by Conrad Aiken
He lifted his eyes from the idea, frowned, saw the red headlines of a newspaper immediately before his eyes in the train, was aware of the row of station-lights passing, Central Square already, the long line of accelerating lights, tried to concentrate his attention on the advertisements above the windows. These were Jones again. He knew all about them. His life was written out here in this ridiculous shorthand. Hear ye, hear ye! Now try a real ale. Eat foods that make you chew, say doctors, dentists, beauty experts. The Slouch Softie in Stitched Crêpe of Vibrant Spring Colors. A girl in a felt hat for two dollars and ninety-five cents.… This was Jones, the little man spoke with all these voices, all these pictures, an ice-cream cone, drooling, sprinkled with yellow walnuts, a town crier waving a huge brass bell, his mouth wide open, a disembodied hand spreading an immortal steak with immortal mustard, pouring juice from a bottle into a green glass, a muslined girl, wind-blown, laughing with a million teeth in a field of daisies. There was no escaping him: he nodded complacently in all these nauseating pictures, smirked in all this too-convenient jargon. This was the little red notebook, the pencil, the tweed hat, the clipped moustache. It was the office in School Street, the house in Reservoir Street, the fur collar, the Karl, the Jones. It was speed inscribed with the vulgar news of a vulgar and destructible human life: a Fury, flying with a cheap message in its beak.
And it was curiously oppressive. As oppressive as any too acute awareness of self. Like seeing oneself unexpectedly in a bad mirror——
And he thought of this again when he saw himself, sidelong, in the Orpheum mirror, behind the parrot, the tall and somber figure somewhat inclined forward, a little stooped as if with urgency, the dark felt hat at an angle, one hand just rising to remove it. Ammen! Jasper Ammen. On his way to an appointment. In the echoing lobby, among the palms, the cages, the tanks of goldfish, in a sound of discreet music, a smell of cheap scent, the vulgar women waiting on gilded sofas for their escorts, their knees langorously crossed under silk. The music crept here, there was a roll of drums, it loudened as he entered, climbing the stiff slope of plush carpet, died before him as he faced the bright sunrise-light of the proscenium arch, the stage, the leader of the orchestra standing in poised silhouette.
—Down front, please.
It would be easy—the theater was half-empty.
The little arc of light flittingly notched the red path before his feet, he sank into a chair by the aisle, looked quickly up toward the box at his left, saw that it was empty.
Jones had not come.
And a quarter to nine already——
Two Negroes were on the stage, the fat one, wearing white socks, yodeled softly and rolled his eyes, scraping sinuous feet, while the other stared disapprovingly.
—Did you all hear whut I said?
—No, I didn’t hear nuthin’.
—I heard some news about you. I hear you goin’ to night school.
—Night school?
—Yeah, night school. What you takin’ up, nigger?
—Space.
—What’s your favorite study?
—Recess.
—Are you takin’ up psychology, technocracy, algebra?
—Algebra’s my favorite study.
—What are you talkin’ about! Go ahead, speak some algebra!
—Sure I will. Sprechen sie deutsch?
There was mild laughter, the white socks slid and recovered, the white-gloved hands were lifted in air.
—That ain’t algebra, nigger, that’s geography. But tell me, how many sneezes are there in a box?
—How big is the box?
A sudden snarl of music marked the joke, the orchestra leader joined obviously in the laugh, but the fat Negro, continuing unruffled his lazy and soft-slippered convolutions, added:
—Now I’ll axe you somethin’.
—Sure, axe me somethin’, big boy.
—Where is the east hemisphere and where is the western, and what are they doin’ there?
—Boy, you got me. But do you use narcotics?
—Yeah, trans-lux! Now tell this one. Where is the capital of the United States?
—That’s easy—doggone—it’s all over Europe.…
They cackled together, the fat one yodeled, slithering to and fro, the orchestra played half a bar of The Star-Spangled Banner discordantly, what the thin one was saying was drowned in the sudden applause. They began to dance, soft-stepping, languidly, idly, the slow rhythm delicately accented by the barely perceptible whisper of the soft soles, the white-gloved hands now widespread, now crossed or swinging, the knees loose, the shoulders sagging. Above the muted saxophone the thin one could be heard saying:
—With this dance, boy, I might give you a job making a moving picture.
—Well, tell it to me, big boy, what is the moving picture?
—Tah-te-te-tya. Green Apples. That’s the small one. I also made a large one.
—What part did you play in the small one?
—Tah-te-te-tya. I doubled with cramps.
—What was the big picture called?
—Showboat.
—Showboat! How come I didn’ see you in it?
—What day did you see it?
—Thursday.
—Tay-te-te-tya. Thursday? Oh, tha’s too bad, I missed the boat that day.
The fat one began doing a cake-walk, head flung back, a few swift and soundless steps, but at this moment there was a movement in the box, the sound of curtains drawn on rings, a gash of light, and Jones, wearing a derby hat, in the act of taking off his kid gloves, stood in the aperture, talking earnestly to the usher. The usher nodded, listened attentively, nodded again, Jones was emphasizing what he said by tapping the forefinger of one hand on the palm of the other. As obviously as if he were audible, he was asking the usher if he understood, and the usher was reassuring him. The usher appeared to be holding a card, peered at it in the dim light, then examined it with his flashlight. He withdrew, closing the curtains behind him, and Jones, taking off his coat, sat down by the edge of the box. Meanwhile, with a jig and a yell, to a crescendo of drums, the two Negroes were taking their bow, slid on again, slid off, reappeared once more, and were gone with a final clamorous discord. The illuminated name-plates changed at either side of the stage, the curtain rose, the scene was of a hotel lobby, decadently tinted with mauve and orchid, sumptuous with satins. Floodlights above poured a harsh light on a group of palm-trees in one corner, on a gilt sofa, where with round mouths a man and a girl sat singing.
—I’m just putty in the hands of a girl——
Jones, the little cock-sparrow, with his head on one side, seemed to be listening to this detachedly, it was easy to see him, for he was barely ten feet away, but as obvious as his air of detachment was his slight self-consciousness, as if the occupation of a box was a new experience. He sat a little stiffly, very guardedly now and then turned to glance quickly at the rows of people below him; perhaps felt even too close to the performers on the stage. And was he—possibly—looking somewhat pale?
Why should he look pale?
And what had he been saying to the usher?
A bellhop crossed the stage rapidly, intoning——
—Telephone for Mr. Frederick—telephone for Mr. Frederick——
It might be that he had been inquiring about the origin of the tickets. It might be that he was suspicious. But why should he be suspicious? There was little reason. Complimentary tickets were sufficiently common. No, it must be something else. And the most likely explanation—of course!—was simply that the other members of the party were coming later: he was alone, he had come in advance, he was waiting, had given instructions, by name, for the admission of the others. Cautiously, he now rested an elbow on the box-edge—and with returning confidence he had relaxed, his head was held a little farther back, he passed his left hand slowly backward over his thin hair. But he looked pale, he looked older, or ill—unless, of course, it was simply the effect of the unusual light, and of seeing him, so close
too, without a hat. The face looked smaller than ever, whiter, the hollows below the cheekbone more marked——
The man, rising, was saying to the girl:
—A couple of wees and a couple of woos, eh?
—Oui, oui!
Her hands held out straight before her, stiff as snake’s heads, she shimmied, she oscillated, undulated the sharp hips from which hung the straight line of beads, appeared to be about to encircle her breasts with the bright scarlet fingernails, approached him, lifting the eager mouth, then retreated again.
He said:
—Well, if you have to go, you’ll have to go, I suppose!
He stood still in the middle of the stage, puffy red face above neat white flannels, the malacca stick wandlike in pasty hands.
—But if you don’t go soon, we’ll both have to go!… Suppose you do the fan dance for me, we’re all paid-up Elks!
The laughter of the audience began uneasily, ran lamely from group to group, a little furtive, died out and began again, some one in the top balcony applauded loudly, a single and clear series of hard handclaps, but before the ensuing silence could become embarrassing the pas de deux had begun, the bellhop was again crossing the stage, doing it nimbly in patter-dance, the heavy mother emerged beneath the palms.
—Ride ’em cowboy! The last round-up! Whoopee!
—You like it?
—Like it? I should say so. Say, I can see you had coffee and doughnuts for breakfast.
—Oh, you can-can you!
With the fingers of his right hand, Jones was twisting his little moustache, he was laughing, a small cry catarrhal and descending laugh, the same four downward notes repeated over and over, huh-heh-ha-hah, huh-heh-ha-hah, then abruptly silent, the head tilted backward for dignity. It was easy to watch him, he sat there unsuspicious, exposed, immobile, near enough to touch with a tentpole. His coat was on the chair beside him, his hat on the floor, his heart, beating on the far side, naïve and vulnerable. Lighted thus, from above, the mole by the eyebrow was particularly noticeable, the slight curve of the aquiline nose rather more refined than one had suspected, the whole expression perhaps more intelligent, if also weaker. It was a homunculus, there was no mistake about that, a weakling—it was the face of a defeated animal, the sort of defeated animal in which a sense of humor has come to the rescue and has acted as defense: Jones was undoubtedly one of those innumerable ones who make a virtue of laughing things off. He was a belonger, a currier of favor, a propitiator, always ready to meet life halfway, a soft and guileful bargainer: the teeth and claws held in reserve. What mercy for this? What mercy for this, even now? It was a life, but it was also a symbol: its very nearness, now leaning on the box-edge, was an invitation: the arm, the raised hand, the pale cheek, shaved this morning in a paltry bathroom, the lungs full of foul theater air, the small belly with its little burden of half-digested supper——
To witness all this was to close the eyes to all other visible things, to forget on the instant the raised baton of the orchestra leader, the first violin leaning his face to his fiddle, the two girls who had sidled on to the stage, twin sisters, one blonde, one hennaed; it was to feel again the power and the vision; the vision arose, the vision grew like a tree, softly and soundlessly the magnificent boughs thrust right and left over the helpless world, it was like hands, it was like fingers, an all-exploring touch and grasp, one’s own body became immaterial. The knees pressed hard against the seat in front, the elbows pressed hard on the arm-rests, the revolver firm against the hip——
Blonde was saying to henna:
—Jane, why don’t you behave yourself?
—I would, but what’s in it!
—Where are you going to spend your honeymoon?
—In France. He said as soon as we were married he’d show me where he was wounded.
It all suddenly clicked firmly into place, it was perfect, and to be sitting here within ten feet of Jones, anonymous embodiment of death, as if they had come together here, in this queer place and in this company, for the performance of some profound ritual, was suddenly the rightest thing in the world. These subhumans, these chattering apes, were the witnesses, they bore unconscious testimony to the perfection and necessity of the idea and the action. Complete in itself, the whole scene had fallen swiftly out of time and space, was isolated as if it were itself a separate star, a final symbol: all of history had been preparing from the beginning for this absurd culmination. Jones there, in his box, sniggering at the stupid and laboriously obscene jokes, the fools clowning under an arranged light, the silly music, the rows of gaping idiots—all this was the reductio ad absurdum, the ultimate monstrosity of life; the awful perfection of the commonplace, the last negation of all values. And if Jones was the negative, he himself was the destructive positive, the anonymous lightning which was about to speak the creative Name. A ritual, yes—it was in fact a sort of marriage. And to realize this——
The blonde wiped her nose on the edge of her skirt, and said:
—He said to me, you’re just the kind of a girl I want for my wife. And can you beat this one, I said to him, well, you tell your wife she can’t have me. See? Just like that.
—to realize this——
It was of course—and this was really funny—to give Jones a kind of dignity, a kind of importance, he had become the other chief performer in the rite, the acquiescent one, the dedicated ram led garlanded to the pure altar. In this light, it was even possible to regard Jones with something oddly like affection; for as he sat there, with two neat fingers adjusting his spectacles, he was being subtly and dreadfully transmuted into something sacred. The bond between them had deepened immeasurably, he turned and looked at him steadily, smiling frankly, almost wishing that Jones would turn and see him, would meet the smile which meant so much to him without his knowing it; but at this very moment, like something planned, the curtains beyond Jones were swiftly drawn aside, the usher had entered, was stooping towards Jones and speaking agitatedly, Jones was rising, had risen, had snatched up his hat and coat, and gone. The curtains were swinging, the box was empty.
Something had happened: some message had come.
He jumped up, walked quickly up the steep aisle, heard behind him the phrase “show you a broken-down dance,” dived down through the marble and plush tunnel which led to the foyer, emerged into the alley, and saw, a block away, the illuminated front of the Park Street Church, and halfway to this, his hat in one hand, his coat in the other, Jones, in the act of running.
XI The Regret
Before Jones had reached the corner, he had himself begun running, laughing a little breathlessly as he did so: the speed was a delight, the action was a relief, in the whole unexpected event there was something comically satisfactory. That they should be running thus along a half-lighted alley, separated by fifty yards, the one ahead grotesquely unaware of the one behind—as if, in fact, they were somehow connected, were two parts of a single mechanism—this was both ridiculous and right; and that the whole great adventure should thus suddenly accelerate and take momentary shape in a species of action so elementary and humble was essentially good. He had time to think this as he sprinted towards the florist’s at the corner, where Jones had already turned to the left, and he had time also to foresee for Jones a choice amongst three possible actions: he could go out to Reservoir Street by subway and streetcar—which seemed in the circumstances unlikely—; he could go by subway to Harvard Square, and there take a taxi; or, if a real panic had possessed him, he could go by taxi all the way from Boston, sacrificing actual speed for the illusion of speed which is always to be extracted from a feeling of uninterrupted activity. All this, of course, was based on the assumption that it was to Reservoir Street that he was going—was it just possible he was going somewhere else?
Arrived at the corner, he stopped, stood still, glanced quickly south towards the subway entrance, saw no sign of Jones, but then at once noticed that a taxi in the Park Street stand was just at that moment snarling
into motion, swerving left as it did so. It was turning north to go along Tremont Street, shot past him accelerating rapidly, and in the back seat Jones was fleetingly visible—leaning forward to struggle into his coat, his derby hat perched at a queer angle on the back of his head, obviously stuck there in a hurry, the earnest little face wearing an expression which was quite clearly something new, something different.
If it wasn’t fright, it was something very like it: Jones was frightened. For once, he had lost his smugness and complacency, his perpetual air of competence.
Something had gone wrong.
He watched the taxi out of sight, glanced at his wrist watch, glanced at his wrist watch, glanced up also at the clock of Park Street Church, found that he had forgotten the time as soon as he had noticed what it was, stood irresolute. Jones was still there, he had not in any sense escaped, his swift departure was merely a blind movement from one part of the closed circle to another, he was as easily reached there as anywhere else, and as easily seen. Standing here motionless by the florist’s shop, it was nevertheless as if he were watching Jones from above: looked down through the taxi roof, saw Jones nervously take out a cigarette, strike several matches in an attempt to light it with shaking hands. But if this was true, and if Jones could not really escape, it was also true that this new development had subtly altered the situation, the equation had been multiplied by an unknown quantity, the simple was becoming complex. To make the necessary arrangements now, in the face of this, would perhaps not be quite so easy: the greater pressure would have to be met with greater guile, or even with greater violence. The trap would have to be a more powerful one, and more enticingly baited.