they who worship my beauty are dead, they are of me. But, though in them I have experienced my beauty more certainly than by knowledge, I have not, because of fear and power (the equal parts of desire) been my own beauty more certainly than by the contradiction of uncertainty. I have prolonged the death of uncertainty and so postponed certainty. I have not entered into the state of those who are of me, who are dead—the faithful. I have cleverly created a faithful order out of my beauty, but I have not yet myself been simply and faithfully what I am."

  And now the air filled with countless images of Miss Banquett, all like and yet all different. And the likeness between them gradually faded. And the differentness between them gradually took a single form; it became that strange, so strange Miss Banquett who was to be so exclusively and so inclusively herself. Then power left her, and fear, and desire. The world of knowledge, in which she had had beautiful weakness, was gone; and now the world of self, too, in which she had had beautiful strength, was gone; and there was nothing left but a simplicity which was Miss Banquett and beauty and nothing and nowhere. Her people, in whom she had addressed herself, were gone also: they yielded the play to her, their parts all spoken. There was no play; Miss Banquett was no more the play. What was Miss Banquett now?

  Where was Miss Banquett—past address, past beautiful Miss Banquett even, herself even? Not beautiful Miss Banquett! Leave her. She is not.

  The ball divides: one half is the ball as large as ever, the other is Miss Banquett, whole. And she is not. Nor is all this remarkable, since she is not. Yet is this all? Only seven histories have been told. May the gap be satisfied with more histories?

  Too far ahead. Do not insist. Let her be not. Too long ago. Leave her. She is sufficient to herself. She satisfies the gap.

  For, by a will-less effort of will, she was alone—alone with alone. Nor is this remarkable, since she was not. She remembers: what is Miss Banquett now? Miss Banquett had undertaken this voyage because she was beautiful, not for a holiday. Reported lost in shipwreck. Lost in shipwreck—she was not! Nor was this remarkable. Beauty went on just the same: beautiful Miss Who, number which, street what, place where. Beautiful Miss Who dines privately to-night with a few knowing admirers. Remarkable: her well-known face, their knowing faces—knowledge known, nervous wisdom. But M
iss Who is. And Miss Banquett is not.

  First was beautiful Miss Banquett; then was the populating of Cosmania, the populating of Cosmania by Miss Banquett with herself. Or, we might say, Miss Banquett submitted her beauty to a psychological toilette. And Miss Banquett and Cosmania are the same. And when, after the seventh history, this is reaffirmed, the hypothesis having been illustrated with sufficient energy to permit of its being drawn as a foregone conclusion, then Miss Banquett's dear Cosmania is at an end. Miss Banquett has populated Miss Banquett with Miss Banquett; Cosmania is at an end. Miss Banquett is at an end. She was at an end—she was not, she was nothing. Her nothingness, which her beauty now was, was such that she was not beautiful Miss Banquett, she was she. She is not. And she does not suffer, she wants nothing. She is nothing, she has nothing, she has herself.

  Besides everything that there is to be known, there is nothing else to be known. There is now not Miss Banquett to be known. Miss Banquett has been shipwrecked on Miss Banquett. And the climate is perfect—not uncertain, not merely certain, but perfect. Miss Banquett is at peace at last; she is not. She no longer seeks records of her beauty or seeks to record her beauty.

  Her beauty is perfectly recorded. She is not. She has fainted of her own fainting beauty. She has carried herself off in a faint into finality and revived herself to be not. Miss Banquett triumphs over Miss Banquett. She has dispensed with Miss Banquett, yet she does not want.

  A drunken slut who in the world of knowledge scrubbed Miss Banquett's front steps every Monday morning angrily rang Miss Banquett's bell one Sunday morning. "I wish to scrub your steps now," she said. "I do not wish my steps to be scrubbed now," replied Miss Banquett, "but I will pay you now for to-morrow's work, if you need the money." "You beautiful little bitch," said the slut angrily, "may you never want." And Miss Banquett never wanted. She had economical desires, she went always only a little beyond her means, beyond herself —so little that it was not by practical measurement beyond herself. She went over no more beyond herself than was necessary to discover what her means really were, what she really was. Even now, when she is beyond herself beyond retrenchment, she has not exceeded her means, she does not want. For she is not. She needs nothing to get along on. Nor may you call her dead. She alone might say the word. But she does not say, she is not. The seven histories, seven hundred, seven thousand, more and more advance and more and more retreat, impossibly toward conclusion, impossibly away from conclusion. For Miss Banquett is the continuous end of a story to which there is no end, since she is not. How did this come about? It did not come about. She is not. And since she is not, she is her story's continuous end.