“Most fortunately I lack that kind of historical perspective, Maxim.”
“Oh, what are you two talking about!” Nancy cried and brought their cold exchange of taunts to an end.
Laskell came the next morning to say that he was leaving in the afternoon. He told Kermit first. Kermit was troubled, for he had undertaken to drive Laskell home; he would have set out with the trailer at once, but he had promised Nancy to stay two days more. “But let me drive you to the station,” he said.
“Thank you, but I’d like Arthur and Nancy to drive me.”
“Of course,” said Kermit.
Maxim came out of the trailer while they were saying good-by. He looked drowsy and below himself, as if he had been on a debauch.
“John’s leaving today,” Kermit explained.
Maxim blinked in the sunlight. “I’m sorry I talked the way I did last night. I had no right—”
“You had your inspiration and you had to yield to it.”
“Sometimes he just talks,” Kermit said.
“Not usually,” Laskell said.
Maxim’s eyes creased and he grinned at Laskell. Neither of them offered to shake hands in farewell.
The Crooms, when Laskell told them that he was leaving that afternoon, expressed surprise at the suddenness of his departure. But they did not protest it—it was so very clear that the visit was over.
“Kermit offered to drive me to the station,” Laskell said. “But I’d rather if you two took me.”
“Yes, of course, naturally!” they cried.
On the way back to the Folgers’ to pack his bags, he met Duck Caldwell. Duck must have been watching from his window, for he came lounging out of the door just as Laskell was about to pass the house. He looked a little pale, but not otherwise different.
“You leaving us, Mr. Laskell?” He must have had that news from Mrs. Folger, whom Laskell had told early that morning.
“Yes, I am,” Laskell said. He looked at the man, letting come whatever emotion might come. But none came. He had dreaded this meeting.
“You feel all well now?” Duck said solicitously.
“Yes, I think I do.”
“That knife I pulled on you—I didn’t know why you came after me.” It was meant for apology and reconciliation, as far as Duck could go, which was to his next remark. “I’m not speculating, mind you, how you knew about my own kid when I didn’t. I’m not in a position to do any speculating.”
Again Laskell waited for an emotion. But none came even now, not guilt, not anger, not pity.
“I hear you’re in the building trades in New York,” Duck said. “Do you think you could get a clever man a job?”
“Possibly.”
“I’m thinking of getting out of these parts.” Duck pointed backward to the little green house as showing reason enough for not wanting to stay. And indeed the house looked desolate. “Should I look you up if I make up my mind to change?”
“You can think about it.”
Laskell nodded to Duck, who coolly nodded back, and he continued on his way.
As he settled his accounts with Mrs. Folger, he saw that she had forgotten not only that he had once been a naughty boy but also that she had ever had a moment’s dislike for him—he was out of connection, merely a summer boarder ready to leave. He paid her the small sum of money he owed her and shook hands and thanked her for her kindness to him. She said, “It was a pleasure to have you. You were no trouble at all.” He asked her if Mr. Folger would be back so that he could say good-by to him. She said she was sure he would be, but Mr. Folger did not return.
He did not pack the test tube in which he had been boiling his urine. He tossed it into the trash-basket, doing this with a certain dryness—the gesture made him feel somewhat insincere, as any intelligent person is likely to feel who performs a symbolic action. He brought the bags down and put them on the porch. When he came down again, with his rod and creel and the wooden bowl, which would not fit into either of his bags, old Mr. Folger was on the porch. The old man said something which must have had reference to Laskell’s departure, and Laskell shouted back an answer, “Yes, I’m leaving. Have to get back to the city.” The chickens were on the lawn and the hounds were lying on the path with their tongues out. They were very lazy and on hot days they gasped and looked at the world with suffering eyes, but they really had a very easy life and were well fed and much petted. Mrs. Folger came out and sat down and crossed her hands over her apron. For all his desire to be away, Laskell had the inevitable twist of the heart at leaving any part of life.
The Crooms came in good time, and Arthur jumped out and insisted on carrying the bags to the car. Laskell shook hands with Mrs. Folger once more. They all got into the front seat, Nancy between the two men, Micky on her lap. It was not a comfortable arrangement for any of them, but on neither side did they want further separations.
They had to wait for the train. They sat on the bench where Laskell had had his terror. He could scarcely remember just what had happened, although he knew it had been something quite devastating. He saw the shabby little station, the three red gas pumps not far off, but these seemed elements of safety, not of threat.
Nancy said that the summer was nearly over, and one could see all around that she was right, although it was very hot. She asked when Labor Day was, and they told her it was ten days off. Laskell asked them how long they were going to stay, and they told him that they would stay a week beyond Labor Day. They agreed that they would have dinner together as soon as the Crooms returned to the city and were settled. It was the conversation that any friends might have, waiting for the train that one of them is leaving on after weeks in the country together. There was a touch of bleakness in it, but all such conversations near the end of the summer are a little melancholy, even though the separation is only for a matter of days. Other people in similar situations must have had their conversations touched with unhappiness, perhaps greater that year, if they were intelligent, than the year before because of the growing knowledge that intelligent people had of the danger in the world. But the Crooms included Laskell among the dangers of the world, and Laskell included the Crooms. This made them very attentive and courteous to each other.
Laskell got up as if to stretch his legs and to see if the train was coming. Then he stood before them as they sat on the bench. “It was good of you to have me up. I really—” He was about to say, conventionally, “enjoyed it.” But he could not say that, for it was not true. “—had great benefit from it,” was what he said. And as he heard the stiff little phrase, he thought that in some difficult way it was true. He said, “I’m sorry that we seemed to get into so many disagreements.”
Arthur began to brush this aside, but Nancy said, “We did, didn’t we? Why did we?” And she rose and stood facing him to make the question real.
He wanted very much to be able to answer her. He was on the point of saying, “Because we are parts of history, elements in the dialectic.” But it would have been a wry joke. He said, “I don’t know.”
“It has been sad and—and awful. What Maxim said last night—you don’t believe that, do you? About him and us being together against you. As if that could ever be true.”
“I hope it’s not true,” said Laskell.
They heard the whistle of the train and Micky had to be held against his excitement or fear. They remembered that it was the first time that Micky had ever seen a train, and Arthur held him so that he could both see and be safe, and Nancy held his hand and told him what was coming, talking to him to make sure that he would feel her presence and not be frightened at the locomotive. When the train had come to a stop, Arthur gave Micky to Nancy so that he could help Laskell with the bags. Laskell protested, but Arthur insisted. He picked up the bags, looked for the emptiest and least shabby of the four cars, and started toward it. Laskell gathered up what was left for him to carry. He shook Micky’s hand. Nancy put out her cheek and he kissed it. Arthur already had the bags in the car and on t
he luggage rack. They shook hands and Arthur left, and Laskell saw him take Micky from Nancy. They all three stood waving at him, Nancy showing Micky how to wave. Laskell waved back. Nancy blew a kiss and showed Micky how to blow a kiss and then the train left.
Laskell put the rod up with the bags and he tried to put the creel up too. The creel was coming back without having held a single fish, but this was not the first time it had done that. The creel would not fit on the rack with the bags, nor would the bowl, so he kept these on the seat beside him.
This is a New York Review Book
Published by The New York Review of Books
435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
www.nyrb.com
Copyright © 1947, 1975 by Lionel Trilling,
Introduction copyright © 2002 by Monroe Engel
All rights reserved
Cover image: Milton Avery, Dark Forest (detail), 1958 Courtesy of Donald Morris Gallery. © 2002 Milton Avery Trust / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York
Cover design: Katy Homans
The Library of Congress has cataloged the earlier printing as follows:
Trilling, Lionel, 1905-1975.
The middle of the journey / Lionel Trilling ; introduction by Monroe
Engel.
p. cm. — (New York Review Books classics)
ISBN 1-59017-015-6 (alk. paper)
1. Intellectuals—Fiction. 2. Liberalism—Fiction. I. Title. II.
Series.
PS3539.R56 M53 2002
813'.52—dc21
2002002998
eISBN 978-1-59017-552-1
v1.0
For a complete list of books in the NYRB Classics series, visit www.nyrb.com or write to:
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The Middle of the Journey Page 39
