Conrad Aiken: King Coffin

crisis —the sense of the personal and psychological crisis which he himself had so carefully constructed; and he was not quite sure whether, supposing Gerta and Sandbach had now decided to make common cause, he wanted to see them together or separately. They had spent the entire day looking for him, they had left notes, they had repeatedly telephoned, Sandbach had finally sent his special delivery letter; it had all gone off just as he had willed it and planned it; and he himself had remained hidden in the University Theater all afternoon, enjoying, in that seclusion, the muffled sense of their frightened activity, while he analyzed the social function of Popeye the Sailor Man. The universal Oedipus complex, no doubt? But it would perhaps be better not to see them until immediately before the anarchist meeting, when it would of course be impossible for them to be personal, to be anything but professional — to meet them lightly and coldly there, and to make it clear at once that he did not intend to have any disgusting emotional dealings with them, none whatever. Not that he wasn’t, of course, profoundly curious about their little mutual fever, their cooperative eagerness, and their desire to turn toward him a joint expression of bright and sympathetic explanation — not at all! But that pleasure he was already, and deliciously, tasting. What they must learn was that he could intrude, but not they.… Hearing no sound from the room, he entered.

One candle had been lighted on the white mantel, beneath the mask of Nietzsche, and against it was propped a note from Gerta. Jasper my dear — I have waited here all afternoon in your hushed little chamber, hoping to have a private word with you before you see Sandbach. I have the feeling, as no doubt you intend, that you are avoiding me: of course I understand that, for if you’ll forgive me for saying so I do know you pretty well. But don’t you think you could overdo it? There are features which might better be discussed without Sandbach — I mean, you and me. I make no preposterous claims: you ought to realize that I respect your privacy and individualism and don’t want to infringe. But my dear, human nature is not as easy as that, there are obligations — well, of a shadowy sort; you could find a better word. It’s quite all right, of course, and as it should be, you needn’t be so afraid, but what I suggest is that what is private for us — you and me — might be a little bruised if Sandbach is allowed to participate at the outset . Do you see what I mean — or would you regard this as a claim? I am not going to the meeting. But I shall be in my room all evening, and I wish you would come there when the fireworks are over. I gather you are going to resign, from what S says, and he is hurt, and of course is divided between that and anger, and also tries to comfort himself by saying that you were never really sincere anyway. He thinks you are just an esthete, and that anarchism is no more important for you than the taste you exercised in the decorating of this very chaste and epicene room. It is chaste and epicene — good lord, yes! Gerta.

Good lord, yes! Gerta.

So that was what Sandbach thought — or said.

With his hat still on, he sat down at the little red table, on which was a blue and orange square of Chinese embroidery, and looked across the room at the window. The curtain ring, hanging motionless, made a sharp little oval against the pale sky, beyond which, on the roof of the A. D. Club, was a rapidly spinning chimney pot. Chaste and epicene? It was exactly what Julius Toppan was always saying downstairs, Gerta had probably been discussing it with him, and come to think of it that identical remark had appeared in Julius’s diary. That was a week ago. There must, by this time, be several more entries in Julius’s diary, entries about himself — it was time he went in and read them. Perhaps by now Julius had definitely reached the conclusion — to which he already tended — that he was crazy: he would certainly think so if he knew that his diary was one of Jasper’s chief sources of entertainment. An abuse of hospitality? of trust? But Julius knew his views about these things, knew that he proposed to live beyond ordinary morals, so it hardly mattered. If one’s brains could be picked by others, let them be picked.

Yes, Gerta had been discussing his taste with Julius, she had been to Toppan’s room, perhaps several times, perhaps today — that was worth knowing and noting, it was a significant little light, and of course the import of it was clear enough — she too was trying, in her little way, to surround him, to triangulate him into view, and that was admirable enough too, although bound to be futile. It was all a sort of conspiracy of fright, with which also a little designingness and greed was mixed: Sandbach looking for his money, Julius for his “influence,” the secret of his power, Gerta for his love. The fright was perhaps genuine as far as Gerta was concerned, she genuinely and unselfishly — questionable, though — liked him; anyway, she was concerned, a little foolishly so, about his sanity, and of course had to run to and fro discussing him with her friends and acquaintances: little realizing that on a lower and. simpler plane of morals this would have been very reprehensible. In fact, it was reprehensible on her plane, but not on his . The dear little fool, playing desperately at a losing game! And so earnest about it, too.

He opened Sandbach’s letter.

Gosh, you certainly are an elusive cuss, I’ve been pussyfooting all over town after you to tell you that a Chicago member will be there tonight and that as the attendance will be very small I hoped you would come and also that you would perhaps refrain from throwing any bombs of a private nature, they could be postponed for a better occasion — unless you have really decided to clear out. From what Gottlieb said at the C Bookshop the other day on the Hill, I gather you have finally decided to take an individualist turn and go the whole metaphysical or Hegelian Hog and coddle your ego in the footsteps of Max Stirner. Maybe you were only kidding, but in the light of some of our talks I can see it might be logical for you, though you can’t expect me to applaud. I have always hoped you would become one of our most active and useful members, would really help us, as you are in a position to do, not that you haven’t already helped us a lot. But what I mean is, please don’t choose tonight for any bust-up, it would be a little impolite to Breault (Chicago), if you don’t mind. I also wanted to see you about Gerta, you know how things stand there, and I just wanted to assure you that there isn’t and hasn’t been and won’t be any treachery. S.

Treachery by Sandbach? A contradiction in terms, for one could only be betrayed by an equal, never by an inferior. A treachery foreseen and understood, or even to some extent fomented, was not a treachery, it was simply one’s own action: and to explain this to Sandbach would be his natural punishment, or rather, humiliation. And Gerta’s too, though Gerta perhaps did understand it, and was (at any rate partially) an equal?…

Just the same, he quite recognized his own quick anger, as he tore one strip and then another from the edge of Sandbach’s ill-written letter and laid the strips along the table before him: it was necessary to be angry with Sandbach’s “belongingness,” his politicalness, his Jewish mixture of guile and affection and effrontery: his parasitism. It was necessary to be angry, but to be only privately angry. Publicly, only a gentle contempt, only the natural expression of a natural superiority: the mere exercise of personal presence. And this was easy enough. One simply looked down at little Sandbach, one smiled, one wore one’s clothes, one lighted one’s pipe, one entered or left a room, and Sandbach knew what one meant. Sandbach knew that one knew all about his dirty little sycophantic hand-rubbing soul, quite as clearly as one knew that he seldom changed his underclothes and socks. He would resent this, and would scheme an answer to it, he was always wanting to make, as it were, an injurious little place for himself in the souls of his superiors, just as now he was no doubt enormously pleased with himself for his conquest — permitted, and partial — of Gerta. His ascent to Gerta was seen by himself as a climb over dangerous scaffolding towards Jasper? And now the moment had come, perhaps, to kick him down, to kick him in the face, but precisely by not bothering to kick him. Beyond that, he had no importance, and it was absurd to be angry at all: except as one was consciously aware of one’s anger with oneself.

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