Delmore Schwartz - Once and for All - The Best of Delmore Schwartz

“On the other hand,” said Francis French, “it also makes possible adultery, and promiscuity, not that I have anything against promiscuity.”

“I love my wife, but oh you id,” said Ferdinand, who had studied Freud and Tin Pan Alley.

“Yes,” said Jacob, “it makes everything too easy, which is always a good reason for suspicion and doubt. Love is more difficult than anything else. Love is the dark victor whom no one outwits.”

“Exactly,” said Edmund, “this device, so small and inexpensive, assures the victory of love. Love cannot be prevented, love cannot be set aside, no thoughts of utility or shame can intervene.”

“There is nothing in it,” said Laura, “you still have to find someone to love who loves you.”

Jacob, somewhat apart, saw that on this subject opinion was absolute and speculation infinite precisely because they were so far from the actuality of love.

“How far is it to love?” he said to himself. “Love the dark victor whom no one escapes.”

Edmund felt that this balloon of an idea, of which he had expected so much, had collapsed. Rudyard, who expected a visitor he had never seen before, was preoccupied, Jacob was withdrawn, Laura was sad, Ferdinand was attempting to produce a new witticism. Yet Edmund felt that he must try again.

“The Pope in Rome,” said Edmund, “ought to be told of this. Yes, I will write him an epistle. Does he not know that God looked at Adam, in Eden, and remarked: ‘It is not good for man to be alone.’ By banning the use of the pure and purifying contraceptive, the Pope misunderstands the word of God which says that the reason for marriage is that man should have children. For it is not necessary to have marriage in order to have children, but if we are not to be alone, marriage alone is sufficient.”

Rudyard and Ferdinand again exchanged glances of wonder concerned with Edmund’s private life, what was new in it.

Marcus, ever late, entered loudly and demanded to know what was being discussed.

“It is not easy to say,” said Jacob, “but on the surface, at least, it is an academic discussion of love.”

“Speaking of love,” said Marcus, who had need only of a slight pretext to brim over with his own thoughts, “I read a fine story today about Flaubert—”

“The promising French novelist, no doubt,” asked Ferdinand.

“Flaubert,” said Marcus, ignoring Ferdinand, “made a bet with two of his friends that he would be able to make love, smoke a cigar, and write a letter at the same time. They went to a house of prostitution and found the best girl, and Flaubert wrote the letter, smoked the cigar, and made love to the girl.”

“What he really enjoyed,” said Rudyard, “was the cigar.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Marcus, “what I want to know is, What did he say in the letter? And to whom was it written? And what was the tone? and what kind of cigar was it? and did he have time to finish it?”

“Speaking of letters,” said Rudyard, who felt that this topic was exhausted, “I am being visited tonight, by a stranger who wrote me a letter.”

The letter was from a true stranger, a being from a foreign country, Archer Price, a young man of thirty who directed a little theatre in San Francisco. He had seen two of Rudyard’s plays in manuscript, and now that he had come to New York, he wanted to meet Rudyard.

Rudyard was delighted by his letter, but nevertheless made fun of it.

“How can human beings of the Far West understand my play?” he asked. “Their idea of drama is the thrilling final match of a tennis tournament.”

Yet Rudyard looked forward very much to the visit of the stranger.

Archer Price arrived at the Bell household with Pauline Taylor, a pretty young woman who lived in New York City, but had come to know Archer during a visit to California. When the strangers entered the house, the discussion of love stopped. In the midst of the introductions, as all were standing up, Archer, who was seldom at ease, said to Rudyard what he had decided to say before he arrived.

“I am very glad to meet you,” said Archer, “because I admire your plays very much.”

“What a remark!” said Rudyard, who appeared to be astounded by it and who looked to Edmund, as if to see if he too did not suppose this sentence to be outlandish.

“Says he admires two of my plays very much,” said Rudyard to Edmund, and then pouted and placed one finger under his chin, as if he were about to curtsey.

“I really admire your plays very much,” said Archer, bewildered and offended.

“I know you do,” said Rudyard, as if this repetition were unnecessary, “otherwise you would not be here.”

Archer seated himself on the studio couch and glanced at Pauline to see what her impression was. She glanced back in sympathy, for she was concerned not with Rudyard, but with Archer, and she knew how distressed he was by Rudyard’s way of responding to his utterance of admiration. Neither of the newcomers knew that Rudyard’s behavior had been inspired by his extreme pleasure, for he had so long desired the admiration of strangers that his self-possession teetered and he tried to regain his balance by regarding this admiration as peculiar. Both newcomers understood such emotions and attitudes very well, but they did not recognize Rudyard’s version, because it was extreme, private, and directed not at the visitors, but at Edmund and Laura.

“What an obnoxious human being,” thought Pauline Taylor.

Archer remained curious and open to persuasion. He regarded the apartment and saw that the furniture was worn and second-hand, making a picture of the second-hand and the used cultivated as an interesting background and decor. Against the wall stood an upright piano, next to which was a phonograph, and upon the wall was a bulletin board, tacked with newspaper clippings and letters. Archer had never seen just such a place before, but although it seemed strange to him, he recognized in it the unity which comes of the choices and habits of one human being.

Rudyard seated himself next to Archer to converse with him and Archer remarked upon his surprise that none of Rudyard’s plays had ever been produced. Rudyard told him how each month for more than a year he had submitted a new play to a famous company and received each play back before a week had passed.

“I must be on the black list. They hardly have time to get the manuscript from the top manila envelope to the enclosed one, self-addressed and stamped!” said Rudyard, with a joyous look upon his face.

“Soon I will send them a letter of resignation,” he said vivaciously, looking up at the ceiling coyly, “that will puzzle them!”

Archer laughed in relief, for here at last was a remark which he was able to understand as comical.

Edmund and Marcus were full of a story which they wished to communicate immediately. During the week they had heard a debate at Madison Square Garden about religion and Communism. The opponents had been Professor Suss, a famous teacher of Marxist doctrine, and Professor Adam, a theologian. The chief dispute had been about the authority of a socialist state to dictate or deny the teaching of religion to children. Professor Suss had affirmed the right of the socialist state to decide about religious education and Professor Adam had said that this was a denial of freedom of thought and belief, and thus fascist, declaring triumphantly that he was ninety-nine and one-half per cent Marxist, but reserved one-half of one per cent for God, for if one did not reserve anything for God, then the state became the deity.

Rudyard and Edmund were delighted with this story and interested especially in the one-half of one per cent reserved for God.

“How did he decide just how much God deserves?” asked Edmund.