And this indifference, this apathy—
It was a part of the time problem.
He tapped a fingernail on his watch, frowned, opened the window to knock the ashes out of his pipe. It had certainly become unexpectedly difficult, unexpectedly vague — the queer thing was the way in which, from the moment when he had actually found Jones, marked him down, begun to learn about him and know him, the element of hurry, of pressure, had begun subtly to dissolve. It was as if abruptly he had stepped out of time into timelessness: what need could there be, any longer, for hurry? Jones was not only there, he was here: Jones had joined him, had joined his life: it was almost, in fact, as if Jones had become a part of his own “self.” He had again that queer feeling of encroachment, as if his image were walking toward him out of a mirror, or his shadow somehow falling on his own body; the feeling was not unpleasant, brought with it a sense of power, a sense of agreeable duplicity; but also in it was something a little disconcerting, or even dangerous. It was all very well for Toppan to say, in his smug insinuating fashion, that there wasn’t any point in going on with it after a certain time — how could Toppan know anything about it? The pure vision — this was (as in the beginning he had of course not been able to foresee) the period of pure vision! To sit back and watch, to wait here now, for instance, actually foregoing his power to watch, was a very nearly perfect thing. It was comparable to the artist’s intuition of the completed work of art: Jones was in the process of becoming an artifact. He remembered saying to Gerta—“an action could have the purity of a work of art. It could be as abstract and absolute as a problem in algebra.…”
Wasn’t that still true?
Of course: and more than ever necessary. What must be kept firmly in mind was the inherent necessity. If the world was logical at all, then it must be logical in every item. And if it was despicable, if humanity was despicable, and if one was to sound one’s contempt for it to the bottom, separate oneself from it, then the final and inevitable action in the series would be simply an act of destruction: it would be the only natural purification. It was not, in this sense, dictated so much by hatred as by a need for purification. Was that it? Or not hate only, at all events. It was the need of the superior being to separate himself violently from the one-who-wants-to-be-killed, the inferior, the crowd.…
He smiled, recapitulating; the whole thing summed itself up neatly and decisively; the constellation of events became once more precise and orderly. Gerta, Sandbach, Toppan, Jones — they were arranged and fell into place, the clock moved them in its geometrical orbit, their voices and faces faded as they passed, became vivid as they approached, faded again. Toppan’s suspicions were powerless to take any shape in action; Sandbach’s guesswork was too far off to find any accuracy of aim, his emotions too confused for any singleness of purpose; Gerta’s devotion would continue, until too late, to constitute for her an effective paralysis. They circled with the clock, they watched as they moved, but their fixed orbit, fixed by himself, would never bring them any nearer to him. They, as much as Jones, were his own creation, they were falling into their grooves, they no longer had any freedom of will. To all intents, they had become puppets.
Two children, a boy and a girl, ran past him bowling iron hoops, the wooden sticks ringing dully on the metal, clanking regularly, the shrill voices raised in a meaningless and unintelligible gabble. An immense pile of white clouds had come up from the southwest, the sun went out, the afternoon became gray.
He took Gerta’s letter from his pocket, opened it on his knee.
Jasper my dear — I suppose you suggested the place in Belmont because you knew I’d be teaching there in the afternoon, but I wish you had taken the trouble to let me know a little sooner, it’s not too convenient — and don’t you take a good deal for granted? I don’t quite know why you should assume — as you appear to — that your plans are of such importance to me. If you had wanted to see me, any time in the past fortnight, you could easily have done so: and why you should now want to be so spectacular — shall I say melodramatic? — about our meeting I confess I don’t see. Don’t you think the whole thing is becoming a trifle absurd? Why on earth should I want to watch you at revolver practice? Don’t be ridiculous! However, I am a little concerned about you, for Julius says you look ill and haven’t been sleeping, and of course I won’t pretend that I wouldn’t like to see you, so I’ll be there as soon as I can get away from Miss Bottrall’s dreadful little life class. I’d be somewhat relieved if you’d kindly forget to bring your revolver. It hardly seems necessary. Gerta.
They had been talking together again — and Toppan had told her that he looked ill.
What was more interesting, however, was the note of withdrawal in the letter, which was distinct. This too might be Toppan’s doing, but more likely it was Sandbach’s. Sandbach was beginning to struggle. He was saying to her — that madman Ammen. You must cut yourself off from that madman Ammen. The quarrel in front of the Fogg Museum might have been that — Sandbach had been urging her to drop him, he was frightened and angry, and he disapproved of Toppan’s influence because Toppan didn’t agree with him. That was why he had refused Toppan’s invitation to tea. And also, of course, he probably suspected Toppan of knowing more about the situation than he did himself. He suspected all three of them of keeping him at a distance, keeping him in the dark, he was struggling in a web of which the filaments were maddeningly invisible.… The whole thing was working beautifully.
But what should he say to Gerta?
He became aware that he had been listening to the radio which sounded from an open window, Frankie and Johnnie—“bring on your rubber-tired hearses, bring on your rubber-tired hacks”—the melancholy irony died behind him in a sardonic drawl as the car picked up speed, and in a moment he had passed the house in Reservoir Street and was heading for Concord Avenue. The Ford had gone, no one was in sight, but the cot and bags stood on the porch, and the door was wide open. It was tempting — the opportunity was certainly unusual — but on the other hand to turn back now might be a little risky: some prying neighbor, standing behind curtains, might notice it and think it peculiar, might remember seeing the Buick there before; or remember it later when he came again. Better not. And the day’s work was already good enough.
But what should he say to Gerta?
And need it be shaped in advance, or could it be allowed to shape itself, or to be shaped by her?
As a matter of fact, the necessity wasn’t so much for saying anything as for appearing: the real need, for the moment, was that he should simply be seen, so that the weight of his character and purpose — above all his purpose — should again, and at this critical juncture, be deeply felt. The time had come for a subtle counter-balancing of Sandbach, a sly disturbance of the center of gravity. To do this, it would be sufficient, as it were, simply to cross the stage, to look hard at her for a few seconds, and then vanish. The bonds would be tightened, Sandbach’s work would begin all over again, the shadow on him would have deepened still further, and if in addition Toppan had fed her natural anxiety, so that she was concerned for him, or even had begun to feel sorry for him—