Conrad Aiken - The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

When Professor—his colleagues called him Tubby—Milliken emerged from the waiting room of the North Station, after seeing his wife and little daughter off on the evening train for Portland, he found that the rain was beginning, gradually, to change to snow. A few large flakes were falling, soft and white and—yes!—heavy-bellied; they clung to his furry sleeve without melting; and he felt that this change, and the sight of hats and coats already beginning to be spangled with snow, after a dark day of rain, accorded subtly with his mood. He sighed, and set off to climb the hill to his rooms, thinking how pleasant it would be, for once, to have an evening all to himself. It was all of six years since such a thing had happened. Not since the time when Molly had gone to Hartford for the funeral! And that had been only for two nights. And now—a whole week of unrestricted freedom. It was too good to be true. He would be able to read—if he liked—all evening. Or (surreptitious delight!) solve chess problems uninterrupted; or even (the thought of this was not so unmixedly delicious) make some notes for his lecture on guild socialism.… But no—there would be time enough for that. Wouldn’t something a little more festive be in order? He might, for example, accept Mrs. Trask’s (his landlady’s) many times repeated invitation to join the usual poker-party. Molly had always vetoed this idea—and of course she was perfectly right. It wouldn’t do to become embroiled with those queer and somewhat vulgar people—that fat Doctor Something-or-other and the publicity man who wore the loud checked suit. And besides, Mrs. Trask was such a terrible gossip and liar.… Nevertheless—the notion was not unattractive. Mrs. Trask was a rather fine old tragedy queen—and not so very old, either. Not over forty-five—or perhaps fifty. Fond of port wine, and with a florid countenance to match. And such fine bold black eyes! And such an air as of a duchess— temporarily reduced to the low business of keeping a boarding-house!… And her parties—as he passed her door on the stairs—always sounded so gay.

He sighed again, and inserted his key in the lock. It stuck, as it always did, but after a moment’s struggle he managed to open the door. And there before him, sitting by the marble-topped table, was Fred, hat in hand, his galoshes unfastened, his little blue eyes (in which wit and innocence was so felicitously fused) beaming through thick spectacles.

“You’re coming to dinner with me,” he said. “Mrs. Trask tells me you’re a bachelor.”

“You bet I will!… I was wondering what the devil to do with myself. I ought to be making some notes for a lecture—”

“Lecture be damned. Do you know what night this is?”

“No. What night is it?”

“ Saturday night. And Bill Caffrey is meeting us at Jacot’s. Come on! We’ll discuss Freud and drink Chêteau Yquem.”

“Yum yum,” said the Professor. “Only, if you don’t mind, I think it will be a nice fat bottle of Beaune.”

“The nearer the Beaune, the sweeter the meat,” said Fred, rising lazily. “Let’s go.”

“Fie!”

The two men went out, linking arms, and descended the steep street to the Common. The paths and grass were already sprinkled with white—the snow, a stage snow, was falling perfectly straight through the windless air. Looking up at a tall elm, beside which hung a purple arc-light like a snowdrop, the Professor saw that the fork of the tree was white, and that the bare twigs were beginning to be feathered. He suddenly felt happy. Life was like this—a dark day of rain, the gloom and nostalgia of a departure, the sensation of release and escape, and then a soft curtain of snow. And Fred—the unexpected and delightful arrival of Fred, and the void evening suddenly filled with light and joy. Fred flopping along beside him with open galoshes, and his toes turned in, and his shrewd face downcast in amused meditation.

“Yes,” he murmured, “I’m a bachelor—and it feels kind of nice to be a bachelor again.”

“Ah, you married men!… It must be nice to break out of the cage now and then. And sow—as somebody said—your wild oats in a windowbox.… What do you say—shall we have a Hop Toad?”

“A Hop Toad?… What on earth are you talking about!”

“My dear Tubby! You are married!”

Fred turned his delicious sly smile toward the Professor, and then without explanation led the way into the Touraine Hotel and down the worn marble stairs into the smaller grill-room—the men’s grill-room. Holding up one finger, he ordered two Hop Toads.

“You must wait,” he said. “You’ll wonder how you managed to live without a Hop Toad.”

He smiled mysteriously into the far corner of the room, which was almost empty.

“I take it a Hop Toad is a kind of intoxicating drink,” said the Professor. “Not too intoxicating, I hope.”

“It’s very, very subtle—not to say insidious.”

“Two Hop Toads,” said the waiter.

“Here’s looking at you,” said Fred, raising the wide glass and then lowering it to his smile, which was that of an Etruscan Dionysus. The Professor lifted his glass by the clear stem, beamed happily at the frothed pink liquid, and sipped. Then he sipped again, and rapidly smacked appreciative lips, throwing back his head.

“You do that like a hen,” said Fred.

“It tastes like a sunset!”

“No—no—that’s where you’re all wrong. It’s an Aurora Borealis.”

“Not at all—it’s the grenadine I refer to—the grenadine gives it a kind of glow—if you know what I mean—I’ll compromise with you by calling it an Alpenglow.”

“That’s better. That’s not so bad. Because it’s cold , you know—but it has a fire in it like the light in a moonstone.

“Yes. I feel it. By gosh, it’s good. There’s an enormous cabbage rose opening in my belly—with deep, crimson petals.”

“Yes, it certainly gets you forrader,” sighed Fred. “Bill will be furious when he hears we’ve been having Hop Toads. It was his discovery. By the same token, we ought to move. Bill will be waiting.”

They rose, they climbed the stairs, they pushed through the glass revolving doors, they crossed the white street, and descended the match-strewn stairs into Jacot’s. It was another such room as they had just left, with a bar in one corner. Most of the tables were marble-topped and bare; but one or two were covered with tablecloths, and at one of these Bill Caffrey was sitting, with his chin sunk in his hands. He watched their approach without change of expression.

“Hail,” he said.

“Hail,” said Fred.

“Hail.”

“We’ve been having Hop Toads,” said Fred.

“Confound it! Why didn’t I think of that?… My imagination couldn’t get any farther than a Lone Tree.”

“Tubby’s a bachelor.”

“Ah, indeed.”

“His wife’s gone away—left him flat.”

“Do tell.”

“And so he’s breaking out; going to get riotously drunk, like the time when he slept in the ash barrel.”

“Nothing of the sort. Just because I suggested a modest bottle of Burgundy—”

He beamed, he felt himself beaming, as he left the sentence hanging in air; Fred and Bill grinned sympathetically; and all three gave themselves to the business of ordering. Freshwater-fattened oysters from Poppennessett. Mock turtle soup. Filet mignon with mushrooms and fried egg-plant. Ice-cream—pistachio—and coffee. And two bottles of Beaune. Yes, sir, and again, yes, sir, said the waiter; making solemn notes, as if for a ritual; and in the pauses could be heard the bartender, who was cracking ice with the handle of a chisel. The bloated Poppennessett. The watery bivalve. And the imprisoned sunlight of the Beaune. Musing of these delights, already in his thought so vivid and intense, the Professor again felt suddenly and inexplicably happy. Life was like this—the gloominess of a huge sooty railway station on a winter’s night, the forlorn clanging of locomotive bells, the scurrying of sodden commuters, and then this marvelous translation to another world. A world of soiled mosaic floors, bottles of scarlet-capped Burgundy, brass spittoons (florid survival of a barbarous age), and the magnificent bar, with its baroque richness of gilt and mirrors, and its shelves of many-colored bottles, upheld by brown dryads of carved wood. What luxury! What comfort! What freedom! And the joy of sitting with cynical Fred and the impassive, morosely subtle Bill.