Conrad Aiken - The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

“Look here,” said Kit suddenly. “I’m not such a fool as you seem to think. Do you know what? I believe I understand this damned thing perfectly. Perfectly. Now you listen to me.”

He came to the window beside Tom, and took Tom’s arm, swaying a little and smiling affectionately. With two fingers he lifted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose, and settled them again, his blue eyes remaining fixed on Tom’s.

“It’s like this. But I think we need one more before I can say it. Shall we have one more? Yes, let’s have one more.”

He flourished the shaker perfunctorily, poured from it, and came back with the two glasses.

“Now listen,” he said, wagging a finger. “It’s very, very simple, and it’s like this, and you being what you are, it’s all for the best in the best of all possible or potential worlds. In the first place—pardon me if I seem a little confused—it’s a very nice world, and it passes in the twinkling of an eye, and we’re gone, and so it doesn’t matter a hell of a lot, anyway. Here we are, all of a sudden, looking out of a window and listening to a couple of hundred sparrows—don’t they make the damnedest row you ever heard in your life?—and then all of a sudden here we aren’t . So I don’t see any good reason for getting into a stew about it. You can’t fool me—nobody looks after the sparrow when it falls. If it chooses to have a nervous breakdown over some wormy trifle, nobody is going to start a revolt of the angels for that , believe me; and nobody is going to be any the better or worse for it fifteen minutes later. And you may not know it, but you’re a sparrow. You’re a sentimental sparrow, my boy! You’ve got some fine notion of a romantic vision about love, and Gay, and God, and ideals, and I don’t know what-all; you’re in that kind of a pink emotional state when you can’t, simply can’t, look the facts in their dirty little faces. And that’s where we come in, my boy. It’s our job to wallop you where your ideals are tenderest. And why? Do you know why?…”

“I can’t say I do!”

“Well then, I’ll tell you. We’re doing it to save you from discovering too late that you’ve been nourishing a beautiful creampuff of an illusion. Along we come with the big stick, and belt you over the head for too much star-gazing; just in time to save you from falling into the ditch.… Selah.… Now doesn’t that sound to you like common sense?”

“Not a bit. But go ahead.”

“That’s all … that’s the whole story. All we do is tell you that Gay is a human being; that you’re both of you just plain godforsaken animals; and that the sooner you realize it, and begin living on that plane, the better chance you’ve got of not making a hash of your life.… It’s very simple. I’m surprised I didn’t think of it before. Just the same, I think I’m pretty intelligent!”

“Remarkably.”

“With which”—Kit said, grinning—“I suppose we’d better get going. It’s six-thirty already. I ordered two dozen cheap wine glasses, by the way—the sort you can smash without going bankrupt. That’s the part I always enjoy. Smashing the glasses. Now what do you suppose that symbol means? It looks kind of suspicious to me. If some fool analyst got hold of it—!”

He put his hat jauntily on the back of his head.

“Come on, idealist, and we’ll join the tribe.”

II.

The drive to the club had temporarily cleared Tom’s head. But when Kit pushed him into the private dining room, which was hot, and full of cigarette smoke, and already crowded with the assembled guests, he suddenly felt giddy again. A shout went up, he was at once surrounded by a howling mob of backslappers, the singers of “Mademoiselle from Armentières” broke away from the piano and charged him en masse , a potted palm tree was upset, and for no reason at all he found himself laughing, as if the gayety of the irresponsible crowd had abruptly infected him. He was pushed into his place at the head of the table, corks began popping, Kit was making a speech standing on a chair, and the waiters, somewhat flustered, were hurrying from glass to glass with napkined bottles.

“Gentlemen,” shouted Kit, “we are here assembled for a biological purpose! We are here assembled—”

“Sit down, sit down!”

“We are here assembled—”

“ Can it!”

“The glasses are all filled!”

“Propose the toast!”

“Gentlemen, I am here assembled for that very purpose, if only you wouldn’t interrupt me.” He reached down for his glass. “Gentlemen, I propose a toast to the blushing bride! Everybody up.”

The twenty men rose, simultaneously tilted the goblets of champagne, after holding them obliquely toward their host; for a fraction of a moment were silent as they drank; and then, with terrific yells, flung the empty glasses at the fireplace. For an instant, Tom couldn’t remember whether he too was supposed to drink and smash his glass; then he did so, noticing that it hit the top of an andiron. The whole floor, before the fireplace, was covered with broken glass. Several goblets had gone wild—one had struck above the mantel, another had hit the piano, another had landed in a Morris chair, without breaking. And instantly, as if this wreckage were the signal for a fury of sound, there was a renewal of yells and singing. A waiter began sweeping up the glass, while others brought new glasss and more bottles. In no time at all, the oysters and soup were dispatched, claret succeeded champagne, and whisky succeeded claret; Roger Day was completely drunk, as usual, and crowned himself with a melon. Kit had left the room, looking very white; and the stories had begun. At first comparatively unobjectionable, they became rapidly more Rabelaisian; shouts of delight greeted them; the table was banged; at one particular sally Roger Day smashed a plate on the floor. A series of limericks were sung, each bawdier than the last. “O Johnny come up to me—O Johnny come up to me—!”

After an hour of this, and of steady drinking, Tom began to feel tired of laughing. He also began to feel a deep undercurrent of anger and hostility in his soul; he drank more Burgundy, half listened to the filthy stories, and then abruptly pushed his chair a little back from the table, toward a cool current of damp air which was coming from the open window behind him. What time was it? It was beginning to thunder—the thought of a cool thunderstorm was refreshing. If only he could sneak out—! The lights swam a little above him—he looked up, to see if he could detect them in the act of moving.

“Coffee, sir?”

“Thank you. Some coffee—”

The coffee cup seemed far away—he reached toward it uncertainly. “Mademoiselle from Armentières” was begun again, then “Down in the Lehigh Valley,” then “Colombo.” Then several songs were sung at once in different parts of the room—the party was becoming disorganized. He felt as if a valve had closed in his ears; everything was curiously muffled. These flushed faces and wide-open mouths had nothing to do with him. A few of the guests were leaving early. Good riddance.

“How are you, old man?”

It was Kit, still very pale, leaning over him unsteadily, his eyes bright.

“Rotten,” he said. “I think it’s rotten.”

“Why don’t you try the Roman feather? It’s two doors down on the left.”

“Go to hell.”

“All right. Go to hell yourself!”

A flash of green light flickered over the ceiling, over the glasses, making everything seem artificial, and was followed by a terrific peal of thunder. A ragged chorus of cheers. There was a moment’s silence, then the men began stumbling to their feet.