Conrad Aiken - King Coffin

He gave a little shiver, the night had turned cool, got up to switch on the lights.

Jones!

Of course.

That was why his heart had begun beating — it was the theater night, it was Tuesday, Jones would perhaps be at the Orpheum. But there was no rush—: if Jones went there at all, he would be there all the evening. The show itself would probably be dull, it wasn’t really necessary to go till near the end. And in some respects this would be better. For if in fact (as he had half considered just before he fell asleep) an opportunity should occur tonight; if in some unexpected way Jones should prove vulnerable, or the circumstances propitious, for the thing itself — if for a moment, in the subway, Jones should detach himself from whoever might be with him, or on leaving the theater, or on getting off the Huron Avenue car — not that any of these things was likely or that in any case the scene itself would be the most suitable — he would be prepared for it, the revolver was in his pocket; and it would be safer, of course, if he had not been too long visible in the theater.… Yes, that had been the idea, when he fell asleep; but now, after dark, after waking in the dark to a subtle sense of change, of void, it all seemed oddly improbable, and as if not properly outlined: a little vague: a little unreal. What he needed was a wash, cold water on the eyes and wrists — what he needed was a drink. Then the thing could be looked at more calmly, more clearly. And after all, what was the hurry?

Moreover, was it quite certain that the revolver was the best way? Better, perhaps, to make an appointment with Jones to discuss the advertising project, drive him out to Concord, into the country, as if to meet the mythical “partner”—there would be no difficulties about that, it would be ridiculously easy — no one would know about it, not a soul, it could be done in daylight — and even if done with the revolver, there, in some wooded lane—

He turned his back on the vision, walked slowly across the room to the Chinese waterfall, stared at it, in the silence seemed almost to hear the headlong rush of the gray torrent: it was his own silence, his own world, it was himself who waited there in the little red pavilion among trees on the edge of the twisted crag, listening to that sound as of a pouring and terrible chaos. He leaned toward it, as if the better to hear it, the better to see it, but found that it wasn’t in fact the waterfall he was looking at, or trying to hear, but the little man who had become his shadow, the little man who stood alone with him in the center of the world. Jones was beside him in the car, Jones with his absurd tweed hat, the brown feather at the side, the cheap fur collar, the little red notebook in his hand. Jones turned toward him and said — what was it that he said? Jones was smiling at him sidelong, under the clipped moustache, was looking ridiculously competent as always, nodded with a knowing air, seemed to be about to say that he knew a trick or two worth two of that. And all the while, Jones was confidingly, almost invitingly, opening his heart to a pistol shot.…

In the bathroom, he ran the cold water over his extended wrists, let it run till it freshened, smiled slightly at the tall image which stooped forward from the greenish mirror. He said aloud:

— Are you getting into a panic about this? Are you being quite straight with yourself about this? Is your voice a little unsteady?

The weakness which he felt in the lips that shaped these words did not show in the reflection, the mouth was calm and curt, a little derisive, the fine eyes regarded him narrowly and ironically; and then as he stood still the whole beautiful face (despite its undeniable pallor) smiled at him with an air of enigmatic affection and power. The lynx-eyes were astonishingly clear, laughed with a private light of their own, the voice said to him:

— What are you afraid of? Don’t be a fool. The murder is now pure. It has now reached a perfection in idea. To be alone with Jones — is that so difficult or painful? Is it any deeper a corruption — or evil — than to be alone with yourself? alone with your own shadow? It is merely the sacrifice of a shadow.

He repeated softly the word shadow, to watch the movement of his lips, drew the tip of a finger across an eyebrow, as if merely for contact with the bold image which seemed so haughtily to keep its distance, considered for a moment the resemblance of the forehead to Kay’s. The speech was peculiar, did not quite seem his own, came out of a subtly different level of consciousness, like that of a dream — like the words of Gerta in the dream, miles of aching arches of eyebrows, or whatever they had been. But it was a comfort to hear his own voice, to hear it speaking so calmly and effectively, and to see moreover that his bearing was as imperturbable as ever. Resting both hands flat on the marble he leaned forward and said:

— The face is that of a genius. You must expect to have misgivings, that is the penalty of the solitary spirit! The one who dwells in the abyss.

The vibrant murmur died in the little room, he paused, then went on, speaking slowly, watching the shape of his mouth, the eagerness of his eyes in his white face.

— Behind this forehead is the tree, the vision of the tree, it is an imagination which can do what it likes. You hear? Do what it likes … Jasper Ammen.

Jasper Ammen.

He turned smiling away from the smiling image, and extinguished the light; in the silence of the other room he picked up the pencil and book from the floor. The book lay open, he put it on the table and read:

“Rule 2. No bizarre typographical arrangement of text in obvious violation of good taste is permitted. Type of heads and text must not be more than 12 points wide (1–6 inch) in its widest stroke.… All illustrations to be no darker than the equivalent of a number 8 Ben Day when laid on metal. Where accents are required ⅛ square inch of solid black may be used, but not as mass shading .”

But not as mass shading.

The voice of Jones, yes; but this was beginning to be a bore, it was tiresome, and of course it was now a little unnecessary. Of this aspect of Jones, enough was already known, the notes were ample; if any further conversation with him should become needed — for instance, in the drive to Concord to meet the mythical partner — the notes would serve. It was even a question — and as he reflected on this he found that he was about to sit down again, but decided not to — whether enough was not known altogether . In a sense, yes! In a sense. A great deal had certainly been learned. The picture was pretty complete, it was satisfactory as far as it went, but there was still room for something more immediate . The scene in Alpine Street, for example, had partially supplied this lack; but only to suggest the need for more. What was the trained nurse for — if that was what she was? And the child’s cot? It was possible to argue, of course, that the significance of these things lay outside the real problem — but that in turn depended on how one saw the problem. They might not contribute anything to the ease or success of the final action — that was true enough — but they certainly contributed something else, something almost as good. The Alpine Street episode had been profoundly and beautifully natural, it was essentially the right sort of thing, he reminded himself that in the talk with Toppan he had said there could be no limit in the matter of pure knowledge; and if Jones appeared tonight at the Orpheum, that too would have the same delicious weight and immediacy. It was even (if one looked at it like this) a question whether in the approach —! But no.

And then there was yesterday’s thing — the failure of Jones to appear from his house at the usual time; and instead, the arrival of a mud-spattered doctor’s car, with its little green cross, and the doctor staying in the house for over an hour. Was the child ill? or the mother? Why had the child never been seen in all this time, or the mother either? Was the child perhaps a chronic invalid? This would of course explain the good-natured casualness of the Alpine Street scene — or partially. Or on the other hand was it possible — and the idea suddenly arrested him in his pacing of the floor, it was as startling as a blow — that all this business was simply the preparation for a child? Good God! That would explain everything.…