Conrad Aiken: Conversation; or, Pilgrims' Progress

“Yes, I know — those lilies of the valley have been haunting me. I’ve been thinking about them ever since, and about how typical it was of her.”

“Oh, how awful, how simply awful. Oh, Tip —”

“Yes, darling—”

“Don’t ever stop loving me. Don’t ever let me stop loving you, will you? Don’t believe the dreadful things I say!”

“Of course not, darling, of course not—”

“Poor, poor little Miss Twitchell, all by herself. What could have made her do such a thing?”

“Now, Ee, darling, I didn’t mean to start you crying again — you’ve done enough for one day — and in the bathroom of all places!”

“It’s a very good place—! But, yes, I mustn’t. Can I dry my eyes on your sleeve?”

“Of course!”

She gave a quick smile, a last tear fell as she closed her eyes to rub them against his shoulder, and as he held her he felt the suppressed shudder rise in her breast and then slowly subside again. She sighed, leaned her head on his shoulder, and relaxed sleepily, her eyes still closed. He kissed the white forehead, ran a fingertip along the curve of one eyebrow — but then he thought he heard an odd little sound from upstairs. He turned his head to listen. The Unitarian Church clock began striking at the same moment, he would have to wait till it was finished (—and an early start in the morning, good lord—) eight! nine! ten ! And then, yes, the same obscure sound again—

“Listen,” he said.

“Yes, darling?”

“I think it’s Buzzer — I’d better go up and see. And I suppose , my darling, we ought to go to bed — It’s Boston for me in the morning!”

“Oh, of course! Well, if you’ll go up to her, Tip, dear — unless you’d rather I did—”

“No, I’ll go, if you’ll put the house to bed. There’s a light I left in the kitchen—”

“All right then, darling, run along!”

He took the candle from the top of the piano, and went lightly, swiftly, up the stairs into the smell and sound of night, the smell and sound of rain. And cold, too — the upper hall was damp and cold, a little cave of autumnal rain-sound — good lord, it would be winter in no time. The room whirled as he moved the candle, above the sound of the rain he could hear Buzzer’s low continuous crying, and when he stooped through the low door he found her sitting up in her bed, and crying with her eyes closed, the backs of her hands pressed to her cheeks.

“Why, Buzzer, what is it, my pet? Did you have a bad dream? — There, that’s right, you lie down, you’ll get all cold — and tuck these hands in — Was that what it was, my pet? Did you have a bad dream?”

“Mmmmmm!”

“I guess so. But don’t you worry — everything’s going to be all right now, see?”

“Mmmmmm.”

“Good night. And go to sleep.”

He stooped and kissed the already sleeping head, stroked the small forehead — once, twice, thrice — heard the breathing pause and deepen. What had she been dreaming about — what truth, what terror, what despair? Perhaps the dead starling — the starling which hadn’t been dead? Or perhaps, was it possible — for children had such extraordinary divinations in these things, a sort of sixth sense, like cats — perhaps she had somehow known? How dreadful — if so, how dreadful! He must tell Ee about it — they must never do it again.…

His candle uplifted, he waited at the head of the narrow stairs — he wanted to see her come up the stairs. When at last she came, holding her own candle before her, he said:

“Would you mind standing still, right there, till I tell you something? Till I ask you a question?”

“Why, what is it, Tip? Was it Buzzer?”

“Yes, it was Buzzer. She’s all right — it was only some funny little dream she had.”

“Well—!”

She looked up at him, from halfway up the stairs, one lovely knee in the silvery corduroy skirt advanced above the other — her face candlelit, smiling doubtfully, a little puzzled.

“It’s only that I thought it would be nice to ask you from a distance , just to see you when I ask it — these things are usually settled at such close quarters, see?”

“Yes, darling, go on—”

“Well, it’s only this. How would you feel , my darling, if I was to say that I thought it would be nice if we were to have a son.”

“Oh, Tip !”

“And if a woman can look as lovely as that, it’s high time, too!”

“What nonsense! Darling!”

“No nonsense at all. Besides, there’s an omen. I had an omen!”

“ What was your precious omen?”

“ Cut all things or gather, the moon in the wane—

But sow in increasing or give it his bane.

“Two lines I suddenly remembered out of an old book.”

“But what do they mean? — Tip?”

“What do they mean? You just come up and go to bed, my darling; and I’ll go down and brush my teeth; and then — well, we’ll just see!”

“But, Tip, have you considered — I mean, all the things—”

“There aren’t any things — and I have considered. And to hell with considering anyway! I want a son , see? Even if he’s born, like me, with a cleft palette in his hand!”

“How ridiculous you are, darling!”

“Yes, I guess maybe I am — I guess maybe I am! But being ridiculous isn’t always such a bad thing to be.…”

Conrad Aiken (1889–1973) was an American poet, novelist, and short story author, and one of the most acclaimed writers of the twentieth century. His numerous honors include the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the National Book Award for Poetry, the Bollingen Prize, and the American Academy of Arts and Letters Gold Medal. Born in Savannah, Georgia, Aiken was orphaned at a young age and was raised by his great-great-aunt in Massachusetts. He attended Harvard University with T. S. Eliot and was a contributing editor to the influential literary journal the Dial , where he befriended Ezra Pound.

Aiken published more than fifty works of poetry, fiction, and criticism, including the novels Blue Voyage, Great Circle, King Coffin, A Heart for the Gods of Mexico , and Conversation , and the widely anthologized short stories “Silent Snow, Secret Snow” and “Mr. Arcularis.” He played a key role in establishing Emily Dickinson’s status as a major American poet, mentored a young Malcolm Lowry, and served as the US poet laureate from 1950 to 1952. Aiken returned to Savannah eleven years before his death; the epitaph on his tombstone in Bonaventure Cemetery reads: Cosmos Mariner, Destination Unknown .