Conrad Aiken: The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

“But you do know better, don’t you.… I’m sorry you’ve got to go back tonight.”

“So am I.”

They were both silent; a curious mutual awareness of peace came upon them, they watched the smoke from the smudge fire, which the breeze was idly sculpturing into a long blue curve over the river, over the tops of the birches. A policeman had stopped to talk to the man with the wheelbarrow. The sun was beginning to be low—he took out his watch. Four o’clock.

“Four o’clock. What time did you say—”

“I told her to bring Bibs here at half-past three. She must be late.”

“She is late.”

“Well, she probably won’t be very late, because she has to go somewhere, she said, at half-past four. She was just to bring Bibs and go. Perhaps if we walk back—or would you rather stay here?”

“Let’s walk.”

They walked in silence, with linked arms, and as they turned the shoulder of the little hill, and saw the park below them, and Bibs running up the narrow path toward them, he began to feel for the first time the full force of what Enn had just been saying—(as usual)—with such extraordinary calm. Separation! Yes. It had been hanging over them for a long time, he had always known that sooner or later the shadow would begin to become substance; it was inevitable—or was it?—and now at last it had been spoken of. Very likely she had foreseen it from the outset—it was like her to foresee things, to plan things—she had known that sooner or later they must separate, and she had quite calmly decided to have Bibs, if only as an insurance against a bankruptcy which might otherwise have been complete. Yes. That was it. And now, as a consequence of the foresight itself, and as a consequence of Bibs, the separation, which she had merely foreseen as a possibility, was gradually becoming a necessity: Bibs, whom she had decided to have as a protection, must now be protected: cause had led to effect, and now effect was leading to cause. It was this—and he knew somehow that the same thoughts were in her mind, the same feelings—it was this that made her now tighten her hold on his arm, now as Bibs came running toward them, with her blue leggings and blue beret and a wilted stalk of blue chicory in her hand, tightly held. This—she was saying—is what you are losing, a part of yourself, which you must lose. And Bibs, who seems to be running straight toward you, chattering and laughing to herself, making up one of her absurd and delicious stories, will not stop here, or greet you, but will pass by and go on, you will never see her again.

“And did you see the Christmas trees, all the Christmas trees, Mummy? They said how-do. I said how-do to them and they said how-do to me.”

“But you haven’t said how-do to Boyar.”

“Will you give Boyar a big kiss?”

“No. Did you see the how-do trees, Boyar?”

“Yes, I saw the how-do trees.”

When Mrs. Doane had gone, they counted the Christmas trees, and said how-do to them, and he took off his hat and shook one of them by the hand.

“And Boo says their fathers were little teeny tiny tiny tiny seeds, no bigger than—no bigger than a—”

“What?”

“No bigger than a pumpkin! An old gray pumpkin man with gray teeth and gray ears!”

“Did Boo say that?”

“Yes, Boo said that.”

“And who was your father, Bibs? Was he a pumpkin man too?”

“Tell Boyar, blueberry.”

The “secret” expression came over her face: she stood still, she held the chicory flower before her, and gazed at it, smiling at her delicious and secret idea.

“No, he wasn’t a pumpkin man. He was a—he was a—he was a—”

She began to squeal with delight, she was planning a joke, a surprise. And at once she announced triumphantly:

“He was a June-bug!”

“A June-bug! Are you sure? Why Bibs!”

“Yes, he was a June-bug. And he flew and he flew and he flew and he flew and he flew!”

Conrad Aiken (1889–1973) was an American poet, novelist, and short story author, and one of the most acclaimed writers of the twentieth century. His numerous honors include the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the National Book Award for Poetry, the Bollingen Prize, and the American Academy of Arts and Letters Gold Medal. Born in Savannah, Georgia, Aiken was orphaned at a young age and was raised by his great-great-aunt in Massachusetts. He attended Harvard University with T. S. Eliot and was a contributing editor to the influential literary journal the Dial , where he befriended Ezra Pound.

Aiken published more than fifty works of poetry, fiction, and criticism, including the novels Blue Voyage , Great Circle , King Coffin , A Heart for the Gods of Mexico , and Conversation , and the widely anthologized short stories “Silent Snow, Secret Snow” and “Mr. Arcularis.” He played a key role in establishing Emily Dickinson’s status as a major American poet, mentored a young Malcolm Lowry, and served as the US poet laureate from 1950 to 1952. Aiken returned to Savannah eleven years before his death; the epitaph on his tombstone in Bonaventure Cemetery reads: Cosmos Mariner, Destination Unknown .