Jane Bowles - My Sister's Hand in Mine - The Collected Works of Jane Bowles

“Dear me,” she said to Arnold, “I must confess that I am not sleepy. There is really nothing worse, is there?”

“No, it’s dreadful,” said Arnold. “I personally am ready to fall down on the carpet and lie there until tomorrow noon, I am so completely exhausted.”

Miss Goering thought this remark a very inhospitable one and she began to feel a little frightened. Arnold was obliged to search for the key to the spare room, and Miss Goering was left standing alone in front of the door for some time.

“Control yourself,” she whispered out loud, for her heart was beginning to beat very quickly. She wondered how she had ever allowed herself to come so far from her house and Miss Gamelon. Arnold returned finally with the key and opened the door to the room.

It was a very small room and much colder than the room in which they had been sitting. Miss Goering expected that Arnold would be extremely embarrassed about this, but although he shivered and rubbed his hands together, he said nothing. There were no curtains at the window, but there was a yellow shade, which had already been pulled down. Miss Goering threw herself down on the bed.

“Well, my dear,” said Arnold, “good night. I’m going to bed Maybe we’ll go and see some paintings tomorrow, or if you like I’ll come out to your house.” He put his arms around her neck and kissed her very lightly on the lips and left the room.

She was so angry that there were tears in her eyes. Arnold stood outside of the door for a little while and then after a few minutes he walked away.

Miss Goering went over to the bureau and leaned her head on her hands. She remained in this position for a long time in spite of the fact that she was shivering with the cold. Finally there was a light tap on the door. She stopped crying as abruptly as she had begun and hurried to open the door. She saw Arnold’s father standing outside in the badly lighted hall. He was wearing pink striped pajamas and he gave her a brief salute as a greeting. After that he stood very still, waiting apparently for Miss Goering to ask him in.

“Come in, come in,” she said to him, “I’m delighted to see you. Heavens! I’ve had such a feeling of being deserted.”

Arnold’s father came in and balanced himself on the foot of Miss Goering’s bed, where he sat swinging his legs. He lit his pipe in rather an affected manner and looked around him at the walls of the room.

“Well, lady,” he said to her, “are you an artist too?”

“No,” said Miss Goering. “I wanted to be a religious leader when I was young and now I just reside in my house and try not to be too unhappy. I have a friend living with me, which makes it easier.”

“What do you think of my son?” he asked, winking at her.

“I have only just met him,” said Miss Goering.

“You’ll discover soon enough,” said Arnold’s father, “that he’s a rather inferior person. He has no conception of what it is to fight. I shouldn’t think women would like that very much. As a matter of fact, I don’t think Arnold has had many women in his life. If you’ll forgive me for passing this information on to you. I myself am used to fighting. I’ve fought my neighbors all my life instead of sitting down and having tea with them like Arnold. And my neighbors have fought me back like tigers too. Now that’s not Arnold’s kind of thing. My life’s ambition always has been to be a notch higher on the tree than my neighbors and I was willing to admit complete disgrace too when I ended up perching a notch lower than anybody else I knew. I haven’t been out in a good many years. Nobody comes to see me and I don’t go to see anybody. Now, with Arnold and his friends nothing ever really begins or finishes. They’re like fish in dirty water to me. If life don’t please them one way and nobody likes them one place, then they go someplace else. They aim to please and be pleased; that’s why it’s so easy to come and bop them on the head from behind, because they’ve never done any serious hating in their lives.”

“What a strange doctrine!” said Miss Goering.

“This is no doctrine,” said Arnold’s father. “These are my own ideas, taken from my own personal experience. I’m a great believer in personal experience, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Goering, “and I do think you’re right about Arnold.” She felt a curious delight in running down Arnold.

“Now Arnold,” continued his father, and he seemed to grow gayer as he talked, “Arnold could never bear to have anyone catch him sitting on the lowest notch. Everyone knows how big your house is, and men who are willing to set their happiness by that are men of iron.”

“Arnold is not an artist, anyway,” put in Miss Goering.

“No, that is just it,” said Arnold’s father, getting more and more excited. “That’s just it! He hasn’t got the brawn nor the nerve nor the perseverance to be a good artist. An artist must have brawn and pluck and character. Arnold is like my wife,” he continued. “I married her when she was twenty years old because of certain business interests. Every time I tell her that, she cries. She’s another fool. She doesn’t love me a bit, but it scares her to think of it, so that she cries. She’s green-eyed with jealousy too and she’s coiled around her family and her house like a python, although she doesn’t have a good time here. Her life, as a matter of fact, is a wretched one, I must admit. Arnold’s ashamed of her and I knock her around all day long. But in spite of the fact that she is a timid woman, she is capable of showing a certain amount of violence and brawn. Because she too, like myself, is faithful to one ideal, I suppose.”

Just then there was a smart rap on the door. Arnold’s father did not say a word, but Miss Goering called out in a clear voice: “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Arnold’s mother,” came the answer. “Please let me in right away.”

“Just one moment,” said Miss Goering, “and I certainly shall.”

“No,” said Arnold’s father. “Don’t open the door. She has no right whatsoever to command anyone to open the door.”

“You had better open it,” said his wife. “Otherwise, I’ll call the police, and I mean that very seriously. I have never threatened to call them before, you know.”

“Yes, you did threaten to call them once before,” said Arnold’s father, looking very worried.

“The way I feel about my life,” said Arnold’s mother, “I’d just as soon open all the doors and let everyone come in the house and witness my disgrace.”

“That’s the last thing she’d ever do,” said Arnold’s father. “She talks like a fool when she’s angry.”

“I’ll let her in,” said Miss Goering, walking towards the door. She did not feel very frightened because Arnold’s mother, judging from her voice, sounded more as though she was sad than angry. But when Miss Goering opened the door she was surprised to see that, on the contrary, her face was blanched with anger and her eyes were little narrow slits.

“Why do you pretend always to sleep so well?” said Arnold’s father. This was the only remark he was able to think of, although he realized himself how inadequate it must have sounded to his wife.

“You’re a harlot,” said his wife to Miss Goering. Miss Goering was gravely shocked by this remark, and very much to her own amazement, for she had always thought that such things meant nothing to her.

“I am afraid you are entirely on the wrong track,” said Miss Goering, “and I believe that some day we shall be great friends.”

“I’ll thank you to let me choose my own friends,” Arnold’s mother answered her. “I already have my friends, as a matter of fact, and I don’t expect to add any more to my list, and least of all, you.”