Lilith

by J. R. Salamanca

  “Yes, that’s true,” Bea said. “Well, you’ve learned something there; she’s very clever. And it’s something you can never really appreciate until you’ve had experience of it.” She paused for a moment, reconsidering the circumstances. “I think the wisest thing would have been to let Warren go for the water. It’s curious he didn’t offer to. Still, there was a lot of logic in your reasoning, too. You see, it wasn’t a gross mistake—one of wanton negligence or stupidity. You thought about it, but you thought wrong; you were simply outwitted—if that’s what it really amounted to. And there’s no disgrace in being outwitted by a lot of these people. I can tell you very truthfully that I made many worse mistakes than that when I first started here.”

  “Did you really?” I asked, looking up at her with considerable gratitude, not only for this confession but for the charity with which she had considered all my actions.

  “Oh, yes. And I do still. As a matter of fact, of all the mistakes made today, I think mine was probably the worst, in sending you out on what was a very difficult assignment, when you are relatively so inexperienced. Still, we never know what’s going to happen; I thought it would be good training for you. And there’s no such thing as living without taking chances.” She shrugged and shook her head humorously. “Now what was this quarreling you mentioned?”

  “Yes. That was almost the worst thing I did. I don’t know why. I was angry and disappointed in myself, I suppose. I felt that she had made me fail deliberately, that she’d wanted to humiliate me for some reason, and succeeded; so I wanted to get even with her, I suppose. It was a stupid, childish thing to do. Instead of being objective—calm and sympathetic, as I should have been—I started accusing her. Trying to make her confess the wrongness of her actions. Trying to make her confess that she’s insane is what it amounts to. But you almost forget she’s a patient, she’s so clever.”

  “Yes, that’s the most difficult thing of all, as I think I warned you once. Because they’re intellectually equal or superior, we assume they’re emotionally equal, as well. But the reason they’re here, of course, is because they’re not; and it’s awfully hard to remember sometimes, particularly when you’ve been here as short a while as you have. It’s certainly no reason to feel that you’re a total failure, Vincent.”

  It was useless, I felt—not without a curious sense of relief—to convey to Bea the exact and troubling nuances of emotion I had experienced during my angry exchange with Lilith in her room; and she had so generously and effectively rationalized my failings that I felt it would be almost an indication of ingratitude to protest them any further. At any rate, in the cheerful, tolerant atmosphere of her presence they had begun to dwindle in gravity and number until I was almost ready to accept her own charitable estimate of them.

  But we never totally deceive ourselves. The danger to which my patients had been subjected by my negligence, and the shock that I had suffered at it, were too recent and severe to be dismissed with such convenience; but perhaps even more significant was my sudden awareness of the jeopardy in which my fallibility had placed not only my charges but, in some obscure, darkly alarming way, myself. If I should fail at my newly discovered metier, it would not be, I felt, for lack of diligence, intelligence or simple skill, but for some far more profound imperfection, whose nature and whose consequences I was unwilling to explore. I finished my drink and set the glass before me on the desk, staring in silence at the pale oily film of fluid which withdrew slowly from its rim.

  “You seem to think that you’ve failed utterly,” Bea said. “But it seems to me a little early to decide that. I don’t really think you’ve given it a fair trial yet.”

  “I’m afraid I might, though,” I said. “And to be a failure at this kind of work is so much more serious than in some other job. If you make a mess of bricklaying or shopkeeping it doesn’t really matter much—there’s no particular danger to anyone. But in this kind of work a mistake can be mortal, both to people you’re responsible for and to yourself.”

  Bea lifted her hand to brush her short hair thoughtfully, turning her head to stare out of the window.

  “Do you mean that you’re afraid?” she asked. I was relieved that she had said it.

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “But I think a person is often afraid when he’s doing something that matters deeply to him. With other things it doesn’t matter so much. There should be joy and enthusiasm in your work, of course; but when you have a real sense of vocation about a thing, I think there’s often a certain amount of . . . awe as well.” She stroked her hair restlessly. “I’m often afraid,” she said. “And I don’t just mean of falling off cliffs, or being belted by the Duchess.” She smiled at me modestly and, seeming to sense the humility with which I was forced to disengage my eyes from hers, went on with great kindliness, “Vincent, do you feel that perhaps I’ll think differently about you now? That I’ve lost a certain amount of confidence in you?”

  “I think it would be impossible for you not to have,” I said.

  “Yes.” She rose and walked behind her desk, unlocking a drawer and leaning over it while she spoke. “Do you remember me telling you that we never issue a set of keys to a worker until we’ve decided that he’s fully capable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’d like you to have these now, if you want to stay and use them.” She took a set of keys from the drawer as she said this and laid them on the desk in front of me.

  I have had much reason to bless Bea’s kindness and understanding since the morning when I first met her, but never more than at that moment. I felt absurdly close to tears as I took the keys up and weighed them in my hand.

  “They’re very heavy,” I said softly.

  “Take them home and think about it,” she said. “And if you still feel any doubts about it in the morning, you can give them back.”

  “I don’t think I will,” I said.

  “Good. You know, Vincent, I would really have had less respect for you if you hadn’t felt so deeply about this.”

  “I think you must be kind of a wise woman,” I said.

  “I’m wise enough to know when I have a really good worker on my staff.”

  So it was that Bea preserved for me—for the time, at any rate—my peace of mind and my profession. I hope the irony of its outcome is no discredit to her act of faith, yet if I had not been persuaded by her tolerance and trust to stay on at the Lodge, none of what I have still to record would have occurred, and I would be now—what? I have no idea. Picking fruit, perhaps, as an itinerant laborer, or faring in reeking merchantmen to island after island of disappointment. They are not glorious alternatives, but how willingly would I have exchanged them for the estate to which I was brought by pursuing one of the glories of this world!

  THE state of mind which Bea’s demonstration of confidence produced in me was immediate and profound. I went about my work for the next several days with fresh resolution and a vigorous, determined self-assurance that is reflected in my journal:

  THURS., APRIL 30:

  Sense of pride like nothing I have known before at using my own keys and escorting patients by myself; a kind of smiling solemnity, like a girl returning from her First Communion. I am getting used to their great weight and feel quite naked when I take them off. Bea is a really wonderful person; she must have realized how much I needed her to make a gesture of that kind, and what it meant to me.

  Third Floor this morning, Second in afternoon. Behrendt, Glassman, Duchess before lunch; Palakis, Warren, Hagan, after. Did not see Lilith at all, and enjoyed, in a mildly perverse way, the suspense she must be enduring about my report to Bea.

  Behrendt was her usual scornful, silent self. Asked to play tennis, and beat me, 6-0, 6-2. Snarled at all my errors and called me a duffer. I was no match for her. She used to play for a Long Island club and was once Middle Atlantic Junior Champion. I can’t begin to make contact with her, and don’t know quite what line to follow, as she seems to despise all sc
holarly and introspective types. I am going to make a determined effort to learn to dance, as this seems to be her greatest interest; she attends every tea dance and listens avidly for hours to all the pop albums in Field House, tapping her feet, fondling her hair and giggling all the while. Strange girl. She is a real challenge, and one which I am determined to meet.

  In spite of all reason and resolution, was terribly embarrassed this morning by Glassman’s sudden public urge to urinate. What can you do in a situation like that? Couldn’t stop the poor girl, who was obviously in a desperate condition, and yet it’s impossible to look dignified, impassive, or even properly patient—and you certainly can’t pretend to be unaware—when a young lady is squatting at your feet with her skirt hitched up, relieving herself in the middle of the path. Some aspects of this business that I suspect one never gets adjusted to. There seems little hope with her, outside of custodial attention. Absolutely no contact, and never any remission in her idiotic, parrot-like good nature. Feeling of abuse here, more terrible than with any of them.

  Duchess is frightening—as I was warned—but very droll and engaging if flattered and unless crossed. Great temptation to take the easy way with her. When I called for her she kept me waiting pointedly while she made many little briskly elegant adjustments to her rumpled, soiled, utterly unimprovable dress, and then announced with a wonderful patrician graciousness, “I am ready now, young man.” When she stepped out of the elevator she took a deep breath of the fresh morning air and said, “I think we will speak in French today. It is just the day for French.” Carried on an uninterrupted discourse in this language all the way to Crowfields, seeming to become aware of my modest silence only about halfway back, when she stopped to make what I gathered to be a demand for comment of some sort on my part. So I said, “Madame, je vous adore,” which kept her chuckling all the way back to Field House. I beat her twice consecutively at ping-pong, producing a sudden, terrifying, narrow-eyed silence, which was relieved a little by my observation that she was “way off form.” Would hate to have to cross her, but I suppose the day must come. She looks as strong as a bull. Bob says when she really runs amuck it takes four men to handle her. I like her tremendously, in spite of being frightened to death of her, and feel there is much I can accomplish here.

  Had lunch with Bob and Kit, and could not help feeling annoyed when Mandel joined our table. Much ostentatious inquiry about how I was getting along and far too solemn congratulations about having been issued keys. The Old Pro. He is one of those people who promote their self-esteem not by honest constructive achievements of their own, however modest they may be, but by criticizing and destroying the achievements of others. It has sometimes occurred to me that this is the only absolute form of evil there is. Too harsh a judgment, perhaps; but there is certainly something wrong with that boy. I would hate to be in debt to him.

  Palakis seems to be “getting high.” Marched me feverishly to the pond and told me in a hectic, garrulous state of humor that he has decided to further complicate the academic turmoil by launching his own theory of Shakespeare: Not only was Shakespeare somebody else, but there were two Shakespeares, both of whom were somebody else. A certain amount of sardonic justice in his argument. The “Idiot” Shakespeare—the darling of the “fatuous orthodoxy”—the “shallow, sentimental, jingoistic apologist”—was an Inns-of-Court blade and homosexual, probably a castoff friend of Greene’s; the “great” Shakespeare—the “anguished Titan” of Coriolanus, Titus Andronicus, Lear and Timon—was an oppressed nobleman—“probably Sir Walter Raleigh”—whose work, after his death, was discovered by the “Idiot,” confiscated, badly and superficially amended, and published under his own nom de plume. All this he told me with wild, ironic delight, ending his peroration, however, with a sudden note of sincerity as he regarded his clenched fist somberly and murmured, “It is impossible for the man who wrote ‘Once more into the breach’ to have also written Titus’ ‘If there were reason for these ills’; and monstrous that the world should accept only half his vision, and dismiss or apologize for what was the greater half of it.” I said I did not know the world was guilty of such discrimination, and he replied, “Oh, yes. The Tempest, for example, is almost universally put forward as his supreme philosophic achievement and the consummation of his thought—when actually Timon much better expresses his mature vision. Yet how often do we see that play performed, or responsibly interpreted? Or Pericles? Or Titus? There has been a centuries-long conspiracy to deprecate them. It is absurd, undignified!” He became so fiercely indignant that I tried to change the conversation or somehow amend his dangerous mood; but had little luck until we met the terrapin, which delighted him. He picked it up, touched and examined it from every angle, chuckling at its look of torpid hauteur and calling it a “wonderful, primordial truth-bearer.” He asked if he might keep it, but when I suggested that it might be more humane to let it go, he agreed with unexpected enthusiasm: “Yes! Let it go and spread its ancient, lumbering truth about the world! Perhaps they will believe him; they do not believe that other old tortoise.” A little later, when we had almost reached the Lodge, he asked suddenly, “But they eat them, don’t they? Isn’t there a famous regional delicacy?”

  I said yes, there was: Terrapin Maryland.

  “They eat everything!” he said. “Lord, how disgusting! How debased!”

  There is a terrible excruciated quality about this man which makes it unbearable to be in his presence long.

  Saw Warren briefly when I returned Palakis to his floor. Was not scheduled to escort him, but agreed to take him walking for a quarter of an hour, as Hagan, my next patient, was still in hydrotherapy. He was in a great state of exhilaration, and scarcely inside the elevator before releasing a torrent of questions about Lilith: “Have you seen her? Is she well? Has she asked about me?” Did not know quite how to deal with this, but decided, in spite of my sympathy for him, to adopt a severely formal tone.

  “Do you mean Miss Arthur?”

  “Yes, yes. Has she asked about me? Did she say anything about last week?”

  “I haven’t seen her at all.”

  “You haven’t? Oh, that’s disappointing. I hoped you would have some news of her. I haven’t seen her, either, or heard her playing, even. You don’t suppose she’s ill?”

  “I don’t believe so,” I said; and after a pause in which he began to pick at his ragged nails with a haggard and abstracted look, I added, “Anyway, I think you ought to realize that it would be highly irregular for me to act as a go-between.”

  “Oh. Yes. I understand, of course. I beg your pardon. I hope you aren’t offended.”

  “No. But I do want you to know that we’re expressly instructed not to be involved in any—any such affair.” (God, what a monster! I can hear myself saying it. Why, in heaven’s name?)

  “I’m sorry. I understand it’s improper for me to . . . to ask you. But I thought you would understand my being anxious.”

  Sudden remorse made me lean too far the other way, I suppose. Put my hand on his shoulder in most inappropriate way and said, “Yes, I can understand it, Warren. I’ll let her know you asked about her.”

  “Will you really? That’s very kind of you. I really don’t want to embarrass you, Mr. Bruce. But you see, it means a great deal to me.”

  “Yes, I know.” He lifted his clasped hands and blew upon them nervously, although it was very warm.

  “I suppose you think it’s rather foolish—rather absurd—this attachment of mine,” he murmured, keeping his eyes declined.

  “No, I don’t think there’s anything foolish about love.”

  “You don’t? Not even under such . . . grotesque conditions? I know that many people do. Mr. Palakis, for example, makes fun of me all the time.”

  “I don’t think he’s a very happy man,” I said.

  “No. Still, it’s very possible to think of it as . . . a rather foolish thing. She is so proud, you know, such a delicate creature. And yet she allowed me to touch her h
air for a moment. You saw that she allowed me?”

  “Yes, I saw,” I said uncomfortably.

  He stood chafing his hands, staring with bleak intensity at the ground. “You see, I really have nothing else to live for,” he murmured.

  There was something shameful about this sudden nudity of spirit, or perhaps about my realization of the truth of what he said—he really has nothing else to live for. And I resented, I think, his exemption from the normal responsibility of restraining so intimate and intense a revelation which dignity demands. I didn’t want to know about his wretched, total worship of this girl, and even though I had had much visual evidence of it already, I regretted having it declared to me in so unequivocal a way. Had to make a conscious effort to repress my sudden feeling of dislike by reminding myself that you can hardly hold a man who is mentally ill responsible for lack of taste. This, because of our natural affinity, is a very delicate relationship, which will require great tact and discipline on my part.

  Hagan is a small, fierce, restless Irishman with an atmosphere of violence about him which is very discouraging. Watched the badminton for a while with his hands in pockets, scowling and snorting softly to himself. Don’t think I can ever hope to get on well with this one, but must wait and see. Very little conversation, outside of simple requests for matches, the time, etc., and occasional muttered obscenities.