Conrad Aiken - The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

He stopped, tentatively, and lowered the heavy book.

“No—as I thought—there is certainly no superficial sign of eyestrain.”

Silence thronged the room, and he was aware of the focused scrutiny of the three people who confronted him.…

“We could have his eyes examined—but I believe it is something else.”

“What could it be?” That was his father’s voice.

“It’s only this curious absent-mindedness—” This was his mother’s voice.

In the presence of the doctor, they both seemed irritatingly apologetic.

“I believe it is something else. Now Paul—I would like very much to ask you a question or two. You will answer them, won’t you—you know I’m an old, old friend of yours, eh? That’s right!…”

His back was thumped twice by the doctor’s fat fist—then the doctor was grinning at him with false amiability, while with one fingernail he was scratching the top button of his waistcoat. Beyond the doctor’s shoulder was the fire, the fingers of flame making light prestidigitation against the sooty fireback, the soft sound of their random flutter the only sound.

“I would like to know—is there anything that worries you?”

The doctor was again smiling, his eyelids low against the little black pupils, in each of which was a tiny white bead of light. Why answer him? why answer him at all? “At whatever pain to others”—but it was all a nuisance, this necessity for resistance, this necessity for attention; it was as if one had been stood up on a brilliantly lighted stage, under a great round blaze of spotlight; as if one were merely a trained seal, or a performing dog, or a fish, dipped out of an aquarium and held up by the tail. It would serve them right if he were merely to bark or growl. And meanwhile, to miss these last few precious hours, these hours of which each minute was more beautiful than the last, more menacing—! He still looked, as if from a great distance, at the beads of light in the doctor’s eyes, at the fixed false smile, and then, beyond, once more at his mother’s slippers, his father’s slippers, the soft flutter of the fire. Even here, even amongst these hostile presences, and in this arranged light, he could see the snow, he could hear it—it was in the corners of the room, where the shadow was deepest, under the sofa, behind the half-opened door which led to the dining room. It was gentler here, softer, its seethe the quietest of whispers, as if, in deference to a drawing room, it had quite deliberately put on its “manners”; it kept itself out of sight, obliterated itself, but distinctly with an air of saying, “Ah, but just wait! Wait till we are alone together! Then I will begin to tell you something new! Something white! something cold! something sleepy! something of cease, and peace, and the long bright curve of space! Tell them to go away. Banish them. Refuse to speak. Leave them, go upstairs to your room, turn out the light and get into bed—I will go with you, I will be waiting for you, I will tell you a better story than Little Kay of the Skates, or The Snow Ghost—I will surround your bed, I will close the windows, pile a deep drift against the door, so that none will ever again be able to enter. Speak to them!…” It seemed as if the little hissing voice came from a slow white spiral of falling flakes in the corner by the front window—but he could not be sure. He felt himself smiling, then, and said to the doctor, but without looking at him, looking beyond him still—

“Oh no, I think not—”

“But are you sure, my boy?”

His father’s voice came softly and coldly then—the familiar voice of silken warning.

“You needn’t answer at once, Paul—remember we’re trying to help you—think it over and be quite sure, won’t you?”

He felt himself smiling again, at the notion of being quite sure. What a joke! As if he weren’t so sure that reassurance was no longer necessary, and all this cross-examination a ridiculous farce, a grotesque parody! What could they know about it? these gross intelligences, these humdrum minds so bound to the usual, the ordinary? Impossible to tell them about it! Why, even now, even now, with the proof so abundant, so formidable, so imminent, so appallingly present here in this very room, could they believe it?—could even his mother believe it? No—it was only too plain that if anything were said about it, the merest hint given, they would be incredulous—they would laugh—they would say “Absurd!”—think things about him which weren’t true.…

“Why no, I’m not worried—why should I be?”

He looked then straight at the doctor’s low-lidded eyes, looked from one of them to the other, from one bead of light to the other, and gave a little laugh.

The doctor seemed to be disconcerted by this. He drew back in his chair, resting a fat white hand on either knee. The smile faded slowly from his face.

“Well, Paul!” he said, and paused gravely, “I’m afraid you don’t take this quite seriously enough. I think you perhaps don’t quite realize—don’t quite realize—” He took a deep quick breath and turned, as if helplessly, at a loss for words, to the others. But Mother and Father were both silent—no help was forthcoming.

“You must surely know, be aware, that you have not been quite yourself, of late? Don’t you know that?…”

It was amusing to watch the doctor’s renewed attempt at a smile, a queer disorganized look, as of confidential embarrassment.

“I feel all right, sir,” he said, and again gave the little laugh.

“And we’re trying to help you.” The doctor’s tone sharpened.

“Yes, sir, I know. But why? I’m all right. I’m just thinking , that’s all.”

His mother made a quick movement forward, resting a hand on the back of the doctor’s chair.

“Thinking?” she said. “But my dear, about what?”

This was a direct challenge—and would have to be directly met. But before he met it, he looked again into the corner by the door, as if for reassurance. He smiled again at what he saw, at what he heard. The little spiral was still there, still softly whirling, like the ghost of a white kitten chasing the ghost of a white tail, and making as it did so the faintest of whispers. It was all right! If only he could remain firm, everything was going to be all right.

“Oh, about anything, about nothing— you know the way you do!”

“You mean—daydreaming?”

“Oh, no—thinking!”

“But thinking about what ?”

“Anything.”

He laughed a third time—but this time, happening to glance upward toward his mother’s face, he was appalled at the effect his laughter seemed to have upon her. Her mouth had opened in an expression of horror.… This was too bad! Unfortunate! He had known it would cause pain, of course—but he hadn’t expected it to be quite so bad as this. Perhaps—perhaps if he just gave them a tiny gleaming hint—?

“About the snow,” he said.

“What on earth?” This was his father’s voice. The brown slippers came a step nearer on the hearth-rug.

“But my dear, what do you mean?” This was his mother’s voice.

The doctor merely stared.

“Just snow , that’s all. I like to think about it.”

“Tell us about it, my boy.”

“But that’s all it is. There’s nothing to tell. You know what snow is?”

This he said almost angrily, for he felt that they were trying to corner him. He turned sideways so as no longer to face the doctor, and the better to see the inch of blackness between the window-sill and the lowered curtain—the cold inch of beckoning and delicious night. At once he felt better, more assured.

“Mother—can I go to bed, now, please? I’ve got a headache.”