Would Tom be there; or would Bertha be alone.
He ran quickly across the lamp-reflecting river of Memorial Drive, dodged the twin headlamps of an approaching car, which funneled bright swarms of raindrops out of the night, and on arrival at the other side, suddenly slipped and sat down hard on the half-frozen gravel path, striking his left knee. The pain sickened him, he hugged the lifted knee derisively, sat still for a moment, laughing silently, then rose and limped forward, looking over his shoulder to see if he had been observed. And what sort of pain was this, was this not-rock too. Was it real or unreal. Less real, or more, than the pain of separation. Ridiculous! Tuberculosis, intervening, will arrest the progress of dementia praecox. Good God. If everything was as relative as this — if a sudden physical pain could thus completely shut off a psychological pain, and make the return to it seem forced and deliberate and false — a mere self-indulgence—
Boylston Street, a lighted garage, another garage, the bookshop sign swinging and dripping in the narrow dark street, Erasmus, the lights in the gymnasium. Rodman had said that he must have the completed text in two weeks; and here a week was almost gone — twenty more translation exercises to be compiled and written out — but that would be easy. That Ronda poem. That absurd guidebook. Correct the errors in the following. And at least two of the exercises devoted to the corrida—a novel idea to introduce the bullfight into Spanish grammar. With perhaps a spirited photo or two. Sol y sombra. And what about a quotation from the Spanish translation of “The Waste Land,” Tierra Baldia, by Angel Flores. Abril es el mes más cruel; engendra — Lilas de la tierra muerta, mezcla—And the guidebook, Guia de Ronda. “Ronda is an intricated old Moorish town. Being highly salubrious the longevity of the place is proverbial.” And the “polite youngs.” Translate these passages into what you think might have been the Spanish original. Or something from Toreros y Toros.
At the bright door to the Waldorf, beside the subway entrance, three cents for The Boston Evening Transcript; and then the ticket, accepted from the ticket machine, with a slow clink; and the fried eggs, fresh country eggs, and bacon. Old Turgenev at the desk, with his beautiful white tobacco-stained beard. Eddie, the Negro taxi-driver, sprawling in his usual chair beside the door, reading a paper, his taxi drawn up at the curb outside, in readiness for undergraduates bent on pleasure. And the marble clock with black hands.
Was suffering one’s nearest approach to an acute realization of life? Of existence? And therefore desirable?
— All I can say is, he’s a stinker. It ought to have been a D.
— Why don’t you go and see him.
— The squash courts—
— Sure. Five o’clock.
— And a side order of bacon. Three to come. Blue plate.
— Oh, gosh, it was good. It was the cat’s pyjamas. It was the bee’s knees.
— No, it was Crab that seconded him. Not me.
Complete Wall Street And Boston Stocks Closing Prices Heiress Fights to Keep Her Baby Child Flogged Boy Is Black and Blue Boston Stage Star Dead Famous Singer Began Career With Medicine Show at Age of Ten Years.
But where was it all gone, where was all the tumult gone, into what remote and dwindling sunset sound? And as Bill had said, Bertha must be suffering too. Walking to and fro with a soaked handkerchief in her hand. Unable to sit down, to rest, to think. Unable to sleep. Telephoning to all her friends. What had she said. Had she told them that he had left her. Or what. How had she explained it. Had she told them that she and Tom—
He crumbled the paper napkin, as if to crush once again the recapitulative pang, pushed back his chair. What dress would she be wearing — as if it mattered, by God. The blue velvet opera cloak. And all their friends, all the wives of faculty members, to see them when they met. Look, there is Andrew Cather, he’s talking with Bertha, do you see them, in the back row, you know what they say about them don’t you, they say — and do you suppose Tom Crapo is here tonight — can you imagine—
In Bill’s room again, without turning on the light, he poured himself a whisky, drank it straight, resumed the automatic buzz of phrases. Was there no way to stop it. Was it wise to go to the concert at all. Should he go to see Molly, invite her to come to Duxbury with him, simply to have some one to talk to. The light from Massachusetts Avenue filled the room with imitation moonlight, sharply angled, ghostly; Michelangelo gazed down somberly through a diagonal shadow. Telephone to Molly now, or later perhaps. Go to Shepard Hall while Bertha was still at the concert, to have a look around, get the mail, put on a clean shirt. And telephone to Molly from there. Hello Molly, this is your old friend Andy, I wondered if you would like — I wondered if we might — what do you say to a little elopement — expedition — would you like to drive me down to Duxbury tonight — all expenses paid — what ho, Molly, how about a little spree to Montreal. Dance at the Lido first if you like. Or stay in your flat and drive down early in the morning. It’s all over but the laughing.
He chose a book at random from the shelf by the fireplace, turned on the light and began to read, standing with his back to the hearth.
“Man is pre-eminently distinguished from the lower animals by the enormous development of his libido … he loves a great deal more than is necessary.”
He loves a great deal more than is necessary. Christ!
The impulse to fling the book down violently was translated quietly into a precise reinsertion of it in its place on the shelf. These psychologists. These fellows who become psychologists because they understand neither themselves nor any one else. These phrase-makers — man with his enormous libido, man with his persistent libido, man pre-eminently distinguished from the lower animals because his love is not confined to the rutting season! Pre-eminently distinguished from the birds by his lack of wings. Look at the poor devil, staggering through the world under his enormous burden of libido. I forgive you, Bertha, for now I realize that the burden of libido which you carry everywhere with you is far too much for you. Yes. Let us share it with you. Hand it about to the audience at Sanders Theater — God knows they could stand a little more. And if they and Tom don’t want it all — if there is something left over — a quantum, a surd, one tiny flame-plume — one eyelash-flicker of a loving look—
But no. Not that. My dear Bertha — Bertha my dear — need I explain to you the so very simple fact that after what has happened it will be impossible for us to resume — I mean, impossible for us to live — we must wave away the notion of a shared bedroom. You understand that. Old-fashioned of me, I daresay, but honest. Honest Andrew. What arrangement shall we make. Can we discuss it now quite calmly and sensibly. Shall I take a separate apartment next door. Shall we separate, or is it possible that now — now that this action has freed us — we can come together more usefully on another and perhaps more realistic plane. But not exactly — need I say — the planes of Abraham. No. And strange too that it is still with such a pang, though partly retrospective, and therefore sentimental—
And why was it with excitement, with quickened heartbeat, with unseeing eye, the familiar sensation of the face lowered so as to avoid the impalpable psychological problem, precisely as if it were a thing physically visible, that he approached Memorial Hall in the rain, slowing his steps as he passed Appleton Chapel, and even tempted, as long ago, to make a deliberate circuit of a block or two, for the mere gaining of time? Dismay? fear? doubt? animal distrust of the unknown? Pull yourself together. Enter. Climb the stairs. Ten minutes to eight. Take your seat and look about you.