The Unpossessed (16 page)

Listen steward, so I went to the art colony, don't you see, he put me on the train, he put me on the fast express and filled my pockets with quotations from the old Chinese. Throw out the notions that possess you, outmoded superstitions of a bygone day. We're not the children of our parents, we're the parents of the new. Shake yourself free, Elizabeth, step out boldly like a man. So I went with too much rouge on my lips and I met Ferris and we had a drink and he said why don't you move over into my studio, my girl left Saturday. But isn't it, I said timidly, but isn't it, I started shyly—isn't it—please tell me—a little bit cheap? Cheap, that's a good one! cheap! that's a hot one! he roared till the blood burned his face.
Cheap
—what you see around here isn't
cheap
—why it's better than that, he said, laughing and laughing—it's
free
!
Steward you can see for yourself the lady needs another drink
.

(Why stranger, you are growing bold! Is that a smile mixed up with your moustache? Moustache like Ferris, eyes like Brownlow, nothing like Denny—will I never know a whole new man again? just carbon copies, slightly blurred? Hold off a bit, stranger, let me get my bearings, stranger, I'm tired as hell, mister, and I can't find my lipstick . . .)

Oh artists, artists, I said I was tired of artists going about with their tongues hanging out of their mouths bored wanting a woman not wanting a woman, what kind of men are they talking so freely to girls about how hard it is to make a girl how easy it is to make a girl, how long do they think a girl can listen to that with her mouth open politely smiling, politely sympathizing, politely laying bets on sorority-sisters and all the time the sex in herself drying up and sitting like a ball of rotten cheese in her lap. Something's the matter with sex these days, these twentieth century rollicking days, either there's too much or too little anyway it's too easy (free, not cheap, that's a hot one!) sitting up finding yourself in bed with a man you don't like and yet there you are both tired both a little sick with too much intimacy sitting up in bed and talking about how good a ham sandwich would go with a bottle of beer and if only we were in good old Paris. Well I've been in Paris, Ferris my friend, and it's the same thing there, “
I'll show you Florence, Italy.
” Oh artists, artists, I said I was tired of artists—and anyway you've got to play the man's game, Betsey-Elizabeth, the man runs fast, the girl must run faster, look sharp Elizabeth here comes your train, pack up your toothbrush, your hard-bristle toothbrush, wave him goodbye, all aboard, all aboard, all aboard ladies and gay modern gents, all aboard the gay twentieth century, hell-bent for nowhere, the sex-express.
Steward something tells me I will have another drink
.

Listen steward, I'll tell you the story of my latest, the latest notch in my belt, this arty, helpless newspaper reporter, my Denny (I wish he were here). I'll make a story of it for you, steward my dear, a twentieth century three-month detour, rollicking parenthesis on the sex-express. Her wit almost abandoned her, mister steward, as they sat forgetting the others at the little round table in the café while the plates piled up at their elbows. On the third Pernod she discovered that cleft in his chin which promised weakness. Out with the scissors, Delilah, out with your good sharp razor-blade wit. Leaning toward him, leaning toward the stranger Denny, she took a shot in the dark at that cleft in his wavering chin: So at thirty-three you're still reporting for the newspapers, Mister Kirby, incoming boats, outgoing boats, what did she wear, whom will he marry—well, well, well, wouldn't your old high school English teacher be just too proud? Would you mind, Mister Kirby, lowering your head a bit, I am doing a drawing of you, one of my nasty satiric caricatures; your head must be lowered as though you were about to buck the world, but you and I of course will know better—have another Pernod, Mister?—we will know all along, and keep it between us, that you hold your head down because you would be ashamed to look your old English teacher in the eye. He narrowed his eyes and hated her; but then he lowered his head (exactly as that nasty girl was drawing him) as though he were ashamed to look
her
in the eye; and smiling with charm and sheepishness, the cleft in his chin going in as though weakly receiving her thrust, he met her eyes with a look of recognition; they smiled and they knew they would be lovers, unloving lovers on the fast express. (
Steward do you see that impertinent gentleman at yon corner table? that look in his eyes, it's familiar, he knows, . . . try and get off it kid, once you're on board
. . .)

The first month steward, we laid serious plans for his breaking away and doing a novel; he leaned on me utterly; bowed his head; reached out to what seemed my superior strength. But the girl couldn't take it, it looked like love. Good old Denny, grovelling in the dust, Elizabeth will join you and grovel too. Have a Pernod, Denny, what's it all about? what's the object of the game? suppose you did write a novel, it would be a rotten novel, what have you got to say, what matters enough to write about? And look at my drawing, my poor defeated unloved lover, look at my lousy, phony, stinking-cynical drawing. Caricatures! Destructive, defeatist, escapist—but let's not go high-brow, let's take up drinking again, la Frump will serve us Pernods with our chocolat. He ought to have yelled at me, steward, throttled me, burned our damn bridges behind us, he ought to have shouted that we strike out together and aim at decency in art and life. But why? what for? and what is decency? these things are pleasanter discussed in our cups. He liked finding his girl as weak as himself. His lovable weak smile was for both of us now. In the second month we went back to drinking Pernods; in the third month we barely held our jobs for sleeping the Pernods off. Delilah conquering? Delilah triumphing? Why not at all my dear steward, I should have thought you keener—I feel like hell, while with my sharp phony-razor-blade wit I cut out his strength I cut out my own as well. What will become of us, Denny my dear, my lost abandoned unloved lover, weeping together over Ulysses we wept because we could not weep, we wept because we could not love, we wept because we loved before, we care about nothing, believe in nothing, live for nothing, because we are free, free, free—like empty sailboats lost at sea . . .
and Bruno withheld his consent to our marriage
.

Bruno, Bruno, help me out, catch me careening in my mad pace, let me rest for once and catch my breath. “We are scared till the blood in our veins runs thin and we must hop from one person to the next because to stay is too unbearably exactly what we want.” Bruno, we're unhappy. Bruno, we're mad. Bruno, explain it to me, tell me the object of the game. You've told me what to turn my back on; what, my darling, can I face? Tell me why I went away, tell me why I'm coming back. Tell me if there's an end to my endless journey, why did you put me on this fast express. Where am I going and why, is there no end but more Pernods and men? Probably love is all that counts? and love is not to be found these days, or not to be looked in the face when it's there? What do we hide from, Bruno, what do we seek? I'm so gay, I'm so light, I bounce here and there like a bright rubber ball; and yet the look in my eyes is hard, is hard, my wit is like a razor-blade, I use it to wound before I can be wounded, my wit protects me like a glittering twittering barbed wire fence and no one can come through and touch me. Each year I shrink smaller, I huddle together, and the barbs on my fence grow sharper and brighter, I am gayer and harder, my voice grows brittle, my laugh grows harsh. Love, don't touch me; love, keep your hands off this proud modern daughter; happiness girl, no brooding there, it's a matter of friction, of scientific friction; if you go sentimental you have only yourself to blame, don't be obsessed by inhibitions, don't be possessed by old traditions. (
Ah stranger, I see you, at yon corner table, you know me, you know me, as if I were naked
.) Haywire play-girl, drink-sodden gay-girl, self-pity is the lowest form of wit, wit is the purest form of self-pity. I was tired of artists, artists, I'm tired of unloved lovers,
Bruno what is the object of my game
? Hell-bent for what is my fast express, my jingling jangling cocktail express, lust without love and joy without joy, we pound down the tracks on our sex-express, no stopping, no loving, no time to take breath. Goodbye Ferris, give me my toothbrush, hello Arthur Brownlow I'm not stopping long—my toothbrush, my toothbrush, my fast train is leaving, I must run, I must catch it, no I won't forget you, I'll chalk you up, I'll put a notch in my belt to remember you by. . . . Bruno, Bruno, another gent has bit the dust. What am I, your father-confessor, Elizabeth? No darling, you're something else again—I don't know what, procurer, vicarious cousin; my dear, you're my only stop, you're where I climb down and take breath, my link with the past, the peaceful past . . . before I change trains and jingle jangle along again on my fast express, the non-stop, non-loving twentieth century unlimited, the haywire cocktail express, the gay and happy sex-express, hell-bent for nowhere. . . .

Steward, the stranger approaches my table
. The eye of a man, the eye of a man, looking down into hers, it's the old army game, the train's roaring again. “Can I sit here,” he said. But why did he ask. He was sitting already, his knee touching hers. Two drinks on the table, two knees underneath. A Jew too—medical student perhaps? haberdasher? son of a cobbler drifting toward socialism? All Jews look like anything, all Jews look like Bruno, all Jews are not Denny. Welcome, stranger! sholom aleichem, my poor fellow-passenger! I give you the glad eye, the sad eye, the mad eye. You steadily give it back. Know the rules, do you, my boy? Know how the game goes on, steadily, stealthily, know how to play it with languor and skill? “You're sure you don't mind,” he said brittley, bitterly. “I have whiskey in my cabin,” he said, sly easy gent; “want to come down awhile”—carelessly, casual. “You talk quite a lot, I see,” he said, lonesome and human.

“I beg your pardon,” she said (oh Bruno, please help me). “If there's anything I hate it's whiskey,” she said. (Goodbye France, wait for me, America, your wandering daughter's coming home, coming every step of the way on the fast express, jingling jangling on the whiskey express, eggs without salt and lust without love, joy without joy and motion without splendor, the express careens, it rolls faster and faster, it's rolling downhill, it's hell-bent for what.) “If there's anything I hate it's cabins,” she said. (Try and get off it kid once you're on board—with
your
help, Bruno, with your help, Bruno, you put me on, now lift me down, now stop this train, oh Bruno I need you.) “If there's anything I hate,” she said, “it's strange gentlemen in strange bars, I beg your pardon, but I wish you'd go back to where you came from, no, we've never met before I'm sure.” (Oh Bruno, I love you, it's love without lust, oh Bruno you sent for me, forbid me to marry, I'm coming home Bruno, the short-cut home, no detours Bruno, no harsh parentheses, I'm coming straight and you must catch me, save me, flag my train. . . .) “Good night, of course I forgive you, a perfectly legitimate mistake I'm sure.”

(
Steward, the lady wants her check
.) The lady feels good, the lady feels sure, the lady looks forward, she's headed for home!

IT WAS like bending to lift the customary stones and finding them lighter than air in the hands.

It was like peering down the difficult road and seeing it miraculously straighten before him; wide and smooth and simple.

It was like trembling before God and finding God sweet and genial.

It was like a God damned honeymoon, Miles thought.

It took strength to face, to bear, such joy; it took room inside him to receive it. Some golden touch had fallen over everything; his breakfast coffee tasted like no coffee in the world; the sunshine filtering on their wall was a personal, bewildering gift, exclusive decoration for their home; and Margaret deftly sliding toast was a being that caught and held his eyes as though her slightest move were marvellous. She moved with a new vigor; a purpose; as though there were some backbone now to her soft balminess. And then—withdrawing her hands from the toaster and clasping them on the table, her eyes floated into space above his head, beyond his ken, with a curious and complacent languor. What is it, he thought of saying to her, what is it that makes everything one's lover does appear so
apt
, so perfect, so proper, so fortunate, in the other lover's eyes? Do you ever feel this way about me, he thought of saying to her. Is there anything else in the world that matters, he wanted to say. Can you keep us forever on this light-filled island, he almost cried. Aloud he said, with difficulty, “We'll both be late as hell, my dear. Look out, you'll burn the toast.”

She started and smiled; moved her strong fingers about the toaster. “What do we care,” she said. “
We're
going to have more coffee,” she said. Her eyes were luminous above the percolator. “Mr. Pidgeon and Mr. Adolph Worthington—let them wait; let them whistle; let them write their own silly letters.”

And let Bruno fall in love with manifestoes; let Jeffrey flirt with Magazines, with meetings, with the whole Left Wing; Miles—his fences down, his shell forgotten—was engaged in a passionate love affair with his wife. “I see by the morning papers,” he dutifully began—and stopped; dropped the paper to the floor; took the coffee she held out to him; “hello Margaret,” he said weakly; and felt himself smiling like a fool.

“Hello,” she said back and smiled. They sipped from their cups and flirted over the rims. “I love mornings!” she cried and stretched her arms and grew like a tree across the table from him.

“And afternoons—don't you love afternoons,” he said; “you balmy wench, don't leave out the afternoons, they'll be hurt—and you love evenings, don't you, and rainy days and sunny days and nights with moons and nights without moons. . . .”