“Susan has just been paying me a visit,” Laskell said.
“What do you want to bother people for?” Duck said to Susan.
It was much what most fathers would have said under the circumstances. There was no exception to be taken to it.
“She hasn’t bothered me, I enjoyed it.”
“Well,” said Duck dubiously.
If Laskell did not quite like a too-long, too-objective stare that Duck gave his daughter and a certain constriction of Susan’s recently expansive being, that was probably only imagination. It was enough of a meeting to make a country acquaintanceship, even though an acquaintanceship in dislike, and thereafter when Laskell was at the Crooms’ he called a greeting to Duck and they even talked about the problems of the reconstruction of the house.
This made enough of a relationship between Laskell and Duck to confirm the truce that had been established between Laskell and the Crooms since the evening he had told the story of Maxim. That evening had been the first expressed tension between them. But tensions are elements of friendship and on the whole they were as gay with each other as they had ever been. Nevertheless the tension was there, and Laskell, for his part, pulled on his end of the rope. He pulled firmly but all his feeling went into the pull itself—he was not annoyed with the Crooms and he made no reservations in his relationship with them. He knew that there was a difference between them and he felt better when he kept himself aware of it. It was now no longer his intention, for example, to hide his dislike of Duck. If Nancy were now to have said to him as she once had, “I think you have a prejudice against Duck,” he would have answered with a cheerful grimness, “I certainly have.” Now, when they talked about Duck, he put in his protest. And when they depreciated Emily in Duck’s favor, as they often did, he also put in a protest. He did not admire Emily Caldwell but her good looks pleased him, he liked her cleanly sturdy quality and found that if he had to think, which he did not really like to do, of the juxtaposition of Emily and her husband, there was a certain rightness in standing up for Emily. The Crooms looked at him oddly for his open declaration of Caldwell partisanship. They may have thought that it had something to do with their judgment of Laskell on the Maxim evening, as of course it had. After a while the Crooms gave up talking about the Caldwells almost entirely. That lessened the strain considerably and things went on gaily until Nancy’s picnic.
Nancy and Arthur had agreed on a picnic, but they had had some difficulty coming to an agreement on what kind of picnic it should be. Arthur had the modern idea of a picnic and it was essentially masculine in nature. What he wanted was a thick steak and roasted corn and coffee, all made on the spot. But Nancy would have none of that. She wanted what she called an old-fashioned picnic. She wanted exactly what Arthur said he wished to avoid—dozens of well-made sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, and perhaps a jar of little pickles, a big cake. As for coffee, that might be made on the spot, although she would actually prefer to take it in the big thermos bottle.
It was Nancy’s kind of picnic that they were to have. It became clear to Arthur as well as to Laskell that the picnic had a special meaning to Nancy. Perhaps she had an image of her mother sitting on a steamer rug, the basket by her side, urging sandwiches on the family around her. Arthur groaned and spoke of ants and spiders, but he gave way and Nancy boiled her chicken and chilled it and stripped it and made it into her sandwiches which she neatly wrapped in wax paper. They had the pickles and the tomatoes, and the coffee in the big thermos. Nancy took the picnic very seriously and had arranged with Mrs. Folger to be called for by Arthur so that she could supervise the baking of a large cocoanut layer cake.
They were to leave at eleven to drive the short distance to a place the Crooms knew of. There the river widened out handsomely and there was a bit of sandy beach for Micky to play on. They had a good day, bright and cool, and Laskell, as he came up, saw that the expedition was already organized. There was a pile of rugs and blankets on the porch, the thermos jug with Micky’s lunch, the pair of thermos bottles in their case, Arthur’s large camera, and the big wicker hamper. Nancy must have had the picnic long in mind to have brought this hamper from the city with so much else. It was an imposing old hamper. From the look of it, it was fitted inside with plates and forks and knives, and it spoke, somehow, of a rich, vanished day when a large hamper was part of the equipment of a family in easy circumstances. It had belonged, surely, not to Nancy’s parents but to her grandparents.
There was no one on the lawn save Susan Caldwell and Micky Croom. Susan had made a handkerchief doll and she talked to it with animation and made it answer back with an agitated wagging of its head and a dancing of its loose cotton legs. Micky was following with great interest what the pair of them were saying. It gave Laskell pleasure to know that Susan was going with them.
At last everything was ready. Eunice came out and picked up Micky and held him in her arms over her shoulder so as to have him ready to get into the car when the moment came. He did not want to leave the fascinating dialogue between Susan and the handkerchief doll. So Susan tried to continue the game while he squirmed in Eunice’s arms and looked over Eunice’s shoulder.
“‘I will not cease from Mental Strife,’” she made the doll say in a high thin voice, waving its cotton arm.
“‘I will not cease,’” she said in a deeper voice in her own character.
“‘I will not cease,’” “‘I will not cease,’” “‘I will not cease,’” “‘I will not cease.’” Back and forth waged the war of emphasis and Micky began to kick with pleasure. She was a complicated child, for she was doing three things at once and each of them wholeheartedly. She was amusing Micky and flirting with Laskell and mocking Eunice. Eunice certainly did not like what was going on behind her back for she turned and faced Micky in another direction, casually and as if without purpose. Susan circled so as to come face to face with him again and continued her game. She went too far, for Eunice, after she had turned the child twice more with silent forbearance, swung about and said to Susan, “Oh, for God’s sake! Cut it out, will you?” Susan stopped short in her game, looking rather chilled and scared.
Nancy and Arthur came out looking very spruce, as if they had every intention of honoring this picnic to the utmost. Arthur brought the car around and Eunice at once got in with Micky. Arthur and Laskell stored all the paraphernalia in the trunk. Nancy took her place in front. When everything was quite ready and the rest of them were about to get into the car, Nancy said with the air of calamity which picnics generate, “Oh, Lord, Micky’s sweater! I left it on the table.” And leaning out of the window, she said to Susan, “Would you get it for me, Susan, like a dear? It’s a red sweater.”
“Yes, I will,” said Susan and dashed toward the house. She came out with the little red sweater and Nancy said, “Thank you, Susan.”
It was not the tone that is used to a member of the expedition, a sharer of the adventure. Arthur slipped into his seat at the wheel, Laskell got in beside Eunice. It was Laskell’s task to close the door of the car, making the final gesture, the definitive slam, of Susan’s exclusion.
“Have a nice time,” Susan said to them all, and did not have a sufficient impulse of self-protection to run off before the car started, on business of her own, but stood and waited for them to leave her.
“We should have taken her,” Laskell said.
“It would have been nice,” said Nancy turning in her seat. “Mais la jeune fille ici—la bonne—n’aime pas la petite. Ce serait une occasion très désagréable si nous avions les deux ensemble.”
The drive was a short one. They parked the car by the side of the road and went across a field, Arthur carrying Micky seated on his shoulder, Laskell carrying the hamper and the thermos jug, Eunice carrying the thermos-bottle case, Nancy carrying the rugs. The spot they came to was quite perfect for a picnic. They spread the heavy steamer rug under a tree on soft, feathery grass. The bank fell away sharply to the little beach, wh
ich was dry enough for Micky to play on, and they set him there with Eunice and his big dump-truck which he did not yet quite know how to control and a kitchen spatula for a shovel. The river took a wide curve here and the sun was full on it. No place could better have established the picnic mood, which is a thing of art and ritual in which we celebrate our conquest of the fears of nature and pay our respects to the old life now that it no longer holds any terror for us. Arthur, who had campaigned against Nancy’s idea of a picnic, mocking and teasing it, now led them in the mood. When once Micky was established with Eunice on the sand and the rugs were spread, he opened the hamper and took out a flask of whisky. It was a flask suited to the hamper and must have come from the same owners, for it was of heavy glass with its bottom sheathed in pewter; this pewter sheath was removable and could be used as a cup; the top was cased in leather and sealed with a heavy metal screw. Laskell jumped down to the river and filled two enamel cups with water and they sat and drank whisky and water. And shortly their appetites were so high that the hamper had to be opened. Micky was brought up from the little beach and established among them with Eunice to oversee his eating. She herself, with an ungenial tolerance, ate what was urged on her.
They were drinking coffee and smoking when Duck appeared. He came along the bank through the brush that bordered it and in his hand he carried a string of fish. His appearance startled them, but he had seen them from a distance and his face reflected the knowledge of their presence.
Arthur said, “Hello, Duck. Where in the name of the Lord have you been?”
“Yes, where have you been?” said Nancy. “We were worried.”
“Oh, just been,” said Duck. “Hello, Eunie,” he said and he made a pass at her face with the fish so that they almost grazed her cheek. She jerked back her head and expressed a settled disgust.
Laskell, to have something to say, said, “You caught a lot of trout.”
Duck held them up for his own inspection. “These?” he said, as if a little surprised that he should have them. He looked at them coldly, without approval.
“Will you have some cake and coffee, Duck?” Nancy said.
“Don’t mind,” Duck answered. He sat down with them, laying the fish on the grass. He ate his cake and drank his coffee while Nancy watched him with satisfaction. But after only half the cake was eaten, he put it aside. With his coffee cup poised on the way to his mouth, he said to Laskell, “You a fisherman, Mr. Laskell? That rod and creel they got at their house, Mrs. Croom says is yours.” And he took a swallow of coffee.
“Not much of a fisherman—not a very good one.” Laskell said it as innocently as he could. He had heard a latent intention in Duck’s voice that had put him on guard.
Nancy said, “You haven’t fished at all yet, John. Duck will have to take you to show you the good places.”
“You a fly man maybe?” Duck said
Here was the intention. Laskell knew exactly how Duck wanted this conversation to go. He knew it with the insight of his dislike of Duck. Step by slow step Duck would disclose his opinion of the sport of taking trout on a fly. It was an old American joke—the expensively equipped fisherman with the empty creel meets the barefoot boy with the old fish-pole and a heavy string of fish. Laskell’s friends shared the joke whenever they knew he was going fishing. Somehow the joke was pointed in the direction of democratic simplicity. Often it went with an admiration of folk-art and a dislike of trained singing. It suddenly occurred to Laskell that Duck did not have even a fish-pole with him.
He said neutrally, “Yes, I use flies. Do you?”
Duck thrust his head forward and made several little movements with it, quite openly comical, suggesting but not uttering the quizzical answer of “You might say yes, you might say no.” He was not telling, he had his secret.
“Duck doesn’t make a religion of his fishing,” Nancy explained. “If he wants fish, he gets fish.”
“I used to use flies now and then,” Duck said judiciously. “But like Mrs. Croom says, if I want fish, I get fish. Sometimes a worm gets them best, and then sometimes you spear them, and then sometimes you seine them. Those little bought flies cost more than a fish is worth to a man in my position, not to mention all the trouble.” He was looking at Laskell with wide, innocent eyes. “Of course, if you want to get yourself a really big mess of fish in a hurry, you take a stick of dynamite.”
Laskell looked at Duck and saw all the strange subtlety in his face. Duck was conscious of what he was doing. He knew that to certain ears his description of the way he fished would be like explaining his way of raping virgins. He was assuming that Laskell was a loftily dedicated fisherman. But Laskell was a very simple fisherman. He knew about the elaborations of the elegant business of taking trout on a fly, but he had always been indifferent to them. Now, however, something more than the art of angling was in question. The Crooms must have caught the note of challenge in Duck’s voice, for they had suddenly become alert.
Nancy said, “You must remember that not everyone is in the favored position of choosing ways and means—there are people who need the fish for food.”
Her words were as pedantic as his were to be. They sounded like learned counsel on opposing sides.
“Yes,” he said, “but some of the poorest people I’ve known have been the best fishermen. That was when I was in the Smokies. They had respect for the fish and they found pleasure in the sport and liked to give the fish a fighting chance.”
He should have known the effect this would have on Nancy. Perhaps he had known it and was pushing things as far as they would go.
“Now that,” said Nancy, “is sheer snobbery—the fanciest kind of snobbery. I suppose that the fish really likes the whole business and finds it very sporting too.”
“No. We can’t assume that.”
With her eyebrows and a quirk of her head, Nancy made a gesture of large ironic surprise at his admitting so much. It was such a schoolgirl gesture of intellectual triumph that Laskell could not suppose it unfriendly. He met it with a smile, but he received no smile in answer. It struck him that the conversation about Ferdinand the bull and the showing of Elizabeth’s picture, his telling them the story of Maxim—all these incidents bore belated fruit in that gesture. He forced himself to say very quietly, “No, we can’t assume that the fish likes it. But the sport at least limits itself. The line is light, the leader is tapered very thin, the hooks are small, and some fishermen even use hooks without barbs to make the risk of losing the fish even greater. You set limitations, and if you overstep them, the pleasure is gone.”
“How very romantic!”
“No,” he said heavily. Suddenly he did not feel clever enough to handle the situation he had created and he wished he had never started. “Not romantic. It’s a tendency that human life has—”
But he stopped. He was embarrassed by having used the word life. He finished his sentence lamely. “—to make certain demands on itself beyond its obvious needs.”
Nancy said, “I don’t know what that means.”
“It makes requirements and sets limits to itself,” said Laskell.
“What does?”
It was dreadful to have to say the word again, all by itself. “Life,” he said. “It sets limits and it insists on acting within them.”
He passionately wished he knew what he was talking about—that is, knew it to explain, not just to feel. He reached out blindly and said, “It’s like making sonnets.”
That really seemed to help and he went on. “You set the pattern, a difficult pattern, and the effect comes from conforming to it. And when you conform to it successfully, you overcome it and it serves your purpose.”
All his effort had produced nothing more than this old, worn paradox!
“Conforming to it, indeed!” There was a full contempt in Nancy’s emphasis. She said, “You sound positively feudal.” And then she said, “Sonnets!”
She had no special dislike of that verse form, and it was not sonnets she was holdin
g in such contempt but the very idea of conforming. It was a little confusing, for he remembered at that moment her interpretation of Gifford Maxim’s article and the relative leniency with which she had spoken about the Commissars who had confessed and, at the end, had cried “God bless Captain Vere!” And yet that confusion strangely enlightened him—that confusion in which Nancy both admired conformity and despised it. For he saw that Nancy’s feeling was not about conforming or not conforming, not about freedom or submission. It was a feeling about human nature, a profound dissatisfaction with the way human beings had ever been, some leap of her imagination toward some way she hoped they would be. He could not understand why Nancy, who had been so fortunate at the hands of human nature, who had been so much cherished and so much admired, should have this dissatisfaction at the root of her political feelings. And he could not understand why Duck should be, as Laskell guessed he was, the model of the human nature that would be achieved by truly progressive action.
Nancy, having once said “Sonnets!” now said it again, as if she had not put enough feeling into the word the first time. “Sonnets!” she said, and she let her gaze fall on Duck Caldwell, as if, after having for too long listened to fantasy, she were now consulting reality. And in her gaze there was, together with her reassurance of herself, the pity she felt for Duck. The dispute had long since passed out of Duck’s hands. Nancy said, “At this point in the world’s history!”
She said no more, but Armageddon was in her voice.
Arthur saw that his wife and his friend were in crisis. He said, “I think that what Nancy means, John—” but he had begun his explanation after Laskell had begun to speak. What Laskell said was, “‘Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part.’”
Nancy’s eyes went wide and her face went white. Laskell heard but did not understand the gasp of her suddenly intaken breath.
“‘Nay, I have done, you get no more of me,’” he was going on. It was one of the sonnets he had recited for Susan.
The Middle of the Journey Page 23
