The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) (109 page)

—Derive venereal, and see what you get, if you don’t call
that
decay, said someone near the hunched critic, who turned away, looked down at his large hands, and shrugged.

Beyond, like some creature opportunely equipped to cope with situations which have not yet arisen or, indeed, even been suggested, Mr. Feddle scooted up a tier of shelved books, beyond the reaches of hagfish and lamprey, and other jawless progenitors babbling in apparent contentment below. From the surface there, the critic watched him, bringing up a hand to smooth his hair and for that moment betray the size of his head. His expression was as simple as resentment without understanding can be: now like plesiosaurus laboring all four limbs for the paddles they were, lifting a small head to see pterodactyl raise its absurd body on more absurd wings and with cumbrous scaling gain the sky, a ridiculous place to be, certainly, but for that moment he watched, disconcerting to plesiosaurus, to whom no such extravagance had ever occurred and who, by no feat of skill or imagination, could hope to accomplish it now.

—As for your Emerson . . . ! someone said: and indeed, there were those to satisfy that eclectic digger too, gliding not to eat, nor for love, but only gliding.

Esther, advancing, searched the shadows, but the speechless kitten was nowhere to be seen. Then looking for Ellery she raised her eyes, but their light remained untenanted until Benny’s flickering image filled them, and he asked with forced cheer, —Have you seen a little blond number named Adeline?

Several people turned to see Mr. Feddle fall clattering to the floor; and in keeping with that refusal to be ruffled by disturbances,
which they called good breeding, no one offered to help him up. For even those present who considered good breeding a pretension affected by a class they were vocationally in revolt against, substituting for it an obtuseness which they called honesty, watched with honest laughter.

—My dear, it’s been lovely, the tall woman said to Esther. —I do wish I could give parties like this, but my husband . . . With one hand she was attempting to dislodge her husband from the shoal of furniture, where his hapteric glass anchored him. —But you’re not upset? You have to learn to be philosophical about those things, my dear, just don’t think about them. Now
I
have a real problem, just look at my furpiece . . . well it is insured, thank God. I spoke to him about it but I honestly don’t believe he understands English. I can’t repeat what he said to me. There is something almost prehistoric about him, wouldn’t you say? . . . something almost attractive . . . wouldn’t you say?

The furpiece had, in fact, lost the quality of being an assumed decoration. Nature’s hand (which we are now assured is experimentally inclined) might have worked here to produce one of those severe mutations which (so Science goes on assuring us) are opportune, chancy arrangements with no particular purpose, included in the calculated risk of being born. Nonetheless, Anselm wiped his nose on a mink tail as casually as though the thing had grown there for that purpose. But his expression retained a livid suspension, as the lower lip was held sharply under an uneven yellow line of teeth. He was watching Stanley. From Rose’s darkness came men’s voices borne on music,
Judas Maccabaeus
. On one hand, Chavenet turned out to be the man who had first proved that the eye which forms the image could not possibly have worked until after it was complete. Seated on the other, that xenophobic accessory to monosyllabic criteria in honest writing, overheard the word hapteron from above, and swore. Anselm watched Stanley. And behind him, Don Bildow approached mustering as vengeful an expression as plastic rims would allow.

—There must be some place to hide for people who make mistakes, Agnes Deigh said holding Stanley’s hand in both hers. She was staring there, where Mickey Mouse semaphored annul with yellow mittens. —It can’t be that early, she murmured.

—But Agnes, the Church . . .

—That glass, the full one, could you hand it to me? she asked him then, looking up.

He did, hesitatingly, —But don’t you think, for your own good?

—Isn’t it when we make mistakes that we need love most? she
said abruptly. She’d raised the glass in a quivering hand but did not drink, waiting.

—Yes but, he answered unsteadily, pretending not to see Anselm’s approach as his voice picked up. —But not finite love that’s as weak as we are, not just that, not . . .

—Stanley, she interrupted firmly, though her voice was faint. —I’m sorry. I’m sorry now for . . . about what I said to you that night, that night when you ran away Stanley, it was my fault, I shouldn’t have said that to you, should I . . . He waited for her to go on, unable to answer. —It . . . I . . . I didn’t know, Stanley. I didn’t know you didn’t want to hear it, God knows I do, I mean . . . I thought we all did, I thought it was all anyone wanted, to hear that . . .

—Yes but . . . well, it’s . . . I mean love has to be something greater than ourselves, and when it is then it is faith, and the Church . . .

Bildow clenched small fists, at the ends of his long arms. —I demand that you tell me where my daughter . . . he said loudly to Anselm.

—Shut up, this is a conversation about love. Did you ever read the great poet Suckling? Here’s a poem of the English Cavalier poet Sir John Suckling for you, Stanley. “Love is the fart Of every heart; It pains a man when ’tis kept close; And others doth offend, when ’tis let loose.” Do you like that? Hey come here, where you going?

Stanley looked helplessly at Agnes Deigh. —I have to . . . excuse me a minute, he said. She continued to stare at Anselm, who shifted his eyes from hers in sudden discomfort, finally said, weakly, —I’m . . . I mean he’s scared . . . Isn’t he . . . and turned away to where Bildow pulled him.

All this time, a figure had been moving about the room like a shadow, but a pale shade, if black light could cast such a wan shape in darkness. Occasionally Anselm had fixed inflamed eyes upon him, and looked away after a fiercely vacant exchange. He spoke to no one, hardly anyone had spoken to him, and fewer of him, until now the woman in the collapsed maternity dress noted, —Yes, the boy with the silver plate in his head, he looks like a sensitive minority of one to me. And that woolly-headed boob is trying to convert him, that’s the trouble with converts . . . what is it, child? Mummy sent you up . . . I know, wait a minute, here . . . Wait, I almost gave you my Pubies . . .

—What are they for? the girl with the green tongue asked.

—I forget, but they help . . . And she looked back hungrily to where the hunched man in the green shirt had just said, —Just the same, you ought to get wise to yourself . . . when he was swung
round with a dirty hand on his shoulder. Anselm looked him square in the eyes.

—Don’t you get tired of hanging around like a spare prick?

—Why, why you . . . The hunched man quivered throughout his body, as though it were suddenly an unfamiliar arrangement which he could not call upon, at such short notice, to fight.

—Just don’t give Charles a hard time, Anselm said to him calmly. —You’d be a God damn lot worse off than he is if you’d been through what he has. I heard this crap you were just giving him, your . . . and you can’t argue that way, you can’t discuss absolutes in relative terms. That’s what screws you God-damned smart intellectuals up, trying to discuss absolutes in relative terms.

—I’ll discuss it any way I want to, the critic said sounding firm because he spoke quickly.

—God damn it you will not! Anselm said desperately. —You can’t, you can’t do that with absolutes, you either accept them or you tell them to go take a flying fuck but you can’t do what you’re doing . . . Anselm stopped, breathless, close upon the man. Behind him Bildow stood where Anselm had broken from his grasp, looking at the pale face beyond them both. —And . . . and leave Charles alone, just . . . leave him alone, Anselm finished.

The other shrugged, taking green elbows in his heavy hands. —I was just trying to get a razor away from him, he said sullenly, turning away.

—A what? Anselm demanded, got no answer, and turned to the pale fading figure. —Did he? Have you? He grabbed a shoulder and shook him. —Where’d you get it? Give it to me. Give it to me. God damn you 1 said give it to me! He watched the thin wrist with its exaggerated rasceta disappear, and snatched the black-handled thing from the thin hand as it drew out of a pocket. —You . . . stupid bastard, you . . . what were you trying to do? Anselm went on, but his own voice was unsteady as he put it into his own pocket, and he did not look into the empty face before him. —You have no . . . God damn right to try things like this, you . . . stupid bastard . . . he finished bringing his voice to a whisper where he could control it. When he did look up their eyes held one another, Anselm’s burning into that vacant embrace until he tore them away, and turning away himself sniffed and wiped his nose with his hand, muttering. Don Bildow stood in his path but did not interrupt him when he saw the orchid, fallen to the floor from an earlier caress, and went to pick it up. With it dangling between two fingers, Anselm turned, recovering, —Hey lady, he said, but the woman who’d worn it was not to be seen. —The lady lost her nuts, Anselm said to no one. He mumbled, —That’s the
world we live in, the ladies wear the nuts . . . choking forth convalescent laughter, coming on toward Stanley who had found the bathroom door locked and was returning to Agnes Deigh the long way round the room.

—And Pablov had this kitten . . .

—But Carruthers had a mare . . .

—Well she says she got pregnant by taking a bath right after her father, but I say . . .

—Omychrahst, I mean, youmeanyoureallywanttobuyone?

—Cómo? qué dice . . . ?

—You. Really. Want. To. Buy. One.?

—That is the purpose of my trip to your country, in addition for picking up something of artistic for the Jockey Club in Buenos Aires.

—Oh Chrahst now look don’t go away, I mean I haven’t got one with me. Look tomorrow morning I’ll come to your hotel and you come with me. I mean, you’re not drunk are you?

—Drunk? I?

—Chrahst I’m sorry maybe I am, I mean I was, but I mean people don’t just go around buying battleships.

Maude had been fumbling at her throat. —What’s matter, you spilled something down your dress? The hand on the back of her neck stopped, the man leaned forward and looked, with her, down the front of her dress. —What’s matter? But her fumbling hand failed, and she was staring at an encumbered limb before her. The attractive girl with the Boston voice, whose leg it was, looked down too. She had just said,

—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 . . .