Conrad Aiken: Great Circle

You are already in Cambridge, you are already noiselessly letting yourself into your flat in Shepard Street, you are already standing, just inside the door, and listening to hear if your excellent wife Bertha is at home. Not a sound — not a whisper — not the creak of a board. You cast a furtive look at the chairs in the hall: what is it that you are expecting, or even almost hoping, to see? A hat? A man’s hat? No, you avert your eyes from the thought. You had not really expected this. But you are curious, just the same, and that is why you are here, three days before she had expected you. It is like a melodrama. But that has nothing to do with it. If life chooses to imitate a cheap melodrama, why then it is obvious enough that you have to behave like a character in a melodrama — a ridiculous hero with a permanent expression of long-suffering, or a villain with violent mustaches. And so you are acting the part: you are stealthy, you walk swiftly and softly on the balls of your feet, you half hold your breath as you approach the sitting room, you crane your neck at an unnatural angle in your endeavor to reassure yourself that there is indeed no one there.… But supposing there should be some one? Ah. This is what you really want. You really want to find some one there. Do not deny it — do not pretend. You are deliberately seeking a catastrophe — you are yourself in the act of creating a disaster. You want to see your life violated, broken in two, your precious secrecy exposed in a yellow light of pure horror. Could you not have avoided this? Could you not have ignored Fred’s letter? My dear Andy: it’s none of my business, perhaps, and probably you’ll be the last to thank me; that’s always what happens, but I wouldn’t be doing my duty to you as a friend if I didn’t write to tell you — Oh, Christ. Why read it again? Why remember it? Why act upon it? Why not get off at Providence and return to New York, precisely as if it were a return to sanity? It was growing dark, they were crossing a river, a row of lights sped across rain-sodden ice, a lamp was lifted in a farmhouse window. Whoooo — whooooo —the demon fireman blew his whistle again, prolongedly, nostalgically, into the gathering gloom, rain began pattering again on the train roof and grazingly along the windows, came and went in flaws of needles. My dear Andy, it’s none of my business. My dear Andy, it’s none of my business. But whose business was it, then? Was it Tom’s? Was it Bertha’s? Was it God’s? Perhaps it was nothing at all. Perhaps they were merely playing duets. Side by side on the long mahogany bench, leaning together, leaning apart, Tom the bass and Bertha the treble, the Haydn Surprise, the Drum-roll Symphony, his foot on the pedal, her hand on the page. Shall we take that again? We’ll start at G in the second bar. Haydn duet, hide and do it. The clock was ticking, the curtains were drawn. Shepard Street was outside in the rain, everything was cosy, everything was peaceful, New York was far away, merest of whispers in the southwest, and Andy — what was Andy? A ghost behind the music, a shadow beside the hearth, an echo in the corridor. He was an old raincoat in the cupboard, a towel in the bathroom, a napkin ring in the sideboard, a name on the letter box. He was a handful of bills on the hall table, a catalogue of second-hand books, a pair of rusty skates in an old trunk. And the cocktail shaker on the Japanese tray, the shaker that leaked, Tom holding it muffled in a handkerchief, shaking it over the hearth while he laughed — come on, Andy, let’s have another round — the night is young — let’s get well oiled and go and see Dynamite Gus — come on, Bertha; come on, Andy — I’ll pay for the taxi — we’ll have some arak at the Greek’s, and ringside seats at the Garden. Have you read the Childermass ? Let’s experiment with the Kieseritzky gambit, or the fianchetto. The new record of the “Love of the Three Oranges.” Let’s walk to Fresh Pond in the rain, visit the pumping-station, or drop a tear on the tomb of Henry James. Plymouth for the week end. Chocorua. A game of poker at the new bookshop. Come on, Bertha, come on, Andy, I’m back from a faculty meeting and I want to raise hell. Tea at 3.30. Meeting at 4. The committee appointed to prepare a minute on the life and services of the late John Jacob Morrison, Professor of English, Emeritus , will present the minutes to the faculty. Recommendations from the administrative board for changes in the Regulations for Students in Harvard College, of which the most important is that section 14 be amended as follows. Let’s discuss methods of suicide. Potassium cyanide. Tell Bertha you’re spending the night with me, and we’ll take Louise and Molly to Concord. Treason! Treason! The treason spoke innocently through the Haydn, rose softly and guilelessly under the fingers of Tom, under the onyx signet ring, under his long brown hands, the wrists held high and arched, under the wedding ring on Bertha’s fourth finger, on whose inner surface was a fine incised inscription. Treason chimed with the chiming clock, a present from Tom, wreathed itself in a water color of nasturtiums, shone softly on the opened score from a shaded lamp. Where is Andy? Andy’s in New York, said the bass. Come on, Bertha—

This must stop, this turmoil must stop. The Maroons had beaten the Bruins in overtime. The Prince of Wales had been thrown by his horse Beautiful Blonde Sues Millionaire Scion for Heart Balm. American Womanhood Purest in World, says Bishop. Tax Scandal Shocks Senate. Rain will be followed by snow. Unseasonable warmth soon to end. Blizzards in far West, Denver under three feet of snow, villages in Rockies cut off from the world. Krazy Kat Is On His Way. Says you? Says me. Utilities Lower on Curb. Love Baron Leaves Hollywood. Oh, yeah?

— You can’t teach ’em a thing.

— You can teach ’em, but they won’t learn.

— They don’t want to learn.

— Believe me, I’m through.

— God! and those hotels.

— Never again for me, no sir.

— Say, porter, what about a cigar.

Pack of cards, informative bid, clubs, diamonds, pass. Amherst Quintet Invades Crimson Territory Tonight. Lapp Life Studied in Racial Investigation. The Lapps are a nervous class of people and would be termed neurasthenics … where a stick was whacked against the side of a tent, the inhabitants fainted from fright …

God’s Providence is our inheritance. One hour to Boston. Once more the train gathered speed, fled through dwindling suburbs into the night, whistled for crossings, devoured immense spaces of darkness, clattered past interminable strings of freight cars on a siding, swooped over bridges, lurched, steadied, whistled again and again. Small stations whirled past, dimly lighted, their wooden platforms glistening with rain, their names telescoped with speed. Hurry — hurry — hurry — everything was hurrying, the world was hurrying, the night was hurrying. The bells for a crossing chattered madly ahead, rose to a higher note, fell away behind to a sad minor murmur, were lost. He closed his eyes. The back of his hand rested against the cold glass of the window, vibrating; smoke stung his nostrils; long lights flew beside him in bright parallels; this was Andrew Cather. Calm yourself, you idiot — pull yourself together — you must regain control. Think of New York, the stars in the Grand Central Station, the girl who dropped her ticket at the gate, blushing as she stooped to pick it up, looking over her shoulder. Think of the fern-fringed fountain in the lunchroom at the hotel, old Rodman scratching his beard with a pencil while he figured the cost of the textbook, the marble clock, the rows of brass keys behind the desk. Mr. Cather, please — Number 218—Mr. Cather, please. Fred’s letter. My dear Andy, it’s none of my business. It’s none of my business. Think of the blocks of ice in the urinals, the disinfected sweetness of the telephone booths, the silent corridors of plush, the stealthy chambermaids with jingling key rings. Drive down Broadway at night, as if flying into the heart of a vast fiery opal. Take the express and change to a local at 14th Street. Climb the dirty stairs to the elevated, reading all the enameled advertisements, clacking through the heavy turnstile with a nickel.

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