Stanley turned to Hannah and asked with solicitude, —But what about your painting?
—They took it Monday.
—Took it? Otto repeated.
—I rented a Modigliani last month, I couldn’t pay another month rent on it so they took it back. I can’t live without that painting. I don’t have any place to hang it, but I can’t live without it, it was more beautiful than my mother. But what do they care? All they want is their lousy twenty dollars.
—But that much money, you could buy a good print, Otto commenced, —a Picasso . . .
—Picasso, he paints like he spits.
—Well, of course . . . Otto said uncomfortably, —and the . . . I mean, if a painter is only after a um immediate effects . . .
—Some of them have set out to kill art, Stanley said quietly looking at the floor. —And some of them are so excited about discovering new mediums and new forms, he went on, looking up, between the two people he was talking to, —that they never have time to work in one that’s already established.
—Yes, and when they haven’t studied their materials . . .
—Or they don’t care, they just don’t care. They don’t. They accept history and they . . . they thumb their noses at it.
—While you sit around and try to write music like Gabrieli.
—If a painter knows his materials and respects them . . .
—Oh Christ, what are you talking about? Hannah broke in. —The kind of crap you buy now in tubes, how do you know what you get?
—Well of course, Otto agreed, moving his moist hand in the sling, —one can get more ink powder in a tube of cheap indigo than there is indigo, or no madder at all in rose madder, but . . .
—All right, what do you blame the painter for, if a system of enterprise like this one screws him up?
—Well you . . . I mean . . .
—You can buy as good colors today as have ever been made, Stanley said, —but there’s a sort of a satisfaction grinding your own colors isn’t there, here where everything you pick up is ready-made, everything’s automatic. Where Henry James says, “to work successfully beneath a few grave, rigid laws . . .”
—Oh, stuff Henry James . . . Hannah commenced, and coughed. Otto had lit another cigarette. He turned upon her seriously unattractive face as though to accuse her of having made it so on purpose.
—Of course, when Vainiger says . . . he began, but she turned and set off toward a plate of crackers.
—Are you a painter? Stanley asked Otto.
—Me? Oh no, I just, I’m a writer, a playwright, I just finished a play.
—I thought from the way you talked maybe you were.
—A playwright?
—A painter.
—Well I, no, in fact I would have thought that vou . . . And, but what does Hannah do?
—She really doesn’t do so very much, Stanley admitted.
A face lowered behind them, to contribute, —Hannah knows The Sound and the Fury by heart.
—The sound and the fury? Otto turned.
—The Sound and the Fury. Faulkner’s novel, haven’t you ever read it?
—Of course I’ve read it, Otto said without an instant’s hesitation.
—Hannah knows it by heart.
—She paints some, Stanley said in a vindicatory tone.
—Paints! Did you see the abstract she did for the Army Air Force? the face persisted. —For a psychological test, they used it to pick out the queers, if you were queer the painting didn’t look like anything, if you weren’t it looked like a snatch.
—A what?
—What’s the matter, you queer?
—She painted still lifes, Stanley interposed helpfully.
—It took her so long the fruit got rotten.
—But Cézanne . . .
—Now she paints landscapes but she has to put telephone poles in all of them to get perspective. Linear perspective.
—How does she get on without working?
—She says work is death.
—People give her money?
—Work is death. She’s too strong to ask for charity. When she really needs something, that’s different, we all helped her when she got her front teeth knocked out. The ones she has now are made of cellophane. She washes and does all her laundry in a subway ladies’ washroom.
—She’s very . . . she has such integrity of purpose, Stanley said weakly.
—Purpose? Otto repeated. —What purpose.
—Just . . . purpose, Stanley said looking after their nameless companion. —I ought to leave, he added, shifting nervously, gazing toward that full-blown flower whose fey petals curled and yellowed round its white spore-bearing carpel, Agnes Deigh. She was reciting a limerick about Titian which ended, —climbed up the ladder and had ’er, to rhyme with rose madder.
—What is she, anyhow? Otto asked as they drifted in that direction.
—An agent, a literary agent, Stanley answered under his breath, and they arrived to fill a gap in the trouser-seat curtain around her. There was a silent moment: Agnes Deigh and Otto compared sun tans. Then she said, —I’m collecting members for Art for Labor and Democracy. It’s a party.
—A party? someone from another cluster turned to ask.
—A political party, darling, she said, and he retired.
—I have no political interests, Otto said to her.
—But you don’t have to do anything. You just give me two dollars, that pays your dues and they have another member.
—But why join if I’m not going to do anything?
—They need members. They just want your name, darling.
—I’m sorry, I’m afraid I really couldn’t afford it.
—Two dollars?
—That isn’t what I meant . . . But Agnes Deigh was talking to someone else. Otto retired, to recover composure with an eyebrow raised on nothing.
The funeral spray was on the floor; and in the sunless garden round it the flowers wilted one way and another, toward each other and away. There was music, briefly. A girl’s voice counterfeited by the phonograph sang, “I sold my heart to the junkman . . .” until the needle broke and the song was lost in a whirr and momentary dimming of the electric light. A healthy baritone voice from a girl with a tubercularly collapsed chest said, —But it isn’t really a good novel at all, the only perceptive chapter is where the boy discovers he’s queer.
One, with an unconscionably persistent smile, his coat too long and trousers too short, was detailing the plot of his as-yet-unfinished novel, —slightly reminiscent of Djuna Barnes perhaps. A man is told that his girl is a lesbian, so he makes himself up as a girl and goes to a party where she’ll be. He makes advances to her, she accepts, and he throws off his disguise and rapes her . . . The voice of Agnes Deigh rose, —But darling, you don’t have to do anything.
Time, essential for growth, seemed to have forgotten the place, abandoned this garden which had never seen the sun, neither known the songs nor the fertilizing droppings of birds; still there might be worms, and one would hesitate to pry under to prove that there were not. In spite of not being tall, Otto looked loftily over the dusty scene, as he had upon the simmering market in the Central American port two weeks before. Here, as there, he poured disdainfully casual and acrid tobacco smoke over the traders, stood with one foot extended, an eyebrow raised. Occasionally he flicked at the ends of his new mustache, or affected difficulty with his sling. No one had mentioned either.
In spite of the fact that the couch was out of sight, he set off toward it, suddenly remembering the perennial hunt; and by now he had had enough to drink to encourage him toward the woman sought after in vain, die Frau nach der man sich sehnt (as Gordon called her in Act III). So he knew the eyes that looked beyond and did not acknowledge him, the hands which offered but protected, and these were the places one was forced to seek her in New York, no matter the shadows, the choking air, this Ewig-Weibliche, the Eternal Helen. Then he suddenly heard Jesse Franks’s voice saying, —She look
s like some friggin madonna, and, no more realizing the wonder in that remark than the man who had spoken it, shut it out.
—I haven’t seen you for months, said someone beside him. They shook hands.
—I’ve been in Central America, said Otto, brandishing the sling.
—Were you? I didn’t know it.
Otto recognized him: the young man who wore his coat too long and trousers too short. The unconscionable smile, Otto remembered unpleasantly, not a smile to make one feel cheerful in its presence and persistence. Rather its intimation was that the wearer knew all of the dismal secrets of some evil jungle whence he had just come, a place of surreptitious traffic in fetid sweetish air where the fruits hung rotten on the trees. —How do you like my painting? This, of course, was Max.
—The colors are good, said Otto warily to his host. The smile was not cold, but its very attempt to show itself open and honest revealed disarming calculation. It was a smile that had encouraged many to devote confidences, which gaining the cold air of outdoors they regretted, and mistrusted him accordingly. He dealt largely in facts, knowing for instance that most Hawaiian grass skirts are made in Switzerland, that Scottish Border ballads originated in the Pacific islands, that Scotch tartans are made in Switzerland, British army swords in Germany. It was for these moments that Otto wanted to carry a gun, not to flourish, certainly not to fire, simply to feel it heavily protective under his arm. —Did it take you long? he asked.
—Thinking it out was the main thing, said Max.
—It always is. I’ve just finished a play and . . .
—Do you know Ed Feasley? He was at Harvard too, said Max, who had studied locally.
—Hello, said Ed. —Chrahst we were in the same class. You know, I called you up a couple of months ago. I looked you up in the phone book when I came to New York and called. I got some man. He seemed to know you, but he didn’t know where you were.
—That must have been my father, Otto said.
There was the sound of collision across the room, as Anselm went down.
—That last time I saw you, said Otto. —you were playing golf down here, driving golf balls down Thompson Street.
—I was drunk, said Ed, whose father owned a battleship works. —Just happened to have some clubs in the car.
—What are you doing now?
—Not a God-damned thing. The old man told me he’d give me a ten-per-cent commission if I’d sell one of his God-damned boats, I think the old bastard’s just kidding me. He wants me to go to work in one of his plants. Start from the bottom.
—What happened to that girl you were going to marry?
—O Chr-ah-st, Ed said wearily. His old-school drawl relieved him of the burden of blasphemy. —I’ve decided to write a book about her instead. He was a tall well-built fellow with a very small head, what was known as the university type before those institutions let down their barriers, now viewed by the frail round-heads who have penetrated as definite evidence of degeneration of the race.
—I guess we’re all writing, Otto said cheerfully. —I’ve just finished a play . . .
—Wha’d you do to your hand anyway? Ed asked.
—I’ve been in Central America. A revolution . . .
—Wha’d you go down there for?
—I was working, but when this revolution started, well, you know, you get mixed up in things, before you know it. And to see a dozen policemen coming at you on motorcycles, after you’ve strung piano wire . . .
—Mister Feddle, said Max, —I’m so glad you came. This interloper was an old man, who seemed glad to be here.
—I feel young again, among all of you, he said. —And I must tell you since I know you’ll be interested. My poems are being published.
—That’s splendid. Congratulations. Things will be a lot easier for you and your wife now. Is she here?
Mr. Feddle looked out into the room. —She was, he murmured, —she was, as he tottered away.
—All you really need is a length of good piano wire . . .
—Did you say you were writing a novel? Max asked Ed Feasley.
—No, said Otto, —a play. I just finished a play, down in . . .
—Has anyone seen it? Max asked him.
—No, I . . . well . . .
—I’d like to read it, Max said.
—Would you? Let’s see. I might get it to you tomorrow. It’s one of those things, you can’t really be sure of it until an outside person has seen it, said Otto explaining this sudden committal to himself and to them, as though he would show it to Max if he were uncertain. And Max smiled at Otto, as though he knew him very well, and had seen him often in another part of the jungle.
The sound of singing seeped through the smoke. The singer was not singing for the group, but to himself as in encouragement. If ever a tattered dahlia bloomed in that brown plot, it was Herschel. His lyrics remained the same, though the tune was under no such restriction:
—I’m going down to Dutch Siam’s, yes I am, . . . yes I am
he sang from the floor, where he sat playing with his feet like any village idiot. He had not left his corner since introducing Max, Hannah, and Stanley, giving them all Christian names which he supplied himself, to a blonde Miss Adeline Thing. Those three were dumbfounded, then livid, and clamored to give Adeline their correct names; not bothering to ask hers they retired.
—Yes I am . . . (he was very drunk), —yes I am . . .
Miss Thing was across the room, as far as she could be from him in that place. —He is pretty far gone, isn’t he? Otto said; and as they turned to look he added, —I’d say he was a latent heterosexual.
—I’m sorry, said an old lady at Max’s arm. —Have you seen my husband? The old fool’s probably drunk.
—Oh Mrs. Feddle, no he’s not at all drunk. He looks fine. I was so glad to hear that things are working out. Life should be a lot easier for you now.
—Well, she said, weary, —it costs money to have things published, you know. She scanned the room, while Otto retreated to the bookcase.
When among people he did not know, Otto often took down a book from which he could glance up and note the situation which he pretended to disdain. One evening he had read seventeen pages in Thomas of Brabant’s On Bees that way. Now he found himself staring at Robert Browning:
Well, and it was graceful of them: they’d break talk off and afford —She, to bite her mask’s black velvet—he, to finger on his sword, While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?
—Oh God! Agnes Deigh screamed with delight. —Darling! Her laughter seemed to clear the room of the smoke that hung like marsh gas, for long enough to glimpse her abandon before the tall Swede who had just arrived to hand her a key. —It’s to my box, he said, —and you mustn’t lose it ever. I just don’t trust myself, that’s all. Why at any moment I’m liable to open that box and take out those divine dresses, those brrr beautiful bits of lingerie. Sometimes I just have to put them on. But if you have the key you won’t let me give in, will you?
—But tell us about Rome, darling. Paris.
—I had the most divine trip back. You can’t imagine anything more ghastly. On the very same boat with the right arm of Saint Ignatius of Loyola! Isn’t that just too camp? You can’t imagine, traveling with a relic. Victoria and Albert came with me. You can’t imagine the contretemps we had when we landed . . .
— . . .
— . . . ?
—Tins of opium that he was trying to put onto himself with adhesive tape my dear, and in the heat of the cabin they blew up of course, simply blew up everywhere, and there they were covered with broken tins and that horrid sticky plaster everywhere, and poor Victoria had to drop a bottle of Chanel on the floor and smash it, just to cover up the smell. She’s still sick with trench mouth. She got it kissing the Pope’s ring.
—But what shall I do with the key, darling?
—Just keep it hidden until I come screaming to have it. Wasn’t that wild? On the very same boat, my de
ars, with that odious right arm, I met the person who stole my passport in Venice. Can you imagine being introduced to yourself? You can’t. Poor boy, they took him right off to prison, even though I offered to keep him in my custody. They wouldn’t let me keep him. Isn’t that divine? I hear the most touching stories about life in prisons.
—When did you get back?
—Just this very morning. And do you know the filthy trick they played? There I was, at Rudy’s apartment, I left all my luggage there covered with the most adorable stickers from everywhere, my dears, every chic hotel you ever heard of. And when I came back tonight they had put all my bags out into the hallway, but do you know what they’d done? You cannot imagine. Simply torn off all those divine labels and stuck the most horrid vulgar things on, all over my beautiful bags, simply covered with labels from Shredded Wheat packages and Kotex boxes, isn’t that the most vile thing?
—But Friday night. You’ll have your dinner clothes?
—Never never again. I lent them to a divine young Sicilian boy on the way over. He committed suicide in them and I just didn’t have the heart to ask for them back . . .
The smoke settled quickly, the guests were found again and knitted together with tendrils of conversation. The flat girl said, —A eulogy on a Wall Street man who lives in Westchester: Birth and commutation and death, that’s all . . .
—Copulation, said Stanley, indignantly loud, cutting the asthmatic laughter she had earned. He was staring at the girl on the couch.
The Recognitions Page 27