Read Orpheus Emerged Page 6


  ‘Now—I begin anew!’ and the world would

  ask, well he has cleared out all the decks,

  well? So now, what does he have to say?

  That’s what I mean by what I was saying!

  Don’t you see the psychoanalysis rids you of

  the rich store of your imagination, it thieves

  you, rich thievery, ha ha!”

  Hubert, strangely enough, seemed to be

  interested in all this prattle, despite its inco-

  herence, and was maintaining a polite atti-

  tude of receptivity; but of Marie and Toni,

  this could not be said. Subtly, they had

  opened a sub-discourse of their own and

  were now standing slightly apart from the

  two men, and any moment they would find

  the opportunity to casually walk away.

  Meanwhile, in the other room, there was

  great noise, with Paul at the center of it all.

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  He had come in wearing a rose in his hair,

  and everybody seemed to be deriving great

  enjoyment out of this. Paul was now taking

  the flower out of his hair—he had previous-

  ly purchased it in the flower store on M

  Street—and with a deep bow and a flourish,

  he was presenting it to Maureen.

  “To the hostess, charming and lovely,” he

  said. “A rose to keep you when you’re sad.

  Food for the stomach, love for the heart, a

  rose for melancholia.” He made a dramatic

  gesture as she took the rose from his hand.

  It was evident that he had been drinking, for

  as he straightened up from his bow, he tot-

  tered and wavered.

  “You know don’t you,” Hubert was now

  telling Michael, who had turned his eyes to

  the slightly maudlin scene in the other room

  while Hubert was seriously absorbed in

  their topic, “that what you’re saying is, to

  me, a whole mess of theoretical and aimless

  nonsense?”

  “Yes?” Michael said politely. “By the way,

  have we met before?”

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  “No. My name is Hubert. How do you

  do.” They shook hands. Hubert went on:

  “What did you precisely mean?”

  “Another thing,” Michael said, “before I

  explain the latter: it might as a matter of fact

  illumine my whole conception of psycholo-

  gy as a whole. Now. Do you know, for

  instance, why my output—I am a writer, I

  write poetry and other things—why this

  output is so large, why I keep steadily writ-

  ing? It’s because of what you would call an

  insecurity sense in psychology. Now, look,

  suppose I were to rid myself of this insecu-

  rity sense through psychoanalysis, I would

  not be driven to my work as before a wind—

  perhaps I would never write again, because

  I’d find out what it is that makes me want to

  write, to create..!”

  Hubert digested this slowly and with a

  serious mien. Then he took a sharp little

  intake of breath. “Overlooking the assump-

  tion,” he said slowly, with precision, “that…

  creation…might not necessarily be your

  supreme individual function, why should

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  quantity of output be set up as an argument

  against psychoanalytical house-cleaning?..”

  This quite overwhelmed Michael; and on

  top of that, he wasn’t listening too attentively.

  He was annoyed that Marie and Toni had

  wandered away from his conversation. He

  merely nodded, his eyes on Marie, who stood

  in the other room talking to Julius, radiant in

  red slacks, with a red ribbon in her dark hair,

  and a sort of crimson shell bracelet on her

  slender wrist. Michael, half-awake, feverish

  from wine and sleepiness, could not take his

  eyes off her.

  Hubert, with his eyes fastened on

  Michael’s face, was going to say something

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  else devastating when Barbara suddenly ran

  up to him and pulled him into the next room

  to show him the watercolor reproduction of

  Degas’ “Interior” over the small table in the

  corner. There was complete chaos every-

  where in the apartment, as is to be expected

  at a gathering where wine has begun to be

  the moving spirit. Michael was left standing

  alone, and he began to sulk. He went to the

  window and looked at the night outside in an

  attempt to seem composed. The noise

  behind him was beginning to annoy his

  nerves.

  Leo came up and handed him a glass of

  wine. “Come on, you’re way behind every-

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  body. Drink up! What’s the matter with you,

  you seem annoyed?” The first notes of

  Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony rang out behind them.

  “Too much noise,” Michael mumbled. He

  drank the wine. “And I’ve been snubbed,” he

  added sharply.

  “What?” Leo laughed. But Paul was sud-

  denly beside them, laughing also.

  “Snubbed, Michael?” he said, slapping

  the latter on the back. “You resent it, my

  asocial friend? How were you snubbed?

  Who? Ha ha ha.”

  Michael turned a glowering countenance

  on Paul.

  “You don’t like people,” Paul mocked.

  “You hate people. Your emotions are unre-

  servedly aesthetic, aren’t they? Didn’t you

  tell me that when you left?…”

  “When he left where?” Leo asked curious-

  ly. “What’s all the mystery?”

  “Shut up,” said Michael to Leo. Suddenly,

  Paul was standing just in front of Michael,

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  and swaying a little.

  “I need some money,” he said quietly. “I

  just spent my last sous on a few drinks and a

  flower for Maureen.”

  “Well?” Michael grunted, turning away.

  “I’ve lost my job. I can’t work. I’m too

  nervous. Michael, I’ve had enough of this

  anyway. If you can’t… well, at least give me

  some money. I’m hungry, damn you!”

  Leo began to edge away in embarrass-

  ment, but he couldn’t bear to miss what was

  going on, so he hovered a few feet away and

  pretended to be absorbed in his glass.

  Michael was morosely silent. Paul waited.

  Then finally Michael withdrew several bills

  from his wallet and pushed them to Paul

  across the top of the bookcase that stood

  beside them. Leo could not help noticing

  that it was an unusually large sum in view of

  the circumstances.

  Paul put the money in his pocket and said,

  “Thank you.” Michael have him a look

  drenched with contempt, put out his hand to

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  “What’s that?”

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RPHEUS EMERGED 110

  push Paul out of the way, and strode into the

  other room to mingle with the others.

  Paul turned to Leo and smiled happily.

  “Come on Leo,” he said. “Let’s have some

  more wine. This is a wonderful party.”

  “I should say it is,” Leo drawled signifi-

  cantly. Paul’s eye flashed for just a moment,

  but then he began to laugh heartily at Leo’s

  hint and dragged him along into the other

  room, to the table where the bottles were.

  They poured themselves some wine.

  “Leo,” said Paul, “I’ve a little acte gratuit

  in mind. Did you ever hear of the acte gra-

  tuit—as in Gide, for instance? I was reading him the other week. People commit atrocities on an impulse, but the impulse is gra-

  tuitous, there’s no reason for it.”

  “I know,” said Leo. “What about it?”

  “I have here a little acte that is not

  entirely gratuitous. But just because it’s so

  coldly premeditated, it becomes more than

  an acte gratuit.”

  “What on earth are you driving at?”

  Smiling, Paul raised his glass and poured

  some wine down the back of Leo’s collar.

  Leo yelled excitedly and backed away.

  “What’s that? What’s that for?” But Paul,

  laughing loudly, was patting Leo on the back.

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  No one had noticed this little incident,

  except for Julius, who lay languidly on the

  couch watching every move that Paul made.

  He had been the only one in the party, as

  well, who had seen the exchange of money

  between Michael and Paul.

  “You’re crazy!” Leo spluttered at Paul,

  wiping his neck with a handkerchief, half-

  angry, half on the point of laughing good-

  naturedly. He couldn’t quite express what

  he really felt about Paul’s having poured

  wine on him. “You’re a sadist, I think, Paul.”

  “Just a little premeditated acte gratuit,”

  Paul said. “I took great pains to explain

  everything…”

  Julius had sauntered over to them.

  “A little wine bath for little Leo?” he

  inquired softly. “Paul, you do surprise me

  sometimes. What a strange form of

  revenge!”

  “Revenge!” mocked Paul. “I don’t know

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  what you mean…revenge.” But Julius

  maintained a teasing silence.

  “Julius,” Paul said at length, “I think

  you’d better get back to your couch and

  observe further events—for you are an

  observer, you know, you observe things,

  that’s why you live. A super- voyeur. But

  your fault is that you think yourself omnis-

  cient. You types are all the same; you think

  you have everything figured out. Now,” said

  Paul, taking a letter from a pocket of his

  filthy jacket, and waving it at Julius, “try to

  figure this out.” He started away, then he

  came back and looked closely at Julius:

  “Ah, now I see. You saw Michael giving me

  money. Tell me, omniscient one, what was

  that for? Explain it.”

  “Perhaps I’m not up to it,” Julius said.

  A clamorous Shostakovich sequence

  thundered behind them, with Anthony’s

  happy yells exceeding all other sounds.

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  “Come now,” said Paul. “Do you suspect

  that Michael is my brother?”

  “I’m not saying a word,” Julius smiled.

  “And that I punished Leo for thinking

  cheaply of the money incident, hey?” Julius

  still smiled. “All figured out?” Paul cried.

  “Then watch this—oh, by the way, this will

  mark the end of the party!” And, saying this,

  Paul started off again with the letter in his

  hand, going straight to Michael, who was

  standing with Arthur listening to the latter’s

  anecdote of his last foray into the Bohemian

  Quarter.

  Paul thrust himself between them,

  waved a letter before Michael’s face, and

  said: “Michael, I have a letter.”

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  Michael frowned and pushed the letter

  away. “All right, so you have a letter. What

  do I care?”

  Paul smiled. “But it’s from Helen.”

  Michael opened his mouth in an expres-

  sion of great exasperation; but suddenly, as

  he understood Paul’s words, the expression

  turned to that of pain—pain and anguish.

  He seemed on the verge of a stroke, he had

  become so pale and trembling, with his fists

  knotted hard at his sides.

  “And she’s coming here soon,” Paul

  added, still waving the letter.

  Michael seemed to take a deep breath,

  with his lips compressed; then suddenly he

  emitted a loud yell of rage at Paul and

  pushed blindly at him. Paul backed up a

  few steps. Thickly, Michael was now curs-

  ing Paul, and his face had grown so red that

  Maureen, who had turned swiftly at the

  sound of the yell, now advanced anxiously

  to do something about this latest atrocity of

  Paul’s. A hush had fallen over the party,

  although the music played on unmindful of

  the surrounding tension, and weaved out a

  little drama of its own. “You!” Michael was

  thickly yelling. And suddenly, now at the

  height of his rage, he wrapped his hand

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  around the brass stem of the floor lamp next

  to him and began hoisting it with great

  effort.

  “Look out!” cried Leo, jumping back.

  Michael had lifted the floor lamp now with

  both hands and was raising it aloft over his

  head, trailing the light cord. Paul stood

  indecisively.

  Down came the lamp in a slow but

  vicious arc, and Paul stepped aside just in

  time, for on the spot where he had been

  standing, the lamp, lampshade and bulbs

  and all now smashed jarringly and hissed

  and sparked on the floor and went out. The

  room was plunged in the half darkness of

  the candlelight, and all the girls had

  momentarily screamed in terror. And the

  music played on as indomitably as before.

  There was a frantic scuffling as Michael

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  reached out for Paul, who had begun to

  hurry towards the window of the other

  room. Michael tripped over the fallen lamp

  and fell with a crash, precipitating a vase to

  the floor with him. Paul, now at the window,

  was raising the sash and letting himself out

  on the fire escape. Michael was back on his

  feet—but hands had reached out to restrain

  him. Shaking them off violently, Michael

  broke loose and lunged to the window. But

  Paul had disappeared, and Michael,
panting

  with emotional exhaustion, now fell to his

  knees and leaned his elbows wearily on the

  windowsill.

  “What? What? What?” Barbara kept sob-

  bing, while Leo and Arthur and Hubert were

  anxiously hovering behind Michael, who was

  staring down from his station at the win-

  dowsill, at the next landing of the fire escape.

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  “Good Lord!” Leo was panting, “what’s all

  this damned business?! Stop it, will you, the

  both of you? You’re crazy, the both of you!”

  “My lamp!” Maureen suddenly cried

  from the other room, and Toni was forced to

  giggle.

  “But Paul’s not gone,” Arthur now said

  wondrously, for he had leaned over

  Michael’s head and was looking down.

  “He’s on the flight of the fire escape below.”

  Paul was sitting on the landing below,

  looking up calmly at Michael, who, kneel-

  ing at the window, was looking down with

  equal calm.

  Michael motioned his hand at Paul and

  said, gently, almost sorrowfully, “Go away.”

  Paul was silent. Then he stood up and

  grasped the handrail. Across the apartment

  building court, some windows were opening,

  and people were looking up and down the

  darkness trying to fathom the mystery of the

  noise.

  “You feel like sending everybody home,

  don’t you?” Paul said, still looking up calm-

  ly at the fellow who had just tried to brain

  him. “But you don’t know how. Love or

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  “My lamp!”

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  hate, you’re a failure.”

  “Go away,” Michael repeated, as gently

  and sorrowfully as before.

  Arthur was so amazed at all this, he

  wouldn’t budge from the window as Leo

  tugged at his sleeve so that he too could wit-

  ness the strange scene. Julius had gone to

  the other window and was opening it.

  Paul began to descend the fire escape.

  Then, pausing once again, he looked up at

  Michael through the framework of the bars.

  “The moon,” he pronounced, pointing up at

  the sky. “Why don’t you fly to it?”

  Michael didn’t answer, and Paul descend-