Conrad Aiken - The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

“You know,” said Bill, “I really like English oysters better than American ones.”

“Oh, come,” said Fred.

“Yes. And the Dutch, too. They have a more frankly marine taste—seaweedy and salt, like those slippery blistered kelpy things that you pop with your fingernails. These great things—good Lord, you might as well be biting bags full of water.”

“Anglomania,” said the Professor.

“Yes. And have you noticed his tweed suit?” murmured Fred. “Oh! And that reminds me.”

The waiter put down the soup and poured the Burgundy. They lifted the thin goblets, all three, sniffed appreciatively, and simultaneously drank.

“That reminds you of what,” said Bill, somberly.

“Tubby! We must get him to tell his story.”

“What story?”

“The one on the ship. Coming back last winter.”

“By George, yes!” said the Professor. “Let’s have it, Bill.”

Bill permitted himself the tiniest of guarded smiles, then again tasted his Burgundy. He frowned at his soup. Perplexed and pleased, and a little embarrassed also.

“No,” he said. “I really couldn’t. Not at the point of the gun, like this. Maybe some other time.”

Fred smiled—slowly and charmingly.

“Isn’t he skillful? This is his way of beating up our interest.”

“Not at all. I’d just as lief tell it—but the trouble is, you’re both of you in the wrong state of mind for it.”

“How come?” said the Professor.

“Because you’re both expecting something—well, scandalous. This isn’t that sort of thing at all.”

“No?”

“No.… There are plenty of episodes of this kind, as you know, that delight one just because they are scandalous and strange. Like that tale Frisky Speare told us, of his exploit on the train to New York. All amusing enough, too. But this isn’t like that—and I’m not like that either.”

“Ho ho,” said Fred, dryly.”

“Ho ho,” said Bill. “I’m not. I’m neither polygamous nor promiscuous, and I’m not the sort that women throw themselves at. That’s one thing that made this thing surprising. The other thing that made something—to my mind—extraordinarily lovely of it, was its spiritual intensity.”

The Professor crunched a small slippery mushroom, wiped his lips, and drank a full rich mouthful of Burgundy. Spiritual intensity. Just the kind of thing Bill would be going in for. Just the kind of guard—defense—he would erect about his indiscretions. Honest? Dishonest? Honest! One had only to look at his compressed lips, downturned with melancholy, and the level serious gray eyes, to recognize in Bill the contemplative stillness of spirit which would, precisely, make a distinction of this kind. One could imagine him, in the very midst of the most sordid of adventures, sitting perfectly quiet, thus, in the act of extracting its spiritual beauty. And then rising, hat in hand, and departing, with this beauty among his permanent possessions.

“It sounds all the better,” said the Professor.

“It was all the better.… I should preface the story by saying that on the ship with me, when we sailed from Cherbourg, were a New York newspaper man whom I knew slightly, a friend of his, and a young graduate student who worked with me three years ago. I ran into them after the adventure had started, and their presence—they were always sitting in the smoking room—gave a queer and delightful contrapuntal quality to the adventure itself. If I’d run into them before the adventure started, the adventure would probably never have happened at all. For in that case I’d have arranged to sit at their table the first night, and I wouldn’t have met Lovely.”

“Lovely?” Fred’s voice was just faintly ironical.

“Lovely. That’s what I called her. I never called her anything else; in fact, for several days I didn’t know her name.”

He paused, stared down at the tablecloth, shifted a spoon beside his plate, and raised his half-filled glass.

“She and her mother sat at my table on the first night, you see, before the regular places had been assigned. I was there first—and then she came, a little bit flustered, and sat down opposite. I’d seen her half an hour before on the deck—just a glimpse—but enough to see that she was one of the loveliest beings my eyes had ever fallen upon. An astonishingly beautiful girl, about twenty-five.”

“Of course,” murmured Fred.

“Don’t be snooty . She was. And the minute—the minute —she looked at me, across the table, I could see that something extraordinary was going to happen. Her eyes had that astonished brilliance that only happens when one recognizes—as one does only once or twice in a lifetime—what the newspapers used to call a soul-mate. I was electrified. I’m not used to being looked at in that fashion. I’m a sober God-fearing old citizen, as you both know, not at all given to flirtation—but the minute she looked at me like that I began to feel subtly transfigured myself. I felt my own eyes opening wider, and a light in my face to which I’m not in the least accustomed.”

“The light that never was,” said the Professor.

“And lies and lies,” said Fred.

“Certainly.… Not that I fell in love. I didn’t. I knew I wouldn’t. There was no question of that. I was destined, in a sense, to play an entirely passive part, and I knew that from the beginning. It was she who supplied the energy for the scene—it was she who started the thing going and kept it going—for the good and sufficient reason that she had fallen in love with me . Could I refuse to play that passive part which was indicated? Could I do anything but acquiesce?”

Fred gave a little groan.

“Don’t be a boob,” he said.

“I was and am a boob. I was never so completely helpless, powerless, in all my life. Not that I wanted very much to be anything else. I was fascinated. Like the sparrow by the anaconda. I just sat and chattered, and shivered my paralyzed wings. I had no desire to run—she was far too beautiful for that—but I confess I was damned scared. For one thing, there was her nice old mother, with smooth white hair and kind eyes and knitting and everything. She hadn’t noticed a thing—but wouldn’t she be sure to? For another thing, Lovely was wearing a wedding-ring.”

“Married!”

“Married.… That gave me pause. It suggested a good many rather disquieting things.”

He broke off and meditated, with a tiny retrospective smile.

“Well, get on with the story,” said the Professor. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”

“She asked me if I played bridge. I said I did. So after dinner we had a three-handed game, in the library, till about nine o’clock. All very polite and a little formal. She’d been over to Paris, visiting her sister, who had married a Frenchman, and was on her way back to her husband in Trenton. Her husband was a manufacturer, and wealthy, I gathered. Then at nine o’clock, she said she thought she’d like some fresh air—so I suggested a turn around the deck. Mother said good night and went down to turn in, and Lovely and I went out and walked for an hour. Somehow or other, I couldn’t say a thing. I suppose because I was too uncomfortably aware of the extent to which I agitated her. But anyway, it wasn’t necessary; she talked a blue streak. All about Paris—the trip over—her sister—her mother—her husband—her shopping. Everything. A complete nonstop outpouring: as if she were trying to talk against time. Or rather, as if she were afraid of what might happen if she stopped talking. And meanwhile, she kept a fast hold of my arm with her hand, occasionally tightening her grip with an almost spasmodic intensity, and leaning her shoulder against me with obvious delight as we rounded the corners. As for me, I just shivered—for it was a coldish evening—and said yes or no or is that so or wellwell or anything at all that was sufficiently monosyllabic—for it was clear enough that she wanted to do all the talking. In fact, I had the feeling that the poor child had never, before that night with me, in all her life, had a chance to talk. For some reason, the mere sight of me had released her.… Pour and pass, Fred.