What did anything matter? he thought. What did it matter if he lived or died, succeeded or failed? The sense of insubstantiality, at first faint and passing, became almost constant in him. Objects he saw, people he passed on the street, were painted brittlenesses, and when he looked at them he felt sick and anguished. Nothing was desirable; nothing was desired. He was conscious of nothing now but a kind of awful misery.
He thought of his book, in the hands of Thomas Ingham’s Sons, and he turned away from the thought. No, he would not allow this ghastly mood to turn that into stone also. He told himself that when the book was accepted he would feel “differently.” In the meantime, it was profoundly necessary not to think of it.
He thought of Jessica, and now there was a ghostly stirring in him. It was early summer. The rich always went away to their summer homes. It was possible that Jessica had gone, too. Though he had carefully avoided the street on which she lived, he took to haunting it, skulking near the heavy trees that lined it, passing quickly by the house and its long drives. Sometimes he saw cars turning in at the driveways, and walked rapidly on, all his body stiffened against a call of recognition. It never came. So she has many visitors, he thought, bright casual people who know nothing of the Depression, of bitter work and defeat and suffering. Once or twice he heard a woman’s laugh. It was never Jessica’s.
Now his walks past the house became slower, more regular. It seemed violently urgent that he catch glimpses of Jessica. He had the strangest feeling that only such glimpses would redeem him from the illness that had him, which made work and sleep and normal living impossible. He went to the street at night, and sometimes tiptoed into the driveways, where he could see the lights of the house through the trees. He lurked in shrubbery, where cars passed him on the way up to the house. Then one night, by the faint glow of a street lamp, he saw Jessica’s face in a car.
She was with a young man. Frank saw her profile, pale, luminous, smiling. He himself was in the shadow of a weeping willow. Perhaps she felt the urgency of his stare, for she suddenly turned her head and looked through the car window. For one instant, Frank saw her eyes, wide and dark, vaguely searching, but eager.
He went away shaken. She knew I was there, even if she didn’t see me, he thought. As he walked through the warm night streets, the faint stirring in the emptiness of him quickened, as roots quicken in the black earth in the spring. He was joyful; he was not entirely dead, then. He did not try to work, for fear of killing this new fresh shoot in the wasteland. But every night he returned to the house.
Once he saw her walking from the house down to the street, and he had only just enough time to turn, as if in panic, and walk rapidly in the opposite direction. When he was far enough away to be safe from detection, he glanced over his shoulder. Jessica was standing far down on the street, on the corner, as if waiting for the long stream of automobiles that flowed past the intersection to pass so that she might cross. There came a pause in the traffic. But she made no move to take advantage of it. Lost, forlorn, and completely motionless, she stood on the pavement in her pale blowing dress, as if entranced. He saw her tall and slender figure, the strong but delicate breadth of her shoulders, the long indentation of her waist. The lamplight shone on her dark hair.
Frank stood and watched her. She was standing still, as if waiting. Then, all at once, she turned quickly, as if at a call, and he felt her eyes searching the darkness. He stepped from the pavement to the shadowed curb. She moved a step or two in his direction. She glanced across the street at every corner. She watched every man who approached. Then, slowly, she began to drift back towards the house. Frank, risking death under the wheels of a car, abruptly crossed the street.
She is waiting, he thought exultantly as he went home. She is waiting for me.
Now something sentient and alive, like a growing tree, took root in his mind. The appalling misery and horror of his days and nights lifted, blew away. He could remember the agony of them, but he could no longer feel them. He went, night after night, to Jessica’s house, and quite often he saw her strolling, or just standing, near the gates or wall, quiet, sometimes smoking, and apparently undisturbed. She did not go away for the summer, and he had the feeling, perhaps egotistical, that it was because of him.
He wanted to get to work on his new book. But though the sentient presence in his mind daily grew stronger and firmer and more living, he could not write his book. However, as a writer, he knew that he must wait, that he must allow the growing thing in his mind to take shape, pattern, coherence, before it could be expressed. He had the conviction, too, that that which would finally emerge would not be the book he had planned.
He began to wait for the mails again, with rising and feverish impatience. If the letter he expected fulfilled his dreams, it would be his signal to go to Jessica. But he could not go to her while he still had nothing to offer but himself. That self was nothing, nothing at all, he thought. Not he, but what he had accomplished: only that would be acceptable to Jessica Bailey.
Millions of men, unemployed and hopeless, walked the streets of America. Mr. Roosevelt’s desperate panaceas failed to alleviate the universal suffering, for his panaceas could not penetrate to the true sickness of the people. A black cloud of awful rumor hung over Europe. Mr. Roosevelt was reelected, attempted to “pack” the Supreme Court. A king abdicated his throne for a woman. The newspapers filled their columns with confusions, conjectures, with hideous stories of the concentration camps in Germany, with hints of rising German might.
It all flowed past Frank’s feet like faint, unseen water. He lived only for the mails, for the day when he would be delivered from contact with humanity, when, never again, would it have power to hurt or debase him, when he could hate, fully and in freedom, and not fear hunger.
CHAPTER 64
Three months had gone by, and save for a brief note acknowledging the receipt of the manuscript by Thomas Ingham’s Sons, there had been no other word.
Finally, unable to endure the suspense any longer, Frank wrote the publishers a very desperate and somewhat incoherent letter. “I have been writing all my life, and now I am completely discouraged. I have made some money writing trash for the magazines, but it seems almost impossible for me to get started on worth-while work. If this manuscript is rejected by you, I shall destroy it, and never try again—”
Three days went by. Now Frank hardly left his rooms, cooking his meals himself, and living in a blank vacuum from hour to hour, between the mails. In the morning and afternoon, half an hour before the postman was due to arrive, he would sit by his window and watch, his pale thin face rigid with suspense and passionate anxiety. Faint remnants of his boyhood’s intuitiveness returned to him. In some way, he knew that the letter he expected with such immense excitement would not be the usual rejection form. He sat, and the palms of his hands sweated, and unknown to himself, he clenched his knees with his hands, in the old gesture of his father’s. A tight knot had taken up permanent residence in the pit of his stomach; a ball of concrete had attached itself to his larynx, so that he could hardly breathe, and food almost choked him when he ate. He waited for the mails as Bluebeard’s wife had waited for the coming of her brothers, to save her from death. The street below him was unpeopled, except by shadows. The only reality was the blue-clad postman, going leisurely from door to door. Sometimes, watching that maundering unconcern, Frank cursed the unaware and genial man, and before the latter had rung the bell Frank was halfway down the stairs. But except for a circular, or a small bill, his mailbox remained empty. He would then climb up the stairs to his rooms, weak with the shock of disappointment, aching as if he had grown old, his mouth dry and his eyes dim.
Finally, as he was still young and his nerves still fairly healthy, exhaustion had its way with him one morning, and he slept beyond the hour when the postman was due to arrive. So it was, that when he awakened with a shock, he discovered it to be eleven o’clock. The mails! Still dizzy with sleep and weariness, throwing on his bathr
obe, he stumbled down the stairway. Something white gleamed in his mailbox. His fingers, suddenly grown numb, could hardly open the box. There was a square white envelope within. He snatched it out; it fell from his hand. He bent, picked it up. It fell again. He had seen that it was a letter from Thomas Ingham’s Sons, and now his legs became gristle beneath him, and he collapsed, rather than sat down, on the bottom stair. His fingers felt enormous and paralyzed as he tore the letter open. He closed his eyes a moment, before looking at the narrow sheet of paper. He braced himself. His eyes swam; the printed words danced and streamed before his vision:
“We must still have a few days in which to consider the book, but I wish to tell you that we have every intention of making you a proposal. It is likely, however, to involve what may seem to you quite radical suggestions. Perhaps you will think them too much. I cannot yet say definitely what they will be, but I think that after consultation we shall be able to work out a satisfactory method. I am just telling you this because your letter made me wish not to keep you any longer in suspense about the question of publication.” It was signed “Ever sincerely yours, Cornell T. Hawkins.”
His landlord, faded and gray and lean, came out of his own lower apartment, and started when he saw Frank sitting on the stairs. “Good morning,” he said, in his frail old voice, and there was disturbed inquiry in his eyes, for he saw that Frank was ghastly white, that he was staring before him as if he had been struck into unconsciousness, and that his whole appearance indicated extreme shock.
“Is there anything wrong, Mr. Clair?” asked Mr, Penseres, tremulously. “A glass of water, perhaps—? Bad news? I hope not—”
Frank stood up; he almost fell against the side of the balustrade. Now his eyes were almost the eyes of an insane man. His voice was loud and shrill as he stammered: “Mr. Penseres! My book! The—the publisher has taken my book! They’re going to publish it—!” The ball of concrete suddenly shut off his breath, and he gasped.
“Dear me! Dear me!” exclaimed Mr. Penseres, agitated but perplexed. “Allow me, sir, to offer my congratulations!” He stared at Frank, wondering, uncertain. Frank did not have the appearance of one smitten with great joy. Shock was still gray and twitching on his drawn features.
“My God! My God!” Frank was whispering. Mr. Penseres could see that his forehead was wet, glistening with huge drops. Mr. Penseres was embarrassed. He cleared his throat and said diffidently: “A cup of coffee, perhaps, Mr. Clair? I believe Mrs. Penseres has just attached the percolator—”
The old man came into focus before Frank. Suddenly the young man laughed, weakly, incoherently. “Thanks. Thanks.” He paused. Now he smiled, and it was a wild smile. His whole body was shaking violently. “Thanks, never mind. It—it doesn’t matter. You see—”
But Mr. Penseres was only staring at him in great perplexity. Frank looked down at the paper crushed in his sweating hand. Then, putting out his other hand to steady himself against the wall, he slowly crept upstairs.
He slumped on the edge of his bed. He sat there a long time. Then he could no longer be still. He began to walk up and down the small bright room, which was flooded with early summer sunshine. He walked with increasing rapidity, whispering over and over: “My God! Thank God! Oh, my God!” He shivered, as if cold, and then he was burning hot. He stumbled against furniture and bruised himself and did not feel it. He wiped his face, only to have to wipe it again, almost immediately. A great trembling filled all his body, so that it was as if his very bones were quaking. He swallowed over and over, in a feeble attempt to eliminate the ball of concrete, which was increasing in size. He wanted to weep, shout, scream, dance, cry out madly. Once, as he walked, he knocked against his table, and caught his typewriter just in time to save it from smashing onto the floor. But his lamp danced crazily. He saw it, and he burst out into loud hoarse laughter.
He read and reread the letter. Cornell T. Hawkins. It was a name written in gold on a silver scroll. It was a name from heaven. It was the secret name of deliverance.
He said aloud, staring before him with protruding eyes: “I am going to be free! I am going to be rich—rich—rich—! I am going to be famous—!”
The world, shut out from him for so long, the world, which could be obtained only by money, suddenly spread before him like a panorama of shining towers, of bright archways, of great paths lit with an everlasting sun. It was to be his! It was all to be his! There was a mighty blazing gate in that panorama that lay before him, and it was open. Music gushed from it, the sound of exultation and triumph. He could not bear it. He flung himself face down on his bed, but the torturing joy lashed him to his feet again, to set him walking, to set him stumbling again on a raceway up and down the room, to set every nerve in his body to thrilling, every hair on his head to arching and tingling. Somewhere his name had been written on the page of those who conquer, succeed, surmount—and live! Somewhere a word has been given which would raise him out of the ruck of misery and darkness and failure and poverty. Somewhere the light had moved again on the golden mountain, and it was pouring down upon him. He, Frank Clair, was seeing his name inscribed with a lighted pen upon the page of life. He saw Jessica Bailey’s grave, smiling face.
He pressed the letter convulsively against his chest. He wanted to feel it against his flesh. Had he been a woman, he would have kissed it
He read it again. “—to involve what may seem to you quite radical suggestions. Perhaps you will think them too much—”
Too much! Nothing would be too much! Frank paused. Then a sudden horrible panic seized him. What, if upon reconsideration, Mr. Hawkins should decide that Mr. Clair would not care for the “suggestions”? What if the next mail brought a reluctant letter of rejection?
Cold black horror descended upon Frank. There was but one thing to do. Disheveled as he was, still in his old gray bathrobe, he ran down the stairs to his landlord’s apartment and stammeringly requested to use the telephone. He sent a telegram to Mr. Hawkins: “Any changes you wish to make are all right. Will arrive in New York tomorrow to discuss matter with you.”
He could hardly see the telephone dial or hold the telephone book on his knees. He called the New York Central Station, and made reservations on a train for that night.
CHAPTER 65
How was it possible to fill the hours from noon to midnight? How long did it take to go downtown and to purchase a really handsome piece of “airplane” luggage, all gray and amber stripes, fitted with brass, and lined luxuriously? How long a time passed while one sat in a cafeteria and tried to force a tuna-fish sandwich down one’s throat, and drink a cup of coffee which had no taste at all? It devoured no time to buy a new and expensive tie, to watch the salesman wind it deftly about his fingers to demonstrate the suave pattern, to watch it shimmer in the broad electric light overhead, to have it put in a smooth white box, to drop it into the luggage. A new shirt, a really good one, costing three dollars, the best of white broadcloth? A moment’s transaction. How about a dressing-gown, a soft Paisley pattern? Hardly a breath between decision and the passing of money. A new hat? A sleek gray, with a snap brim, and an air. Another breath or two. Perhaps buying a new pair of shoes would consume the time. It was done! Never had Frank experienced such speed in the shops.
He looked at his father’s old gold watch. Why, it was only three o’clock, and he had spent nearly a hundred dollars! Surely a lifetime must have passed. The knot in his middle, the concrete lump in his throat, were larger than ever. But it was only three o’clock.
He walked down Main Street, carrying his new luggage, wearing his new hat, and he wondered how he could contain himself. He saw the men and women passing him. He wanted to shout out to them: “Look at me! Turn and stare at me! Stop and murmur about me! You pass me now, because you don’t know what I am, what I have done, what I am going to be! You think I am only one of you, a shadowless, faceless part of you, as dead of soul and as mean and maggoty of life as yourselves! You think your destiny is mine, grovelling, plotting fo
r little dollars, planning a little fornication or a little adultery, hurrying to your husbands or your wives or your children, hoping that tomorrow you will have a job, or a raise, or a new car, or be able to afford paint for your hideous little houses, or perhaps a new toilet, a new rug, a new fixture for your bedroom. You walk on your sore feet, and you believe my feet are sore like yours, that I breathe the same air with you, that my heart beats as sluggishly as yours. But, look at me! Next week, next month, you will see my face in the newspaper.
Now you shall know, too, you venomous, malignant, contemptible and ugly little world of men, that I detest and despise you, that I have escaped from you forever. I am passing from you, you unspeakable, soulless horror, you animals in the form of men, you brainless caricatures of the angels.
Suddenly he felt that he must tell someone, that he could no longer be mute, prisoning up this mad joy in himself. But who would listen, who would rejoice with him? He ran into a drugstore, fished a five-cent piece from his pocket, bumbled into a telephone booth, and called Jessica Bailey.