—It’s not a bad kick, take two strips of benny and two goof balls, they get down there and have a fight. It’s a good drive. She shook her leg. —Is this yours? she accused, looking up at Maude.
—Why I . . . I’ll take her, Maude said reaching.
And the Boston girl pulled up her skirt at the waist and went on, —If you want to score tonight I know a connection uptown we can probably catch.
—Yes, I’ll take her home now, Maude said and held the baby up before her, cupping one hand to the head, and she murmured, —A leader of men.
—Huuu, may I take you home? the uniform asked, still trying to gaze down into where Maude had sought what she had now forgotten.
—Where do you live? she asked vaguely, looking up at his face.
Agnes Deigh had taken Stanley’s hand to say, —And every time people meet, they seem to just get a little further away from each other.
—These gulfs everywhere between everything and everybody, Stanley took up immediately, —it’s this fallacy of originality, of self-sufficiency. And in art, even art . . .
—Didn’t you know him? He died in my apartment in Paris when I was having my first one-man show.
—When art tries to be a religion in itself, Stanley persisted, —a religion of perfect form and beauty, but then there it is all alone, not uniting people, not . . . like the Church does but, look at the gulf between people and modern art . . .
—When I go abroad I want to see countries, who wants to see people? You can see people on the B.M.T.
—Damn fine music, Mozart, said the Big Unshaven Man. He had just finished making a whole pitcher of martinis, which he poured into a large pocket flask. —I tell you true.
—Well doesn’t it seem to you like everybody’s changing size?
And in spite of the torn orchid which lowered, and was dangling before his face, Stanley went on, —It isn’t for love of the thing itself that an artist works, but so that through it he’s expressing love for something higher, because that’s the only place art is really free, serving something higher than itself, like us, like we are . . .
And behind him, in a hoarse riot of whisper, —Oh this is mine! this is mine!
—And that’s why you must stop staying outside Agnes, because the Church . . .
—Yess, this is mine! . . .
—There’s no more to drink, said the woman he spoke to, but looking beyond him to that thin broken face. There yellow teeth tore sound into laughter.
—Tell them to fill the waterpots. Fill them up to the brim . . .
—Anselm . . .
—Mine hour is not yet come, Anselm returned, controlling the ragged edges to form words in Stanley’s face, then getting breath, over Stanley’s shoulder, he still laughed, —Woman! what have I to do . . . Stanley bumped him, turning now his whole body against the shudders he shared, locked so as those yellowed teeth bit words out of the air between them, —For I am come to set man at variance against his father, and the daughter against her mother, and the daughter in law against her mother in law . . . and a man’s foes shall be they of his own household . . .
Stanley licked his lips against the fever upon them; and he blinked against the burning eyes.
—Yes, there’s your gulf, the hand of your everloving Christ!
With daring tenderness Stanley’s hand came to the warm wrist, where a vein’s blue ridge coursed the bone. —Why do you fight it so hard?
—You, you . . . Anselm pulled away. Then he looked around frantically for an instant, pulling up breath before he could speak, —Yes, what a lousy time to be alive, yes isn’t it? Yes, I . . . and don’t you wish it was the good old days, when Pope Urban sold his toenail parings as relics? and the . . . yes, when you could choose between three assorted foreskins from the Lord’s circumcision . . .
—When I get drunk it means something, broke in upon them, broke long enough for Stanley’s hand to reaffirm its hold, a frail enough articulation though, in closing so, it brought the veins on Anselm’s hand to bursting prominence. —It doesn’t help to talk this way Anselm, why do you do it?
—Because you can’t . . . I, yes . . . Anselm threw his hand up, breaking the grasp with no effort. —These lousy apologies, these refuges from being alive, art and religion and God damn it you . . . and philosophy, I . . . and I was born with a veil over my head.
—With what? I don’t . . .
—Yes, a caul, God damn it, read an old cookbook, I, yes well what the hell, never mind. I studied medicine. I had a good lay this afternoon, Anselm went on disjointedly, pulling the stethoscope from his pocket. —I just go up to the hospital and I . . .
—Please, don’t talk about . . .
—No but listen, I’ve got to tell you, I go up to this hospital and they think I’m a special physician from outside, the nurses do, that’s what I tell them, so then I go in to look over patients who think I’m connected with the hospital, that’s what I tell them and you should see some of the handfuls I’ve had that way. This afternoon was the best yet. He brandished the stethoscope, the end flew past Stanley’s chin. —This blonde, this terrific blonde, I gave her a three-and-a-half grain shot of sodium amytal and then I climbed in and gave her the business . . . Uninterrupted, he stood there staring at the uncoupled caducei of the stethoscope; then twisting them closed like metaled snakes in his hand he whispered, —That’s what it is, that’s all any of it is . . . But he could not break it, and he looked up and away, instantly found the blond girl earlier accused of putting a t in genial, made up, composed, as pretty (she would never be beautiful), as inanimate and stale as a photograph, once accused of taking the υ out of live; now, of putting an f in lie: —Arse gratias artis, he muttered, —that’s all any of it is.
—Anselm . . . Stanley put a hand forth to him again, —if . . . suffering . . .
—Yes, God damn it, my scars, do you want to see them, they . . . where’s Otto? He’ll show you his scars. Otto, hey Otto, come here, you, where the hell are you? Where the hell is he? He’ll show you, he . . . he’ll put up a real maudlin raree-show for you, he . . . maudlin! Yes, Mary Magdalene crying her eyes out for Christ. That’s great. Can you see him crying his crazy eyes out for Christ? . . . Anselm shuddered. —Suppose you never see me again? he burst in Stanley’s face. —Yes, what would you do, you wouldn’t have, yes but Christ didn’t have any friends did he? Is that what you mean? Yes, well you wouldn’t even have a witness, you . . . because that’s all He had, He . . . where the hell is he, he’ll show you his scars, is that what you want? The Five Sacred Wounds. How would you like that, you could bleed all over the place. You might even get a good set of punctures with the Crown of Thorns, you . . . how about the Ferita? the real bloody heart-wound. Or a good sweat of blood in Gethsemane? you could out-Lutgarde Saint Lutgarde, you could out-pussy Blessed Catherine of Racconigi, if you want to suffer why don’t you go somewhere where it will do somebody else some good instead of being so God-damned selfish about it like these crazy saints. Get a little cross with mirrors in it, that would be the nuts if you want to suffer your way, for Christ sake . . . Where the hell is he? yes, with his scars . . . ? Anselm looked frantically round the room, clutching the stethoscope out before him, for some tangibility among the pale presences.
—If it is fear, Stanley whispered to him in confidence.
—Yes look! Anselm rescued the palest shade of them all in his gesture. —Look at him, look at Charles for Christ sake, look at him! Love? I’ve heard you talking about love. He can tell you about love, about spiritual love, about your kind of love. Tell them, go ahead for Christ sake tell them, about your mother and the Pekinese that the pile of folding chairs fell on, she picked it up and breathed into its mouth, she kept it alive breathing her own life into it but for him? Would she give him one, breath of love? Or a lot of gas about love that has nothing to do with either one of them, for the love of Christ, for Christ sake, she left him here to cut his throat for Christ sake . . .
Figures had started to
gather round them, and Anselm lost in his weight with every word, retreating in fury from every hand though none dared touch him. He tried to jam the twisted stethoscope into his pocket, instead knocked it and the rolled magazine to the floor, and came up with that. —Your sick . . . Lupercalia, he was muttering, as though the weight of words would keep them at bay, and the magazine came open on its back cover. And he burst out at Stanley for the last time, —Yes here, here’s your peace and salvation, “If it slips, if it chafes, if it gripes, THROW AWAY THAT TRUSS! . . .”
—Shut up, the hunched critic said to him, close.
—“Literally thousands of Rupture sufferers have entered this Kingdom of Paradise Regained . . .”
—It doesn’t help to talk this way, Anselm, Stanley said to him.
—Yes, here’s your salvation, yes, thousands “have worn our Appliance without the slightest inconvenience. Cheap—Sanitary—Comfortable . . .”
—Anselm, it doesn’t help to talk like this. Why do you do it?
—Because the one God-damned thing I can’t stand is your Goddamned . . . confidence. Pin-Up Cuties fell to the floor between them.
—But it’s not confidence in myself, Stanley said quickly, —but faith, not confidence but faith in something greater than any of us.
—Why don’t you shut up and get out of here? the critic said.
Anselm turned to him slowly, and formed his words slowly when he spoke, —Fuck a duck and screw a pigeon, that’s the way you’ll get religion. Then he spat in his face. —That’s for your side-show conversion, he said.
—Leave him, Stanley said quickly. —Let him be. He put an arm around Anselm’s shoulders.
Anselm hung there for a moment, or part of a minute, then came up in a shock, —And stop this damned . . . this God-damned sanctimonious attitude, he cried, twisting free, and they stood face to face. —Stanley, by Christ Stanley that’s what it is, and you go around accusing people of refusing to humble themselves and submit to the love of Christ and you’re the one, you’re the one who refuses love, you’re the one all the time who can’t face it, who can’t face loving, and being loved right here, right in this lousy world, this God-damned world where you are right now, right . . . right now. Anselm stood panting; and Stanley had withdrawn a step to stand with his insensible hand on the arm of Agnes Deigh’s chair.
Anselm came toward him, crushing the orchid under foot, pulling in a pocket without moving his eyes from Stanley’s. —Afraid of this, he came on, his voice lower, —this . . . ssuccubus, he came on, sibilant, —thiss, beast with two backs. He brought out the crumpled photograph. —This is it isn’t it, isn’t it . . . He forced it in Stanley’s face. —Isn’t it . . . ! And then it crumpled in his hand, as though drawing itself in upon its own blemishes of betrayal while his hand closed on it, drawn by the loded hieroglyphs coursing the flesh blue in selfish sympathy. —If you should never see me again? Anselm’s voice broke. —Do you know what it is? he came on, almost inaudible, looking at no one. —Und wir bewundern es so, weil es gelassen verschmäht . . . uns zu zerstören . . .
He stood with the orchid crushed underneath his foot: even Don Bildow could swing him round.
—Where is my daughter?
—Your daughter? Anselm repeated, and sounded about to gag. —She’s all right.
—Where is she?
—She’s in church, Anselm said. —I left her in church, he repeated helplessly. The critic advanced on him as he stood with his head rolling from side to side. —Go on, that’s enough of you, you . . . go on, get out . . .
Anselm threw himself at the man but Bildow, clinging to his arm, afraid to let go, held him back. —Get out, get out, Anselm cried. —Go home alone. Alone. Alone . . .
—Shut up, you . . .
—Alone. Go home with your lover, old mister five fingers, haha, haha haha . . . here, he went on, snatching the magazine up from the floor and thrusting it in the face of the other, —here are some girls for you. Here! Do you think I don’t know? do you think we all don’t know, let’s see the calluses on your right hand, old mister five fingers, hahahahahahahuhhhph . . .
Bildow let go of him as he sank to the floor from the comparatively light blow, an effort which had, nevertheless, exhausted his antagonist who stepped back and in the moment it took him to realize that Anselm was down, composed himself, in triumph.
Maude’s voice was faint, but clear in the silence. —This isn’t the way I remember Christmas Eve, she said.
Someone laughed.
—The Lord wouldn’t like this . . .
—Well if this is the cultural center of the world you can give it right back to the Indians . . .
Someone else laughed.
—And so that one said to me, just ask God, baby, She’ll protect you . . .
—Hehe, hehehe . . .
—We know what love is, don’t we baby . . .
—Stanley, please . . .
—Just wait a minute, I want to . . . I have to help him.
—Leave me alone.
—Where is my daughter?
—Leave him alone for a minute. He shouldn’t have hit him.
—Stanley please . . .
—Leave me alone. God damn you, leave me alone!
—But Agnes . . .
—Stanley . . .
—Chr-ahst . . .
—Yes I was told to expect this sort of thing in New York.
—Yes but I mean Chrahst don’t go away, or we’ll both go, let’s both go to your hotel, I’ll stay there tonight.
—But in another room.
—Chrahst yes.
—I was warned about that sort of thing in New York, his companion commented, adjusting his perfectly adjusted tie.
—Oh Rose, Esther said to where her sister sat on the floor in the dark with the records. —Aren’t you tired?
—Are you having a nice party?
Esther put her face in her hands, and felt her sister’s arm round her neck. —Oh Rose. Rose.
The hand under her became rigid, the paralysis ran up her arm, through her shoulders and neck, her face yellowing as the blood drained from behind its bronzed canvas. —Stanley! . . . Agnes Deigh whispered, staring at him bent over Anselm, an arm around Anselm.
—You see, it’s all right now, Stanley said gripping his shoulder but unable to raise it from the floor. Anselm opened his eyes.
In the hand she drew from under her, the white nails clutched a limp cinnamon-colored body. —I thought . . . it was something, Agnes Deigh said weakly to herself. Then she looked around quickly, opened her bag and pulled handfuls of things out which she stuffed in her coat pocket, to snap it closed a moment later upon the lifeless kitten. She summoned her voice in, —Stanley . . .
—And now, you don’t have to fight it any more, you . . . Anselm’s arm was flung around him, and Anselm’s unshaven face tore at Stanley’s cheek with the kiss.
—Stanley! . . .
—You’ve got to listen carefully because it’s very complicated, said someone dangling over her from behind, —Pavlov had dogs who salivated, but this time . . .
—Stanley! she cried out. Stanley looked up to her. —Stanley, please come here.
—But . . . Stanley said, rising and releasing Anselm, who sank back to the floor. —I can’t leave him now, he said, taking a step toward her.
—God help me, Stanley, you must. She reached out and caught his wrist. —I think I’m going to be ill.
—But I can’t leave him now, Stanley said, appealing to Don Bildow who stood beside them.
—Stanley, you can’t leave me.
—But Agnes . . .
—Help me up.
—Where is he? Bildow burst out. —He’s gone, he’s gone, and where . . .
They looked around. Anselm was not there. Stanley staggered and braced himself as Agnes Deigh stood, clinging to his arm. His voice broke when he spoke. —But he was almost . . . I almost . . . what will he do now, alone?
Maude found the baby heavier than
she had expected, when she stood with it. —Help me, she said.
—What’s matter?
—We’re going home.
—But that thing, you better leave it here, you better not take it, it might belong to somebody.
—Please, just . . . open the door.
—Calls himself Tree, does he? I knew him when his name was Tannenbaum, someone said.
—Spain? But everybody in Spain’s been dead for years . . .
—I’m sorry, I’m going home with this gentleman, he’s going to help me write a novel. I don’t know what Mister Wipe will say . . .
A girl was being sick behind a bookshelf. —You gotto excuse her, she’s not used to this. And the bathroom door’s locked. Mr. Feddle, clutching The Razor’s Edge, got to one side.
—That philodendron, that God damn cut leaf philodendron, that’s the only thing I’ve seen growing in eleven years, if you call that growing . . .
Nearby someone obligingly derived philander, —Philos, loving, plus andros, man . . . the voice whined.
—It’s my wife’s, she pays more attention to it than she does to me . . . that’s why I thought about the scythe, that’s why I couldn’t understand it, breaking a scythe . . . but tomorrow morning. . .
—You’ll take me with you? Benny?
—She and Iphigenia, they’re beginning to look like each other.
—Who’s Iphigenia?
—The philodendron.
—What’s that funny smell, I been smelling it all evening.
The heat, and the numbers of people, seemed to have heightened the scent of lavender which came from the dark doorway and pervaded the well-lighted room, except for the fragrant shade left by the tall woman, the trace of My Sin still clinging to the chair Agnes Deigh had left empty, and a sweet pungence rising in one corner where someone said to the Boston girl, —Don’t smoke that stuff here, for Christ sake.
The music had, by now, become a fixture in the room; it was as though it had combined with the smoke and the incongruous scents into a tangible presence, the slag of refinement rising over the furnace, where the alchemist waited with a lifetime’s patience, staring into his improbable complex of ingredients as dissimilar in nature as in proportion, commingling but refusing to fuse there under his hand, and as unaware of his hand as of their own purpose, so that some sank and others came in entirety to the surface, all that as though nothing had changed since the hand sifted the scoria of the Middle Ages for what all ages have sought, and found, as they find, that what they seek has been itself refined away, leaving only the cinders of necessity.