Conrad Aiken - The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

To get away.… To get away.… To run, to fly, to take a fast train, to be whirled off with the speed of thought, farther than the Horn, farther than dream could compass. To be a dead leaf, dashed out into space, among the constellations—beyond the Pole Star and the Bear, beyond the uttermost sun, into the freezing Nothing of Nescience. Our Father, Which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy … In Ronda, for example. If they could only get to Ronda, the two of them, with enough money to live there. Far, far away. In that little blue-plastered villa on the mountain slope below the town, surrounded by olive orchards and orchards of peaches and almond orchards and the white-blossoming cherries. And the river winding across the vega , dashing down among boulders toward the chasm, the sonorous deep gorge of virgin rock, with its caves and cold springs, and the kestrels sailing, brown-winged, from ledge to ledge, and the wild pigeons nesting among the prickly pear. In that blue-walled villa, with the red pan-tiled roof, and the tall grass coming to the door, and dwarf poppies among the olive trees, and quicksilver lizards darting in and out of the tangles of vetch. Elizabeth and himself sitting in the sparse shade of an olive tree, reading together, talking, or simply musing—all these anguishes forgotten, all of it engulfed soundlessly and tracelessly in the past.… Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done … And the goats with bells, going up the rocky slope toward the walled cemetery, and the donkeys with bells filing down the rubble path to the mill in the gorge, their baskets heavy with wheat, the small boy running after them with an olive switch, shouting bur-r-r-r-r-o , and flinging a fragment of Moorish masonry to turn the leader from left to right.… As it is in Heaven. Give us, this day … Everywhere, on every side, that inviolable and infinite stillness, the mountain stillness, desolate stillness of water and living rock, stillness in which bells could be heard for miles, across the valley, and the harsh caterwauling of the peacocks from the pine-hidden hill beyond the river, and the cry of the pair of great eagles that circled at evening from edge to edge of the gaunt amphitheater of the stony valley. In this stillness they would find peace; among the sharp aromatic smells of the mountain herbs they would find comfort; strolling up the rocky slope at dusk to enter the little town and walk in the idle crowds that filled the white-walled streets. And then a café, the marble-topped table, coffee and aguardiente , the little liqueur glasses standing in puddled saucers, the tasseled bottles, the enameled mirrors with their absurd pictures of the gypsy Cordobesita.… And the lottery-ticket sellers, the patient old women with charming smiles, holding out their strips of lottery tickets.… For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, forever and ever. Amen.…

Spanish omelette, sang the voice at the counter, and farther off the other voice intoned a fainter Spanish omelette , and the busboy flung the coarse dishes harshly upon a tray. Forty cents. Ten cents for carfare, and ten for a new pair of shoelaces. He must arrange to have his mail forwarded to the hospital. Telephone Elizabeth.… And find out, by means of a guarded question, whether she had yet seen Schmidt.

I.

Margaret O’Brien dreamed that she woke up late—the alarm clock on the table by her bed said eight o’clock—she couldn’t account for it, and jumped out of bed in a panic. The Converses expected breakfast at eight-thirty. She flew down to the kitchen, without stopping to put up her hair or wash her face, and rushed to the stove. It was out. The grate was full of half-burned coal and ashes, cold, and she dumped out the whole thing; a cloud of dust filled the air, and she began to cough. Then she found that the kindling box was empty, and that she would have to go down to the cellar and get some. She stuffed newspapers into the grate, flung her hair over her left shoulder, and went to the door which led down to the cellar. It was locked or stuck. She pulled at the knob, wrestled with it, shook it violently; and just at that moment she heard Mrs. Converse’s voice in the distance, calling her: “Margaret!—Margaret!—Margaret!” The bell began ringing furiously and prolongedly in the indicator over the sink, and she turned around and saw all the little arrows jumping at once. Someone—perhaps Mr. Converse—was running down the front stairs, running and singing. The voice trailed off forlornly, with the sinister effect of a train whistle. A door slammed—Mr. Converse had gone off without waiting for his breakfast—and she woke up.

Sweet hour, what a dream! She rubbed her hand across her forehead, looked up, and saw something unfamiliar over her head; it was the upper bunk of the stateroom, with long leaded slats of wood to support the mattress. Then there was a rack with a life-belt in it. Of course; she was on a steamship, going to Ireland. How funny! She relaxed, smiled, turned her head on the hard little pillow, and looked across to the other bunk; and there was Katy looking back at her and grinning. The ship gave a long, slow lurch, and the hooked door rattled twice on its brass hook. She put her hand quickly to her mouth.

“Gosh, what a dream I had!” she said. “I’m going to get out of this, or I’ll be sick.”

“Me, too,” said Katy. “You could cut the air with a knife.”

“What time is it, I wonder?”

Katy slid a bare leg out from under the bedclothes.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I heard a gong, but I don’t know if it was the first or the second.”

II.

It was a lovely day, and the ocean was beautiful. It was much smoother than they had expected it to be, too—a lazy blue swell with fish-scale sparkles on it. A sailing ship went by on the south, with very white sails, and tiny rowboats hung up on the decks, and one hanging over the stern. They could see a little man running along the deck and then hauling up a bunch of flags, some kind of signal. It was the kind of day when it is warm, almost hot, in the sun, but cold in the shade. They walked round and round the decks, after eating some oranges, and wished there was something to do. At eleven o’clock the band began playing in the lounge, and they went in for a cup of beef-tea. The room was crowded, and children were falling over people’s legs. Some women were playing cards at a table. The deck-steward went round with a tray of beef-tea cups and crackers.

While they were drinking their beef-tea they saw him again—the gentleman who had the room next to theirs; he just looked into the lounge for a minute, with a book under his arm, and then went out again. He was the nicest man on the ship: so refined-looking, so much of a gentleman, with a queer, graceful, easy way of walking and such nice blue eyes. He reminded Margaret a little of Mr. Converse, but he was younger; he couldn’t have been more than thirty. She thought it would be nice to talk to him, but she supposed he wouldn’t come near her. He had been keeping aloof from everyone, all the way over, reading most of the time, or walking alone on the deck with that book under his arm, and never wearing a hat.

“I’d like to talk to that man,” she said, putting down the cup under her chair.

“Well, why don’t you?” said Katy. “I guess he wouldn’t bite you.”

“He looks like Mr. Converse; I guess he’s shy.”

“I don’t see what’s the matter with Pat, if you want to talk to somebody.”

“Oh, Pat’s all right.…”

Pat, however, was in the steerage, and when Margaret wanted to talk to him they had to go down the companionway to the forward deck. It was all right, but it did seem a pity, when you were in the second cabin, to be spending so much time down in the steerage. And Katy had taken up with old man Diehl, the inventor, who was in the second cabin. He was after her all the time to play cards or walk on the deck or sit and talk in the smoking room. It was all right for Katy, but not much fun for Margaret. She couldn’t always be tagging along with them, and she didn’t like to feel that Mr. Diehl was paying for her glass of Guinness every time they had a drink.