The Recognitions

  —Oh no, she said to him.

  —Because there are so few . . . there is so little beauty, there are so few beautiful things, that to preserve them, to keep them . . .

  —But to make more . . . beautiful things?

  As they looked at each other, Stanley looked at them both, helplessly suspended between their eyes, waiting for what each sought in the other.

  —Now . . . if there were time . . . she said softly.

  —And you are going into a convent, you are going into that . . . that life, he insisted suddenly, and she shrugged her shoulders, looking down once more.

  —Or what other? For there she will become a bride.

  —Tomorrow, yes it’s arranged, an audience, it’s the best thing, tomorrow.

  —So soon!

  —Tomorrow, yes. It’s all arranged.

  —Tomorrow she will . . . kiss the Fisherman Ring? If there were time, to ask him questions about Purgatory.

  —I had a book of his once, by mistake . . .

  —To kiss Saint Peter in the Boat, tomorrow?

  —Here you are! Listen, listen to this, this letter from my wife, Don Bildow burst out, dropping square in front of Stanley at the table.

  —No, no, no . . .

  —Listen. My daughter was all swollen up when I left, remember? And we thought it was . . . we didn’t know what it was, remember? Well do you know what it was? . . . what it is? She’s pregnant! That’s what this letter from my wife says, and she’s only six. Do you hear me? What am I going to do? What are you looking at me like that for?

  Stanley was silent, he was staring at Bildow’s face, but vacantly, as though far beyond it.

  —It’s the Eccentricities of Cardinal Pirelli.

  —But have you read Justine? In that he desecrates the wafer right inside her.

  —Give me that! Give me that thing! Don Bildow snatched the book from Stanley’s lap.

  —My husband’s sitting up in the hotel room now, with a book by some laousy Chinaman, and a bottle of Scotch.

  An Italian boy entered and joined the next table, where he offered a group of American tourists for sale.

  Further on, two American senators were drinking whisky and arguing whether or not Sweden had a king.

  —He says he’s practicing the gentle art of sitting and forgetting. My God, I’m tired.

  Don Bildow was trying to tear the book up. First he tried to break the spine, but he could not. Then he got half the pages in one hand, but he could not tear them. Finally he held the book against him, and started to rip out about ten pages at a time. The table behind his narrow back was empty, and then Victoria and Albert Hall, and Rudy, and Sonny, and Buster, and Big Anna, the Swede, and two others descended on it, and set to discussing the problems of the train trip to Paris, if Rudy and Frank were both in states of Grace they could not share the same compartment. The pages continued to rip. A faint male voice protested, —Caprew . . . A woman’s voice said, —Kike. Don Bildow sat at the table ripping the pages out of the book, about five at a time.

  From behind, when she stood still in that yellow velours gown, Mrs. Deigh rather resembled an uneven stack of sofa cushions. At the moment only Dom Sucio had this coign of vantage, and he did not stop to enjoy it, but turned and hurried down a dark hallway hastily adjusting his mantle, as she opened the door to Stanley. He paused, upon entering, to support himself on Judith’s sword-arm: Holofernes’ head swung toward him, and the whole thing almost came over.

  —My dear boy be . . . be careful of our . . . Donatello, Mrs. Deigh gasped as the bronze righted itself. —It’s his . . . David, his famous David, she murmured nervously, addressing the still gently swaying head, as though apologizing to it. She continued to murmur nervously, wringing one hand in the other, as she led him into the crowded room. —We do wish you would have your hair cut. Stanley sat down on the edge of the Queen Anne chair, and she stood over him for a minute. —What is it? What is troubling you, dear boy?

  —Nothing, nothing, nothing, he said quickly, and pulled his shoulder from under her hand, and the glitter of the wrist watch at his cheek. She withdrew looking injured, and sat down almost silently in the big chair. There she commenced the familiar chucking noise.

  —I . . . I’m sorry, I . . . I’m tired.

  —It has been a trying day for everyone, she said, somewhat distantly, and went on looking at the ceiling. When he continued silent, hands gripped between his knees, she said in the same tone, —We had a very trying visit from some British Israelites. And poor Cardinal Spermelli, the white ants have completely destroyed his chess-playing machine. All he talks of now is going to Venice, where he can be conducted to his last resting place in the dignity of a pompa, funebre, though those little Coca-Cola motorboats . . .

  —Is he real? Stanley brought out suddenly.

  —Is he what? my dear boy?

  —No, no, but if he’s a Cardinal he should be . . . nothing. Nothing.

  —You are upset, are you not, she said looking sharply at him as he lowered his eyes once more, and she looked back to the ceiling. —We knew you would like him, he likes young boys so much, especially musical young boys. But his area musarithmica, alas . . .

  —What is that?

  —Don’t you remember it, dear boy? The seventeenth-century machine he showed you, that composes music automatically. Alas, you will never see it again. The white ants . . . what is it? What’s the matter? Are you having a chill? . . . She stared where he was staring. —Ahhhh . . . she sighed with sad affection, but she did not get up. —It’s one of his days up and around, she murmured.

  The lean figure had emerged unsteadily from one of the dark doorways, and stood resting at a precarious angle against the leg of a figure in a bathing suit, a bronze (labeled Hercules, by della Robbia). The dim light cast a faintly yellow sheen over the velutinous patches left on his back. A twist of insulated wire led from one ear to the object hung at his collar. Mrs. Deigh made the chucking noise again, but nothing moved. —He has not looked so discouraged since he fell into the baths of the Emperor Tiberius at Capri, and we had to hire an Alpinist to rescue him. She looked slowly round at Stanley. —Do you recall asking me about the initials on his little chair in the Automobile? the little chair where you sit? I asked Dom Sucio, and he told me, of course. Impubis Hadrianus Semper. Then she cleared her throat. The chain rattled as she leaned forward and spoke more gently. —Dear boy, your teeth are chattering. Perhaps . . .

  —No, no, I . . . I’m all right, I don’t . . .

  —We understand. Perhaps you caught a chill at Assisi? . . . We won’t ask what is burdening your soul. We understand. Perhaps it will take your mind off it to tell us about Assisi? It is so long since we have walked among those roses, and touched the very spot where . . .

  —She asked me to marry her, Stanley blurted out.

  —What? to what? Who?

  —She asked me to marry her, yes, and . . .

  —But . . . my dear boy, you . . . you never told me there was a . . . a girl?

  —Yes . . .

  —And you . . . you didn’t take her up there with you? To that . . . that holy spot . . . ? The chain rattled, the objects strung to it went to the floor. Neither of them retrieved it.

  —She . . . she kept going through the gate of the Portiuncula, she . . . to gain indulgences for . . . she . . .

  —Dear boy! dear boy! Mrs. Deigh had come forward, half unseated, half to her feet.

  —No, she . . . If only there were time, she said, over and over. She’s pregnant.

  Mrs. Deigh went back in the chair, got firm hold on the arms as the mother-of-pearl crucifix climbed out of her bosom, and it dropped back in as she stood. The chain came up with her.

  —You . . . you don’t understand, she isn’t just a . . . a who . . . a wh . . .

  —Dear boy, don’t weep, We . . .

  —If she . . . she wanted to share her beauty with anyone . . . with everyone, she . . . if she . . .

  —We understand, d
ear boy, We understand, Mrs. Deigh said with a warm hand on his neck, patting him there gently, as she did for a minute broken only by his sobs, until finally she said to him, —And of course you said, No. No? We hope you said No, when she asked you . . . that. We hope you said No, and told her that you are going to Fenestrula, for your work, your work is what matters, your work is all that matters isn’t it, isn’t it dear boy. And you did say No, did you not.

  —Ye . . . hes. No.

  —There. Of course you said No.

  —Yes, it . . . everything is in pieces. I . . . Stanley got to his feet, and drew both hands down over his face. Then he turned to her and burst out, —And your . . . Dom Sucio, he . . . did you know he . . . he isn’t real?

  —But dear boy, Mrs. Deigh said gently, —he is as real as we are.

  —No, what I mean is, I mean a monk, a real monk, I saw him . . . I . . . did you know that?

  —Of course, dear boy.

  —But you . . . you knew all along, there’s no . . . no special Order for . . . for little people? And he . . . the contributions you give him, he . . . yes, you told me, people turned to look at him in the street and he . . . he was sensitive, but I . . . that they mistook him for a wandering child, but I . . . I . . .

  —Dear Stanley, Mrs. Deigh said, and came close to put an arm round his trembling shoulders. —You are such a . . . dear boy.

  For a moment, it looked as though Hadrian were going to improve his position against the bronze leg. With great caution he commenced to raise one foot from the floor. The instant he started to sag in that direction he planted the foot where he’d got it, but too late to do more than save himself from going down altogether, and so he stayed that way, the moment of daring, and all memory of it, gone.

  —Will you join Us in prayers, in our little private chapel, Stanley? she asked as they separated, slowly, each with a look of wary interest, close enough to smell one another for the first time.

  —Ye . . . yes . . .

  Then she moved quite briskly, first to Hadrian, making the chucking sound. Hadrian did not raise his head. —We must confess, Hadrian and Dom Sucio are not the best of friends, she said with some asperity, setting Hadrian square and working at the box on his collar. —Dom Sucio turns his hearing aid off, and sometimes he doesn’t hear a thing for days. As she straightened up murmuring, —Now there was something else . . . Hadrian sagged back against the bronze calf. —Oh, from Our daughter, something she sent, I meant to show you.

  —A letter? . . .

  —Not precisely a letter. Here. Here it is. She took a folded paper from behind a picture frame and handed it to him. —We shall return in a moment, dear boy. For prayers. And she left him with this:

  PLEASE HELP IMMEDIATELY

  This lady knows that you need this Ritual

  The Ritual

  Jehovah God

  Before me Saint Raphael

  Behind me Saint Gabriel

  To my right Saint Michael

  To my left Saint Auriel

  Behind me shines the gold star

  And above me shines the Glory of God.

  Pray for this sick lady, for her hair to be thick and black, for her eyes strong, and clear eyesight, for her nose to grow one inch longer, big, thick and healthy, her teeth and gums to be strong and healthy, also pray for her eyelashes and eyebrows to be thick and black, and skin healthy and white, and for all her Health, all her Reconstruction, and her husband.

  Please help this lady; pray hard and strong for her. This Ritual comes from India to help this lady and to save and uplift humanity.

  Please pray hard for her to get to India to help humanity. Please spread this Ritual for her and her husband. Please use this Ritual or you will be sick and poor. Please get this lady a lot of helpers and help her to live in India.

  After you say this Ritual, pray in your own way all you can. Help this lady or you will be sorry. If you do this Ritual you shall have everything you need in this world. Send this Ritual to all your friends and to the children and to the relatives. You must do this work or everyone will get sick and poor and the world will shake to pieces.

  TRANSMUTING

  You need to know this added higher law of the transmuting of power within mankind, within your own system.

  You already know that all of our mental power must be used to help. Also all of your creative power must be used to help.

  Instead of wasting this creative power of the genetalia, it must be used with the Ritual, praying out the power to help this sick lady for her health and her reconstruction, out of suffering.

  Also you should get the men to transmute power to their sick wives so that their wives can be strong and healthy and so that their wives can pray for this sick lady.

  Also you should get all the men and all the women and the older adolescent children to send out their power both ways to help this sick lady. This has to be done quickly to save this lady and her husband and to save and uplift humanity, to the next teachings, which you all will receive thru some sort of world publicity.

  Please send copies of this Ritual and letter to all Doctors and Dentists and Lawyers and everybody that you can all over the world.

  Stanley twisted his shoulders against the hot nettling sensation under his shirt. The rattling chain sounded distantly, muffled by the red hangings, and his bandaged hand sought the tooth in his pocket. Then the heat became more sensible. It was drenched with the scent of roses, and a soft glow illuminated the paper he held before him. —We always say our prayers this way . . . since Portugal . . . He looked up slowly, past the figure of Hadrian, sagged forward again silently, petrified there about to spring upon something long since gone to earth, the light from behind bringing a soft sheen to the yellow patches of pubescence. —It makes Us feel, somehow, closer to Him. She had two lighted tapers and held one of them forth, in the hand springing from the gold circlet of the wrist watch, and that, with the ellipsoid still swinging gently on the end of the chain, was all she was wearing, though the attar of roses clung to him as he passed the tendered head of Nebuchadnezzar’s general, slipping, near being pinioned on Judith’s sword, and made the street where a car swerved to a stop, so near running him down that he found himself standing stricken in the dark gap between its headlamps, his empty hand against its grill, where he read the word FIAT.

  —Of course I said . . . No, he whispered. Bells sounded somewhere.

  It was sundown in Barbados.

  Doctor Fell stood on his veranda with one hand down the front of his pants, scratching. In the other he held a letter which commenced, —Dear Doctor, In cases of gastric hyperacidity, the commonest symptom is the sensation of a bonfire in the stomach . . . He was not reading the letter, however, but looking down the path which led to the rest of the Pilot Project and the native bungalows. Shadows were already gathering, and Doctor Fell appeared concerned, for he knew what difficulty his assistant had keeping his balance in the dark.

  —Gordon! . . . he called after a moment. He saw nothing but the palm trees one way and the rim of the sea the other way. He heard the sound of the surf. —Gordon! he called again, and then sheltering his eyes from the lack of brilliance above with the letter, he peered down the path. Scarcely more steady than the shadows themselves, a figure took form, and emerged. Doctor Fell stepped down and came to help him with his load of little white boxes. Gordon could only carry one armload, stacked up to his chin, since the other arm was in a sling.

  —Tsk tsk, said Doctor Fell, —how heavy they are getting . . . Gordon followed him in. When the little white boxes were all locked in the freezing unit, Doctor Fell turned and said, —How do you like the work by now, Gordon? You don’t mind it so much, do you Gordon?

  —No. But they . . .

  —Who?

  —The men down in the field, Ed and Max, and Anselm and Chaby . . .

  —You mean the natives?

  —Yes, they . . .

  —What do you call them Ed and Max and . . . what do you call them name
s like that for, Gordon?

  —They . . . they just . . . look like them, by now.

  —You’d better have some Dramamine, right now, Gordon. Doctor Fell opened a tremendous cabinet. All the shelves were filled with bottles. —It’s also good for fenestration procedures, labyrinthitis, and vestibular dysfunction associated with antibiotic therapy. I read up on it today. It’s even good for pregnancy. Do you ever feel like jumping out of windows, Gordon? Tsk tsk . . . you can here, of course, but it wouldn’t be any fun. It wouldn’t be any more fun than falling out of bed. Do you still fall out of bed?

  —I . . .

  —Here we are, Gordon. Ahmm, tsk tsk, this is the last of the Dramamine. How do you want it administered, orally or rectally?

  —I . . .

  —But don’t worry, Gordon, we have lots of things here, said Doctor Fell, rummaging among the bottles for the jug of saline solution. —Tomorrow we’ll start on Roniacol, and when we run out of that there’s Lesofac, Gustamate, Diasal, Amchlor . . . Oh they’ve sent us everything. The Nicotinic acid was the best, wasn’t it, in spite of its evanescent reactions, the tingling, itching, burning of the skin, dizziness, faintness, sensations of warmth . . . bend over now, Gordon . . . gastric distress, cutaneous flushing, the increased gastro-intestinal motility . . . ah . . . mmmp, there we are, Gordon. You’ll feel better in no time. It’s due to a vasodilating action.

  —Do you think there will be a scar . . . ?

  —What do you suppose vasodilating means? . . . a what? a scar? where?

  —When you take these bandages off my arm?

  —Oh certainly, certainly Gordon.

  —But . . . like this one on my face?

  —Oh, bigger. That one you could cover with a mustache. You’d be cute in a mustache, Gordon. Wait, don’t go yet. Doctor Fell had fitted an ophthalmoscope to his head, and swung the mirror down over his eye. —Have a look at the bloody labyrinth, he went on talking as he worked. —Oh, I’m not being profane now you understand, tsk tsk, I’m referring to the hemorrhaging in the labyrinth of the ear, your ear of course . . . Can you hear me? can you hear me in this ear? Yes, you’re getting better, I think it’s all over now. Why, I’ll lose you before too long, won’t I . . . with all that money you can be off, you can fly to the moon if you want to, can’t you. I’ve worried about you, you know, you seemed like a very sensitive young man, and I’ve wondered how this sickness had done this to you, just left you with your eyes glazed and no interest in anything but your work. Tsk tsk, maybe something better will come along? You can’t really enjoy going out with the vitamin samples in the morning and bringing in the . . . the specimens in the evening. But that’s what life is, isn’t it, yes, tsk tsk . . . Ooop . . . be careful, Gordon, watch where you’re going. Keep your eyes open. Do you want me to walk back with you? No? All right, just be careful, keep your eyes open. Yes . . . and now where do you suppose that tattooed idiot is? He’s useless, worthless, all he does is drink and talk about shark fishing and trim his little mustache, I don’t trust him at all. I’d think he’d followed us here, but I can’t imagine why anyone would follow anyone here.