by Conrad Aiken
—I had an idea it would be safer to be here first.
—You needn’t have worried. I left a note for you on the car.
—Why the car? is that part of the plot?
—Of course. I thought Toppan had told you. And as a matter of fact, hadn’t he?
—As a matter of fact, he hadn’t.
Seated on the rock, her hands beside her, her foot swinging, she looked up at him with an air of challenge and mischief, her dark eyes narrowed but bright, a look which in other circumstances might have been disconcerting. The familiar blue cape was open, save at the throat, she was wearing the white Russian blouse, she was bare-headed, the dark hair turned away in wings from the calm forehead.
—Then I’ve no doubt he will.
—My dear Jasper, would you mind just explaining a little of all this?
—Must I? I thought everything had been made quite clear at our last meeting.
—I see. You assumed it would all go on.
—Why not?
—As I said in my letter, you appear to take a great deal for granted. Merely because in the past we’ve been very good friends——
—Am I right in saying that we came to an agreement? an agreement to co-operate? But I suppose, as I predicted, S has begun to influence you, you’re no longer to be trusted. You were unable to keep yourself separate from him!
She got up and walked away from him slowly, her hands holding tensely the dark edges of the cape. Over her shoulder she said, with an effect of measured lightness:
—I expected you to say that. I’ve been completely loyal. Sandbach is certainly distressed and angry about it, and of course very much mystified, nor can you blame him, he’s not content to let things just stand as they are, he wants to know what is happening.
She turned back towards him, stood still in the grass, the cape folded across her breast, her arms akimbo beneath it. Across the little interval of bright grass and dandelions she continued:
—Co-operation! What am I supposed to do when you go away and stay away? It’s all very well!
He took out the revolver, held it flat on the flat of his hand, weighed it appreciatively with downward gaze.
—You were supposed to wait, to be trusted. You know that.
—Jasper, I was——
—You’ve doubted, you’ve drawn away, your letter makes that clear! We’ll discuss it later—in the meantime do you mind if I try this out? A couple of rounds, just to see if it’s working. Two years ago at Capri——
—Capri?
—It was all right. I could hit a stone the size of a watch at fifty feet.… I’ll use that rock over there.
He placed the box of cartridges on the grass before her, the revolver on top of it, then walked deliberately across the hollow toward the large rock at the farther end, where it rose against the overhanging hillock of other rocks and cedars. As he went, he stooped, picking dandelions, choosing the larger ones, and these he hung over the lichened crest of the gray rock, their golden heads toward Gerta. The sun came out, accentuating their brightness and the paleness of his hands. Turning back, he counted off the paces.
—Twenty-five.
—I suppose you’d like me to hold one in my teeth?
—This is probably the first time in the world that dandelions have been used. Now cover your ears.
He smiled at her: she smiled back. Then, raising the little black pistol over his head and slowly lowering it to the level of the rock, and without perceptible pause, the first golden disk sighted, he fired. The rock seemed to have jumped, the first of the dandelion heads had vanished, the swift sound fled wildly off among the woods, the little smoke died in sunlight. Before the ringing in his ears had ceased he fired again, and again the rock jumped, but this time it was a miss; then again, again, again, and again. Four of the flowers were gone, the woods were singing with compressed clamor, one clap of sound folding hollowly on another, a muffled swoon of tumult. He clicked the empty revolver, lifted his face to the smell of drifting gunpowder, laid his hand over the short barrel to feel the warmth. When he turned round, he saw that Gerta had gone very white.
—Feel it, he said.
—No thank you. I’m not enjoying this.
—I’m sorry. Do you mind if I continue?
—Not at all.
—If you listened carefully, it might give you a sense of power!
—A sense of your power?
—Just as you like.
She was frightened, she sat down again on her rock, her lips tightly pressed together, her face averted: she was swinging one foot, nervously; perhaps angrily. What she was about to say was in her eyes, in her lowered brows: he watched her decision while he extracted the magazine of blue metal and reloaded it.
—If you don’t mind my saying so, it all seems to me extremely silly.
—Why should I mind what you say? It is silly. Like many necessary things. And like many things we’ve agreed on before. Sandbach, for instance!
He gave a laugh, she turned and looked at him with a sudden sharpening of expression, something very like hatred, then as quickly looked away again. As if deliberately to pay no attention to her meaning he clicked the magazine into the grip, drew back the barrel, raised the pistol once more, lowered it, and fired. Another dandelion leapt in air and vanished, the bullet, ricocheting, whined away to the left, the hum of it lost in the swift sound of tearing which screeched in a circle round the woods; and then the five other shots, which followed in quick succession, doubled and redoubled the confused clamor. Only one dandelion was left, the echoes repeated ee yah, ee yah, ee yah, diminuendo, wingbeat on remoter wingbeat, a sullen dying of applause, and everything was again silent. He looked down at the empty shells, scattered about his feet, and said:
—Sandbach, for instance.… Ten out of twelve, not so bad.
She had stooped forward, had picked a single grass blade, was examining it, turning it between her fingers.
—And now would you mind telling me what it’s all about?
—I said Sandbach.
—Sandbach was understood, wasn’t he?
—It’s an accomplished fact, then?
—If you don’t mind, Jasper, I’d prefer not to discuss that part of it. You see——
—I see. I foresaw! I even foresaw that with it would go this withdrawal. And of course that he would say to you that you must drop me. But it’s too late. You can’t. You’re here.
—Yes, I’m here, but I think I must tell you——
—I think I’d better tell you.
—My dear Jasper, I wish you would! If it’s not too late. I mean, if that part of it isn’t too late. I can’t go on with it—I won’t any longer have any responsibility—much as I love you—can’t you see that the whole thing was a sort of hallucination? Couldn’t we still make something much better of it? S means nothing, not a thing——
She had put the grass blade between her lips, was looking downward, tears had brightened her eyes. But her voice had remained as admirably level as always.
—What is it exactly that you’d like to know?
—I want to know what it’s all about.
—We had that out. I haven’t changed.
—Could you tell me about it?
—My dear Gerta, you’re like an open book!
He laughed again, looking down at her tightly clasped hands, and went on:
—Well, I’ll say this much, that if he isn’t perfect he’s at any rate very good!
—Sandbach?
Her expression of bewilderment might or might not be ingenuous.
—No. We’ll call him X, shall we? It’s not Kazis. Would you like to know his real name?
—No.
—It’s Jones. The ideal name, and almost the ideal person. Good God, I didn’t know such people existed! A real and complete nonentity. Lives in a two-family house, takes out his own ashes, wears rubbers on rainy days, rides on a streetcar every day of his life.
—I see. And that’s enough
, is it?
—Of course. Not that it’s enough to know. It’s curious how interesting it has become to know about him, to learn about him—and I’ve learnt a lot. Would you like to hear some of it? He reads The Herald, uses toothpicks, wears brown shoes with a blue suit, drinks a pint of whisky everyday at his office. I suppose he has nothing better to do. He’s in the advertising business, has a business, so-called, of his own. Reads textbooks on advertising in the subway. Yesterday it was a Manual of Typographical Standards published by The New York Times. Mezzographs, Line Cuts, Half-Tones, and Ross Boards—I’ve been studying it myself.…
—You are insane.
—Are we?
—Do you know S wants to report you?
—Oh, he does, does he!
—Yes.
He picked up the red-covered box of cartridges from the grass, put it in his pocket, took out his pipe; and as he did so a cloud went softly over the sun, the scene darkened. Everything looked smaller and nearer, Gerta seemed shrunken, he suddenly had a strange feeling of loneliness. This had happened before—it had happened only this morning in Harvard Square, when the sight of so many people, all rushing towards the subway, had given him a queer and unmistakable sensation of panic, of which the essential was solitude. This had been quite recognizable, was recognizable now, but had it any real significance? Yes, they all wanted to kill him, everybody really wanted to kill every one else, to be immersed in a crowd was to be immersed in a world of enemies. To face another individual was to face an enemy, even to face Gerta, who, under his own guidance, was in the very act of escaping from beneath his control. The eyes with which she looked up at him were Sandbach’s eyes, the words she used were now Sandbach’s, Sandbach had possessed her, still possessed her, it was to Sandbach he was speaking.
—I see. It is really Sandbach I am now talking to.
—Jasper, my dear, won’t you sit down and discuss it calmly?
—Yes. Let’s talk about it, for the last time, calmly!
He stretched himself, lazily, full length, on the grass, his hands under his chin: at once she came and sat beside him, crossing her knees: it was her intention to encroach. Leaning forward, and looking at him earnestly, she said:
—Now tell me, my dear. Do you mean to go on with it?
Not meeting her gaze, though he was aware of it, he answered shortly:
—The novel? King Coffin? Certainly.
—You know I don’t mean that.
—I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.… By the way, I liked your new picture very much. What do you call it?
—Jasper!
—You have a really extraordinary imagination. It’s good—though I’m bound to say I don’t know what it means.
—I see. You won’t discuss it. I ought to have expected it, I suppose! I do what you ask, I accept Sandbach at your dictation, and this is what I get for my pains! It’s really funny!
She started to laugh, stopped abruptly, he watched her hands, in the grass, clutch savagely at the blades, and let them go again. He could hear her breathing rather quickly, turned his head sideways to look up at her with amused eyes, saw that she was staring sightlessly into the distance, the somber mouth relaxed, the whole expression desperate and unhappy.
—You can’t say I didn’t warn you. I warned you specifically. I pointed out precisely this danger—that you would shift your loyalty to Sandbach. Well, it’s come. What we were going to share—that new thing which we then both saw so clearly, dislocation number X—has come to an end because you failed me. You weren’t good enough!
As she said nothing, he added:
—Isn’t that it?
—Of course. You were quite safe, weren’t you, either way! Simply because you didn’t care. You care for no one but yourself. And surely that must begin to disappoint you!
—Oh, I miscalculate, like every one else. But I still have my amusements!
—Jones, for instance?
—Of course. A very harmless and pure entertainment. Like this target practice.
—Your notion of purity!
—And it’s beginning to be rather exciting! I’ve sent him some theater tickets—a whole box at the Orpheum—marked them complimentary, you know——
—Why?
—Oh, just for fun! I thought it would be nice to see him close-to for a whole evening—also to see what he brings with him—his wife, I suppose!
Lighting his pipe, the little yellow flame bright against young grass, he listened to the sound of a car climbing up a road in the distance, thrust the half-carbonized match into the soft earth, frowned. The scene was not quite what he had expected—it was curiously relaxed, random, directionless—and of course it was easy to see why, it was because Gerta wanted desperately to know exactly what he was going to do, but didn’t quite dare to ask him point-blank. She was probing, but probing without courage. Even now, in the slight droop of her shoulder, in the half-averted profile of which the expression was a deep powerlessness, he felt her to be about to give the whole thing up. She was discouraged, she was divided, her physical and moral loyalty to Sandbach was trying to assert itself, she was in the very act of listening to Sandbach’s voice. That madman Ammen. You must give up that madman Ammen. She was listening to this, but also she was feeling, and feeling profoundly, as if it were a kind of poison, the deep seal he had himself put upon her, that culminating moment of mystic communion between them when they had—as it were—tacitly agreed to share an insane secret. The voice of Kay! Sandbach was struggling violently in her against this ghost, the voice of Kay; she sat perfectly still; it was as if he were watching a stage from the opposite sides of which two choruses were trying to out-shout each other. Sandbach! It was in a sense Sandbach himself who ought to be destroyed, the loathsome and insinuating voice of reason, of common sense, the slimy voice of universal belongingness, of social safety, the shrill chorus of a world of parasites. His hatred rose suddenly and violently, the vision made him raise his head, the muscles in his arms tightened, his sense of time suddenly sharpened and became positively visual, as if the whole world were a swift and vast escalator moving rapidly upward towards the sun, towards the final flash of action. His own wisdom was omnipotent there, he had but to extend his hand, the right moment was near. He said:
—You’d better hurry back to the lower levels. You’d better listen to little Sandbach. It’s not very safe up here.
—My dear, it’s not myself I’m any longer concerned about, it’s you. It’s not very safe for you. I wish I could persuade you——
—Give it up. I’m beyond the pale.
—But of course I don’t quite believe you. It’s really nothing but a sort of fever, isn’t it? Couldn’t you go away for a time? Couldn’t you come with me to New York?
—New York! Good God!
—You’re not in a normal state.
—Is New York more normal?
This made her angry: she glared down at him Medusalike, with an admirable and delightful air of challenge, she looked somehow Hellenic.
—And what’s more, if you don’t come to your senses, I suppose we’ll have to do something about it!
—Who, exactly?
—All of us.
—Is that a threat?
—Just as you like!
He laughed, jumping up, stood above her laughing.
—Go ahead! But would you mind telling me what evidence you’ve got? Or who you propose to go to, or what you propose to say? Don’t be a fool. Nothing could be more harmless than my little attempt to make a scientific study of the habits of a stranger—and all with a view to writing a novel! Any time you want to look at my notes, my dear Gerta, you’re quite welcome. And if you think King Coffin would be of burning interest to the police, send them around, I’d be delighted to see them.… Can I drive you to Cambridge?
—No, thanks. I’m going back to Miss Bottrall’s. And I think I’ll walk.
—All right then—I’m off. Dislocation number—fill it in
yourself! And I’ll see you in hell.
She looked up at him calmly, her hands on her knees, she seemed to be about to say something, but her lips remained closed, he noticed the little golden cord with which her blouse was knitted at the throat. With a wave of the hand he turned away, walked off whistling, was aware as he entered the path that she had not moved, still sat unmoving. Let her imitate Buddha as much as she liked, exert her pressures, sit there all afternoon, lie in the grass and cry, as she probably would—by all means! It would come to nothing. She would begin writing him letters again, telephoning to him at all hours, conferring with Sandbach and Julius, but the gesture would be helpless and fumbling and feminine, all three of them were helpless, as helpless as Jones himself; they could accomplish nothing. He broke a branch of birch, whipped it, as he walked, against other birches, until it was stripped of its leaves, dropped it before him in the green path and trod upon it. This was Sandbach. For a few seconds he stopped, stood still, closed his eyes—something had made him feel slightly sick, slightly giddy, the turmoil for a moment seemed unnatural—like the confused clamor of the echoed pistol shots, eeyah, eeyah, eeyah, a concentric and derisive chorus—but this passed, he opened his eyes again, and saw the sun just emerging with swimming rim, a pale lemon-yellow, from a bright edge of cloud. It was time caught in the act of moving, time in its dizzy descent to time.
X The Pure Murder
That he should fall asleep during the daytime was unusual, that he should fall asleep in a chair was stranger still; from a ragged fragment of dream, a wail of unintelligible voices in a darkening scene of leafless trees, he woke with a start to find that night had fallen, he had slept for two hours, it was after eight. The sea shell shone whitely on the window sill, there was a dim light in the little attic room of the club across the street, above the dark cowl of the ventilator on the roof were a few stars. The effect was odd, as of a profoundly mysterious hiatus in time, a sense of loss, and he sat still, listening to the delicate ticking of his watch, and trying to remember what it was, in the dream, that Gerta had said. Miles of aching arches of eyebrows—? was that it? It was something like that, but the words, even as he looked at them, seemed to be changing in shape, he could not be sure. And that he should have fallen asleep like this, in the midst of making notes, with the book on his knee—which now, with the pencil, had fallen to the carpet—this was subtly disturbing; and as he thought of it he felt his heart suddenly begin beating more loudly and quickly. Was there anything abnormal in it? It was true that he had not been sleeping well, as Toppan of course had reported gleefully to Gerta, but this was not at all because he was really worried, or because his nerves were in any way upset—not at all, not in the least. It was simply and solely because of late his conscious life had become so severely and energetically concentrated: the preoccupation had become so intense and unremitting that to break it off, for sleep, seemed a waste of time. No doubt, in the upshot, he had been more fatigued than he had supposed. One couldn’t go on working indefinitely without rest. And if in addition one was by nature more conscious than other people, and occupied, moreover, with a special problem, so that one’s consciousness was hourly deepening and widening, with a progressive increase in this peculiar interiorness of one’s life—an increase in its essential silence—why then it was natural enough that this should constitute not a strain exactly but at any rate a fatigue. That was it, of course! The scene with Gerta at Belmont, three days before, had somehow accentuated this; in some unanalyzable way had had the effect of still further emptying his world; and of leaving him there, for the future, alone with Jones. Henceforth, as he had seen almost at once, he was alone with Jones. They stood there together, at the center, like a man and his shadow.…