Of Time and the River (117 page)

“But do you really feel at home here?”

“What do you mean by ‘feeling at home’?”

“Well, I mean don’t you ever feel out of place here? Don’t you ever feel as if you didn’t belong to this life—that you are a foreigner?”

“But not at all!” said Starwick a trifle impatiently. “On the contrary, I think it is the first time in my life that I have NOT felt like a foreigner. I never felt at home in the Middle-West where I was born; I hated the place from my earliest childhood, I always felt out of place there, and wanted to get away from it. But I felt instantly at home in Paris from the moment I got here:— I am far closer to this life than to any other life I’ve ever known, for the first time in my life I feel thoroughly at home.”

“And you don’t mind being a foreigner?”

“But of course not!” Starwick said curtly. “Besides, I am NOT a foreigner. You can only be foreign in a place that is foreign to you. This place is not.”

“But, after all, Frank, you are not a Frenchman. You are an American.”

“Not at all,” Starwick answered concisely. “I am an American only by the accident of birth; by spirit, temperament, inclination, I have always been a European.”

“And you mean you could continue to lead this kind of life without ever growing tired of it?”

“What do you mean by ‘this kind of life’?” said Starwick.

His friend nodded towards the crowded and noisy terrace of the café.

“I mean sitting around at cafés all day long, going to night-clubs— eating, drinking, sitting,—moving on from one place to another— spending your life that way.”

“Do you think it’s such a bad way to spend your life?” said Starwick quietly. He turned, regarding his friend with serious eyes. “Don’t you find it very amusing?”

“Yes, Frank, for a time. But after a while, don’t you think you’d get tired of it?”

“No more tired,” said Starwick, “than I would of going to an office day after day at nine o’clock and coming away at five, doing useless and dreary work that someone else could do as well. On the contrary, this kind of life—” he nodded towards the crowded tables—“seems to me much more interesting and amusing.”

“But how can you feel that you belong to it?” the other said. “I should think that would make a difference to you. It does to me— the feeling that I am a stranger here, that this is not my life, that I know none of these people.”

“Are you getting ready to tell me now that an American never really gets to know any French people?” said Starwick, repeating the banal phrase with a quiet sarcasm that brought a flush to the other’s face.

“Well, it’s not likely that he will, from what I’ve heard.”

Starwick cast a weary look around him at the chattering group of people at the other tables.

“God!” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t think he’d want to. I imagine most of them are about as dull a lot as you could find.”

“If you feel that way about them, what is the great attraction Paris holds for you? How can you possibly feel that way about the people and still say you feel at home here?”

“Because Paris belongs to the world—to Europe—more than it belongs to France. One does not come here because he wants to know the French: he comes because he can find here the most pleasant, graceful and civilized life on earth.”

“Yes, but there are other things that may be more important than leading a graceful and pleasant life.”

“What, for instance?” said Starwick, looking at him.

“Getting your work done is one of them. For you, I should think that would be a great deal more important.”

Starwick was again silent; the old bestial grimace, image of an unutterable anguish and confusion in his soul, for a moment contorted his pleasant ruddy face, developed, passed, was gone; he said quietly and with the infinite weariness of despair that had now become the image of his life:

“Getting my work done! My God! as if it mattered.”

“There was a time when you thought it did, Frank.”

“Yes, there was a time when I did think so,” he said lifelessly.

“And now you no longer feel that way about it?”

Starwick was silent; when he spoke again, it was not to answer directly.

—“Always the old unquiet heart,” he said wearily and sadly; he turned and looked silently at his friend for a moment. “Why? Since I first knew you, you have been like that, Eugene—wanting to devour the earth, lashing your soul to frenzy in this useless, hopeless and impossible search for knowledge.”

“Why useless or hopeless, Frank?”

“Because it is a kind of madness in you that grows worse all the time; because you cannot cure it or ever satisfy this hunger of yours while you have it; because it will exhaust you, break your heart, and drive you mad; and because, even if you could gratify this impossible desire to absorb the whole sum of recorded knowledge and experience in the world, you would gain nothing by it.”

“There I can’t agree with you.”

“Do you really think,” said Starwick wearily, “that if you could achieve this hopeless ambition of reading all the books that were ever printed—of knowing all the people—seeing all the places— that you would be any better off than you now are? Now, day after day, you go prowling up and down along the book-stalls on the Seine, pawing through tons of junk and rubbish until your very heart is sick with weariness and confusion. When you are not with us, you sit alone in a café with a dictionary beside you trying to decipher the meaning of some useless and meaningless book. You no longer enjoy what you read, because you are tortured by a consciousness of the vast number of books you have not read; you go to the museums—to the Louvre—and you no longer enjoy the pictures, because you torture your brain and exhaust your energy in a foolish effort to see and remember all of them. You no longer enjoy the crowd, you go out on the streets of Paris, you sit here in this crowded café—and instead of taking pleasure in all this gaiety and life about you, you are tortured by the thought that you know none of these people, that you know nothing about their lives, that there are four million people here in Paris and you do not know a dozen of them. . . . Eugene, Eugene,” he said sadly, “this thing in you is growing worse all the time; if you do not master it, it is a disease that will some day drive you mad and destroy you.”

“And yet, Frank, many people on this earth have had the same disease. Because of it, in order to get knowledge, Doctor Faust sold his soul to the devil.”

“Alas,” said Starwick, “where is the devil?” In a moment he continued quietly, as before: “Do you think that you will really gain in wisdom if you read a million books? Do you think you will find out more about life if you know a million people rather than yourself? Do you think you will get more pleasure from a thousand women than from two or three—see more if you go to a hundred countries instead of six? And finally, do you think you’ll get more happiness from life by ‘getting your work done’ than by doing nothing? My God! Eugene—” his voice was weary with the resigned fatality of despair that had now corrupted him—“you still feel that it is important that you ‘do your work,’ as you call it, but what will it matter if you do or don’t? You want to lead the artist’s life, to do the artist’s work, to create out of the artist’s materials—what will it matter in the end if you do this, or nothing?”

“You did not always feel so, Frank.”

“No,” said Starwick wearily, “there was a time when I felt differently. There was a time when I felt that the artist’s life was the finest life on earth—the only life I would care to lead.”

“And now?”

“Now—nothing—nothing,” he spoke so quietly that his words were scarcely audible. “It no longer matters. . . . I go to the Louvre and look at that colossal mountain of junk—up and down those endless corridors hung with the dull or worthless work of thousands of dead men who once felt as I did—that they must create, express the image of their soul—that art and the artist’s life were all that mattered. Now they are dead, their dreary works have been left behind as a kind of useless relic of their agony: in that whole gigantic storage-plant of worthless art—there are just three pictures I should have cared to paint—and I know it’s not in me to paint any of them. I thought I wanted to write plays, but now I feel the same about that, too; among all the thousands of plays I have read or seen, I doubt that there are a dozen which I should have cared to write—and I know now that I could have written none of them. . . . What does it matter? Why do you goad your spirit and exhaust your mind with these frantic efforts, these useless desires to add another book or play to the mountains of books and plays that have already been written? Why should we break our hearts to add to that immense accumulation of dull, fair, or trivial work that has already been done?” He was silent a moment longer, and then the colour in his ruddy face deepening with excitement, he said in a high, passionate tone: “What is great— what is priceless—what we would give our lives to do—is so impossible—so utterly, damnably impossible! And if we can never do the best—then why do anything?”

For a moment, there returned to the other a memory of the moonlit streets of Cambridge, and of a night when Starwick, drunk with wine and the generous and extravagant enthusiasm of youth, had turned to him and in a voice that rung along the sleeping street, had called him a mighty poet. And he remembered how his own heart had beat hot with hope and joy at the sound of those proud and foolish words, and how he had grasped Starwick’s hand and wrung it with a hard grip of passionate conviction, and told Frank what he believed at that moment with all the ardour of his heart—that Starwick was the greatest young man of his time and generation.

And remembering now those two drunk and happy boys who stood there in the moon-still streets, and spoke to each other the compact of their devotion and belief, he wanted to ask Frank if this weary acquiescence in defeat, that had now become the very colour of his life, was a better thing than the proud and foolish vision of a boy.

But he said nothing, and after a moment’s silence, Starwick looked at his watch and called the waiter, saying that it was already time for their meeting with the two women at a café in Montparnasse. Therefore, they paid the bill and departed; but what Frank had said to him that day would live in his memory in years to come. For in Frank’s words were implicit every element of the resignation, despair, and growing inertia and apathy of his will.

LXXX

The relations between these four people had now been strained to the breaking-point. That month of debauch had exacted a stern tribute from them. Their exhausted bodies and frayed nerves cried out for rest, a period of curative repose when the well of their drained energy could be filled up again. But like creatures hopelessly addicted to a drug, they could not break the bonds of this tyranny of pleasure which held them. Starwick seemed to be completely enslaved by this senseless and furious quest, this frantic seeking after new sensations, this hopeless pursuit of a happiness, a fulfilment, that they never found. He seemed unable or unwilling to break the evil spell. Rather, as if a poisonous hunger was feeding on his vitals—a hunger that grew constantly from the food it fed upon, and that could not be assuaged by any means—the evil inertia of his will, the ugly impassivity of his resignation became every day more marked.

Of all of them, he alone preserved the appearance of calm. And that cold, impassive calm was maddening: he met the storms of anger, protests, reproaches, and persuasions of the others with an air of sad humility, a kind of sorrowful acceptance, a quiet agreement to every accusation or indictment, a grand manner of sweet, sorrowful contrition that was more hateful than any deliberate insult could have been. For behind this impenetrable armour of humility, this air of mysterious fatality, there was evident a hateful arrogance which said that words were useless because no words could express the fatal wisdom of his soul, and which, with a stubborn and abominable perversity, seemed deliberately resolved on ruin.

His conduct became daily more absurd, extravagant, ridiculous. He was acting like a melodramatic fool, but it was impossible to laugh at his folly because of the desperate fatality that attended it. He did unbelievable things, contrived unbelievable situations that seemed fitting only in a world of opera but were shamefully unreal and unnecessary in the real one. What was really shameful and unworthy in his conduct was this—his fatality served no purpose, his reckless and deliberate pursuit of danger did no good except to dignify the melodramatic unreality of a comic opera situation with the realities of blood and death.

He was constantly and deliberately involving himself and others in these ridiculous but perilous situations. One night, in one of the Montmartre resorts, he had a quarrel with a man that would have been farcical save for the ugly consequences it produced, the painful and shameful memory it would later evoke. The man, an unpleasant, wizened-looking little Frenchman, a creature of the night, with obscene eyes, a yellowed skin, and a pointed beard half covering the features of a rodent, had not been able to keep his ugly eyes off Ann, had measured the noble proportions of her beauty with a kind of foul leering appraisal that had in it something almost as palpable and sensual as a naked touch, and now, as the orchestra struck up another tune, he approached the table, bowed, and asked her, courteously enough, for a dance.

Ann reddened furiously in the face, looked down sullenly at the tablecloth and, before she was able to think of a reply, Starwick said:

“Mademoiselle does not care to dance. Please go away.”

The cold arrogance of Starwick’s tone, and his curt dismissal, enraged the Frenchman. When he replied, his lips were bared in an ugly smile that showed unpleasant fangs of yellowed teeth; he said:

“Is the lady not allowed to speak for herself? Is Monsieur perhaps her guardian?”

“Will you please go away now?” Starwick said again, with a cold and weary impassivity. “You are boring us.”

“But, it’s marvellous!” The little Frenchman cast back his yellowed face and bared his fangs in a laugh of envenomed mockery. “It’s Monsieur D’Artagnan come to life again, and a lady so shy and modest that she can’t speak for herself! But, it’s superb!” he cried again, and with an ironic bow, concluded: “Monsieur, with all my heart I thank you for this wonderful diversion! You are very droll!”