Great Circle

IV

— one thing and then another one thing and then another the fresh wind the thickness the fine webs tender about the extended fingertips the dust sifting on the point of the shoe the cart track the car track the long glong trail into the sunset west of mountains purple gashes and the sun gone gloom and walking there walking westward with the solitary ghost above my head is this the bad sort is this the good sort where are you going and what do you mean why do you float there flow there just above my head to the right of my face avoiding the edge of my felt hat what is your precise shape old fellow and are you harmful I will turn away down this little muddy path look those trees there I will go down there swiftly I will run am running but the solitary ghost is still there this must be a bad one a ghost a ghost one of the white kind the cold kind the penetrating kind the thin and snowy kind o god shall I wake up in time will he enfold me chill me kill me SCREAM

one thing slower and then another thing slower it is a bulge a block a bulkhead a buttress of rock a wall there is a light there above it and a tree hanging over the light there was a face there but it is gone and I knew that face it was that girl no it was Susan no it was Doris no it was a Negress with gold hair no it was gold teeth grinning in the lamplight it is gone the wind comes evenly warmly slowly caressingly hums under the edge of my felt hat burns my left cheek and I am climbing among the sun-warmed rocks my hand is no warmer than these rocks is there a volcano under them will steam come out of the fissures will it all crumble and sink in it is crumbling and sinking crumbling and sinking and shaking my foot goes in my other foot I sink to my knees among warm disrupted rocks they are all falling apart and inward downward SCREAM

first second third fifth first second third fifth it is the fifth of forth the forth the forth and in the bed on the wall in the bed on the edge of the wall beside the lilac hedge beside the path between the two strange houses in this strange place and evening too or is it early morning in the bed ill or half awake I am lying here at a loss I should not be here and look there are people coming out of the other house three people three women no a mother and her two daughters and the path brings them close to my exposed bed shall I pretend to be asleep

But we don’t know the way to the beach

Shall we ask someone mother

But there is no one to ask

We might inquire at that strange house

Yes at that strange house what a queer house

Did you ever see such a house it’s a ruin

It has no wall on this side

And how dirty it is

Do you see how dirty it is

out of my bed then and running across the lawn and then slowing down so as to pass them not running and veering off from them toward the porch while they approach the side door they have not seen me I am safe I can get in without being seen I can get into this strange house where Bertha lives and all our children and all our relatives and the stove and the ice box and then they will come in and ask the way to the beach which is the way to the beach can you direct us to the beach

You must go through the village the little wooden village of a winding two-storied road and flagpoles and shingles and the white church I know the way well I have often been there it has a flat and washed look slightly crazy the houses are flimsy the beach is small the sea is cold

Can you tell us the way to the beach

Yes you follow this road to the beach

they didn’t see me in my bed on the wall beside the hedge although they came so close to me no they didn’t but here is sand on the floor filth and mud on the sitting-room floor and under the dining-room table the blood comes into my hands and face I am angry hit something it is all one room but there too is a door to the pantry and there is Magma standing

This room is dirty you must sweep it out Magma

Sweep it out yourself

Give me a broom

piles of sand under the table under the chairs along the walls on the sills heaped against the screen doors shavings too blocks dolls paper soldiers with wooden props toy cannons rags dirty clothes

This room is filthy you must clean it at once Magma

Clean it out

with the broom I am in the pantry and rush towards Magma the freckle-faced sister where is Bertha and where are the children but now we are in the corner of the sitting room again blood is in my hands and face and neck I am angry

I will not be made a Christian slave by the Berthas

What did you say

with the broom hitting the saucepan on her head crash have I killed her but she is moving away and the brothers and cousins lean silently closer to me press closer and lean closer on all sides five six seven evil faces hard faces American army faces tough mouths menacing

What was that you said

I will not be made a slave to the Berthas

Squads right

Give him the bootsit

Is it

Squads left

Out with him

It’s the wibbots what

this is that ghost again under the rim of my hat this is a dream is it the bad kind or the good kind shall I wake or not what will it be this squads right and bootsit tar and feathers hanging a beating and merciless men shall I keep still fight now or later SCREAM

peace on the left ear left hand peace

one shape and then another the little turmoils lead to big turmoils turmoils turmoils who said turmoils what is a turmoils this is the way to the this is the way and it is a clear landscape a clear cold landscape such as you saw in ice but far off cold and small the tiny splinters come out of it against my face there are splinters of ice stars fragments glass bright landscape against my face against my eye and now the glare must be a fire and in the mirror I see the reflection the little red bead from the unseeing eye it was those glass eyes on the little plush carpet all looking in different directions watchful and quiet how often do you wash them how often do you take them out can I do it myself must I use a lotion an eyewash and I am walking along the beach alone the little lonely beach is it Nantucket is it Plymouth is it Nantasket no it is somewhere else it is Melville it is Shakespeare it is the edge-beach the wild beach the beach where I shall see the octopus it is the end and far Bohemian seacoast

Go ahead and wait for me

I will go ahead and wait for you

I have something

Is it the what is it where

It is crying

alone I see it I step over the long black thick tentacles of a quivering celluloid jelly I am among them what if they should move seize me but it is really dead here on the sand it is quite dead I am sure it is dead o the poor thing it is dead shall I touch the tentacles with my stick shall I turn back and look at the body the corpse the crystal globe the bell-shaped body motionless on the wet hard sand with the tide going out it was left here by the tide and is dying look it is still alive look the eyes are watching me and what is that it is but don’t SCREAM it is a it is a quite the largest octopus I ever heard of vast enormous the enemy of Moby Dick WHITE too but look

Go ahead and wait for me

I will

o christ it has a man’s head inside the transparent jelly a man’s face a fine man’s head a magnificent face a face in aspic a head in aspic it is Michelangelo’s head in aspic and o god it is still alive the life is ebbing backward along the long lucid tentacles the tentacles which are drying on the sand and this face is watching them dry watching them die feeling them die watching the tide go out and see the agony on that face the lips contorted in hatred and scorn the eyes that watch you with malevolent godhead that watch the receding waves wtih horror and hatred it is conscious it sees you and despises you even in its death it does not want your pity or your help how can you help it what can you do it hates you anyway if you saved it even if you could save it even if you could cast it back in the sea it would want to kill you for it is more intelligent than you and knows it but what is it thinking now that it is dying what terrific thought is it thinking for the face is wonderful it is intelligence meeting death with a vast thought

and walking away walking away

now the man with mustaches is showing us the new house the peculiar house with glass walls we follow him up the stairs all four of us follow him the three others ahead of me I am last going up the glass stairs the glass curtains too and the cupboards of glass it is all very bright and clear and artificial it is an artifact where have the others gone I hear their voices but I do not see them they have gone round the corner or into another room and here is a w. c. and I am determined yes I will have time will I have time yes there is plenty of time but the voices suddenly come nearer they are all looking in what a nice bathroom too O isn’t it a nice bathroom but the stairs we go down are narrower and darker than before and who are these people these three people and the man who has gone ahead somewhere with mustaches into the street and along toward the factory alone the waterfall is pouring out of the side of the factory across the sidewalk how can I get past is it safe shall I cross to the other side of the street no I will stay on this side but it is poisonous water it is acid it is yellow I can feel the spray burning my cheek and hands it spouts out in innumerable jets and splashes upward from the sidewalk yellow and acid

Is that you Andy is that you Bertha Andy and Bertha

and this medical student whom I knew at Harvard too walking beside me and looking at me in a peculiar way over the tip of his mustache

No I don’t live there any more do you live there still

I am married

I am now a gynecologist

I will walk with you as far as that little Catholic church

We played tennis once on Soldiers’ Field the ball hit you in the face is that why you are blind or was it because you were looking through a peephole I can see that you don’t like me

he grins at me as if he knew that I am afraid of him he is tall and takes a longer step wears tweeds brown shoes and an A.D. hat band or is it the Gas House we separate in silence before the church and I am going in beside an old woman it smells of incense and is full of images chasubles crucibles chrysms chrysoprases columns and columns and columns of white plaster the cheap painted stations of the cross gaunt yellow jaundiced marble crucifix and all the old women kneeling among the images I stand behind them and look at all the bright brasses and silvers and hanging lamps the rows of little candles and the priest is coming down the aisle toward me as I go out again his crooked mouth

My dear friends I would like to tell you that although this is the house of god you need not only think of it as a house of images it is not only a collection of images and objects and simulacra it is a place of friendship here you can speak to a friend of that which is nearest and dearest to your heart lay down your burdens before embodied kindness I am your friend the voice dies down behind me dies away here are the fields and the trees there with sunlight on their bark and leaves and the stone wall beside the road here under the tree I am sitting in the grass on a little knoll and looking into a green wood and in the secret grass what is this a thimble a crushed thimble Bertha’s thimble and also the rouge compact but I open it and there is no rouge in it no powder only three old corroded pennies and I walk with them to the corner of the park opposite the tall apartment house where the Negress is standing watching me by the door it is Clara the cook does she know what I am coming for yes she knows and is watching me Bertha has told her to watch me

Good morning Mister Cather

I am not coming in I am going down there where the children are playing in the meadow beside the marsh picking flowers the little boy and the little girl picking flowers spring flowers too wild columbine and crowfoot violet look children there is another flower over there do you see it in the marsh how is it you have forgotten to get that one too it is an orchid you can see it is some kind of green-and-white speckled tall orchid perhaps it wasn’t there a moment ago but now it is there you can see it but can you reach it or is there too much water in the marsh yes it is very wet but wait by the wall don’t go back to the city yet and it is I who will nobly go to the edge of the marsh stepping now on the spongy moss the water bubbles my hand out body stooping can I reach it yes the rare orchid for the two strange children

the shape of my left foot made of hollows built like a crystal a bone of slow dark crystals off there too curving downward as if a pain of accretions items but this is a walk I am walking this is Harvard Street Arrow Street Bow Street the College Yard and there is Fred walking ahead of me turns his head a package under his arm looks away from me the buildings have changed moved away where is Gore Hall the path strange too yellow sand no trees but a wideness

Widener

Are you going to the poolroom

pays no attention goes to the left walks ahead of me looking back is on wheels in a little car cart an old Ford is it Rodman saying the Spanish Grammar has been read and is a deep sleep yes a deep sleep I am rolling a large hoop ribbons tied round the rim he watches me it leans always to one side the wind blowing the ribbons it careens why

Why don’t you hit it on the other side keep it straight and here is the Fair will you go round or through it if you go through it you may lose your hoop and once we played Ping-pong in Concord Avenue or was it Shepard and the Fair here

Good-by I am going in I will get through diagonally the narrow crowded path of children drums horns the squealing merry-go-round calliope steam spouting an inclosure of wire a long alley for Ping-pong the Japanese hits the ball to the other end of the wire enclosure look it explodes when the other hits it it opens becomes a go-cart rolling quickly back to us on wheels with a child in it no a doll a puppet nodding and another ball hit another explosion flash bang a little balloon going up diagonally then I am turning to the right and cross the street something my foot lifting the two feet together hopping see I am walking slowly queerly like an animal what animal is it a penguin can I get across doing it without being hit by that car yes it is all right and Shepard Hall there but changed redder brighter smaller and a restaurant in the hall no letter boxes what has happened but I was living here where is the janitor where is Mister O’Connor where is Jack a strange janitor with a mop on the wet marble floor this is now a dormitory for students

Can you tell me Jack’s address

No he is gone perhaps I could find it

Send it to Widener

Yes

obras obras obras that book is out Mister Gather for another week but here is the key with the large wooden handle and on the handle is Jack’s address Waxage Street somewhere in Somerville carved on the handle and his name too carved the last thing he did before he went away Uncle David is of course dead Uncle Tom has gone off for the day not back in time the house he lives in now too far away take a Belmont bus walk through Craigie Street and find the house with open walls go upstairs Aunt Norah is very old and small bending down to the floor her white head wants to go downstairs you will have to carry her how small light white she is as I go down the carpeted stairs her arm is round my neck

I am your child now

the saucy face impish smiles detachedly looks at me indifferently wide-eyed like an infant at the breast but on my shoulder the small head I have been kind am being kind will give her a conch shell a house by the sea in that village leave her here and call Bertha

Bertha Berty

lifting from the dark the open suitcase the nightgown holding it up laughing but it is spotted dirty a large spot he is laughing can’t be helped you don’t mind do you what can I say nothing say nothing but turn away sadly in the hotel room no it’s all right perfectly all right but sad I am going up the hill on the grass behind juniper trees birches the road dusty she is coming up the other side yes there she is look it is who is it not Berty no Molly no a girl with red hair comes through the oak trees beautiful loves me puts out her hand kisses me we are kissing become one face floating in air with wings one fused face with wings Turner sunset and this and this and this and this and this WINGbeat and WINGbeat where whirled and well where whirled and well where whirled and well—

To come upward from the dark world, through the mild shafts of light, as a swimmer in long and curved periphery from a dive; from the whirled and atomic or the swift and sparkling through the slower and more sleekly globed; effortless, but with a drag at the heels of consciousness — to float upward, not perpendicularly, but at an angle, arms at sides, turning slightly on one’s axis, like a Blake angel, through the long pale transverse of light — with the sounds, too, the bell-sounds, the widening rings of impalpable but deep meaning, as if someone far off with spheral mouth said, Time — and the goldfish mouth released its bubble, and closed, and then again opened to say, Time — to come upward thus slowly revolving, thus slowly twisting, the eye scarcely opened and almost indifferent to light, but opening more widely as the light with obscure and delicate changes teased at the eyelid, teased at the sleepy curiosity — and the textures too, the warm or soft, the wrinkled or knotted, those that caressed whitely and obliquely, and those also that withdrew, or focussed slowly in a single sharp point and pressed — to float upward like this, from plane to plane, sound to sound, meaning to meaning — the attitudes changing one into another as the hands shifted, the feet shifted, the breathing altered or the hearing cleared — from turbulent to troubled, from troubled to serene — but with the bell-sound nearer and nearer, as if the head were emerging into a glistening ring, and as if over the edges of this ring came the words like bubbles, at first meaningless, and then with half-meanings, and at last — not with meanings precisely but with gleams, as of fins that turned away in a flash and vanished—

To move upward like this, surrounded by one’s own speech, and continuously more closely surrounded by one’s own body, the hand heavy on the heart, the heart beating insistently in the ear, that which a moment ago was the chime of a dream become the rhythm of the pulse, the distorted faces and filaments of the dream becoming only the fluttering defense of the eyelashes against the square of light from the window — all the somatic disturbances, as of cramped elbow and bent knee and cold hand and stifled nostril, which were a moment since so marvelously translated into wastes of snow or ugly corners of rock or difficult escapes from social awkwardness, now again assuming the simple physical reality, against which the dream had fought, as it were, a rear-guard action — to say again, after all this obscure welter of images and spaces, this kaleidoscope of times, “here,” “now,” “time,” “I”—I that was there, twisted, twisted into that strange shape, am here again, but with a queer difference—

The confusion fell slowly away, in ebbing rings of sound, he looked more firmly at the window, putting one hand up to touch the brass knob at the head of the bed above him, he looked and listened, and knew that the sound was the bell of Memorial Hall. How many strokes he had missed, or heard only in his sleep, he couldn’t know, but he counted four. Four. Not in the morning, it was almost that when he had fallen asleep. It must be five or six in the afternoon. The light from the square of window at the foot of the bed was that of winter twilight, and lamplight, mixed — cold natural gray tinged with artificial orange: and something in it, too, suggested the pale reflections of snow. Thursday. Another day gone, soundlessly gone, an agony got through without pain, as if he had been anaesthetized. What a good thing. And to wake up, or come to, comparatively refreshed, comparatively calm! But how refreshed? He explored dry lips with his tongue, tasted the salt, opened and shut his mouth experimentally, and found himself thirsty. Turning his head from side to side on the pillow, he felt no headache, or only a very slight one, at the base of the skull. He looked at his watch. Seven o’clock.

But it was difficult to get up, if one didn’t know what one got up for. Or at such an hour, so dislocated, in such a place, after such a series of nights, with so much of oneself gone, so much of one’s secret gone. Idiot! You have confessed: your virtue is lost. Only the reticent man retains his virtue. But was virtue precisely the word? Or if not, what was it? He tried to remember the details: Michelangelo, the sea, Melville, the Gurnett, the secret of intimacy — intimate secrets. Sleep was better, or perhaps laughter.

He laughed lightly, almost gaily, but as if without meaning, and turned his head toward the door that led to Bill’s study; then cut the laugh short and said “Bill.” There was no answer. He heard the study clock ticking. He said it again, and listened again, and still getting no answer clasped his hands under his head. So it all came to this. After all the agony, all the confusion, all the death, one came to this. One awoke on a strange bed, at twilight, and found that suddenly everything was — peace. No longer a need to run, to hurry, to evade, to escape. No problems to solve. No people to avoid. No single person to hate. Except perhaps oneself. And why bother to hate oneself? Why bother? This curious amiable little collocation of wishes and repugnances — but more amiable than hateful — decidedly more amiable — with his hands clasped under his head and a fixed small smile — and the sounds of the Memorial Hall bell agreeably in his ear — why hate him? Or had it been the Unitarian Church. No, it was Memorial Hall. But was it still snowing?

He groaned, and heaved himself off the bed, and went to the window, which was six inches open at the bottom — that must have been done by Bill. A soft current of rainwashed air flowed in coolly over the sill, it was raining a little, and when he looked down at the street lamps and the College Yard he saw that most of the snow was gone. The slope of the hill towards the Union was white, but a white soddened and darkened; the street was cleared; only at the sides were the piled and hardened drifts. And the sound of the snow shovels, scraping the rain-loosened snow — the raucous scraping and chopping, the ringing of steel on stone—

The face that looked back at him, from the lamplit bathroom mirror, was pale, the cheeks pale and a little sunken, but it faced him steadily and calmly, and the eye was not as bloodshot as he might have expected. Nor did the hands, which supported him on the cold marble, tremble, though he felt weak. You, Andrew Cather — old One-eye Cather. You in the flesh again, redivivus; you emaciated and with a hangover; but with that soft-clear sort of hangover which a fried egg and a stiff whisky would put right. Clear-headed, amused, detached — and with a queer deep historical sense. Wash your face in cold water. Dip your face in the cold green basin of water. Your hair too. The time-worn temples. And the three-days’ growth of brown stubble, so long as to be getting soft. And shave, with Bill’s dirty little brush and rusty safety razor. The little ridged clots of soaped hair, floating testimonially in the water, the dirt-streaked water. And a borrowed collar from Bill’s bureau.

But where was it all gone, where was all the tumult gone? Into what remote sunset sound, what slow and distant and delicious thunder of crumbling, as of a world lost in entire peacefulness?

He switched on the light in the silent study, and found that the chaos had been once more reduced to order; the empty bottles had been removed; a new fire of white birch logs had been laid neatly in the brown brick fireplace; the cigarette ends were gone from the ashes and the ash stand. A fresh bottle of whisky stood on the brass tray, and on the table was a folded note, over which lay a small key and a pink ticket. Sanders Theater. Of course, the symphony concert tonight. From Bill. And the small bright key. “Andy. Going to Portland for a few days. Use the ticket if you like. Also my car, at the Church Street garage. Why not go off and think it over quietly, if you can — first telling Bertha, please! Not a bad idea. I suggest Duxbury. Were you saying something about a pig when I fell asleep. Bill.”

The crucified pig, of course! He touched his smoothed chin and smiled, recollecting; feeling again the drunken glass in his hand, the precise torrent of eloquence in his mouth, the spate of ideas and images. Had it been absurd. Had it been as logical as it had seemed. Had he been as wonderfully in control of it as he had thought. He went to the window and looked across at the lights in the Widener Library and Boylston Hall, watched the dark figures going and coming through the gate to the Yard, figures in raincoats, figures hurrying in the soft rain. All the Smiths and Joneses of the world, accumulating knowledge, the ransackers of others’ words, the compilers and digesters. Those who knew nothing, and those who knew a little, and those to whom life would painfully teach more. Were they jealous. Did they betray, or had they been betrayed. Were they sex-ridden, was sex a monster for them, a nightmare, was all this busy come-and-go a mere flight, a disguise, a pretense, a raincoat surface which concealed—

Concealed what.

The slow pang, recapitulative, rose in the darkness of his thought, lazily, languidly, as with the perishing last little energy of an exploding rocket, undecided at the last whether it should be propelled further or fall in a broken and slow dishevelment of fire-streaked pain. Bertha. Bertha and Tom. Yes. This deep violation, which was now past, this blood which was now shed and lost. This wound which was now beginning to be a scar. The inevitable, and God-to-be-thanked-for, cicatrix; the acceptance — but was it cowardly or was it merely wisdom — the acceptance of all of life as a scar. The pig, not crucified, perhaps, after all, but merely cicatrized. Circumscribed. But we mustn’t be misunderstood—! Like that unfortunate fellow in the hospital; who said—“circumcised — that’s what I meant!”

He poured himself a whisky, smiling, measuring the quantity idly by the deepening of the color in the green glass, held it, looking at the picture of Michelangelo, and walked to and fro slowly, before the hearth, as if for the pleasure of repeating, or re-enacting, a lost attitude. Here’s to you, Mike, old boy. The insufferable vanity of the human being, who identifies himself with everything that’s greater than himself! I identified myself with Michelangelo. With Shakespeare. With Melville. I was their grandchild. And why not, after all. I inherit them. They produced me, I couldn’t escape them. They taught me how to suffer. They taught me how to know, how to realize, gave me the words by which I could speak my pain. They gave me the pain by giving me the words. Gave my pain its precise shape, as they gave me their consciousness. As I shall give my pain, my consciousness, to others. Did I say this to Bill.

He drank the whisky at a gulp, shuddered, set down the glass. The warmth in his belly crawled slowly about, like a crimson rambler and he smiled, putting a cool hand against his forehead. It had been a good show, it had been funny; and it was strange, it was disconcerting, to think that an agony could take such a shape — it made one distrust the nature of agony — was it possible, as this suggested, that all sincerities, even the sincerity of agony, were only sincerities of the moment? Only true in the instant? Relative? And for the rest insincere and unreal? Had it all been a fake? And had Bill seen through it? Absurd. In that case, the present calm was just as unreal, just as insincere, just as much an affair of the precise point in the sequence of cause and effect. How do you know your calmness is real, old crab. Do you really dare to think back, to feel back, into the yesterday which has now made itself into today? Are you really calm, or is it a mask which you have put on in your sleep. Have you changed — have you, have you, have you. Shall we look at the face in the mirror again, to see if it is calm. Look at the hand, to see if it shakes. Take the Binet test, to see if you are intelligent. Could you cry, now, although you think you feel like laughing. And how much part in all this has been played by alcohol. At what point in your spirited dramatization of yourself did the drama become drama for the sake of drama, and cease to be even so justifiable as a dramatic “projection” can be? Ah — ah — and is it true — can it possibly be true — that sudden and terrible idea—

He returned to the window, to gaze downward at the dark wetness of Massachusetts Avenue; emphasized, by the arc lights, between the piled snow; and found himself staring at the idea. Could it be true — and if it was, what a relief! what an escape! — that consciousness itself was a kind of dishonesty? A false simplification of animal existence? A voluntary-involuntary distortion, precisely analogous to the falsification that occurs when consciousness, in turn, tries to express itself in speech? As the animate, then, must be a natural distortion of the inanimate. Each step a new kind of dishonesty; a dishonesty inherent in evolution. Each translation involving a shedding, a partial shedding or abandonment, and an invention of a something new which was only disguisedly true to its origins, only obviously true to itself. But in that case, what was truth. Was truth the suffering, or the calm that succeeds the suffering. Or the comprehensive awareness of both, the embracing concept. Was suffering, as it were, merely an unsuccessful attempt at translation, in this progress from one state to another? An inability to feel what one is, to say what one feels, to do what one wills? A failure, simply, to know? A failure of the historical sense?

He lost himself in the succession of half-thoughts, a genial dissipation of ideas, of which he troubled only to feel the weights and vague directions; feeling that he could, had he wished, have followed each divergent and vanishing fin gleam or tail gleam to its psychological or physiological or metaphysical covert; but that to do so would add nothing to what already he deeply and animally and usefully knew. Bores me, the sum. If it was a fake, all that dramatized and projected agony, it was a genuine fake: suffering, even if it is only a transition, is genuine. Speech, even if it must be only incompletely loyal to its subject, incapable of saying all, is genuine. The fluidity of life, as long as it is life, can never have the immobile integrity of the rock from which it came. It will only be honest rock again when it is dead. And in the meantime, if it suffers, if it is aware that it suffers, if it says that it is aware that it suffers, and if it is aware that it cannot say completely why it suffers, or in severance from what, that’s all you can ask of it. In sum — idiot! — it is only unhappy because it is no longer, for the moment, rock.

He put his hand out of the window to feel the soft rain, as if in demonstration of the smaller uses of feeling; the minor advantages of the temporary emancipation from rock; the pleasures of dishonesty, or treason, to which evolution has led us. Item: rock suffering rain. Rock enduring infidelity. Rock conceiving a philosophical synthesis which explains, if it does not actually diminish, the pain involved in being not-rock. And assures the not-rock that it has, in a sense, a kind of reality. Andrew Cather has really suffered, but his suffering has no importance, except to himself, and only to himself insofar as he fails to realize — what? That rock, sundered from rock, does not cry.

The clock on the mantel struck the half hour, with a single surprising stroke, and he was interested to notice that the clock itself went on ticking, as if in no astonishment at that sudden comment on division of time. Half past seven! The clock was fast. The concert would be at eight. If a little walk, to the river and back, perhaps along Memorial Drive, and then a newspaper and quick supper at the Waldorf, the stock market and sports column surveyed over the fried eggs — if this interval, in which to accept more rationally what in fact he had already accepted, the idea of meeting Bertha at the concert — and perhaps Tom as well — the idea which had been fully formed as soon as he had seen the pink ticket on the table, and so exactly as Bill had foreseen—

And the little key. Duxbury. Had Bill foreseen that too.

When he emerged into the street, and drew a long breath of rain-soft air, abruptly throwing back his shoulders in the gesture he had learned from Tom, he stared at the dull piles of snow and said aloud — Duxbury. Of course. What could be simpler. All that wild magnificent farrago of nonsense had been leading back to Duxbury — or had it been Bill who had been leading back to it. And all the drunken fantasies and fandangos — it was too absurd. It was too obvious. All this mother-fixation business, as if everything in the soul could be charted like a sea! No, Andy, no. Be honest, on this rainy night in February. Walk honestly down Linden Street. Cross Mount Auburn Street honestly; and proceed as honestly toward the Charles River as you would proceed to death. It is not Bill who has given you this idea — not Bill, not Tom, not Bertha, nor any combination of these, nor any disaster to you, any accident; it is yourself; it is your own little worm-curve; the twist that is your own life; the small spiral of light that answers to the name of Andrew Cather; the little rock-pain which chooses this particular fashion of saying that it is tired of being not-rock and would like again to be rock. Touch your hand against the wet wall beside you, the dripping icicle on the wall, which breaks away so softly and falls soundlessly into the snow — feel the wet coldness, the moist surface which will again soon be glazed with ice — know these things, as you know the wet and slippery bricks beneath your feet — the river toward which you walk — they are not more real, more solid, more permanent, than the past Andrew Cather, who has now suddenly and painfully told the present Andrew that there is also a future Andrew. Murder him, if you like, but he is yours.

Would Tom be there; or would Bertha be alone.

He ran quickly across the lamp-reflecting river of Memorial Drive, dodged the twin headlamps of an approaching car, which funneled bright swarms of raindrops out of the night, and on arrival at the other side, suddenly slipped and sat down hard on the half-frozen gravel path, striking his left knee. The pain sickened him, he hugged the lifted knee derisively, sat still for a moment, laughing silently, then rose and limped forward, looking over his shoulder to see if he had been observed. And what sort of pain was this, was this not-rock too. Was it real or unreal. Less real, or more, than the pain of separation. Ridiculous! Tuberculosis, intervening, will arrest the progress of dementia praecox. Good God. If everything was as relative as this — if a sudden physical pain could thus completely shut off a psychological pain, and make the return to it seem forced and deliberate and false — a mere self-indulgence—

Boylston Street, a lighted garage, another garage, the bookshop sign swinging and dripping in the narrow dark street, Erasmus, the lights in the gymnasium. Rodman had said that he must have the completed text in two weeks; and here a week was almost gone — twenty more translation exercises to be compiled and written out — but that would be easy. That Ronda poem. That absurd guidebook. Correct the errors in the following. And at least two of the exercises devoted to the corrida—a novel idea to introduce the bullfight into Spanish grammar. With perhaps a spirited photo or two. Sol y sombra. And what about a quotation from the Spanish translation of “The Waste Land,” Tierra Baldia, by Angel Flores. Abril es el mes más cruel; engendra — Lilas de la tierra muerta, mezcla—And the guidebook, Guia de Ronda. “Ronda is an intricated old Moorish town. Being highly salubrious the longevity of the place is proverbial.” And the “polite youngs.” Translate these passages into what you think might have been the Spanish original. Or something from Toreros y Toros.

At the bright door to the Waldorf, beside the subway entrance, three cents for The Boston Evening Transcript; and then the ticket, accepted from the ticket machine, with a slow clink; and the fried eggs, fresh country eggs, and bacon. Old Turgenev at the desk, with his beautiful white tobacco-stained beard. Eddie, the Negro taxi-driver, sprawling in his usual chair beside the door, reading a paper, his taxi drawn up at the curb outside, in readiness for undergraduates bent on pleasure. And the marble clock with black hands.

Was suffering one’s nearest approach to an acute realization of life? Of existence? And therefore desirable?

— All I can say is, he’s a stinker. It ought to have been a D.

— Why don’t you go and see him.

— The squash courts—

— Sure. Five o’clock.

— And a side order of bacon. Three to come. Blue plate.

— Oh, gosh, it was good. It was the cat’s pyjamas. It was the bee’s knees.

— No, it was Crab that seconded him. Not me.

Complete Wall Street And Boston Stocks Closing Prices Heiress Fights to Keep Her Baby Child Flogged Boy Is Black and Blue Boston Stage Star Dead Famous Singer Began Career With Medicine Show at Age of Ten Years.

But where was it all gone, where was all the tumult gone, into what remote and dwindling sunset sound? And as Bill had said, Bertha must be suffering too. Walking to and fro with a soaked handkerchief in her hand. Unable to sit down, to rest, to think. Unable to sleep. Telephoning to all her friends. What had she said. Had she told them that he had left her. Or what. How had she explained it. Had she told them that she and Tom—

He crumbled the paper napkin, as if to crush once again the recapitulative pang, pushed back his chair. What dress would she be wearing — as if it mattered, by God. The blue velvet opera cloak. And all their friends, all the wives of faculty members, to see them when they met. Look, there is Andrew Cather, he’s talking with Bertha, do you see them, in the back row, you know what they say about them don’t you, they say — and do you suppose Tom Crapo is here tonight — can you imagine—

In Bill’s room again, without turning on the light, he poured himself a whisky, drank it straight, resumed the automatic buzz of phrases. Was there no way to stop it. Was it wise to go to the concert at all. Should he go to see Molly, invite her to come to Duxbury with him, simply to have some one to talk to. The light from Massachusetts Avenue filled the room with imitation moonlight, sharply angled, ghostly; Michelangelo gazed down somberly through a diagonal shadow. Telephone to Molly now, or later perhaps. Go to Shepard Hall while Bertha was still at the concert, to have a look around, get the mail, put on a clean shirt. And telephone to Molly from there. Hello Molly, this is your old friend Andy, I wondered if you would like — I wondered if we might — what do you say to a little elopement — expedition — would you like to drive me down to Duxbury tonight — all expenses paid — what ho, Molly, how about a little spree to Montreal. Dance at the Lido first if you like. Or stay in your flat and drive down early in the morning. It’s all over but the laughing.

He chose a book at random from the shelf by the fireplace, turned on the light and began to read, standing with his back to the hearth.

“Man is pre-eminently distinguished from the lower animals by the enormous development of his libido … he loves a great deal more than is necessary.”

He loves a great deal more than is necessary. Christ!

The impulse to fling the book down violently was translated quietly into a precise reinsertion of it in its place on the shelf. These psychologists. These fellows who become psychologists because they understand neither themselves nor any one else. These phrase-makers — man with his enormous libido, man with his persistent libido, man pre-eminently distinguished from the lower animals because his love is not confined to the rutting season! Pre-eminently distinguished from the birds by his lack of wings. Look at the poor devil, staggering through the world under his enormous burden of libido. I forgive you, Bertha, for now I realize that the burden of libido which you carry everywhere with you is far too much for you. Yes. Let us share it with you. Hand it about to the audience at Sanders Theater — God knows they could stand a little more. And if they and Tom don’t want it all — if there is something left over — a quantum, a surd, one tiny flame-plume — one eyelash-flicker of a loving look—

But no. Not that. My dear Bertha — Bertha my dear — need I explain to you the so very simple fact that after what has happened it will be impossible for us to resume — I mean, impossible for us to live — we must wave away the notion of a shared bedroom. You understand that. Old-fashioned of me, I daresay, but honest. Honest Andrew. What arrangement shall we make. Can we discuss it now quite calmly and sensibly. Shall I take a separate apartment next door. Shall we separate, or is it possible that now — now that this action has freed us — we can come together more usefully on another and perhaps more realistic plane. But not exactly — need I say — the planes of Abraham. No. And strange too that it is still with such a pang, though partly retrospective, and therefore sentimental—

And why was it with excitement, with quickened heartbeat, with unseeing eye, the familiar sensation of the face lowered so as to avoid the impalpable psychological problem, precisely as if it were a thing physically visible, that he approached Memorial Hall in the rain, slowing his steps as he passed Appleton Chapel, and even tempted, as long ago, to make a deliberate circuit of a block or two, for the mere gaining of time? Dismay? fear? doubt? animal distrust of the unknown? Pull yourself together. Enter. Climb the stairs. Ten minutes to eight. Take your seat and look about you.

The brown program in his hand, he climbed the steps to the balcony, found the seat near the parapet, which overlooked the absurd brightly lighted little auditorium of wooden Gothic, which Tom called late Visigothic or early Swiss Chalet, and watched the musicians filing on to the stage. The concert-master, Burgin, came last, and tucked his feet backward under the rung of his chair, as if for leverage when drawing the bow. Like the bird who tightens his claws on the twig, in order to release a particularly fine burst of song. And the squeakings and squawkings and runs and trills began, the grunts of the cellos, the tappings and listenings of the kettle drummer, all the delicious miscellany of tuning — while the audience of dodos and baldheads and wonderfully-bedizened frumps settled, and preened, and cooed at one another, or studied programs through telescopes. But was Bertha here. Was Tom here. Dared he lean over the edge and look. Would he be seen looking.

He looked, and she was not there. Nor Tom. The two seats, in the last row, were empty. But there were still people coming in — along the back — he watched them — and not finding her there, he looked down the aisle into the audience on the floor, where here and there little groups of women stood talking. Who was it who had made a standing bet with some one that if he could find more than three men in any one row of seats — and look at them tonight. Solid phalanxes of females. Aged females. As you progressed forward, toward the stage, solid rows of white hair, with now and then one solitary gleaming baldheaded octogenarian of a professor. Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly? Echo answers why. What did these creatures care about music, what did it mean to them? O God, O Cambridge.

“Overture to ‘The Magic Flute.’ … Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Born at Salzburg, January 27, 1756; died at Vienna, December 5, 1791. Thirty-six years old.”

Koussevitzky came quickly on to the stage, stepped with mathematical precision to his little dais, ascended, took up his baton, and as the applause drew him, pivoted with choreographic neatness. At precisely that moment, Bertha entered from the door at the far side and walked with quick, short steps, almost running, along the back, her hand clutching the blue velvet cloak against her breast. Alone. And as she dropped into her seat, he leaned over the edge of the parapet and felt that he drew forcibly upwards the surprised gaze that she lifted to him. She started visibly, controlled an impulse to rise again, and while still she looked at him he lifted his program, pointed to it, raised one finger in the air, and then with the waved program indicated the door. She nodded, and the overture began.

The Masonic chords drew themselves out, melancholy, profound, and the sad slow air followed them, the theme that later would be given to the delicious little hurdy-gurdy tune—“Emanuel Johann Schikaneder, the author of the libretto of ‘The Magic Flute,’ was a wandering theater director … poet … improvident, shrewd, a bore.…”

She was very white, she had on the blue velvet opera cloak, and under it the black satin. The white coral necklace. She sat stiffly, as if unseeing, but also as if aware embarrassedly that she was being looked at.

“He asked Mozart to write the music for it. Mozart, pleased with the scenario, accepted the offer and said—”

Why was the overture considered gay, happy — for an undercurrent of sadness ran all through it. Papageno. Papagenesis. The birdcatcher. She was turning her face a little away from him, with a sort of frozen precision, self-conscious and a little evasive, but firm.

“Mozart said—‘I have never written magic music.…’ … Goethe once wrote of the text … Hegel praised the libretto highly … symbolical meanings.”

And now the break, the cessation, the almost imperceptible pause, and then the rapid chatter of the fugue, the sudden sawed-off bursts of fiddle sound, the harsh quick downward scrapes of simultaneous bows, the brave sforzandi followed immediately by the swift twinkle, the delicate pattern, of the fugue, the mouse-dance, of light quick sound—

“Schikaneder knew the ease with which Mozart wrote … knew that it was necessary to keep watch over him … put Mozart in a little pavilion which was in the midst of a garden near his theater … inspired by the beautiful eyes of the singing woman, Gerl.…”

She looked ill. Her face was thinner, her eyes looked larger, were sombered, she was somehow nicer than he had thought her to be, she had been hurt. She was watching Koussevitzky intently, but the way in which her elbows were drawn in at her sides meant that she was conscious of the people who sat at left and right: who, nevertheless, were paying no attention to her.

“Velvet of itself is a natural response to the new quest of lovely ladies for a fabric, luxurious unto the demands of this exacting mode.…” “Schikaneder’s name was in large type on the bill: Mozart’s name was in small type underneath the cast.… Schenk gave Beethoven lessons.… At the end of the Overture, he went to Mozart and kissed his hand. Mozart stroked his admirer’s cheek. Mozart went behind the scenes and saw Schikaneder in his costume of a bird.…”

And now — ah, yes, how lovely — the absurd but magnificent dialogue between god and the little hurdy-gurdy — the majestic chords, the great sweeps of sound, the laws and the prophets, the thunder from the mountain, and then the delicious and ridiculous and so humble bubble and squeak of the clarinets and oboes and bassoons, the birds singing in the rain — and then god again — and again the undaunted little tumbling tune — so childish—

“… Mozart died shortly after the production of ‘The Magic Flute’ in deep distress … this opera was in his mind until the final delirium … he would take his watch from under his pillow and follow the performance in imagination.… ‘Now comes the grand aria’.…”

Her fists doubled under her chin, she leaned forward, as if with an air of saying, look, you see I am even smiling a little, I am amused by all this, you needn’t think I am afraid, or that I’m not an independent person. Nor that I won’t face you bravely.

“The day before he died, he sang with his weak voice the opening measures of ‘Der Vogelfanger bin ich ja’ and endeavored to beat the time with his hands.… Schikaneder, ‘sensualist, parasite, spendthrift’ … built the Theater an der Wien … on the roof he put his own statue, clothed in the feather costume of Papageno. His luck was not constant; in 1812 he died in poverty.”

The Masonic chords again, ascending, altered, but with the same deep sadness; as of trains crying to each other across a wilderness at night; the prolonged and lost nostalgia, the sound of pain abruptly introduced into a scene of festivity, of candles, of minuets, as if coming in on a wind that blew out lights;—and then again the lovely quick fugue, the elf dance, rising and rising to broader and bolder sweeps of sound, the intricate and algebraic pattern — this gesture coming in again, and then that other, the delicious bustle as of lights being relighted, servants hurrying with tapers, the music striking up, the dancers reforming—

The blue velvet cloak had slipped from her left shoulder, she sat with her two hands flat on her knees, still leaning forward, but now as if at last the music alone had become real for her, had taken her away; as if she had forgotten the things which had darkened her eyes, and given the new pallor to her cheeks. She was absorbed, she was by herself, she looked young.

“Here the master, wishing, so to speak, to glance back and to give a final model of the old Italian and German overtures with a counterpointed theme, which had served, and still served, as preface to many operas, pleased himself by exhibiting the melodic theme that he had chosen, in all its forms, adorned with the riches of harmony and instrumentation. The result of this marvellous work of the carver is one of the most perfect instrumental compositions ever produced by human genius.” Oh, yes indeed.

And now again god was speaking to the hurdy-gurdy — but this time a kindlier god, less remote; the god stooping from the mountain, gentler and nearer; and the hurdy-gurdy, changed and translated, but still essentially the same, speaking in a bolder and firmer voice — and then god again — as if the two voices greeted each other — and now the beginning of the end, the slow, falling rhythm of the melancholy gaiety — the last downward sweep of Koussevitzky’s arms, of the bows, the held chord, another, the upward flick of the baton, the silence — and then the applause, mounting, mounting, like a storm of rain on gusts of wind—

She had risen from her seat, was looking upward at him for confirmation; he signaled with his program, and turned to move toward the swinging door. The applause dimmed behind him as he descended the stairs and began to cross the lofty marble-paved hall to the other entrance. She emerged, and came toward him, a little self-conscious, her head tilted a little to one side, the rich copper hair gleaming, the silver buckles of her slippers alternately thrust forward, the sharp heels striking clearly on the marble. She stopped, and waited for him, holding the cloak together with her hands. He had thought she was smiling. But when he came close to her, and she made no movement to disengage her hands, he saw that her lips were pressed tight, and that in the widened and darkened pupils of her gray eyes was a curious mingling of defiance and defeat. She was as frightened as himself. He put his hand against her elbow and said—

— Let’s walk up and down here.

— Do you think this was a very tactful way—

— I’m sorry. But what else—

— Everybody in Cambridge saw it—

— Good God, Berty, surely there are more important things—

— It’s typical.

— Not at all. On these occasions one simply obeys one’s instinct, that’s all.

— Is that an excuse for bad manners, or lack of consideration?

— It seemed to me the most neutral way of managing it.

— Perhaps you’re right. But I should have thought—

They walked to the end of the hall in silence, embarrassed, past the rows of sepulchral memorial tablets, the interminable lists of dead soldiers. Antietam. The Battle of the Wilderness. Gettysburg. Bull Run. Born, and died of wounds. Killed in action. Died in a Confederate Prison. Died in Libby Prison, of a fever. Born and Died.

— Is Tom coming.

— No.

They turned, and started slowly back. From Sanders Theater came the sudden sound of renewed music, the beginning of the second number, a fanfare of bright trumpets and a thumping of drums. Muted by distance and the valves of doors.

— Tell me. Did Bill call you up.

— Yes.

— Did he tell you that he was giving me his ticket.

— Yes.

— I see. Just as I thought. He arranged it. You expected me. And you told Tom he’d better not come.

— I told Tom that I thought it would not be advisable.

— For both our sakes, I suppose!

— For all our sakes. I think the sarcasm is uncalled for.

— Sorry. I was only thinking aloud.

Lifting her hand from her cloak, she touched a quick finger to the corners of her eyes.

— I think you might have let me know before, what you were doing, or where you were—

— I wanted to be alone. Surely you understand that.

— Of course I understand it, but just the same I think you might have let me know.

For the first time she turned and looked at him, hesitating, half inhibiting her step, as if she were going to stop, or even going to touch him, as if for the first time she were meeting him. But she averted her face again.

— Andy, you don’t look well.

— Neither do you, Berty, for that matter!

— Isn’t it silly—

— What.

She made a downward gesture with her hand.

— Life. The way we make each other suffer.

— That’s the most sensible thing you ever said.

He found himself holding her elbow quite tightly, and at the same time frowning, as if to control an excess of feeling — but what sort of feeling he could not possibly have said. Not anger, not self-pity.

— There’s a lot of mail for you at the apartment.

— Yes, I thought I’d go round there now — that is, if you’re staying for the concert — and get it. And a few clean shirts. I thought I’d leave before the intermission.

— What are you going to do.

— Do you mean now — or do you mean in general.

— Well — both.

He gazed downward, at the worn and dirty marble of the floor, trodden down by the hungry generations of undergraduates, among whom had been himself, and watched the parallel thrust, preposterous, of Bertha’s slippers and his own mud-splashed shoes.

— I’m damned if I know yet, Berty — doesn’t it really depend on you.

— Not necessarily.

— What I really came for was to say that I thought time—that I thought we ought to take plenty of time—

— Do you think we need any more?

— It sounds weak of me, but I don’t know.

— Do you mean—

— What do you mean!

He stopped, and turned her toward him with his hand, and looked hard at her eyes. The look of defiance had gone, the look of defeat remained. She withdrew her arm from his hand, gently, and resumed the walk, and for a moment they listened in silence to the queer muffled and abortive sounds of the music, walking slowly, both their faces downcast.

— You ought to know. But do you want me to say it first.

— No, Berty. No. No.

— Well, then—

— I think I’ll go away for a few days, if you don’t mind — just to think it over quietly — by myself — I don’t mean anything invidious by it—

— Where are you going.

— To Duxbury. It’s absurd, but I’ve got a queer desire to go there. Not so queer either. It’s all plain enough — I just want to go there.

— Andy—

— What.

— Take me with you. Let me come with you.

— No, Berty, I think it would be better not.

— Please.

— No, really, Berty, if you don’t mind—

— Please.

— No.

There was a strained pause, they faced each other, she had tried to smile.

— And now I think I’ll go — I think it’s better if we don’t talk about it too much yet — will it be all right if I leave you here — I suppose you can’t get into the theater again, until the intermission. But if I’m going to drive down, I ought to be starting—

— Of course, Andy. Run along. I’ll sit on the top steps and listen to it through the door.

— All right. If you’re sure you don’t mind.… Good night.

— Good night.

He turned as he went out, and caught a last glimpse of her climbing the stairs, lifting her frock at the knees. Poor Berty — or was it poor Andy? It had stopped raining. He skirted the edge of the College Yard, crossed Massachusetts Avenue, and in the Church Street garage asked for Bill’s car, producing Bill’s note and the key.

— I’m a friend of his.

— Yes, sir. I guess it’s all right. Can you say what kind of a car it is.

— Dodge coupé.

— O. K. I’ll bring her down for you.

So it was all coming out like this — all queerly ending like this — with a humble little anticlimax like this. And what would happen now! Impossible to say. It must be thought of, felt of. And with Tom still there, but now a little farther off—

— Thank you. How is she for oil and gas.

— All set.

— Thanks.

He drove slowly up Church Street, and into Brattle, as if to go to Shepard Hall; but then, suddenly he decided against it. Why go there at all? Why not start at once; merely stopping at the Club for his bag? Yes.…

Turning, he swung the car through Brattle Square, down to the river and across the little arched bridge, and then accelerated as he entered the wide new boulevard. So it was all like this. Bertha was like that. He himself was like — what? A queer confusion, a queer relief, a queer delight. In two hours he would be in Duxbury, would pass the dark rain-soaked railway station, the library, the flagpole. Find a hotel. And in the morning, at sunrise — how absurd it was — he would drive down to the Point, and cross the long bridge, over the rattling boards, and, see the beach again — or even walk to the Gurnett — unless, as was more than likely, he decided to sleep.

For already, to all intents, he had revisited that scene, in this week of so much revisiting — he knew it, every coarse or delicate detail of it — the matted waves of dried seaweed which were wet underneath, the caked salt on the pebbles, the shells, the bleached bones of fishes — the little piles of charred stones, too, on which were written the histories of clambakes — what more, now, could these things say to him? Or say usefully? But it would be good to touch earth. It would be good to touch, for the last time, that agony, and to exorcise it — to drown in it derisively, savagely, or even, at last, indifferently. No, not indifferently — at last with acceptance; as one accepts such simple things as daybreak. Such simple and shattering things as daybreak. The strange and exciting mixture of astonishment and suffering with which — at a moment of discovery — one loses oneself in order to create oneself! The end that is still conscious of its beginnings. Birth that remembers death.

He watched the swarms of raindrops coming toward the headlamps, arriving and mysteriously vanishing, the continuous vanishing swarm, and suddenly, with a sense of power, he pressed his foot on the accelerator, and laughed. Life was good — life was going to be good. Unexplored, unfathomable, marvelous and terrible. Filthy, and incalculable. Cruel, and inexhaustible. Like this unceasing swarm of bright raindrops, like the waves breaking on the beach at the Gurnett, innumerable as the atoms in the brain. The wonderful nightmare, the wonderful and acceptable nightmare! When I slap on the kalsomine I think about those gals o’ mine. I’m only a Spanish grammar, but my heart is pure as mud.