Conrad Aiken: Great Circle

Bores me. The sum.

The immediate engulfed him once more, the fine rain saluted him, a gust of cold wind lifted the tail of his coat, and here was Montrose Hall. Tom. Enter, to grow in wisdom. He entered, slipped on the marble floor, the worn wet heel slipping metallically, and slid toward the row of brass letter boxes and the double row of bell pushes: Diana of the Ephesians. Thomas Lowell Crapo. To ring or not to ring. He leaned his forefinger against the button and pressed prolongedly, at the same time lifting down the receiver and listening: he could hear the faint buzz in Tom’s apartment. Why must one hold one’s breath? Was life as exciting as all that? He breathed quickly, held his breath again, again listened to the far-off cicada trill. Is there an adulterous human in that room, sitting perhaps by the window with a book on his knee, or maybe a married woman? Is Troilus at home? Taking a bath? No answer. The room is dark, the cockroaches are scuttling in the pantry, the melting ice drips in the ice chest, the little gold clock ticks patiently by itself on the yellow table. Tom is abroad. Tom has gone forth. He is probably at the Faculty Club, or gone to a burlesque show, or a prizefight. He has gone to the Square to see Greta Garbo. He is playing the grand piano at the Signet to an admiring audience of sophomores and a pederastic philologist. He is walking back from the Square with two doughnuts and a cup of coffee in his belly. He hums the waltz from the “Rosenkavalier,” feeling the chords tensing his long fingers. He is dining with his aunt in Sparks Street. He is doing all these things simultaneously — Why? precisely to avoid doing anything else: safeguarding the world against a catastrophic suspicion: he runs from star to star protesting his innocence: he is a good fellow, a faithful friend. His pockets are full of spider wasps and colloids. He has tied a knot in his handkerchief to remind him of an innocent appointment. Come on, Bertha, come on, Andy, we’ll drive down to Duxbury and have a lobster and some steamed clams. Clam broth. A drive out to the Long Beach, the Gumett. Dead fish on the sand. The sea …

Christ, no.

He released the bell, turned, went out, was reimmersed in rain, walking rapidly and uncertainly, his eyes downward, watching the uncertain thrust of his mud-tipped shoes. Blood was in his face, his neck and throat felt swollen and vague, everything was dimmed and rushed and whirling. Garden Street. In this street once — you broke a watch-chain, wrote a valentine, threw snowballs at the feathered trees. In this street once. The red bricks glistened darkly, became near and important and highly organized, rich-patterned symbol of the complicated world. Speed must replace thought. Action must replace idea. You are now an automaton. Thank God, your revolver is at the bottom of the trunk; by the time you dug it out the impulse would have become ridiculous. Hurry — hurry — hurry — everything was hurrying. The world was hurrying. The rain was hurrying. The water in the gutter was hurrying. Be a child, why not, step into the gutter and walk along in the rushing water: it will conceal your spoor, you will leave no traces for the detectives to follow, and besides it will be such fun. Go on, I dare you. Wet feet? You have been drowned, and are wet all over. But these bricks, now, these dead leaves, now, these limpid braids of brown water, this elaborate pattern of the earth’s floor, this curious wall of star surface on which you walk like a fly — admire it, Andrew, be bewildered by it, let it confuse you in such a way as will be cosmically useful to you in the coming scene. But what if there were no scene? It will be useful anyway. It is your insulation. It is holding you off from your agony. The unimportant has become important in order that the important may become unimportant. Found it marble and left it brick. Bumwad, bumwad, bumwad.

Shepard Street.

The turning point.

A letter box.

Arc light.

Dripping forsythia bushes.

Turn right along boardwalk for fifth act of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.” Real blood hounds. See Eliza crossing the ice. See little Eva go to heaven.

He walked with dizzy carefulness, tried in vain to place his feet on the dark cracks of the boardwalk, gave it up, and began to smile. It was probably not Tom at all. Or maybe it would be a party. Bert with a new poem. Celia with a new frock. Floyd with a new dance record. Why, for goodness sake, if it isn’t old Andy! But where are your things, Andy! Where’s your bag! What’s happened! Explain yourself! How come you’re back so soon! Welcome home and have a drink. But what about your bag? What indeed. Left it at the Harvard Club by mistake, after too many cocktails — as you can see. Yes indeed. Telephone for it: they’ll send it out in a taxi. All very simple.

Shepard Hall.

He stood, stared, the wind whipping his coat, held up his hand to shelter his eyes from the rain, regarded aslant and unseeing the large wet words of carved stone in the wild lamplight. In this house once. The little red table being taken up the stone stairs. The bedspring being juggled into the shaky old elevator. Old Mr. Macumber sitting on the steps in the summer evening to listen to the whirring of nighthawks. The bare floors, before the rugs had come. The bare walls, before the pictures had been hung. Old newspapers on the floor of the bathroom. The white enamel doors of the ice chest open, showing the lining of dull and stinking tin. Stale smells of former occupation: the history of the world. In this house once — but that was long ago. Prehistoric. Before the flood. Before Christ. Before Tom. Retreat, you idiot. Go back to the Harvard Club. Get your bag and hire a taxi and drive to Duxbury. Duxbury? Why Duxbury? Go to Concord. Go to Montreal. Anywhere. Let the rain and wind decide it for you: they are already shaking you to a decision: urging you towards Garden Street: obey them. This house has ghosts. Its walls are made of nasturtiums and Haydn, its ceilings are a gossamer of lost words and cries, forgotten embraces and tendernesses, rebukes, reproaches, and quick words of anger. Rain rain bubbling from right to left along the granite steps. This house has tears. This house has hates. It has arms, hands, and eyes, it listens to you with a conscious expression which is neither pity nor contempt: it knows you without remembering you. Bid it farewell.

He entered the rococo marble hall, ignored the elevator, feeling as he did so a sharp cessation of breath, and automatically thrust his hand into brass letter box number sixty-four. No letters. Of course not. Bertha would have removed them, as he perfectly well knew. Dishonest device to gain time. What for? Terror. Abject terror. His knees were trembling, blood was singing in the side of his neck, his wet hand still hung tremulously in the cold metal box. Remove it: bring it back to you, inform it that it is still yours. But the bell — what about the bell? Six rings, or seven, or the mystic nine? Something to alarm them and put them on their guard? He rang the bell twice, prolongedly, as at Tom’s, smiled suddenly at his own instant decision not to listen at the receiver, unsteadily entered the elevator, and ascended. At the third-floor gate a woman was waiting, holding an umbrella. On the fourth floor a rubbish box of canvas. On the sixth floor — exit to grow in wisdom. He let himself out, trembling horribly, smiling, feeling like an idiot, paused insanely with one finger uplifted, took out his key, crossed the oilcloth floor on which were muddy footprints, and let himself in, closing the door with a bang. Good God — are you going to faint? Are you so weak? Lean your back against the door, and regard Tom’s hat and stick on the chair, the fur-lined gloves, too, and the wet galoshes. Observe also that there is no light in the sitting room, but a dim light coming from the crack of the bathroom door. All very cosy. All very quiet. Christ. Rain flew across the Shepard Street window.