He said aloud: But there are grades and heights where pity itself is regarded by him as impurity, as filth. Thus spake Zoroaster. He watched the words form themselves on the lips, which only restrainedly and slightly moved, the eyelids were a little lowered, the beautiful face remained immobile and cold. It was as if the word death had been pronounced by a flower, or by a mask of silver: and now the flower, or the mask, had become death’s symbol. He smiled superciliously in the silence which was his own, then pulled out the top drawer and took from it a photograph. It was of Gerta, he had suddenly thought of it in the train, Gerta at Walden two years ago, she looked much younger: with one bare arm raised she was shading her eyes and laughing, her eyes squinting a little in the bright sunlight. He looked closely at the dress, remembering it as one which had since been discarded, and considered with it the sense of deepened time. It had been himself of course that she was thus peering at from under her hand, thus laughing at, not yet had the obscurities and tangles between them been discovered by either of them, though they were already taking shape; it had been their age of innocence; the day at Walden had been relatively simple. Thoreau, and the notion of egoism, had hung, there a little, but not much: Gerta had been pretty sure that they would end by marrying, or at any rate that they would have an affair. But was there, just perceptible in the sunlit frown, the shadow of a doubt, the shadow of Sandbach? Perhaps this was why she had written jokingly on the back “Gertadämmerung. Passed by the Censor.”
The twilight of Gerta.
He slid the photograph into his side pocket, not for the moment wishing to be separated from it, since it might give rise to further considerations, then retraced his steps into the corridor, leaving the lights on, and proceeded towards the back stairs which led down to Toppan’s room. The electric lights had been turned off for the night, and the gas jets turned on, the copper cylinder of the fire extinguisher gleamed in its corner, and the corridor was still, except for the low voices of the epileptic and his wife from the room by the stairhead. He paused to listen.
— and walking very slowly like that with the paper in my hand—
— She probably didn’t see you at all.
— watching me just the same, I could see—
— matter. I ordered a packing case from Sage’s—
But was Gerta quite as asquiescent as she appeared to be?
He descended the two flights, deliberately lightening his footsteps, glanced through the window at the dark pile of Beck Hall, and his thoughts reverted to Gerta’s question. But aren’t we insane? Certainly there was a hint of “outside” observation or criticism in this, but if the aroma of challenge arose from it, very faintly, it needn’t perhaps be taken too seriously. The tone of acquiescence was already there, it need only be followed up, the challenge was not aimed at rebellion but simply at — yes, there could be no doubt of it, and he smiled — at her need for further coercion, her desire for further coercion. She wanted to be persuaded, she wanted to be forced, her real depth of pleasure would lie precisely in the fact that she was being compelled into a conspiracy which perhaps she considered insane and horrible. But did she think this? She knew his logic to be flawless. After the first step beyond morals, beyond good and evil, one was in chaos and must trust one’s own wings. Her wings she might mistrust, but his—
There was no answer to his perfunctory knock at Toppan’s door, he stood for a moment looking at the visiting card, Julius Shaw Toppan, into which some one had inserted, with a carat, the pencilled name Diogenes: a reference to Toppan’s reputation for unmitigated honesty; then entered, switching on the light. A tray was on the piano bench, a half-filled bottle of gin, a bottle of ginger ale, two glasses. Toppan was expecting him. This was annoying, but it could be permitted to pass. He sat down in the swivel chair by the flat-topped mission desk, pulled out the middle drawer, and removed the loose-leaf diary. Beside it, in the drawer, lay five or six new letters, one of them in an unfamiliar handwriting and postmarked Chicago, these would be interesting, but they could wait. There was also a theater-ticket envelope, which he found contained two tickets for the ballet. Was he taking Gerta?
“April 22. April 23. April 24. Chaste and epicene.
“April 27. Am resolved in future to make this not so much a diary as a journal; but when I pause to reflect why I should make this decision I am not so sure whether in the future such a record would really be as interesting as a record of facts? More amusing to know, ten years from now, that today I walked round the Pond with Gerta, on her suggestion, and just as I imagined it was because she wanted to talk about the great Jasper. Not very flattering. Any fool could see she is in love with him. But why pick on me? Because she knows he interests me, which he does. She thinks he is behaving more queerly of late, but good God Almighty how could he? The people in this apartment house are frightened to death of him, those who don’t just hate his guts. And no wonder. Just the same, a part of his fascination for Gerta (and for me) is in the very fact that he knows he is fascinating and uses it so deliberately and conceitedly. You can’t help admiring the perfection of his technique. Gerta seemed to think he was changing. Said he was more “morose.” I confess I hadn’t noticed it, but maybe there’s something in it. I told her about his call the other night (Thursday) when he came in, walked once round the room, looking at each picture on the wall in turn, and then went out without a word. The trouble about that is, it’s hard to say whether he knows his behavior is odd or not. I give him credit for knowing that it is: Gerta says she isn’t so sure, and particularly just in the last month or two. I could see she was dying to ask me whether I thought he was insane or not, but I decided quite rightly to keep out of that mess and didn’t give her any help. Personally, I don’t think he is. I think it’s all a belated sort of adolescent pose, the business of playing genius. Especially when you consider all the esthetic stuff as well, the vague hints thrown out now and then of his mysterious “writings” and so on, which no one has ever seen and never will. My diagnosis is spoiled child, but that’s only half of it: more than any person I ever knew he has something like genius, but God knows what it is — the only way I can define it is to say that he is or has the appearance of being terribly concentrated. Not that that butters any parsnips. Or that it will help Gerta. I’d like to warn Gerta to clear out, but what business is it of mine? She’s free, white and twenty-one and prides herself on her independence, you can’t tell these Lucy Stoners anything.