勿失良辰

2021年2月10日发(作者：yso)

美国当代犹太作家索尔

·

贝娄是继海明威、福克纳之后的又一位美国文学大师

,

也是 迄今唯一一位

三次获得美国国家图书奖的小说家

.

本文以异化理论为基础

,

通过分析其主人公汤米

·

威廉内心所

受异化之折磨和为摆脱这种折 磨所做出的努力

,

探讨他们的父子关系及更好地理解这部作品和 贝

娄式故事

.

勿失良辰

Seize the Day

Chapter 1

When it came to concealing his troubles, Tommy Wilhelm was not less capable than the

next fellow. So at least he thought, and there was a certain amount of evidence to back

him up. He had once been an actor

—

no, not quite, an extra

—

and he knew what acting

should be. Also, he was smoking a cigar, and when a man is smoking a cigar, wearing a

hat,

he

has

an

advantage;

it

is

harder

to

find

out

how

he

feels.

He

came

from

the

twenty-third floor down to the lobby on the mezzanine to collect his mail before breakfast,

and he believed

—

he hoped

—

that he looked passably well: doing all right. It was a matter

of sheer hope, because there was not much that he could add to his present effort. On the

fourteenth floor he looked for his father to enter the elevator; they often met at this hour,

on

the

way

to

breakfast.

If

he

worried

about

his

appearance

it

was

mainly

for

his

old

father‘s sake. But there was no stop on the fourteenth, and the elevator sank and sank.

Then

the

smooth

door

opened

and

the

great

dark-red

uneven

carpet

that

covered

the

lobby

billowed

toward

Wilhelm‘s

feet.

In

the

foreground

the

lobby

was

d

ark,

sleepy.

French drapes like sails kept out the sun, but three high, narrow windows were open, and

in the blue air Wilhelm saw a pigeon about to light on the great chain that supported the

marquee of the movie house directly underneath the lobby. For one moment he heard the

wings beating strongly.

Most of the guests at the Hotel Gloriana were past the age of retirement. Along Broadway

in the Seventies, Eighties, and Nineties, a great part of New York‘s vast population of old

men and women lives. Unless the weather is too cold or wet they fill the benches about

the

tiny

railed

parks

and

along

the

subway

gratings

from

Verdi

Square

to

Columbia

1

University,

they

crowd

the

shops

and

cafeterias,

the

dime

stores,

the

tearooms,

the

bakeries, the beauty parlors, the reading rooms and club rooms. Among these old people

at

the

Gloriana,

Wilhelm

felt

out

of

place.

He

was

comparatively

young,

in

his

middle

forties, large and blond, with big shoulders; his back was heavy and strong, if already a

little stooped or thickened. After breakfast the old guests sat down on the green leather

armchairs and sofas in the lobby and began to gossip and look into the papers; they had

nothing to do but wait out the day. But Wilhelm was used to an active life and liked to go

out energetically in the morning. And for several months, because he had no position, he

had kept up his morale by rising early; he was shaved and in the lobby by eight o‘clock.

He bought the paper and some cigars and drank a Coca-Cola or two before he went in to

breakfast with his father. After breakfast

—

out, out, out to attend to business. The getting

out had in itself become the chief business. But he had realized that he could not keep this

up much longer, and today he was afraid. He was aware that his routine was

about to

break up and he sensed that a huge trouble long presaged but till now formless was due.

Before evening, he‘d know.

Nevertheless he followed his daily course and crossed the lobby.

Rubin, the man at the newsstand, had poor eyes. They may not have been actually weak

but

they

were

poor

in

expression,

with

lacy

lids

that

furled

down

at

the

corners.

He

dressed well. It didn‘t seem necessary—

he was behind the counter most of the time

—

but

he dressed very well. He had on a rich brown suit; the cuffs embarrassed the hairs on his

small hands. He wore a Countess Mara painted necktie. As Wilhelm approached, Rubin

did not see him; he was looking out dreamily at the Hotel Ansonia, which was visible from

his corner, several blocks away. The Ansonia, the neighborho

od‘s great landmark, was

built by Stanford White. It looks like a baroque palace from Prague or Munich enlarged a

hundred times, with towers, domes, huge swells and bubbles of metal gone green from

exposure, iron fretwork and festoons. Black television antennae are densely planted on its

2

round summits. Under the changes of weather it may look like marble or like sea water,

black as slate in the fog, white as tufa in sunlight. This morning it looked like the image of

itself

reflected

in

deep

water,

white

and

cumulous

above,

with

cavernous

distortions

underneath. Together, the two men gazed at it.

Then Rubin said, ―Your dad is in to breakfast already, the old gentleman.‖

―Oh, yes? Ahead of me today?‖

―That‘s a real knocked

-

out shirt you got on,‖ said Rubin. ―Where‘s it from, Saks?‖

―No, it‘s a Jack Fagman—Chicago.‖

Even when his spirits were low, Wilhelm could still wrinkle his forehead in a pleasing way.

Some of the slow, silent movements of his face were very attractive. He went back a step,

as if to stand away from himself and get a better look at his shirt. His glance was comic, a

comment upon his untidiness. He liked to wear good clothes, but once he had put it on

each article appeared to go its own way. Wilhelm, laughing, panted a little; his teeth were

small; his cheeks when he laughed and puffed grew round, and he looked much younger

than his years. In the old days when he was a college freshman and wore a raccoon coat

and a beanie on his large blonde head his father used to say that, big as he was, he could

charm a bird out of a tree. Wilhelm had great charm still.

―I like this dove

-

gray color,‖ he said in his sociable, good

-

natured way. ―It isn‘t washable.

You have to send it to the cleaner. It never smells as good as washed. But it‘s a nice shirt.

It co

st sixteen, eighteen bucks.‖

This shirt had not been bought by Wilhelm; it was a present from his boss

—

his former

boss, with whom he had had a falling out. But there was no reason why he should tell

Rubin the history of it. And although perhaps Rubin knew

—

Rubin was the king of man

3

who

knew,

and knew

and

knew. Wilhelm

also

knew

many

things

about Rubin,

for

that

matter, about Rubin‘s wife and Rubin‘s business, Rubin‘s health. None of these could be

mentioned, and the great weight of the unspoken left them little to talk about.

―Well, y‘lookin‘ pretty sharp today,‖ Rubin said.

And Wilhelm said gladly, ―Am I? Do you really think so?‖ He could not believe it. He saw

his reflection in the glass cupboard full of cigar boxes, among the grand seals and paper

damask and the gold-embossed portraits of famous men, Garcí

a, Edward the Seventh,

Cyrus the Great. You had to allow for the darkness and deformations of the glass, but he

though

he

didn‘t look too good. A wide

wrinkle like

a

comprehensive

bracket sign

was

written upon his forehead, the point between his brows, and the were patched of brown on

his dark blond hair skin. He began to be half amused at the shadow of his own marveling,

troubled, desirous eyes, and his nostrils and his lips. Fair-haired hippopotamus!

—

that was

how he looked to himself, He saw a big round face, a wide, flourishing red mouth, stump

teeth. And the hat, too; and the cigar, too. I should have done hard labor all my life, he

reflected.

Hard

labor

that

tires

you

out

and

makes

you

sleep.

I‘d

have

w

orked

off

my

energy and felt better. Instead, I had to distinguish myself

—

yet.

He had put forth plenty of effort, but that was not the same as working hard, was it? And if

as a young man had had got off to a bad start it was due to this very same face. Early in

the nineteen-thirties, because of his striking looks, he had been very briefly considered

star material, and he had gone to Hollywood. There for seven years, stubbornly, he had

tried to become a screen artist. Long before that time his ambition or delusion had ended,

but through pride and perhaps also through laziness he had remained in California. At last

he turned to other things, but those seven years of persistence and defeat had unfitted

him somehow for trades and businesses, and then it was too late to go into one of the

professions. He had been slow to mature, and he had lost ground, and so he hadn‘t been

4

able to get rid of his energy and he was convinced that this energy itself had done him the

greatest harm.

―I didn‘t see you at the gin game last night,‖ said Rubin.

―I had to miss it. How did it go?‖

For the last weeks Wilhelm had played gin almost nightly, but yesterday he had felt that he

couldn‘t afford to lose anymore. He had never won. Not once. And while the losses were

small they weren‘t

gains, were they? They were losses. He was tired of losing, and tired

also of the company, and so he had gone by himself to the movies.

―Oh,‖ said Rubin, ―it went okay. Carl made a chump of himself yelling at the guys. This

time Doctor Tamkin didn‘t let h

im get away with it. He told him the psychological reason

why.‖

―What was the reason?‖

Rubin said, ―I can‘t quote him. Who could? You know the way Tamkin talks. Don‘t ask me.

Do you want the Trib? Aren‘t you going to look at the closing quotations?‖

―It won‘t help much to look. I know what they were yesterday at three,‖ said Wilhelm. ―But I

suppose I better had get the paper.‖ It seemed necessary for him to lift one shoulder in

order

to

put

his

hand

into

his

jacket

pocket.

There,

among

little

packets

of

pills

and

crushed

cigarette

butts

and

strings

of

cellophane, the

red

tapes

of

packages

which

he

sometimes used as dental floss, he recalled that he had dropped some pennies.

―That doesn‘t sound so good,‖ said Rubin. He meant to be conversationally playful, bu

t his

voice had no tone and his eyes, slack and lid-

blinded, turned elsewhere. He didn‘t want to

5

hear. It was all the same to him. Maybe he already knew, being the sort of man who knew

and knew.

No, it wasn‘t good. Wilhelm held three orders of lard in the

commodities market. He and

Dr. Tamkin had bought this lard together four days ago at 12.96, and the price at once

began to fall and was still falling. In the mail this morning there was sure to be a call for

additional margin payment. One came every day.

The

psychologist,

Dr.

Tamkin,

had

got

him

into

this.

Tamkin

lived

at

the

Gloriana

and

attended

the

card

game.

He

had

explained

to

Wilhelm

that

you

could

speculate

in

commodities at one of the uptown branches of a good Wall Street house without making

the full deposit of margin legally required. It was up to the branch manager. If he knew

you

—

and all the branch managers knew Tamkin

—

he would allow you to make short-term

purchases. You needed only to open a small account.

―The whole secret of this type of speculation,‖ Tamkin had told him, ―is in the alertness.

You

have

to

act

fast

—

buy

it

and

sell

it;

sell

it

and

buy

in

again.

But

quick!

Get

to

the

window and have them wire Chicago at just the right second. Strike and strike again! Then

get out the same day

. In no time at all you turn over fifteen, twenty thousand dollars‘ worth

of

soy

beans,

coffee,

corn,

hides,

wheat,

cotton.‖

Obviously

the

doctor

understood

the

market well. Otherwise he could not make it sound so simple. ―People lose because they

are gree

dy and can‘t get out when it starts to go up. They gamble, but I do it scientifically.

This is not guesswork. You must take a few points and get out. Why, ye gods!‖ said Dr.

Tamkin with his bulging eyes, his bald head, and his drooping lips. ―Have you stop

ped to

think how much dough people are making in this market?‖

Wilhelm

with

a

quick

shift

from

gloomy

attention

to

the

panting

laugh

which

entirely

changed his face had said, ―Ho, have I ever! What do you think? Who doesn‘t know it‘s

way beyond nineteen-twenty- eight

—

twenty-

nine and still on the rise? Who hasn‘t read the

6

Fulbright investigation? There‘s money everywhere. Everyone

is shoveling

it in. Money

is

—< /p>

is

—‖

―And can you rest—can you sit still while this is going on?‖ said Dr. Tamkin. ―I confess to

you

I can‘t. I think about people, just because they have a few bucks to invest, making

fortunes. They have no sense, they have no talent, they just have the extra dough and it

makes them more dough. I get so worked up and tormented and restless, so restless! I

haven‘t even been able to practice my profession. With all this money around you don‘t

want to be a fool while everyone else is making. I know guys who make five, ten thousand

a week just by fooling around. I know a guy at the Hotel Pierre. There‘s nothi

ng to him, but

he has a whole case of Mumm‘s champagne at lunch. I know another guy on Central Park

South

—But what‘s the use of talking. They make millions. They have smart lawyers who

get them out of taxes by a thousand schemes.‖

―Whereas I get taken,‖ said Wilhelm. ―My wife

refused

to

sign

a

joint return. One

fairly

good year and I got into the thirty-two-per-cent bracket and was stripped bare. What of all

my bad years?‖

―It‘s a

businessman‘s government,‖ said

Dr. Tamkin. ―You

can

be

sure

that these

men

making five thousand a week

—‖

―I don‘t need that sort of money,‖ Wilhelm has said. ―But oh! If I could only work out a little

steady income from this. Not much. I don‘t ask much. But how badly I need—! I‘d be so

grateful if you‘d show me how to work it.‖

―Sure I will. I do it regularly. I‘ll bring you my receipts if you like. And do you want to know

something? I approve of your attitude very much. You want to avoid catching the money

fever. This type of activity is filled with hostile feeling and lust. You should see what it does

to some of these fellows. They go on the market with murder in their hearts.

7

―What‘s that I once heard a guy say?‖ Wilhelm remarked. ―A man is only as good as what

he loves.‖

―That‘s it—just it,‖ Tamkin said. ―You don‘t have to go about it their way. There‘s also a

calm and rational, a psychological approach.‖

Wilhelm's father, old Dr. Adler, lived in an entirely different world from his son, but he had

warned him once against Dr. Tamkin. Rather casually

—

he was a very bland old man

—

he

said, ―Wilky, perhaps you listen too much to this Tamkin. He‘s interesting to talk to. I don‘t

doubt it. I think he‘s pretty common but he‘s a persuasive man. However, I don‘t know how

reliable he may be.‖

It

made

Wilhelm

profoundly

bitter

that

his

father

should

speak

to

him

with

such

detachment about his welfare. Dr. Adler liked to appear affable. Affable! His own son, his

one and only son, could not speak his mind or ease his heart to him. I wouldn‘t turn to

Tamkin, he thought, if I could turn to him. At least Tamkin sympathizes with me and tries

to give me a hand, whereas Dad doesn‘t want to be disturbed.

Old Dr. Adler had retired from practice; he had a considerable fortune and could easily

have helped his son. Recently Wilhelm had told him, ―Father—

it

so happens that I‘m in a

bad way now. I hate to have to say it. You realize that I‘d rather have good news to bring

to you. But it‘s true. And since it‘s true, Dad—What else and I supposed to say? It‘s true.‖

Another father might have appreciated

how difficult this confession

was

—

so much

bad

luck, weariness, weakness, and failure. Wilhelm had tried to copy the old man‘s tone and

made himself sound gentlemanly, low-

voiced, tasteful. He didn‘t allow his voice to tremble;

he made no stupid gesture. But the doctor had no answer. He only nodded. You might

have told him that Seattle was near Puget Sound, or that the Giants and Dodgers were

playing a night game, so little was he moved from his expression of healthy, handsome,

8

good-humored old age. He behaved toward his son as he had formerly done toward his

patients, and it was a great grief to Wilhelm; it was almost too much to bear. Couldn‘t he

see

—couldn‘t he feel? Had he lost his family sense?

Greatly hurt, Wilhelm struggled however to be fair. Old people are bound to change, he

said. They have hard things to think about. They must prepare for where they are going.

They can‘t live by the old schedule any longer and all their perspectives chage, and other

people become alike, kin and acquaintances. Dad is no longer the same person, Wilhelm

reflected. He was thirty-

two when I was born, and now he‘s going on eighty. Furthermore,

it‘s time I stopped feeling like a kid toward him, a small son.

The

handsome

old

doctor

stood

well

above

the

other

old

people

in

the

hotel.

He

was

idolized by everyone. This was what people said: ―That‘s old Professor Adler, who used to

teach internal medicine. He was a diagnostician, one of the best in New York, and had a

tremendous practice. Isn't he a wonderful-looking old guy? It's a pleasure to see such a

fine old scientist, clean and immaculate. He stands straight and understands every single

thing

you say. He still has all his buttons. You can discuss any subject with

him.‖ The

clerks, the elevator operators, the telephone girls and waitresses and chambermaids, the

management flattered and pampered him. That was what he wanted. He had always been

a

vain

man.

To

see

how

his

father

loved

himself

sometimes

made

Wilhelm

madly

indignant.

He folded over the Tribune with its heavy, black, crashing sensationalist print and read

without

recognizing

any

of

the

words,

for

his

mind

was

still

on

his

father‘s

vanity.

The

doctor had created his own praise. People were primed and did not know it. And what did

he need praise for? In a hotel where everyone was busy and contacts were so brief and

had such small weight, how could it satisfy him? He could be in people‘s thoughts here

and there for a moment; in and then out. He could never matter much to them. Wilhelm let

9

out a long, hard breath and raised the brows of his round and somewhat circular eyes. He

stared beyond the thick borders of the paper.

. . . love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Involuntary memory brought him this line. At first he thought it referred to his father, but

then

he

underst

ood

that it

was

for himself,

rather.

He

should

love

that

well.

―This

thou

perceivest, which makes thy love more strong.‖ Under Dr. Tamkin‘s influence Wilhelm had

recently begun

to remember the

poems he used

to read. Dr. Tamkin knew, or said

he

knew, the great English poets and once in a while he mentioned a poem of his own. It was

a long time since anyone had spoken to Wilhelm about this sort of thing. He didn‘t like to

think about his college days, but if there was one

course that now made

sense

it was

Lit

erature I. The textbook was Lieder and Lovett‘s British Poetry and Prose, a heavy black

book with thin pages. Did I read that? he asked himself. Yes, he had read it and there was

one accomplishment at least he could recall with pleasure. He had read ―Yet o

nce more,

O ye laurels.‖ How pure this was to say! It was beautiful.

Sunk though he be beneath the wat‘ry floor . . .

Such

things

had

always

swayed

him,

and

now

the

power

of

such

words

was

far,

far

greater.

Wilhelm respected the truth, but he could lie and one of the things he lied often about was

his education. He said he was an alumnus of Penn State; in fact he had left school before

his sophomore year was finished. His sister Catherine had a B.S. degree. Wilhelm‘s late

mother was a graduate of Bryn Mawr. He was the only member of the family who had no

education. This was another sore point. His father was ashamed of him.

10

But he had heard the old man bragging to another old man, saying, ―My son is a sales

executive. He didn‘t have the patience to finish sc

hool. But he does all right for himself.

His income is up in the five figures somewhere.‖

―What—thirty, forty thousand?‖ said his stooped old friend.

―Well, he needs at least that much for his style of life. Yes, he needs that.‖

Despite his troubles, Wilhelm almost laughed. Why, that boasting old hypocrite. He knew

the sales executive was no more. For many weeks there had been no executive, no sales,

no income. But how we love looking fine in the eyes of the world

—

how beautiful are the

old when they are doi

ng a snow job! It‘s Dad, though Wilhelm, who is the salesman. He‘s

selling me. He should have gone on the road.

But what of the truth? Ah, the truth was that there were problems, and of these problems

his father wanted no part. His father was ashamed of him. The truth, Wilhelm thought, was

very awkward. He pressed his lips together and his tongue went soft; it pained him far at

the back, in the cords and throat, and a knot of ill formed in his chest. Dad was never a pal

to me when I was young, he reflected. He was at the office or the hospital, or lecturing. He

expected me to look out for myself and never gave me much thought. Now he looks down

on me. And maybe in some respects he‘s right.

No wonder Wilhelm delayed the moment when he would have to go into the dining room.

He had moved to the end of Rubin‘s counter. He had opened the Tribune; the fresh pages

drooped from his hands; the cigar was smoked out and the hat did not defend him. He

was wrong to suppose that he was more capable than the next fellow when it came to

concealing

his

troubles.

They

were

clearly

written

out

upon

his

face.

He

wasn‘t

even

aware of it.

11

There was the matter of the different names, which, in the hotel, came up frequently. ―Are

you Dr. Adler‘s son?‖ ―Yes, but my name is Tommy Wilhelm.‖ And the doctor would say,

―My son and I use different monickers. I uphold tradition. He‘s for the new.‖ The Tommy

was Wilhelm‘s own invention. He adopted it when he went to Hollywood, and dropped the

Adler. Hollywood was his own idea, too. He used to pretend that it had all been the doing

of a certain talent scout named Maurice Venice. But the scout had never made him the

definite offer of a studio connection. He had approached him, but the results of the screen

test

had

not

been

good.

After

the

test Wilhelm

took

the

initiative

and

pressed

Maurice

Venice

until

he

got

him

to

say,

―Well,

I

suppose

you

might

make

it

out

there.‖

On

the

strength of this Wilhelm had left college and had gone to California.

Someone had said, and Wilhelm agreed with the saying, that in Los Angeles all the loose

objects in the country were collected, as if America had been tilted and everything that

wasn't tightly screwed down had slid into Southern California. He himself had been one of

those loose objects. Sometimes he tol

d people, ―I was too mature for college. I was a big

boy, you see. Well, I thought, when do you start to become a man.‖ After he had driven a

painted flivver and had worn a yellow slicker with slogans on it, and played illegal poker,

and gone out on Coke dates, he had had college. He wanted to try something new and

quarreled with his parents about his career. And then a letter came from Maurice Venice.

The story of the scout was long and intricate and there were several versions of it. The

truth about it was never told. Wilhelm had lied first boastfully and then out of charity to

himself. But his memory was he, he could still separate what he had invented from the

actual

happenings,

and

this

morning

he

found

it

necessary

as

he

stood

by

Rubin‘s

showcase with his Tribune to recall the crazy course of the true events.

I didn‘t seem even to realize that there was a depression. How could I have been such a

jerk as to not prepare for anything and just go on luck and inspiration? With round gray

12

eyes expanded and his large shapely lips closed in severity toward himself he forced open

all that had been hidden. Dad I couldn‘t affect one way or another. Mama was the one who

tried to stop me, and we carried on and yelled and pleaded. The more I lied the louder I

raised my voice, and charged-

—

like a hippopotamus. Poor mother! How I disappointed

her.

Rubin

heard

Wilhelm

give

a

broken

sigh

as

he

stood

with

the

forgotten

Tribune

crushed under his arm.

When Wilhlelm

was

aware

when

Rubin

watched

him,

loitering

and

idle,

apparently

not

knowing what to do with himself this morning, he turned to the Coca-Cola machine. He

swallowed hard at the coke bottle and coughed over it, but he ignored his coughing, for he

was still thinking, his eyes upcast and his lips closed behind his hand. By a peculiar twist

of habit he wore his coat collar turned up always, as though there were a wind. It never lay

flat. But on his broad back, stooped with its own weight, its strength warped almost into

deformity, the collar of his sports coat appeared anyway to be no wider than a ribbon.

He was listening to the sound of his own voice as he explained, twenty-five years ago in

the living room on West End Avenue, ―But Mother, if I don‘t pan out as an actor I can still

go back to school.‖

But she was afraid h

e was going to destroy himself. She said, ―Wilky, Dad could make it

easy for you if you wanted to go into medicine.‖ To remember this stifled him.

―I can‘t bear hospitals. Besides, I might make a mistake and hurt someone or even kill a

patient. I couldn‘t stand that. Besides, I haven‘t got that sort of brains.‖

Then his mother had made the mistake of mentioning her nephew Artie, Wilhelm‘s cousin,

who was an honor student at Columbia in math and languages. That dark little gloomy

Artie,

with

his

disgusting

narrow

face,

and

his

moles

and

self- sniffing

ways

and

his

unclean table manners, the boring habit he had of conjugating verbs when you went for a

13

walk with him. ―Roumanian is an easy language. You just add a tl to everything.‖ He was

now a professor, this s

ame Artie with whom Wilhelm had played near the Soldiers‘ and

Sailors‘ Monument on Riverside Drive. Not that to be a professor was in itself so great.

How could anyone bear to know so many languages? And Artie also had to remain Artie,

which was a bad deal. But perhaps success had changed him. Now that he had a place in

the world perhaps he was better. Did Artie love his languages, and live for them, or was he

also, in his heart, cynical? So many people nowadays were. No one seemed satisfied,

and Wilhelm was especially horrified by the cynicism of successful people. Cynicism was

bread and meat to everyone. And irony, too. Maybe it couldn‘t be helped. It was probably

even necessary. Wilhelm, however, feared it intensely. Whenever at the end of the day he

was unusually fatigued he attributed it to cynicism. Too much of the world's business done.

Too much falsity. He had various words to express the effect this had on him. Chicken!

Unclean! Congestion! He exclaimed in his heart. Rat race! Phony! Murder! Play the Game!

Buggers!

At first the letter from the talent scout was nothing but a flattering sort of joke. Wilhelm‘s

picture in the college paper when he was running for class treasurer was seen by Maurice

Venice, who wrote to him about a screen test. Wilhelm at once took the train to New York.

He found the scout to be huge and oxlike, so stout that his arms seemed caught from

beneath in a grip of flesh and fat; it looked as though it must be positively painful. He had

little hair. Yet he enjoyed a healthy complexion. His breath was noisy and his voice rather

difficult and husky because of the fat in his throat. He had on a double-breasted suit of the

type then known as the pillbox; it was chalk-striped, pink on blue; the trousers hugged his

ankles.

They met and shook hands and sat down. Together these two big men dwarfed the tiny

Broadway

office

and

made

the

furnishings

look

like

toys.

Wilhelm

had

the

color

of

a

Golden Grimes apple when he was well, and then his thick blond hair had been vigorous

14

and his wide shoulders unwarped; he was leaner in the jaws, his eyes fresher and wider;

his legs were then still awkward but he was impressively handsome. And he was about to

make his first great mistake. Like, he sometimes thought, I was going to pick up a weapon

and strike myself a blow with it.

Looming over the desk in the small office darkened by overbuilt midtown-sheer walls, grey

spaces,

dry

lagoons

of

tar

and

pebbles

—

Maurice

Venice

proceeded

to

establish

his

credentials.

He

said,

―My

letter

was

on

the

regular

station

ary,

but

maybe

you

want

to

check on me?‖

―Who, me?‖ said Wilhelm. ―Why?‖

―There‘s guys who think I‘m in a racket and make a charge for the test. I don‘t ask a cent.

I‘m no agent. There ain‘t no commission.‖

―I never even thought of it,‖ said Wilhelm. Was t

here perhaps something fishy about this

Maurice Venice? He protested too much.

In his husky, fat-

weakened voice he finally challenged Wilhelm, ―If you‘re not sure, you

can call the distributor and find out who I am, Maurice Venice.‖

Wilhelm wondered at him

. ―Why shouldn‘t I be sure? Of course I am.‖

―Because I can see the way you size me up, and because this is a dinky office. Like you

don‘t believe me. Go ahead. Call. I won‘t care if you‘re cautious. I mean it There‘s quite a

few people who doubt me at fir

st. They can‘t really believe that fame and fortune are going

to hit ‘em.

―But

I

tell

you

I

do

believe

you,‖

Wilhelm

said,

and

bent

inward

to

accommodate

the

pressure of his warm, panting laugh. It was purely nervous. His neck was ruddy and neatly

15

shaved a

bout the ears―he was fresh from the barbershop; his face anxiously glowed with

his desire to make a pleasing impression. It was all wasted on Venice, who was just as

concerned about the impression he was making.

―If you‘re surprised, I‘ll just show you what I mean,‖ Venice had said. ―I was about fifteen

months ago right in this identical same office when I saw a beautiful thing in the paper. It

wasn‘t even a photo but a drawing, a brassiere ad, but I knew right away that this was star

material. I called

up

the paper to ask who the

girl was, they gave

me

the name

of the

advertising agency; I phoned the agency and they gave me the name of the artist; I got

hold of the artist and he gave me the number of the model agency. Finally, finally I got her

number and p

honed her and said, ?This is Maurice Venice, scout for Kaskaskia Films.‘ So

right away she says, ?Yah, so‘s your old lady.‘ Well, when I saw I wasn‘t getting nowhere

with her I said to her, ?Well, miss, I don‘t blame you. You‘re a very beautiful thing and

must

have a dozen admirers after you all the time, boy friends who like to call and pull your leg

and give a tease. But as I happen to be a very busy fellow and don‘t have the time to

horse around or argue, I tell you what to do. Here‘s my number, and here‘s the number of

Kaskasia Distributors, Inc. Ask them who I am, Maurice Venice. The scout.‘ She did it. A

little

while

later

she

phoned

me

back,

all

apologies

and

excuses,

but

I

didn‘t

want

to

embarrass her and get off on the wrong foot with an artist. I know better than to do that. So

I told her it was a natural precaution, never mind. I wanted to run a screen test right away.

Because I seldom am wrong about talent. If I see it, it‘s there. Get that, please. And do you

know who that little girl is today?‖

―No,‖ said Wilhelm eagerly. ―Who is she?‖

―Venice said impressively, ― ‘Nita Christenberry.‖

Wilhelm

sat

utterly

blank.

This

was

failure.

He

didn‘t

know

the

name,

and

Venice

was

waiting for his response and would be angry.

16

And in fact Venice had been offen

ded. He said, ―What‘s the matter with you! Don‘t you

read a magazine? She‘s a starlet.‖

―I‘m sorry,‖ Wilhelm answered. ―I‘m at school and don‘t have time to keep up. If I don‘t

know her, it doesn‘t mean a thing. She made a big hit, I‘ll bet.‖

―You can say that again. Here‘s a photo of her.‖ He handed Wilhelm some pictures. She

was a bathing beauty

—

short, the usual breasts, hips, and smooth thighs. Yes, quite good,

as Wilhelm recalled. She stood on high heels and wore a Spanish comb and mantilla. In

her hand was a fan.

He had said, ―She looks awful peppy.‖

―Isn‘t she a divine girl? And what personality! Not just another broad in the show business,

believe me. He had a surprise for Wilhelm. ―I have found happiness with her,‖ he said.

―You have?‖ said Wilhelm,

slow to understand.

―Yes, boy, we‘re engaged.‖

Wilhelm saw another photograph, taken on the beach. Venice was dressed in a terry-cloth

beach outfit, and he and the girl, cheek to cheek, were looking into the camera. Below, in

white ink, was written ―Love at Malibu Colony.‖

―I‘m sure you‘ll be very happy. I wish you—‖

―I know,‖ said Venice firmly, ―I‘m going to be happy. When I saw that drawing, the breath

of fate breathed on me. I felt it over my entire body.‖

―Say, it strikes a bell suddenly,‖ Wilhelm had said. ―Aren‘t you related to Martial Venice the

producer?‖

17

Venice was either a nephew of the producer or the son of a first cousin. Decidedly he had

not made good. It was easy enough for Wilhelm to see this now. The office was so poor,

and Venice bragged so nervously and identified himself so scrupulously-

—

the poor guy.

He

was

the

obscure

failure

of

an

aggressive

and

powerful

clan.

As

such

he

had

the

greatest sympathy from Wilhelm.

Venice had said, ―Now I suppose you want to know where you come in. I seen y

our school

paper, by accident. You take quite a remarkable picture.‖

―It can‘t be so much,‖ said Wilhelm, more panting than laughing.

―You don‘t want to tell me my business,‖ Venice said. ―Leave it to me. I studied up on this.‖

―I never imagined

-

—

Well, wha

t kind of roles do you think I‘d fit?‖

―All this time that we‘ve been talking, I‘ve been watching. Don‘t think I haven‘t. You remind

me of someone. Let‘s see who it can be—

one of the great old-timers. Is it Milton Sills? No,

that‘s

not

the

one.

Conway

Tear

le,

Jack

Mulhall?

George

Bancroft?

No,

his

face

was

ruggeder. One thing I can tell you, though, a George Raft type you‘re not—

those tough,

smooth, black little characters.‖

―No, I wouldn‘t seem to be.‖

―No,

you‘re

not

that

flyweight

type,

with

the

fists,

f

rom

a

nightclub,

and

the

glamorous

sideburns, doing the tango or the bolero. Not Edward G. Robinson, either

—I‘m thinking

aloud. Or the Cagney fly-in-your-face role, a cabbie, with that mouth and those punches.

―I realize that.‖

―Not suave like William Powell, or a lyric juvenile like Buddy Rogers. I suppose you don‘t

play the sax? No. But

—‖

18

―But what?‖

―I have you placed as the type that loses the girl to the George Raft type or the William

Powell

type.

You

are

steady,

faithful,

you

get

stood

up.

The

older

women would

know

better. The mothers are on your side. With what they been through, if it was up to them,

they‘d take you in a minute. You‘re very sympathetic, even the young girls feel that. You‘d

make a good provider. But they go more of rthe other types

. It‘s as clear as anything.‖

This was not how Wilhelm saw himself. And as he surveyed the old ground he recognized

now that he had been not only confused but hurt. Why, he thought, he cast me even then

for a loser.

Wilhelm had said, with half a mind to be

defiant, ―Is that your opinion?‖

It never occurred to Venice that a man might object to stardom in such a role. ―Here is

your chance,‖ he said. ―Now you‘re just in college. What are you studying?‖ He snapped

his fingers. ―Stuff.‖ Wilhelm himself felt this

way about it. ―You may plug along fifty years

before

you

get

anywheres.

This

way,

in

one

jump,

the

world knows

who

you

are.

You

become

a

name like Roosevelt, Swanson. From east to

west, out to China, into South

America. This is no bunk. You

become a lover to the

whole

world. The

world

wants it,

needs it. One fellow smiles, a billion people also smile. One fellow cries, the other billion

sob with him. Listen, bud

—‖ Venice had pulled himself together to make an effort. On his

imagination

there

was

some

great

weight

which

he

could

not

discharge.

He

wanted

Wilhelm, too, to feel it. He twisted his large, clean, well-meaning, rather foolish features as

though

he

were

their

unwilling

captive,

and

said

in

his

choked,

fat- obstructed

voice,

―Listen, everywhere there

are people trying hard, miserable, in trouble, downcast, tired,

trying and trying. They need a break, right? A break through, a help, luck or sympathy.‖

19

―That certainly is the truth,‖ said Wilhelm. He had seized t he feeling and he waited for

Venice to go on. But Venice had no more to say; he had concluded. He gave Wilhelm

several pages of blue hectographed script, stapled together, and told him to prepare for

the screen test. ―Study your lines in front of a mirror,‖ he said. ―Let yourself go. The part

should

take

ahold

of

you.

Don't

be

afraid

to

make

faces

and

be

emotional.

Shoot

the

works.

Because

when

you

start

to

act

you're

no

more

an

ordinary

person,

and

those

things don't apply to you. You don‘t behave the same way as the average.‖

And so Wilhelm had never returned to Penn State. His roommate sent his things to New

York

for

him,

and

the

school

authorities

had

to

write

to

Dr.

Adler

to

find

to

what

had

happened.

Still, for three months Wilhelm had delayed his trip to California. He wanted to start out

with the blessings of his family, but they were never given. He quarreled with his parents

and

his

sister.

And

then,

when

he

was

best

aware

of

the

risks

and

knew

a

hundred

reasons against going and had made himself sick with fear, he left home. This was typical

of Wilhelm. After much thought and hesitation and debate he invariably took the course he

had rejected innumerable times. Ten such decisions made up the history of his life. He

had decided that it would be a bad mistake to go to Hollywood, and then he went. He had

made up his mind not to marry his wife, but ran off and got married. He had resolved not to

invest money with Tamkin, and then had given him a check.

But Wilhelm had been eager for life to start. College was merely another delay. Venice

had approached him and said that the world had named Wilhelm to shine before it. He

was to be freed from the anxious and narrow life of the average. Moreover, Venice had

claimed that he never made a mistake. His instinct for talent was infallible, he said.

But when Venice saw the results of the screen test he did a quick about-face. In those

days Wilhelm had had a speech difficulty. It was not a true stammer, it was a thickness of

20

speech

which

the

soundtrack

exaggerated.

The

film

showed

that

he

had

many

peculiarities,

otherwise

unnoticeable.

When

he

shrugged,

his

hand

drew

up

within

his

sleeves. The vault of his chest was huge, but he really didn't look strong under the lights.

Though he called himself a hippopotamus, he more nearly resembled a bear. His walk

was

bearlike,

quick

and

rather

soft,

toes

turned

inward,

as

though

his

shoes

were

an

impediment.

About

one

thing

Venice

had

been

right. Wilhelm

was

photogenic,

and

his

wavy

blond

hair

(now

graying)

came

out

well,

but

after

the

test

Venice

refused

to

encourage h

im. He tried to get rid of him. He couldn‘t afford to take chance on him, he had

made too many mistakes already and lived in fear of his powerful relatives.

Wilhelm had told his parents, ―Venice says I owe it to myself to go.‖ How ashamed he was

now of

this lie! He had begged Venice not to give him up. He had said, ―Can‘t you help me

out? It would kill me to go back to school now.‖

Then when he reached the Coast he learned that a recommendation from Maurice Venice

was the kiss of death. Venice needed help and charity more than he, Wilhelm, ever had. A

few years later when Wilhelm was down on his luck and working as an orderly in a Los

Angeles

hospital,

he

saw

Venice‘s

picture

in

the

papers.

He

was

under

indictment

for

pandering.

Closely

following

the

trial,

Wilhelm

found

out

that

Venice

had

indeed

been

employed by Kaskaskia Films but that he had evidently made use of the connection to

organize a ring of call girls. Then what did he want with me? Wilhelm had cried to himself.

He was unwilling to believe anything very bad about Venice. Perhaps he was foolish and

unlucky, a fall guy, a dupe, a sucker. You didn‘t give a man fifteen years in prison for that.

Wilhelm

often

thought

that

he

might

write

him

a

letter

to

say

how

sorry

he

was.

He

remembered

the

breath

of

fate

and

Venice‘s

certainty

that

he

would

be

happy.

‘Nita

Christenberry was sentenced to three years. Wilhelm recognized her although she had

changed her name.

21

By

that

time

Wilhelm

too

had

taken

his

new

name.

In

California

he

became

Tommy

Wilhelm. Dr. Adler would not accept the change. Today he still called his son Wilky, as he

had done for more than forty years. Well, now, Wilhelm was thinking, the paper crowded

in disarray under his arm, there‘s really very little that a man can change at will. He can‘

t

change his lungs, or nerves, or constitution or temperament. They‘re not under his control.

When he‘s young and strong and impulsive and dissatisfied with the way things are he

wants to rearrange them to assert his freedom. He can't overthrow the government or be

differently born; he only has a little scope and maybe a foreboding, too, that essentially

you

can‘t

change.

Nevertheless,

he

makes

a

gesture

and

becomes

Tommy

Wilhelm.

Wilhelm

had

always

had

a

great

longing

to

be

Tommy.

He

had

never,

however,

succeeded in feeling like Tommy and in his soul had always remained Wilky. When he

was drunk he reproached himself horribly as Wilky. ―You fool, you clunk, you Wilky!‖ he

called himself. He thought that it was a

good thing perhaps that he

had

not become

a

success as Tommy since that would not have been a genuine success. Wilhelm would

have feared that not he but Tommy had brought it off, cheating Wilky of his birthright. Yes,

it had been a stupid thing to do, but it was his imperfect judgment at the age of twenty

which should be blamed. He had cast off his father's name, and with it his father's opinion

of him. It was, he knew it was, his bid for liberty, Adler being in his mind the title of the

species, Tommy the freedom of the person. But Wilky was his inescapable self.

In middle age you no longer thought such thoughts about free choice. Then it came over

you that from one grandfather you had inherited such and such a head of hair which looks

like honey when it whitens or sugars in the jar; from another, broad thick shoulders; an

oddity of speech from one uncle, and small teeth from another, and the wide gray eyes

with darkness diffused even into the whites, and a wide-lipped mouth like a statue from

Peru. Wandering races have such looks, the bones of one tribe, the skin of another. From

22

his mother he had gotten sensitive feelings, a soft heart, a brooding nature, a tendency to

be confused under pressure.

The changed name was a mistake, and he would admit it as freely as you liked. But this

mistake couldn't be undone now, so why must his father continually remind him how he

had sinned? It was too late. He would have to go back to the pathetic day when the sin

was committed. And where was that day. Past and dead. Whose humiliating memories

were these? His and not

his father‘s. What had he to think back on that he could call good?

Very, very little. You had to forgive. First, to forgive yourself, and then general forgiveness.

Didn‘t he suffer from his mistakes far more than his father could.

―Oh God,‖ Wilhelm prayed. ―Let me out of my trouble. Let me out of my thoughts, and let

me do something better with myself. For all the time I have wasted I am very sorry. Let me

out of this clutch and into a different life. For I am all balled up. Have mercy.‖

The mail.

The clerk who gave it to him did not carte what sort of appearance he made this morning.

He only glanced at him from under his brows, upward, as the letters changed hands. Why

should the hotel people waste courtesies on him? They had his number. The clerk knew

that he was handing him, along with the letters, a bill for his rent. Wilhelm assumed a look

that removed him from all such things. But it was bad. To pay the bill he would have to

withdraw

money

from

his

brokerage

account,

and

the

account

was

being

watched

because of the drop in lard. According to the Tribune‘s figures lard was still twenty points

below last year‘s level. There were government price supports. Wilhelm didn‘t know how

these worked be he understood that the farmed was protected and that the SEC kept an

eye

on

the

market

and

therefore

he

believed

that

lard

would

rise

again

and

he

wasn‘t

greatly worried as yet. But in the meantime his father might offered to pick up his hotel tab.

Why didn‘t he? What a selfish old man he was! He saw his son‘s hard

ships; he could so

23

easily help him. How little it would mean to him, and how much to Wilhelm! Where was the

old man‘s heart? Maybe thought Wilhelm, I was sentimental in the past, and exaggerated

his kindliness

—

warm family life. It may never have been there.

Not long ago his father has said to him in his usual affable, pleasant way, ―Well, Wilky,

here we are under the same roof again, after all these years.‖

Wilhelm was glad for an instant. At last they would talk over old times. But he was also on

guard aga

inst insinuations. Wasn‘t his father saying, ―Why are you here in a hotel with me

and not at home in Brooklyn with your wife and two boys. You‘re neither a widower nor a

bachelor. You have brought me all your confusions. What do you expect me to do with

th

em?‖

So Wilhelm studied the remark for a bit, then said, ―The roof is twenty

-six stories up. But

how many years has it been?‖

―That‘s what I was asking you.‖

―Gosh, Dad, I‘m not sure. Wasn‘t it the year Mother died? What year was that?‖

He asked this question with an innocent frown on his Golden Grimes, dark blond face.

What year was it! As though he didn‘t know the year, the month, the day, the very hour of

his mother‘s death.

Wasn‘t it nineteen thirty

-

one?‖ asked Dr. Adler.

―Oh, was it?‖ said Wilhelm. And

in hiding the sadness and the overwhelming irony of the

question he gave a nervous shiver and wagged his head and felt the ends of his collar

rapidly.

24

―Do

you

know?‖

his

father

said.

―You

must

realize,

an

old

fellow‘s

memory

becomes

unreliable. It was in

winter, that I‘m sure of. Nineteen

-thirty-

two?‖

Yes, it was age. Don‘t make an issue of it, Wilhelm advised himself. If you were to ask the

old doctor in what year he had interned, he‘d tell you correctly. All the same, don‘t make

an issue. Don‘t quarrel with your own father. Have pity on an old man‘s failings.

―I believe the year was closer to nineteen

-thirty-

four, Dad,‖ he said.

But Dr. Adler was

thinking. Why the

devil can‘t he stand

still when

we‘re

talking? He‘s

either hoisting his pants up and down by the pockets or jittering with his feet. A regular

mountain of tics, he‘s getting to be. Wilhelm had a habit of moving his feet back and forth

as though, hurrying into a house, he had to clean his shoes first on the doormat.

Then Wilhelm had said, ―Yes, that was the beginning of the end, wasn‘t it, Father?‖

Wilhelm often astonished Dr. Adler. Beginning of the end? What could he mean

—

what

was he fishing for? Whose end? The end of family life? The old man was puzzled but he

would not give Wilhelm an opening to introduce his complaints. He had learned that it was

better not to take up Wilhelm‘s strange challenges. So he merely agreed pleasantly, for he

was a master of social behavior, and said, ―It was an awful misfortune for us all.‖

He thought, What business

has he to complain to me of his mother‘s death?

Face to face they had stood, each declaring himself silently after his own way. It was: it

was not; the beginning of the end

—

some end.

Unaware of anything odd in his doing it, for he did it all the time, Wilhelm had pinched out

the coal of his cigarette and dropped the butt in his pocket, where there were many more.

25

And as he gazed at his father the little finger of his right hand began to twitch and tremble;

of that he was unconscious, too.

And yet Wilhelm believed that when he put his mind to it he could have perfect and even

distinguished manners, outdoing his father. Despite the slight thickness in his speech

—

it

amounted almost to a stammer when he started the same phrase over several times in his

effort to eliminate the thick sound

—

he could be fluent. Otherwise he would never have

made a good salesman. He claimed also that he was a good listener. When he listened he

made a tight mouth and rolled his eyes thoughtfully. He would soon tire and begin to utter

s

hort, loud, impatient breaths, and he would say, ―Oh yes . . . yes . . . yes. I couldn't agree

more.‖ When he was forced to differ he would declare, ―Well I'm not sure. I don't really see

it that way. I'm of two minds about it.‖ He would never willingly hu

rt any man's feelings.

But in conversation with his father he was apt to lose control of himself. After any talk with

Dr. Adler, Wilhelm generally felt dissatisfied, and his dissatisfaction reached its greatest

intensity when they discussed family matters. Ostensibly he had been trying to help the

old man to remember a date, but in reality he meant to tell him, ―You were set free when

Ma

died.

You‘d

like

to

get

rid

of

Catherine,

too.

Me,

too.

You‘re

not

kidding

anyone‖—

Wilhelm striving to put this across, and the old man not having it. In the end he

was left struggling, while his father seemed unmoved.

And then once more Wilhelm had said to himself, ―But man! you‘re not a kid. Even then

you weren‘t a kid!‖ He looked down over the front of his big, indecently

big, spoiled body.

He was beginning to lose his shape, his gut was fat, and he looked like a hippopotamus.

His younger son called him ―a hummuspotamus‖; that was little Paul. And here he was still

struggling with his old dada, filled with ancient grievanc

es. Instead of saying, ―Good

-by,

youth! Oh, good-by those marvelous, foolish wasted

days. What a

big

clunk I was--

—

I

am.‖

26

Wilhelm was still paying heavily for his mistakes. His wife Margaret would not give him a

divorce, and he had to support her and the

two children. She would

regularly agree to

divorce him, and then think things over again and set new and more difficult conditions.

No court would have awarded her the amounts he paid. One of today‘s letters, as he had

expected, was from her. For the first time he had sent her a postdated check, and she

protested. She also enclosed bills for the boys‘ educational insurance policies, due next

week. Wilhelm‘s mother

-in- law had taken out these policies in Beverly Hills, and since her

death two years ago he had

to pay the premiums. Why couldn‘t she have minded her own

business!

They

were

his

kids,

and

he

took

care

of

them

and

always

would.

He

had

planned to set up a trust fund. But that was on his former expectations. Now he had to

rethink the future, because of the money problem. Meanwhile, here were the bills to be

paid.

When

he

saw

the

two

sums

punched

out

so

neatly

on

the

cards

he

cursed

the

company

and

its

IBM

equipment.

His

heart

and

his

head

were

congested

with

anger.

Everyone was supposed to have money. It was nothing to the company. They published

pictures of funerals in the magazines and frightened the suckers, and then punched out

little

holes,

and

the

customers

would

lie

awake

to

think

out

ways

to

raise

the

dough.

They‘d be ashamed not to have it. They couldn‘t let a great company down, either, and

they got the

scratch.

In the old days a man was

put in

prison

for debt, but there were

subtler things now. They made it a shame not to have money and set everybody to work.

Well, and what else had Margaret sent him? He tore the envelope open with his thumb,

swearing that he would send any other bills back to her. There was, luckily, nothing more.

He put the hole-

punched cards in his pocket. Didn‘t Margaret know that he was nearly at

the end of his rope? Of course. Her instinct told her that this was her opportunity, and she

was giving him the works.

27

He went it the dining room, which was under Austro-Hungarian management at the Hotel

Gloriana.

It

was

run

like

a

European

establishment.

The

pastries

were

excellent,

especially the strudel. He often had apple strudel and coffee in the afternoon.

As soon as he entered he saw his father‘s small head in the sunny bay at the farther end,

and heard his precise voice. It was with an odd sort of perilous expression that Wilhelm

crossed the dining room.

Dr. Adler liked to sit in a corner that looked across Broadway down to the Hudson and

New Jersey. On the other side of the street was a supermodern cafeteria with gold and

purple mosaic columns. On the second floor a private-eye school, a dental laboratory, a

reducing parlor, a veteran's club, and a Hebrew school shared the space. The old man

was sprinkling sugar on his strawberries. Small hoops of brilliance were cast by the water

glasses on

the white tablecloth, despite a faint murkiness in

the sunshine. It was

early

summer, and the long window was turned inward; a moth was on the pane; the putty was

broken and the white enamel on the frames was streaming with wrinkles.

―Ha, Wilky,‖ said the old man to his tardy son. ―You haven‘t met our neighbor Mr. Perls,

have you? From the fifteenth floor.‖

―How d‘do,‖ Wilhelm said. He did not welcome this stranger; he began at once to find fault

with

him.

Mr.

Perls

carried

a

heavy

cane

with

a

crutch

tip.

Dyed

hair,

a

skinny

forehead

—

these we

re not reasons for bias. Nor was it Mr. Perls‘s fault that Dr. Adler was

using

him,

not

wishing

to

have

breakfast

with

his son

alone.

But

a

gruffer voice

within

Wilhelm spoke, asking ―Who is this damn frazzle

-faced herring with his dyed hair and his

fish t

eeth and this drippy mustache? Another one of Dad‘s German friends. Where does

he collect all these guys? What is the stuff on his teeth? I never saw such pointed crowns.

Are they stainless steel, or a kind of silver? How can a human face get into this condition?

Uch!‖

Staring

with

his

widely

spaced

gray

eyes,

Wilhelm

sat,

his

broad

back

stooped

28

under

the

sports

jacket.

He

clasped

his

hands

on

the

table

with

an

implication

of

suppliance. Then he began to relent a little toward Mr. Perls, beginning at the teeth. Each

of those crowns represented a tooth ground to the quick, and estimating a man's grief with

his teeth as two per cent of the total, and adding to that his flight from Germany and the

probable origin of his wincing wrinkles, not to be confused with the wrinkles of his smile, it

came to a sizable load.

―Mr. Perls was a hosiery wholesaler,‖ said Dr. Adler.

―Is this the son you told me was in the selling line?‖ said Mr. Perls.

―Dr. Adler replied, ―I have only this one son. One daughter. She was a medic

al technician

before she got married

—

anesthetist. At one time she had an important position in Mount

Sinai.‖

He couldn‘t mention his children without boasting. In Wilhelm‘s opinion, there was little to

boast

of.

Catherine,

like

Wilhelm,

was

big

and

fair-haired.

She

had

married

a

court

reporter

who

had

a

pretty

hard

time

of

it.

She

had

taken

a

professional

name,

too

–

Philippa. At forty she was still ambitious to become a painter. Wilhelm didn‘t venture to

criticize her work. It didn‘t do much to him, he sai

d, but then he was no critic. Anyway, he

and

his

sister

were

generally

on

the

outs

and

he

didn‘t

often

see

her

paintings.

She

worked

very

hard,

but

there

were

fifty

thousand

people

in

New

York

with

paints

and

brushes, each practically a law unto himself. I

t was the Tower of Babel in paint. He didn‘t

want to go far into this. Things were chaotic all over.

Dr. Adler thought that Wilhelm looked particularly untidy this morning

–

unrested, too, his

eyes red-rimmed from excessive smoking. He was breathing through his mouth and he

was evidently much distracted and rolled his red-shot eyes barbarously. As usual, his coat

29

collar was turned up as though he had had to go out in the rain. When he went to business

he pulled himself together a little; otherwise he let himself go and looked like hell.

―What‘s the matter, Wilky, didn‘t you sleep last night?‖

―Not very much.‖

―You take too many pills of every kind—

first stimulants and then depressants, anodynes

followed by analeptics, until the poor organism doesn‘t know what‘s happened. Then the

luminal won‘t put people to sleep, and the Pervitin or Benzedrine won‘t wake them up.

God knows! These things get to be as serious as poisons, and yet everyone puts all their

faith in them.‖

―No, Dad, it‘s not the pills. It‘s that I'

m not used to New York anymore. For a native, that's

very peculiar, isn't it? It was never so noisy at night as now, and every little thing is a strain.

Like the alternate parking. You have to run out at eight to move your car. And where can

you put it? If you forget for a minute they tow you away. Then some fool puts advertising

leaflets under your windshield wiper and you have heart failure a block away because you

think you've got a ticket. When you do get stung with a ticket, you can‘t argue. You haven‘

t

got a chance in court and the city wants the revenue!‖

―But in your line you have to have a car, eh?‖ said Mr. Perls.

―Lord

knows

why

any

lunatic

would

want

one

in

the

city

who

didn‘t

need

it

for

his

livelihood.‖

Wilhelm‘s old Pontiac was parked in the s

treet. Formerly, when on an expense account,

he had always put it up in a garage. Now he was afraid to move the car from Riverside

Drive lest he lose his space, and he used it only on Saturdays when the Dodgers were

30

playing

in

Ebbets

Field

and

he

took

his

boys

to

the

game.

Last

Saturday,

when

the

Dodgers were out of town, he had gone out to visit his mother‘s grave.

Dr. Adler had refused to go along. He couldn‘t bear his son‘s driving. Forgetfully, Wilhelm

traveled for miles in second gear; he was seldom in the right lane and he neither gave

signals nor watched for lights. The upholstery of his Pontiac was filthy with grease and

ashes. One cigarette burned in the ashtray, another in his hand, a third on the floor with

maps and other waste paper and Coca-Cola bottles. He dreamed at the wheel or argued

and gestured, and therefore the old doctor would not ride with him.

Then Wilhelm had come back form the cemetery angry because the stone bench between

his mother‘s and his grandmother‘s graves had been overturned

and broken by vandals.

―Those damn teen

-

age hoodlums get worse and worse,‖ he said. ―Why, they must have

used a sledgehammer to break the seat smack in half like that. If I could catch one of

them!‖ He wanted the doctor to pay for a new seat, but his fath

er was cool to the idea. He

said he was going to have himself cremated.

Mr. Perls said, ―I don‘t blame you if you get no sleep up where you are.‖ His voice was

tuned

somewhat

sharp,

as

though

he

were

slightly

deaf.

―Don‘t

you

have

Parigi

the

singing teacher there? God, they have some queer elements in this hotel. On which floor

is that Estonian woman with all her cats and dogs. They should have made her leave long

ago.‖

―They‘ve moved her down to twelve,‖ said Dr. Adler.

Wilhelm

ordered

a

large

Coca-Cola

with

his

breakfast.

Working

in

secret

at

the

small

envelopes

in

his

pocket,

he

found

two

pills

by

touch.

Much

fingering

had

worn

and

weakened the paper. Under cover of a napkin he swallowed a Phenaphen sedative and a

Unicap, but the doctor was sharp-eyed and

said, ―Wilky, what are you taking now?‖

31

―Just my vitamin pills.‖ He put his cigar butt in an ashtray on the table behind him, for his

father did not like the odor. Then he drank his Coca-Cola.

―That‘s what you drink for breakfast, and not orange juice?‖ s

aid Mr. Perls. He seemed to

sense that he would not lose Dr. Adler‘s favor by taking an ironic tone with his son.

―The caffeine stimulates brain activity,‖ said the old doctor. ―It does all kinds of things to

the respiratory center.‖

―It‘s just a habit of the road, that‘s all,‖ Wilhelm said. ―if you drive around long enough it

turns your brains, your stomach, and everything else.‖

His

father

explained,

―Wilhelm

used

to

be

with

the

Rojax

Corporation.

He

was

their

northeastern

sales

representative

for

a

good

many

years

but

recently

ended

the

connection.‖

―Yes,‖ said Wilhem. ―I was with them from the end of the war.‖ He sipped the Coca

-Cola

and chewed the ice, glancing at one and the other with his attitude of large, shaky, patient

dignity. The waitress set two boiled eggs before him.

―What kind of line does this Rojax corporation manufacture?‖ said Mr. Perls.

―Kiddies‘ furniture. Little chairs, rockers, tables, Jungle

-

Gyms, slides, swings, seesaws.‖

Wilhelm let his father do the explaining. Large and stiff-backed, he tried to sit patiently, but

his feet were abnormally restless. All right! His father had to impress Mr. Perls? He would

go

along

once

more,

and

play

his

part.

Fine! He

would

play

along

and

help

his

father

maintain his style. Style was the main consideration. That was just fine!

32

―I was with the Rojax Corporation for almost ten years,‖ he said. We parted ways because

they wanted me to share my territory. They took a son-in-law into the business

—

a new

fellow. It was his idea.‖

To himself, Wilhelm said, Now God alone can tell why I have to lay my whole life bare to

this

blasted

red

herring

here.

I‘m

sure

nobody

else

does

it.

Other

people

keep

their

business to themselves. Not me.

He continued, ―But the rationalization was that it was too big a territory f

or one man. I had

a monopoly. That wasn‘t so. The real reason was that they had gotten to the place where

they would have to make me an officer of the corporation. Vice presidency. I was in line for

it, but instead this son-in-law got in, and

—‖

Dr. Adler t

hough Wilhelm was discussing his grievances much too openly and said, ―My

son‘s income was up in the five figures.‖

As soon as money was mentioned Mr. Perl‘s voice grew eagerly sharper. ―Yes? What, the

thirty-two- per-

cent bracket? Higher even, I guess?‖ He

asked for a hint, and he named the

figures

not

idly

but

with

a

sort

of

hugging

relish.

Uch!

How

they

love

money,

thought

Wilhelm. They adore money! Holy money! Beautiful money! It was getting so that people

were feeble-minded about everything except money. While if you didn't have it you were a

dummy, a dummy! You had to excuse yourself from the face of the earth. Chicken! that‘s

what it was. The world‘s business. If only he could find a way out of it.

Such thinking brought on the usual congestion. It would grow into a fit of passion if he

allowed it to continue. Therefore he stopped talking and began to eat.

Before he struck the egg with his spoon he dried the moisture with his napkin. Then he

battered it (in his father‘s opinion) more than was necessary.

A faint grime was left by his

fingers on the white of the egg after he had picked away the shell. Dr. Adler saw it with

33

silent repugnance. What a Wilky he had given to the world! Why, he didn‘t even wash his

hands in the morning. He used an electric razor

so that he didn‘t have to touch water. The

doctor couldn't bear Wilky's dirty habits. Only once

—

and never again, he swore

—

had he

visited his room. Wilhelm, in pajamas and stocking had sat on his bed, drinking gin from a

coffee mug and rooting for the Dodge

rs on television. ―That‘s two and two on you, Duke.

Come on

—hit it, now.‖ He came down on the mattress—

bam! The bed looked kicked to

pieces. Then he drank the gin as though it were tea, and urged his team on with his fist.

The smell of dirty clothes was outrageous. By the bedside lay a quart bottle and foolish

magazines and mystery stories for the hours of insomnia. Wilhelm lived in worse filth than

a savage. When the doctor spoke to him about this he answered, ―Well, I have no wife to

look after my things.

‖ And who—

who!

—

had done the leaving? Not Margaret. The doctor

was certain that she wanted him back.

Wilhelm drank his coffee with a trembling hand. In his full face his abused bloodshot gray

eyes

moved

back

and

forth.

Jerkily

he

set

his

cup

back

and

put

half

the

length

of

a

cigarette into his mouth; he seemed to hold it with his teeth, as though it were a cigar.

―I can‘t let them get away with it,‖ he said. ―It‘s also a question of morale.‖

His father corrected him. ―Don‘t you mean a moral question, Wilky?‖

―I

mean

that,

too.

I

have

to

do

something

to

protect

myself.

I

was

promised

executive

standing.‖ Correction before a stranger mortified him, and his dark blond face changed

color, more pale, and then more dark. He went on talking to Perls but his eyes spied on

his father. ―I was the one who opened the territory for them I could go back for on eof their

competitors and take away their customers. My customers. Morale enters into it because

they‘ve tried to take away my confidence.‖

―Would you offer a different line to the same people?‖ Mr. Perls wondered.

34

―Why not? I know what‘s wrong with the Rojax product.:

―Nonsense,‖ said his father. ―Just nonsense and kid‘s talk, Wilky. You‘re only looking for

trouble and embarrassment that way. What would you gain by such a silly feud? You have

to think about making a living and meeting your obligations.‖

Hot and bitter, Wilhelm said with pride, while his feet moved angroily under the table, ―I

don‘t have to be told about my obligations. I‘ve been meeting them for years.

In more than

twenty years I‘ve never had a penny of help from anybody. I preferred to dig a ditch on the

WPA but never asked anyone to meet my obligations for me.‖

―Wilky has had all kinds of experiences, said Dr. Adler.

The old doctor‘s face had a wholes

ome reddish and almost translucent color, like a ripe

apricot. The wrinkles beside his ears were deep because the skin conformed so tightly to

his bones. With all his might, he was a healthy and fine small old man. He wore a light vest

of a light check pattern. His hearing-aid doodad was in the pocket. An unusual shirt of red

and

black

stripes

covered

his

chest.

He

bought

his

clothes

in

a

college

shop

farther

uptown. Wilhelm thought he had no business to get himself up like a jockey, out of respect

for his profession.

―Well,‖ said Mr. Perls. ―I can understand how you feel. You want to fight it out. By a certain

time of life, to have to start all over again can‘t be a pleasure, though a good man can

always do it. But anyway you want to keep on with a business you know already, and not

have to meet a whole lot of new contacts.‖

Wilhelm again thought, Why does it have to be me and my life that‘s discussed, and not

him and his life? He would never allow it. But I am an idiot. I have no reserve. To me it can

be done. I talk. I must ask for it. Everybody wants to have intimate conversations, but the

smart

fellows

don‘t

give

out,

only

the

fools.

The

smart fellows

talk intimately

about

the

35

fools, and examine them all over and give them advice. Why do I allow it? The hint about

his age had hurt him. No, you can‘t admit it‘s as good as ever, he conceded. Things do

give out.

―In

the

meanwhile,‖

Dr.

Adler

said,

―Wilky

is

taking

it

easy

and

considering

various

propositions. Isn‘t that so?‘

―More or less,‖ said Wilhelm. He suffered his father to increase Mr. Perl‘s respect for him.

The WPA ditch had brought the family into contempt. He was a little tired. The spirit, the

peculiar

burden

of

his

existence

lay

on

him

like

an

accretion,

a

load,

a

lump.

In

any

moment of quiet, when sheer fatigue prevented him from struggling, he was apt to feel this

mysterious weight, this growth or collection of nameless things which it was the business

of his life to carry about. That must be what a man was for. This large, odd, excited, fleshy,

blond,

abrupt

personality

named

Wilhem,

or

Tommy,

was

here,

present,

in

the

present

—

Dr. Tamkin had been putting into his mind many suggestions about the present

moment, the here and now

—

this Wilky, or Tommy Wilhelm, forty-four years old, father of

two sons, at present living in the Hotel Gloriana, was assigned to be the carrier of a load

which

was his own self, his characteristic self. There was

no figure or estimate for the

value of this load. But it is probably exaggerated by the subject, T. W. Who is a visionary

sort of animal. Who has to believe that he can know why he exists. Though he has never

seriously tried to find out why.

Mr. Perls said, ―If he wants time to think things over and have a rest, why doesn‘t he run

down to Florida for a while? Off

season it‘s cheap and quiet. Fairyland. The mangoes are

just coming in. I got two acres down there. You‘d think you were in India.‖

Mr. Perls

utterly astonished Wilhelm when

he spoke

of fairyland

with

a

foreign

accent.

Mangoes

—

India? What did he mean, India?

36

―Once upon a time,‖ said Wilhelm, ―I did some public relations work for a big hotel down in

Cuba. If I could get them a notice in Leonard Lyons or one of the other columns it might be

good for another holiday there, gratis. I haven‘t had a vacation for

a long time, and I could

stand a rest after going so hard. You know that‘s true, Father.‖ He meant that his father

knew how deep the crisis was becoming; how badly he was strapped for money; and the

he

could

not

rest

but

would

be

crushed

if

he

stumbled;

and

that

his

obligations

would

destroy him. He couldn‘t falter. The thought, The money! When I had it, I flowed money.

They bled it away from me. I hemorrhaged money. But now it‘s almost all gone, and where

am I supposed to turn for more?

He said, ―As a matter of fact, Father, I am as tired as hell.‖

But Mr. Perls began to smile and said, ―I understand from Doctor Tamkin that you‘re going

into some kind of investment with him, partners.‖

―You know, he‘s a very ingenious fellow,‖ said Dr. Adler. ―I really enjo

y hearing him go on.

I wonder if he really is a medical doctor.‖

―Isn‘t

he?‖

said

Perls.

―Everybody

thinks

he is.

He

talks

about

his

patients.

Doesn‘t

he

write prescriptions.‖

―I don‘t really know what he does,‖ said Dr. Adler. ―He‘s a cunning man.‖

―He‘s a psychologist, I understand,‖ said Wilhelm.

―I don‘t know what sort of a psychologist or psychiatrist he may be,‖ said his father. ―He‘s a

little vague. It‘s growing into a major industry, and a very expensive one. Fellows have to

hold down very bog jobs in order to pay those fees. Anyway, this Tamkin is clever. He

never said he practiced here, but I believe he was a doctor in California. They don't seem

to have much legislation out there to cover these things, and I hear a thousand dollars will

37

get you a degree from LA correspondence school. He gives the impression of knowing

something about chemistry, and things like hypnotism. I wouldn't trust him, though.‖

―And why wouldn‘t you?‖ Wilhelm demanded.

―Because he‘s probably a liar. Do you believe he invented all the things he claims?‖

Mr. Perls was grinning.

―He was written up in Fortune,‖ said Wilhelm. ―Yes, in Fortune magazine. He showed me

the article. I‘ve seen his clippings.‖

―That doesn‘t make him legitimate,‖ said Dr. Adler. ―It might have been anothe

r Tamkin.

Make no mistake, he‘s an operator. Perhaps even crazy.‖

―Crazy, you say?‖

Mr. Perls put in ―He could be both sane and crazy. In these days nobody can tell for sure

which is which.‖

―An electrical device for truck drivers to wear in their caps,‖ s

aid Dr. Adler, describing one

of

Tamkin's

proposed

inventions.

―To

wake

them

with

a

shock

when

they

begin

to

be

drowsy

at

the

wheel.

It's

triggered

by

the

change

in

blood-pressure

when

they

start

to

doze.‖

―It doesn‘t sound like such an impossible thing to

me,‖ said Wilhelm.

Mr. Perls said, ―To me he described an underwater suit so a man could walk on the bed of

the Hudson in case of an atomic attack. He said he could walk to Albany in it.‖

―Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!‖ cried Dr. Adler in his old man‘s voice. ―Tamkin‘s Folly. You could go

on a camping trip under Niagara Falls.‖

38

―This

is

just

his

kind

of

fantasy,‖

said

Wilhelm

―It

doesn‘t

mean

a

thing.

Inventors

are

supposed to be like that. I get funny ideas myself. Everybody wants to make something.

Any American do

es.‖

But his father ignored this and said to Perls, ―What other inventions did he describe?‖

While

the

frazzle-faced

Mr.

Perls

and

his

father

in

the

unseemly,

monkey-striped

shirt

were laughing, Wilhelm could not restrain himself and joined in with his own panting laugh.

But he was in despair. They were laughing at the man to whom he had given a power of

attorney

over

his

last

seven

hundred

dollars

to

speculate

for

him

in

the

commodities

market. They had bought all that lard. It had to rise today. By ten o‘

clock, or half-past ten,

trading would be active, and he would see.

Chapter 3

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1

Between white tablecloths and glassware and glancing silverware, through overfull light,

the long figure of Mr. Perls went away into the darkness of the lobby. He thrust with his

cane, and dragged a large built-up shoe which Wilhelm had not included in his estimate of

troubles. Dr. Adler wanted to talk about him. ―There‘s a poor man,‖ he said, ―with a bone

condition which is g

radually breaking him up.‖

―One of those progressive diseases?‖ said Wilhelm.

―Very bad. I‘ve learned,‖ the doctor told him, ―to keep my sympathy for the real ailments.

This Perls is more to be pitied than any man I know.‖

Wilhelm understood he was being put on notice and did not express his opinion. He ate

and ate. He did not hurry but kept putting food on his plate until he had gone through the

muffins and his father‘s strawberries, and then some pieces of bacon that were left; he

39

had

several

cups

of

coffee,

and

when

he

was

finished

he

sat

gigantically

in

a

state

of

arrest and didn‘t seem to know what he should do next.

For a while father and son were uncommonly still. Wilhelm‘s preparations to please Dr.

Adler had failed completely, for the old man kept t

hinking, You‘d never guess he had a

clean upbringing, and, What a dirty devil this son of mine is. Why can‘t he try to sweeten

his appearance a little? Why does he want to drag himself like this? And he makes himself

look so idealistic.

Wilhelm sat, mountainous. He was not really so slovenly as his father found him to be. In

some aspects he even had a certain delicacy. His mouth, though broad, had a fine outline,

and

his brow

and

his gradually

incurved

nose,

dignity,

and

in

his blond

hair

there

was

white

but

there

were

also

shades

of

gold

and

chestnut.

When

he

was

with

the

Rojax

Corporation Wilhelm had kept a small apartment in Roxbury, two rooms in a large house

with a small porch and garden, and on mornings of leisure, in late spring weather like this,

he used to sit expanded in a wicker chair with the sunlight pouring through the weave, and

sunlight through the slug-eaten holes of the young hollyhocks and as deeply as the grass

allowed into small flowers. This peace (he forgot that the time had had its troubles, too),

this peace was gone. It must not have belonged to him, really, for to be here in New York

with his old father was more genuinely like his life. He was well aware that he didn‘t stand

a

chance

of

getting

sympathy

from

his

father,

who

said

he

kept

his

for

real

ailments.

Moreover, he advised himself repeatedly not to discuss his vexatious problems with him,

for his father, with some justice, wanted to be left in peace. Wilhelm also knew that when

he began to talk about these things he made himself feel worse, he became congested

with them and worked himself into a clutch. Therefore he warned himself, Lay off, pal. It'll

only be an aggravation. From a deeper source, however, came other promptings. If he

didn't

keep

his

troubles

before

him

he

risked

losing

them

altogether,

and

he

knew

by

experience that this was worse. And furthermore, he could not succeed in excusing his

40

father on the ground of old age. No. No, he could not. I am his son, he thought. He is my

father. He is as much father as I am son

—

old or not. Affirming this, though in complete

silence, he sat, and sitting, he kept his father at the table with him.

―Wilky,‖ said the old man, ―have you gone down to the baths here yet?‖

―No, Dad, not yet.‖

―Well, you know the Gloriana has one of the fi

nest pools in New York. Eighty feet, blue tile.

It‘s a beauty.‖

Wilhelm had seen it. On the way to the gin game you passed the stairway to the pool. He

did not care for the odor of the wall-locked and chlorinated water.

―You ought to investigate the Russia

n and Turkisk baths, and the sunlamps and massage.

I don‘t hold with sunlamps. But the massage does a world of good, and there‘s nothing

better than

hydrotherapy

when

you

come

right down

to

it. Simple

water has

a

calming

effect and would do you more good t

han all the barbiturates and alcohol in the world.‖

Wilhelm

reflected

that

this

advice

was

as

far

as

his

father‘s

help

and

sympathy

would

extend.

―I thought,‖ he said, ―that the water cure was for lunatics.‖

The doctor received this as one of his son‘s jokes and said with a smile, ―Well, it won‘t turn

a sane man into a lunatic. It does a great deal for me. I couldn‘t live without my massages

and steam.‖

―You‘re probably right. I ought to try it one of these days. Yesterday, late in the afternoon,

my

head

was

about

to

bust

and

I

just

had

to

have

a

little

air,

so

I

walked

around

the

41

reservoir, and I sat down for a while in a playground. It rests me to watch the kids play

potsy and skiprope.‖

The doctor said with approval, ―Well, now, that‘s more like the idea.‖

―It‘s the end of the lilacs,‖ said Wilhelm. ―When they burn it‘s the beginning of the summer.

At least, in the city. Around the time of year when the candy stores take down the windows

and start to sell sodas on the sidewalk, But even though I was raised here, Dad, I can't

take

city

life

any

more,

and

I

miss

the

country.

There's

too

much

push

here

for me.

It

works me up too much. I take things too hard. I wonder why you never retired to a quieter

place.‖

The

doctor opened his small hand on

the

table

in a

gesture so

old

and

so typical that

Wilhelm felt it like an actual touch upon the foundations of his life. ―I am a city boy myself,

you must remember,‖ Dr. Adler explained. ―But if you find the city so hard on you, you

ought to get out.‖

―I‘ll do that,‖ said Wilhelm, ―as soon as I can make the right connection. Meanwhile—‖

His father interrupted. ―Meanwhile I suggest you cut down on drugs.‖

―You exaggerate that, Dad. I don‘t really—

I give myself a little boost against

—‖ He almost

pronounced the word ―misery‖ but he kept his resolution not to complain.

The doctor, however, fell into the error of pushing his advice too hard. It was all he had to

give his son and he gave it once more. ―Water and exercise,‖ he said.

He wants a young, smart, successful son, thoug

ht Wilhelm, and he said, ―Oh, Father, it's

nice of you to give me this medical advice, but steam isn't going to cure what ails me.‖

42

The doctor measurably drew back, warned by the sudden weak strain of Wilhelm‘s voice

and

all that the droop of his face, the swell of his belly against the

restraint of his belt

intimated.

―Some new business?‖ he asked unwillingly. Wilhelm made a great preliminary summary

which

involved

the

whole

of

his

body.

He

drew

and

held

a

long

breath,

and

his

color

changed and his eyes sw

am. ―New?‖ he said.

―You make too much of your problems,‖ said the doctor. ―They ought not to be turned into

a career. Concentrate on real troubles

—fatal sickness, accidents.‖ The old man‘s whole

manner said, Wilky, don‘t start this on me. I have a right t

o be spared.

Wilhelm himself prayed for restraint; he knew this weakness of his and fought it. He knew,

also,

his

father‘s

character.

And

he

began

mildly,

―As

far

as

the

fatal

part

of

it

goes,

everyone on this side of the grave is the same distance from death. No, I guess my trouble

is not exactly new. I‘ve got to pay premiums on two policies for the boys. Margaret sent

them to me. She unloads everything on me. Her mother left her an income. She won‘t

even file a joint tax return. I get stuck. Etcetera. But

you‘ve heard the whole story before.‖

―I certainly have,‖ said the old man. ―And I‘ve told you to stop giving her so much money.‖

Wilhelm worked his lips in silence before he could speak. The congestion was growing.

―Oh, but my kids, Father. My kids. I love them. I don‘t want them to lack anything.‖

The

doctor

said

with

a

half-

def

benevolence,

―Well,

naturally.

And

she,

I‘ll

bet,

is

the

beneficiary of that policy.‖

―Let her be. I‘d sooner die myself before I collected a cent of such money.‖

43

―Ah yes.‖ The

old man sighed. He did not like the mention of death. ―Did I tell you that your

sister Catherine

—

Philippa

—is after me again.‖

―What for?‖

―She wants to rent a gallery for an exhibition.‖

Stiffly fair-

minded, Wilhelm said, ―Well, of course that‘s up to you, Father.‖

The round-headed old man with his fine, feather-

white, ferny hair said, ―No, Wilky. There‘s

not a thing on those canvases. I don‘t believe it; it‘s a case of the emperor‘s clothes. I may

be old enough for my second childhood, but at least the first is well behind me. I was glad

enough to buy crayons for her when she was four. But now she‘s a woman of forty and too

old to be encouraged in her delusions. She‘s no painter.‖

―I wouldn‘t go so far as to call her a born artist,‖ said Wilhelm, ―but you can‘t blame her for

trying something worth while.‖

―Let her husband pamper her.‖

Wilhelm had done his best to be just to his sister, and he had sincerely meant to spare his

father, but the old man‘s tight, benevolent deafness had its usual effect on him. H

e said,

―When it comes to women and money, I‘m completely in the dark. What makes Margaret

act like this?‖

―She‘s showing you that you can‘t make it without her,‖ said the doctor. ―She aims to bring

you back by financial force.‖

―But if she ruins me, Dad,

how can she expect me to come back? No, I have a sense of

honor. What you don‘t see is that she‘s trying to put an end to me.‖

44

His father stared. To him this was absurd. And Wilhelm thought, Once a guy starts to slip,

he figures he might as well be a clunk. A real big clunk. He even takes pride in it. But

there‘s nothing to be proud of—hey, boy? Nothing. I don‘t blame Dad for his attitude. And

it‘s no cause for pride.

―I don‘t understand that. But if you feel like this why don‘t you settle with her once and

for

all?‖

―What do you mean, Dad?‖ said Wilhelm, surprised. ―I thought I told you. Do you think I‘m

not willing

to

settle? Four years ago

when

we broke

up

I gave

her everything

—

goods,

furniture, savings. I tried to show good will, but I didn‘t get anywher

e. Why when I wanted

Scissors, the dog, because the animal and I were so attached to each other

—

it was bad

enough to leave the kids

—

she absolutely refused me. Not that she cared a damn about

the

animal.

I

don‘t

think

you‘ve

seen

him.

He‘s

an

Australian

she

ep

dog.

They

usually

have one blank or whitish eye which gives a misleading look, but they‘re the gentlest dogs

and

have

unusual

delicacy

about

eating

or

talking.

Let

me

at

least

have

the

companionship of this animal. Never.‖ Wilhelm was greatly moved. He

wiped his face at

all corners with his napkin. Dr. Adler felt that his son was indulging himself too much in his

emotions.

―Whenever

she

can

hit

me,

she

hits,

and

she

seems

to

live

for

that

alone.

And

she

demands more and more, and still more. Two years ago she wanted to go back to college

and get another degree. It increased my burden but I thought it would be wiser in the end

if she got a better job through it. But still she takes as much from me as before. Next thing

she‘ll want to be a Doctor of Philoso

phy. She says the women in her family live long, and

I‘ll have to pay and pay for the rest of my life.‖

45