Conrad Aiken: Great Circle

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.