‘But it was Bob who stopped them,’ Charles broke in. ‘Do you know what he said to them, Stephen? He looked them all up and down very coldly, and he said, “This gentleman is not annoying me.” Wasn’t that terrific? “This gentleman is not annoying me.” Just like that. They were so surprised, they stood there gaping at us. They’d never heard that kind of talk before. It was truly regal.’
‘But what did they finally do?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ said Bob, ‘that was sort of an anti-climax. Because Charles was just as surprised as any of them. He put me down, and seemed rather dazed. So I felt I had to see him safely home.’
‘And the anti-climax,’ said Charles, ‘has continued ever since.’ Bob hit him in the ribs. ‘Thanks a million,’ he said, ‘you dreary ungrateful unromantic hog.’
‘Since we’re being so personal,’ said Charles, grinning, ‘I’d like to ask you a question, Stephen.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘It’s a very personal question. I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time, but somehow I never could—’
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t you tell him anything, Steve,’ Bob said. ‘He’ll only use it against you, later. He’s such an utter fiend.’
‘Ask me anything you want to,’ I told Charles. ‘I don’t care.’
‘I wouldn’t ask this if I wasn’t drunk. Remember that time you wanted to know why I’d never talked to you about Elizabeth? Well, the real reason I hadn’t was because I was afraid this question would come up, and I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. Look, all kidding aside, you don’t have to answer this if you’d rather not—’
‘All right. I won’t.’
‘Good … Then, to begin with, have you read any of Elizabeth’s books lately?’
‘Not right through. But I’ve looked at them. Why?’
‘How do they seem to you, now?’
‘Well—you see, I know them so thoroughly. And I got to know them so gradually—I mean, because she used to talk to me about them while she was writing them. I know so well what she wanted to say, that—’
‘That you can’t be sure if she actually managed to say it?’
I nodded. ‘There’s some things I’m sure about. Several of the stories … You remember Afternoon of a Gargoyle?
‘About the old woman gambling at the Estoril Casino? Yes, that’s one of my favourites.’
‘And then there’s As Birds Do, Mother. You know, I really like that the best of her novels?’
‘I absolutely agree with you.’
‘As for The World in the Evening—I’m not so sure about that. Bits of it are wonderful, of course—’
‘Bob hadn’t ever read it. Not until this summer, when I made him. I wanted to see how he’d react. He thought it was awfully sentimental.’
‘Oh, you bastard!’ exclaimed Bob. ‘I didn’t, Steve—I mean, not just like that. And anyhow, what do I know about writing?’
‘For Pete’s sake, don’t go apologizing to me,’ I said. ‘Honestly, Bob, I don’t mind. I’m not living on Elizabeth’s reputation, I hope. Though, perhaps, in a way, I have been pretending—’
‘Ah,’ said Charles, ‘that’s exactly what I wanted to get at! What have you been pretending, Stephen?’
‘Well—naturally, when I did that introduction to her stories, and when I’ve discussed her work with admirers, I had to talk as if I thought everything she wrote was perfect—’
‘And you don’t?’
‘No, of course not. Not everything. Not even very much, I’m afraid.’
‘You never told her how you felt?’
‘I never even knew I felt it, until I reread her, the year after she died.’
‘Did she know it, about herself?’
‘I think so. Yes.’
‘And did she mind?’
‘She probably did when she was young. Not so much, later. She knew she’d always done her best. She never made any compromises, and she never stopped trying. She may not have been first-class, but she was a real writer: a serious writer. It’s something to know you’re that.’
‘It certainly is,’ Charles agreed. ‘And it’s a whole lot more than most of these whores can say of themselves, nowadays.’
When it was time for Bob to drive me home, Charles didn’t offer to come with us. I realized that this was because Bob must have told him that he wanted to talk to me some more, alone.
‘Well,’ Bob began, with the familiar ironical twist of his mouth, ‘I did it, you see. I got myself into this’—he glanced down at his uniform—‘bandwagon suit. After all my big soul-searchings—’
‘About being a conscientious objector, you mean?’
‘You and I never talked any more about any of that, did we? Not after that first time.’
‘You never seemed to want to. I used to lead up to it, but you always changed the subject.’
‘I wanted to, all right. Often. I used to come and see you, just to do that, and then I couldn’t. I was ashamed to.’
‘Why were you ashamed?’
‘Because I knew darn’ well what would happen in the end.’
‘But that isn’t anything to be ashamed of, Bob. You simply made up your mind. Like thousands of others.’
‘I didn’t. Not properly. I just let myself be pushed … You know one thing that did decide me not to be an objector, though? You’ll laugh.’
‘Not if it isn’t funny.’
‘I thought to myself: I can’t be a C.O. because, if they declared war on the queers—tried to round us up and liquidate us, or something—I’d fight. I’d fight till I dropped. I know that. I’d be so mad, I wouldn’t even feel scared … So how can I say I’m a pacifist?’
‘You can’t, I guess.’
‘Steve, you sonofabitch, you are laughing!’
‘Not at you, Bob. I’m just picturing the battle. Your side would be pretty ferocious. You’d quite probably win.’
Bob laughed, too. ‘Don’t think I wouldn’t shoot you down with the rest of them.’
‘You would not! I’d be a C.O., then. Or else one of your spies.’
‘Of course, I could have gotten out of this whole thing. I could have told the psychiatrist, when I had my medical examination. All you have to do is to tell them you’re queer, and you’re out. I couldn’t do that, though. Because what they’re claiming is that us queers are unfit for their beautiful pure Army and Navy—when they ought to be glad to have us. The girly ones make wonderful pharmacist’s mates, and the rest are just as good fighting men as anybody else. My God, look at all the big heroes in history who—sorry, Steve! I’m starting that lecture again—’
‘That’s okay, if you want to let off some more steam.’
‘No. Not really. But I’ll tell you something I do honestly feel. Compared with this business of being queer, and the laws against us, and the way we’re pushed around even in peacetime—this War hardly seems to concern me at all.’
‘Well, I can understand that, I guess.’
We drove the rest of the way back to Tawelfan in silence. When Bob had stopped the car in front of the house, I didn’t get out. I sat there beside him in the darkness, not wanting to say Goodbye.
‘This kind of feels like the end of everything, doesn’t it?’ Bob said, at length.
‘I know it does, Bob. But I don’t believe it is.’
‘I don’t, either. You know, maybe, when this is over, things won’t have changed so much, after all. Maybe we’ll have another evening, just like this one, and I’ll be driving you home, like tonight.’
‘We’ll have lots of evenings.’
‘Yes, we probably will. It’s funny to think that, now, when there’s so much that’s got to happen, first. The hell of it is, you can’t be sure, either way. I almost wish I could know for certain,
even if—No, I don’t though—’ Bob hesitated for a moment; then he added: ‘Take care of yourself, you old bastard.’ Throwing an arm around my neck, he drew me toward him and we kissed eac
h other on the cheek. I got out of the car. Bob turned it, waved his hand to me through the window, and drove away.
2
NEXT MORNING WHEN I came down to breakfast, I found Gerda alone in the kitchen. I took her in my arms and we hugged each other hard. ‘I’m so glad,’ I told her.
‘Stephen—Oh, I too! You do not know how much!’
‘It must have been hard to believe at first, wasn’t it?’
‘At first, I did not dare. When the letter came, I imagined—all kind of stupidness—’ Gerda hesitated and gave me an embarrassed smile. ‘I think, perhaps this is some delusion: I am become insane in the head. Perhaps I only imagine this letter is from Peter. So I take it to Sarah, without one word, and say only, “Read.” … And then, when I know I do not imagine the letter, I become afraid and think: This is some cruel trick of the Nazis. Perhaps they make Peter’s handwriting falsely—so I will not know he is dead … Is that not crazy of me? But then another letter comes, from the office of the Red Cross in Zurich, that Peter is there. You see, Peter himself has asked them to write me this, because he knows I will be unsure. Always, Peter understands everything what I am thinking—’
‘So now you really believe it?’
‘Now I believe.’ Gerda quickly brushed a tear from her eye and smiled at me radiantly. ‘I believe more and more, every day!’
*
I had invited Gerda and Sarah to have dinner with me that evening, in town. Sarah said she couldn’t come; she was too busy. This may have been true, but I suspected that she wanted Gerda and me to spend the evening alone together.
Philadelphia had become a wartime city, with a partial blackout. Stripped of its neon lights, it seemed grimmer than ever, and the tall downtown buildings were like up-ended coffins in the clammy midwinter fog. The streets were crowded with naval and military drunks; hundreds of dazed, displaced boys killing time, waiting to be taken away to the War. They were a new, anonymous race which was growing and spreading enormously all over the land. And one of them, somewhere, was Bob.
But the fish-restaurant to which I took Gerda still seemed as bright and snug as in peacetime. We sat in a booth, eating lobster and drinking white wine.
‘This is so nice, I find,’ she said. ‘After the War, I shall bring Peter here.’
I looked into her shining eyes. ‘You never used to say things like that.’
‘I did not dare, Stephen … You know, now I feel almost ashamed? I have not the right to be so happy. But I cannot help it. Just now, when the War comes to this country, and so many more people will begin to suffer, it is as if for me the War is almost over.’
‘You’ve had your share, don’t worry. You’ve had more than enough War for one person.’
‘Oh, Stephen—I have been so much afraid!’
‘I think I guessed that.’
‘You helped me. Very, very much. You and Sarah. I do not know any more how I shall repay what I owe. But Peter and I, we shall find a way.’
‘Take it easy! Get yourselves back here, first.’
‘Oh, to get back—that is nothing! Now nothing seems difficult. We shall come back. I know it.’
‘Tell me something, Gerda—that is, if you can. What really kept you going, all the time Peter was in Germany and you had no news?’
Gerda thought a little. ‘Can anyone tell such a thing? It is not to explain. You go on because life goes on—and what else shall you do? For me, there was my daily work. That was very good. Most especially, that I had you to be looking after.’
‘I’m glad that helped.’
‘Oh, a lot!’ Gerda laughed. ‘It was so kind of you to have this accident! You know, every time I am unhappy because of Peter, I think to myself: this what I feel is in the mind only, but poor Stephen has the pain in his leg.’
‘I wouldn’t have traded with you, believe me.’
‘And then there was Sarah. Stephen—never, never in the whole of my life have I met anyone like her. Only now I first begin to understand this.’
‘Sure, Sarah’s wonderful.’
‘You say that, Stephen. But I think you too, you do not understand her. You think you know her, because you have lived together with her so long, when you are a child. I think nobody knows her.’
‘Just what do you mean, exactly?’
‘You know, Stephen, that I do not believe in this what the Quakers believe?’
‘Yes. You told me that.’
‘It is good, I am sure. I would like to believe it. But I cannot—not in my deep feeling … But now I tell you something strange: what Sarah believes, I believe in that.’
‘But you just said you didn’t—’
‘I know. It does not make any sense. I know only this: what Sarah believes, this is true.’
‘You mean, true for her?’
‘No. True for all. Because it is she who believes, and not another. That what she believes, must be true. When I am with her, I know this. When I am not with her, as now, that is different. I do not know. I remember, only … You yourself, did you not ever feel this with Sarah? Tell me truthfully.’
‘No, Gerda. I’m afraid I never did.’
‘Then perhaps she was not always like this. Perhaps she is changing.’
‘I wish you could tell me more about it.’
‘I do not know what to tell … No, wait, there is one thing. You know, this last time, since you left, has been for me very bad? I can speak of this, now it is passed. I began to feel, what is the use to hope? Peter is dead, I think.’
‘You’d never thought that before?’
‘I would not think it. I made my will not to. But at last it was no use. One night, Sarah and I are sitting together, and I begin crying. This I never did before. We are sewing to make clothes for a Negro family who are Sarah’s friends. And, suddenly, I cannot go on. I stop. I am crying so much that I cannot see the needle—And, Stephen, do you know what was so strange? All the time that I am crying, Sarah is sitting there, and still sewing, and she says nothing.’
‘That certainly is strange,’ I said, picturing the scene, and the Sarah I knew; the Sarah who ran to pick up children who had fallen in the street, and who would shed tears—rather too easily, I used to think—when she heard of the misfortunes of complete strangers. The picture of this different Sarah was so odd that it seemed even a little spooky. I felt my skin rising into goose-pimples.
‘She is sitting there, sewing,’ Gerda continued, ‘and at first I think that she has not noticed. But that is impossible. And then I know that she knows—all what I am feeling, everything. She is with me, so close, although she has not moved. It is as if she holds my hand. I want to speak to her, but I cannot. And then I do not want. It is not necessary. The room gets very still. I cannot describe—but it is like when you are in a place with deep snow all around—so still. You feel only the stillness … And it was then that I knew—’
Gerda paused. ‘You knew what?’ I prompted.
‘I knew that it is all right.’
‘You mean, that Peter was safe?’
‘Oh no. Much more than this. It is all right—even if Peter is not safe—even if the worst happens, to him and to me. Suddenly, I knew that. Sarah made me know it … I cannot explain more.’
‘And didn’t Sarah say anything at all?’
‘Not for a long, long while. Or it seemed long. Perhaps really only two, three minutes. Then she looks up and says—you will never guess—’ Gerda laughed quietly. ‘She says, “I think I will make us some hot chocolate.” That was all. Then she puts down her sewing, and gets up and goes into the kitchen.’
After Gerda had finished speaking, neither of us said anything for some time. Gerda sat looking down at her plate on the table. Probably she was thinking of what she’d just told me. Then, at length, she raised her eyes and saw that I was watching her.
‘What is?’ she asked, smiling.
‘I was wishing Peter could see you now,’ I said.
‘Why now, especially?’
&nbs
p; ‘Because you’re beautiful.’
‘I?’ Gerda laughed and shook her head, but I could see she was pleased. ‘I am not beautiful. Not ever. Only now perhaps I look a little bit nicer, because I am happy.’
‘And you’re going to be, always, from now on. I’m sure of that. Peter is damned lucky.’
‘I think I am very, very lucky to have Peter.’
‘Well, I guess you deserved each other … You know, Gerda, all last summer I was kind of in love with you?’
Gerda smiled. ‘Perhaps I liked you also, a little.’
‘You did? Honestly?’
‘Why not? Why should I not say the truth? I found you quite attractive. Also, you were sick. I am your nurse. That is normal.’
‘No—it wasn’t just that. Not with me. Because I still feel the same way; only, now, it isn’t so personal. I just wish I could find myself someone exactly like you.’
Gerda laughed again. ‘Exactly like? You say this as if I am an automobile! Except that you prefer a more new model, I suppose? 1942, with all latest improvements? No, Stephen—you do not want a copy. Of me, or of anybody. But, believe me, what you really want—that you will find. Those who only think they want—they never get.’
‘Tell me some more. I love it when you give me advice.’
‘So you can make fun?’
‘I’m deadly serious.’
‘Oh, I believe! But I tell you one thing more, and I am serious … Be alone, first, for a time. You have never been enough alone, I think. I do not mean, to go in the desert, in a hole. You may have many people all around you. But in your personal life be alone, until you know that you can live without the support of others. That is not pleasant, always, but it is good. So do not hurry to find someone. Be patient and wait. She will come, the one you want; and when she comes, you will know. Only, first, it is better for you to be alone.’
‘I’m awfully glad you say that, Gerda. Because, as a matter of fact, I’m planning to be.’
Next morning, when breakfast was over and Gerda had left the dining-room, Sarah asked: ‘Do you really have to go back to New York today, Stephen dearest?’
‘I’m afraid I do, Aunt Sarah.’
The World in the Evening Page 30
