OF TIME AND THE RIVER

by Thomas Wolfe

  Suddenly he knew that Ann and Elinor were behind them. For a moment he turned, and saw the two women pacing slowly after them, alone, patient, curiously enduring. The image of that long silent street of night, walled steeply with old houses and shuttered shops, and of the figures of these two women pacing slowly behind them, in the darkness, seemed in later years to bear the sorrowful legend of what their lives--of what so much of life--was to become. And for this reason it burned for ever in his memory with a mournful, dark and haunting radiance, became, in fact, detached from names and personalities and identic histories--became something essential, everlasting and immutable in life. It was an image of fruitless love and lost devotion, of a love that would never come to anything, and of beautiful life that must be ruinously consumed in barren adoration of a lost soul, a cold and unresponding heart. And it was all wrought mournfully there into the scheme of night, made legible in the quiet and gracious loveliness of these two women, so strong, so patient, and so infinitely loyal, pacing slowly down behind two drunken boys in the slant steep street and emptiness of night.

  Suddenly the image blazed to the structure of hard actuality: another bar, and all around hoarse laughter, high sanguinary voices, a sudden scheme of faces scarred with night, and vivid with night's radiance--prostitutes, taxi-drivers, negroes, and those other nameless unmistakable ones--who come from somewhere--God knows where--and who live somehow--God knows how--and who recede again at morning into unknown cells--but who live here only, brief as moths, and balefully as a serpent's eye, in the unwholesome chemistry of night.

  He found himself leaning heavily on the zinc counter of the bar, staring at a pair of whited, flabby-looking arms, the soiled apron and shirt, the soiled night-time face and dark, mistrustful eyes of night's soiled barman. The blur of hoarse voices, shouts and oaths and laughter fused around him, and suddenly beside him he heard Starwick's voice, drunken, quiet, and immensely still.

  "Monsieur," it said--its very stillness cut like a knife through all the fog of sound about him--"monsieur, du feu, s'il vous plaît."

  "But sairtainlee, monsieur," a droll and pleasant-sounding voice said quietly. "W'y not?"

  He turned and saw Starwick, a cigarette between his lips, bending awkwardly to get the light from a proffered cigarette which a young Frenchman was holding carefully for him. At last he got it; puffing awkwardly, and straightening, he slightly raised his hat in salutation, and said with drunken gravity:

  "Merci. Vous êtes bien gentil."

  "But," said the young Frenchman again, drolly, and with a slight shrug of his shoulder, "not at all! Eet ees noz-zing!"

  And as Starwick started to look at him with grave drunken eyes, the Frenchman returned his look with a glance that was perfectly composed, friendly, good-humoured, and drolly inquiring.

  "Monsieur?" he said courteously, as Starwick continued to look at him.

  "I think," said Starwick slowly, with the strangely mannered and almost womanish intonation in his voice, "I think I like you very much. You are very kind, and very generous, and altogether a very grand person. I am enormously grateful to you."

  "But," the Frenchman said, with droll surprise, and a slight astonished movement of his shoulders, "I 'ave done noz-zing! You ask for du feu--a light--and I geev to you. I am glad eef you like--bot--" again he shrugged his shoulders with a cynical but immensely engaging humour--"eet ees not so ver-ree grand."

  He was a young man, not more than thirty years old, somewhat above middle height, with a thin, nervously active figure, and thin, pointedly Gallic features. It was a pleasant, most engaging face, full of a sharply cynical intelligence; the thin mouth was alive with humour--with the witty and politely cynical disbelief of his race, and his tone, his manner--everything about him--was eloquent with this racial quality of disbelief, a quality that was perfectly courteous, that would raise its pointed eyebrows and say politely, "You s'ink so"--but that accepted without assent, was politely non-committal without agreement.

  He was dressed as many young Frenchmen of that period dressed:--a style that served to combine the sinister toughness of the Apache with a rather gaudy and cheap enhancement of the current fashions. His clothes were neat but cheaply made; he wore a felt hat with a wide brim, creased, French fashion, up the sides, an overcoat with padded shoulders, cut in sharply at the waist, his trousers had a short and skimpy look, and barely covered the tops of his shoes. He wore spats, and a rather loud-coloured scarf which he knotted loosely, cravat-fashion, and which thus concealed his collar and his shirt. Finally, when he smoked a cigarette, he drew the smoke in slowly, languorously, knowingly, with lidded eyes, and a cruel and bitter convulsion of his thin lips that gave his sharp face a sinister Apache expression.

  Starwick was now crying out in a high drunken tone of passionate assurance:

  "But yes! Yes! Yes!--You are a grand person--a swell person--I like you enormously. . . ."

  "I am glad," said the Frenchman politely, with another almost imperceptible movement of the shoulders.

  "But yes! You are my friend!" Starwick cried in a high passionate tone. "I like you--you must drink with me."

  "Eef you like--of course!" the Frenchman politely agreed. Turning to the soiled barman who continued to look at them with dark mistrustful eyes, he said, in a hard, sharp voice, "Une fine. . . . And you, monsieur?" he turned inquiringly toward Eugene, "I s'ink you have another drink?"

  "No, not now"--his glass was not yet empty. "We--we have both already had something to drink."

  "I can see," the Frenchman said politely, but with a swift flicker of cynical mirth across his thin mouth, that needed no translation. Raising his glass, he said courteously:

  "A votre santé, messieurs," and drank.

  "Look!" cried Starwick. "You are our friend now, and you must call us by our names. My name is Frank; his is Eugene--what is yours?"

  "My name ees Alec," said the young Frenchman smiling. "Zat ees w'at zey call me."

  "But it's perfect!" Starwick cried enthusiastically. "It's a swell name--a wonderful name! Alec!--Ecoute!" he said to the soiled barman with the ugly eye, "Juh pawnse qu'il faut--encore du cognac," he said drunkenly, making a confused and maudlin gesture with his arm. "Encore du cognac, s'il vous plaît!" And as the barman silently and sullenly filled the three glasses from a bottle on the bar, Starwick turned to Alec, shouting with dangerous hilarity: "Cognac for ever, Alec, Alec!--Cognac for you and me and all of us for ever!--Nothing but drunkenness--glorious drunkenness--divine poetic drunkenness for ever!"

  "Eef you like," said Alec, with a polite and acquiescent shrug. He raised his glass and drank.

  It was four o'clock when they left the place. Arm in arm they reeled out into the street, Starwick holding on to Alec for support and shouting drunkenly:

  "Nous sommes des amis!--Nous sommes des amis éternels! Mais oui! Mais oui!"

  The whole dark and silent street rang and echoed with his drunken outcry. "Alec et moi--nous sommes des frères--nous sommes des artistes! Nothing shall part us! Non--jamais! Jamais!"

  A taxi, which had been waiting in the darkness several doors away, now drove up swiftly and stopped before them at the kerb. Ann and Elinor were inside: Elinor opened the door and spoke gently:

  "Frank, get in the taxi now, we're going home."

  "Mais jamais! Jamais!" Starwick yelled hysterically. "I go nowhere without Alec!--We are brothers--friends--he has a poet's soul."

  "Frank, don't be an idiot!" Elinor spoke quietly, but with crisp authority. "You're drunk; get in the taxi; we're going home."

  "Mais oui!" he shouted. "Je suis ivre! I am drunk! I will always be drunk--nothing but drunkenness for ever for Alec and me!"

  "Listen!" Elinor spoke quietly, pleasantly to the Frenchman. "Won't you go away, please, and leave him now? He is drunk, he does not know what he is doing; he really must go home now."

  "But, of course, madame," said Alec courteously, "I go now." He turned to Starwick and spoke quietly, with his thin, engaging smile: "
I s'ink, Frank, eet ees bettaire eef you go home now, non?"

  "But no! But no!" cried Starwick passionately. "I will go nowhere without Alec. . . . Alec!" he cried, clutching him with drunken desperation. "You cannot go! You must not go! You cannot leave me!"

  "Tomorrow, perhaps," said Alec, smiling. "Ees eet not bettaire eef we go to-gezzer tomorrow?--I s'ink zen you feel motch bettaire."

  "No! No!" Starwick cried obstinately. "Now! Now! Alec, you cannot leave me! We are brothers, we must tell each other everything. . . . You must show me all you know, all you have seen--you must teach me to smoke opium--take me where the opium-smokers go--Alec! Alec! J'ai la nostalgic pour la boue. . . ."

  "Oh, Frank, quit talking like a drunken idiot! Get in the car, we're going home. . . ."

  "But no! But no!" Starwick raved on in his high drunken voice. "Alec and I are going on together--he has promised to take me to the places that he knows--to show me the dark mysteries--the lower depths. . . ."

  "Oh, Frank, for God's sake get in the car; you're making a damned fool of yourself!"

  "--But no! I will not go without Alec--he must come with us--he is going to show me. . . ."

  "But I show you, Frank," said Alec smoothly. "Tonight, non!" He spoke firmly, waved a hand. "Eet ees impossible. I wet 'ere for someone. I must meet, I 'ave engagement--yes. Tomorrow, eef you like, I meet you 'ere! Tonight, non!" His voice was harsh, sharp with irrevocable refusal. "I cannot. Eet ees impossible."

  By dint of infinite prayers and persuasions, and by Alec's promises that he would meet him next day to take him on a tour of "the lower depths," they finally got Starwick into the taxi. All the way down the hill, however, as the taxi sped across Paris, through the darkened silent streets, and across the Seine into the Latin Quarter, Starwick raved on madly about his eternal friendship with Alec, from whom he could never more be parted. The taxi turned swiftly into the dark and empty little Rue des Beaux-Arts and halted before Eugene's hotel. The two women waited in nervous and impatient haste for Eugene to get out, Elinor giving his arm a swift squeeze and saying:

  "Good night, darling. We'll see you tomorrow morning. Don't forget our trip to Rheims."

  When he got out, however, Starwick followed him, and began to run drunkenly towards the corner, smashing at the shutters of the shops with his cane and screaming at the top of his voice:

  "Alec! Alec! Où est Alec? Alec! Alec! Mon ami Alec! Où êtes-vous?"

  Eugene ran after Starwick and caught him just as he was disappearing round the corner into the Rue Bonaparte, headed for the Seine. By main strength and pleading he brought him back, and managed to get him into the taxi again, which had followed his pursuit in swift watchful reverse. He slammed the door upon that raving madman, and as the taxi drove off he heard, through a fog of drunkenness, Elinor's swift "Thank you, darling. You behaved magnificently--tomorrow--" and Starwick raving:

  "Alec! Alec! Where is Alec?"

  They sped off up the silent empty street, a narrow ribbon lit sparsely by a few lamps, and walled steeply with its high old shuttered houses. Eugene walked back to his hotel, rang the night bell, and was let in. As he stumbled up the circuitous and perilous ascent of five flights, he caught a moment's glimpse of the little concierge and his wife, startled from their distressful sleep, clutching each other together in a protective embrace, as they peered out at him from the miserable little alcove where they slept--a moment's vision of their pale, meagre faces and frightened eyes.

  He climbed the winding flights of stairs, and let himself into his room, switching on the light, and flinging himself down upon the bed immediately in a stupor of drunken exhaustion.

  It seemed to him he had not lain there five minutes before he heard Starwick smashing at the street door below, and shouting drunkenly his own name and that of Alec. In another minute he heard Starwick stumbling up the stairs; he went to the door, opened it, and caught him just as he came stumbling in. Starwick was raving, demented, no longer conscious of his acts: he began to smash and beat at the bed with his stick, crying:

  "There!--And there!--And there!--Out, out, damned spot, and make an end to you. . . . The stranger--the one I never knew--the stranger you have become--out! Out! Out!"

  Turning to Eugene then, he peered at him with drunken bloodshot eyes, and said:

  "Who are you?--Are you the stranger?--Are you the one I never knew?--Or are you . . . ?" His voice trailed off feebly, and he sank down into a chair, sobbing drunkenly.

  And getting to his feet at length he looked about him wildly, smote the bed again with his stick, and cried out loudly:

  "Where is Eugene? Where is the Eugene that I knew?--Where?--Where?--Where?" He staggered to the door and flung it open, screaming: "Alec! Where are you?"

  He reeled out into the hall, and for a moment hung dangerously against the stair rail, peering drunkenly down into the dizzy pit five flights below. Eugene ran after him, seized him by the arm and, together, they fell or reeled to the bottom. It was a journey as distorted and demented as a dream--a descent to be remembered later as a kind of corkscrew nightmare, broken by blind lurchings into a creaking rail, by the rattling of Starwick's stick upon the banisters, by blind sprawls, and stumblings, and by blobs and blurs of frightened faces at each landing, where Monsieur Gely's more sober patrons waited in breath-caught silence at their open doors. They reached the bottom finally amid such universal thanksgiving, such prayers for their safety, as Gely's hotel had never known before.

  A vast sigh, a huge and single respiration of relief rustled up the steep dark pit of the winding stairs. But another peril lay before them. At the foot of the stairs there stood a monstrous five-foot vase which, by its lustre and the loving care with which it was polished every day by Marie, the maid, must have been the pride of the establishment. Starwick reeled blindly against it as he went past, the thing rocked sickeningly, and even as it tottered slowly over, Eugene heard Madame Gely's gasp of terror, heard her low "Mon Dieu! Ca tombe, ça tombe!" and a loud united "Ah-h-h!" of thankfulness as he caught it in his hands, and gently, safely, with such inner triumph as a man may feel who leaps through space and lands safely hanging to a flying trapeze, restored it to its former position. As he looked up he saw old Gely and his wife peering from their quarters with fat perturbed faces, and the little concierge and his wife still clutched together, peering through their curtains in a covert of bright frightened eyes.

  They got out into the street at last. In the Rue Bonaparte they stopped a taxi drilling through. When they reached Montmartre again the night was breaking in grey light behind the Church of Sacré-Cœur. After further drinks of strong bad cognac, they piled out of the place into another taxi, and went hurtling back through Paris. By the time they arrived at the studio full light had come.

  The women were waiting up for them. Starwick mumbled something and, holding his hand over his mouth, rushed across the room into the bathroom and vomited. When he was empty, he staggered out, reeled towards the couch where Ann slept, and toppled on it, and was instantly sunk in senseless sleep.

  Elinor regarded him for a while with an air at once contemplative and amused. "And now," she said cheerfully, "to awake the Sleeping Beauty from his nap." She smiled her fine bright smile, but the lines about her mouth were grimly set, and her eyes were hard. She approached the couch, and looking down upon Starwick's prostrate and bedraggled form, she said sweetly: "Get up, darling. It's breakfast-time."

  He groaned feebly and rolled over on his side.

  "Up, up, up, my lamb!" Her tone was dulcet, but the hand that grasped his collar and pulled him to a sitting position was by no means gentle. "We are waiting for you, darling. The day's at morn, the hour draws close, it's almost time. Remember, dear, we're starting out for Rheims at nine o'clock."

  "Oh, God!" groaned Starwick wretchedly. "Don't ask me to do that! Anything, anything but that. I can't! I'll go anywhere with you if you just leave me alone until tomorrow." He flopped back on the bed again.

  "Sorry, precious,
" she said in a light and cheerful tone, as hard as granite, "but it's too late now! You should have thought of that before. Our plans are made, we're going--and you," suddenly her voice hardened formidably, "you're coming with us." She looked at him a moment longer with hard eyes, bent and grasped him by the collar, and roughly jerked him up to a sitting position again.

  "Francis," she said sternly, "pull yourself together now and get up! We're going to have no more of this nonsense!"

  He groaned feebly and staggered to his feet. He seemed to be on the verge of collapse, his appearance was so pitiable that Ann, coming from the bathroom at this moment, flushed with hot sympathy as she saw him, and cried out angrily, accusingly, to Elinor:

  "Oh, leave him alone! Let him sleep if he wants to. Can't you see he is half dead? Why should we drag him along to Rheims if he doesn't feel like going? We can put the trip off until tomorrow, anyway. What does it matter when we go?"

  Elinor smiled firmly and shook her head with a short inflexible movement. "No, sir," she said quietly. "Nothing is going to be put off. We are going today, as we planned. And Mr. Starwick is going with us! He may go willingly or against his will, he may be conscious or unconscious when he gets there, but, alive or dead, he's going!"

  At these unhappy tidings, Starwick groaned miserably again. She turned to him and, her voice deepening to the authority of indignation, she said:

  "Frank! You've got to see this through! There's no getting out of it now! If you don't feel well, that's just too bad--but you've got to see this thing through, anyway! You've known about this trip for the past week--if you chose to spend last night making the rounds of every joint in Montmartre you've no one to blame for it but yourself! But you've got to go. You're not going to let us down this time!"