Boys and Girls Come Out to Play (23 page)

“Europe’s always made me feel bigger. It’s always made me feel that I’m the most serious man in the world. Everything stinks so much, every one’s so bogged down, no one has any money, they all look shabby and helpless; or else glittering, in a perverse way. You can always tell them what to do: I get a big kick out of describing the cheap things I see. I always know what the set-up’s going to be; I always know, for one
thing, that they’ll be ungrateful for anything I do to help them; so I get a kick out of helping them and then another kick out of their resenting it; European ingratitude is something I live off; it makes me feel noble.

“Actually, I hate the whole damn place. I don’t see why anyone should live here at all. I hate it because it’s always there, in the centre of what’s going on, always making me come to it to get a lift. What I really want is to see the whole place blown to hell, and then I can go back where I came from and feel comfortable for once, because home will be the only thing that’s left. But I’ve never had the guts to say so: I’ve always said just the opposite. Actually, I hate like hell to see European books and ideas influence Americans, but I always say I approve of it, and that people who don’t approve are reactionaries. My whole life was spoiled when I first came to New York and found they sneered at me because I didn’t know about Europe. After that I pretended to be serious about Europe, troubled about it; but I never let on how much I hated it for spoiling my life, and how goddamned glad I was when things went wrong here. I even pretended to like modern art—that’s the same thing as Europe—actually, I don’t like any art; I only like sentimental things I knew when I was a boy. I only like tunes, but I used to pretend to like symphonies when Lily used to take me: I used to remember what number they were and who wrote them, so that it would look O.K. Lily used to be able to remember bits of the music, too; but I don’t think she ever liked it either. Of course, that was way back: she doesn’t even play the phonograph now: all her strength and imagination go into making Artie a burden.”

Feelings of dreadful embarrassment went through Morgan—the embarrassment of a boy revolted by the spectacle of adult abasement, the cruel contempt of youth for a deliberate exposure of mature helplessness. But Divver went on, scarcely pausing:

“I should have stayed with my first wife. I thought she was below my dignity, because she never worried. I wanted to worry, and feel I was serious: I was ambitious, I mean. I’ve never had had a moment’s peace with Lily, and I’ve never told her the truth. When we were married, I pretended that I wanted her to get ahead; I used to encourage her to play the piano; but even
I
knew she’d never play it worth a goddam, and that she just did it because it made her feel like a real person, a man. In our first year together, we used to say that she was the sensitive artist and I was the go-ahead, practical type. It makes me vomit to think of it. When I think of the hours I’ve spent listening to Lily hammering the piano!—my part was to sit there frowning, and afterwards to make the comments of an ignorant but honest average man—the old American ideal of honest stupidity. I even used to make photographs of Lily banging away, after she’d fixed her nails. When Artie was born, she stopped playing: I’m sure she was relieved to stop, actually; but she used to say that something had gone from her that would never return, and look at me as though she was a cash register I’d robbed. She probably guessed how relieved I was, but I never told her what I really felt—that the whole damn playing business bored the hell out of me, and so did all ideas about feminine creativeness and women’s rights. I wanted her to be independent and educated—enough so that I wouldn’t be bored by her talk; but I knew all along that she’d never amount to anything herself, and that that suited me fine. For years I’ve been encouraging independence for women, but actually I wish to God they’d stay where they belong; they never get anywhere otherwise. Everything’s getting into a fine mess, with the women becoming more and more like men handicapped with wombs, and the men more and more like Victorian girls. But I never said that to anyone, because it’s Fascism.

“It’s been more or less the same about the working-class. I
don’t give a damn for them; I feel like a fool with them, and I’ve never really believed the pamphlets and manifestos they’re always handing out: I just lived off them because it was the correct thing to do—the way I lived off Europe and Lily’s independence; I felt bigger myself, better liked. It’s been the same with psychology: I learned about it because it was the thing to do—and now look where I am; I can’t say a word or move a muscle without suspecting myself. Sometimes I even think that I should never have been educated, and that nor should most people I know. But how can I admit that? I don’t believe in any of the things I’ve pretended to believe in for twenty-five years.

“But starting from tomorrow, things are going to be different. I’m going to start saying what I think. I’m going to start saying it to Lily, too, when I get back.”

A shiver passed down Morgan’s spine: though innocent, he was an imaginative boy.

“I believe I may find, as often happens, that nothing is needed to set my life straight except the honest saying of a few simple truths. Perhaps Lily has just been waiting to hear me say them for years. Perhaps even other people would feel relieved if I really said what I think for a change. I don’t know as yet exactly what the things are that I want to say to Lily, but I’ll know when I see her. Of course, it may turn out that they’ll have just the opposite effect; that’s a chance I must take. If I’m doomed to be a bachelor again—well, there’s nothing can stop it happening. At least she’ll know I still love her, whatever I may say. I’ll be an honest man at last. I’ll boil things down to a few plain words—cowardice, vanity, love, infantilism. Perhaps I’ll be an outcast: I deserve to be.”

He surveyed Morgan’s splendour from head to toe with frank contempt, and said:

“This is your first time here; you don’t understand one
damn thing. You’re too young to have to be honest. In a year or two you won’t be. Then you’ll be scared, the way I was when I first came to New York, and you’ll grab the notions of the people you envy and are afraid of, and suck up to them, so they’ll like you and not laugh at you. That’ll make you feel steady and decent—and honest, too, of course; new ideas and young men are always considered honest. You’ll feel warm: the people you know will all smile at you, because they’ll trust you and know you’ll never say anything really painful. As you get older, you won’t get any new ideas or develop your mind; you won’t dare to. But you’ll know all the safe rules by heart, and you’ll have much more confidence in yourself: you’ll suddenly find you’re one of the old-timers, and you’ll be able to sneer or be generous, just as you please, without ever getting into danger. You’ll know you can laugh yourself sick at a Protestant, go pretty far in reviling a Catholic, and never say a bad word about a Jew, unless you
are
a Jew—then, you must. You’ll find out all about minorities, and little men, and outcasts, and underprivileged, and you’ll always stand behind them even when you think they stink—and they stink as much as anyone else. Of course, there are a few minorities who
can
be ridiculed—but only because their behaviour has shown them unfit to be little men—that is to say, pals of your pals. There are also a few men who must be treated with respect even though they say cheap things—they are the best artists, and you mutter about them instead, and show that they would be even greater if they only knew what you know. I mean, you learn to know the outs as well as the ins: the rules seem hard to learn at first, but they soon become easy: they turn into instincts and take the place of the instincts you were born with—those you never feel again. After all, you always read the same magazine and meet the same people at the same parties—and then there’s your wife; even if she doesn’t learn the rules the way you do, you can be sure she’ll
know where you stand with the safe people, and kick you back into line if you stray. You’ll think you love her more than ever for that, but really you’ll hate her. When things get too bad, you can always come to Europe for a rest-cure. It’s worked with me for twenty years. I thought it was going to work this time.

“I couldn’t have said any of these things to you if we’d been in New York. I don’t even know if I’ll believe them when I’m back. I expect you think that sounds cowardly; that’s only because you don’t know yet how terrible it is to say what you think of people of your own type. You’ll be taught that capitalism and capitalists are your enemy; but if you have any brain at all, you’ll know that it’s your friends who keep you down to the size of a dwarf. Anyone can kick his mother and father in the teeth, but just try doing that to your class in college. Anyone can shout at Mussolini; but try contradicting your own dictators. You’ll find you’ll do anything rather than not be liked—you’ll betray everything you’ve ever thought and felt, and sell the people who never laughed at you down the river to get approval from a person who
may
laugh at you. From then on it’ll be a habit. That’s why I say I don’t know if I’ll believe these things when I get back. It makes me sick to think what will happen if I do.”

“But you
are
going back—soon?”

“I
think
I am.” He added glumly: “Talking about a thing is always bad in the long run. It makes you feel you’ve already done it, and so you won’t need your courage anymore. When I started talking to you, I was full of courage. Now, half my courage is gone.”

He shook his head contemptuously, and bent it down into his hands.

Morgan glanced quickly at his watch.

Divver stood up. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “That I’m too much of a coward to act on what I said.”

“How could I think that, Max? I really don’t even know who you are.”

“Haven’t I the right to come to Europe if I want to? Why should I be so ashamed? I’m not in love with my wife at all. You can forget everything I said. I’m not going back until I have to … O.K., you go now. If you’re around the bar in an hour or so, drop in. I may be down. I may even get stinking drunk.”

“I certainly will, Max,” said Morgan. He rose from the bed, and stood hesitating politely.

“Go on!” cried Divver. “I’ve just filled you up with a lot of hooey; go on and have yourself a good time before you start talking like me.”

*

He found that he had let his eagerness run away with him; he had come down much too early, at precisely the hour when only a few elderly people chose to sit in the lobby. Many of the tourists were still in their summer-suits, dawdling in the bar, postponing the delicate but decisive step from day-time into evening. The rest were up in their rooms, lazily bathing, drinking, and changing their clothes. The ballroom floor was a lake without a single sail; Morgan could see right across it to the bare metal stands on the musicians’ stage. Even the dining-room was only spotted with people. The rockets he had seen flying out of the square apparently had been some private freak.

Morgan went up to the desk-clerk and, examining his watch with the hauteur of one who has many appointments, asked him: “Ah; when do the fireworks start?”

“You have plenty of time, sir. Maybe two hours, three … Do not be alarmed.”

With enormous respect for the creases in his trousers, he perched himself in the biggest and best lounge-chair and lit
up a Sublime Sultana. From this throne in an almost-empty court he could observe half a dozen doorways and entrances which might at any moment expel the person who would change the whole course of his life. The old lady nearest to him looked up from her crocheting and gave him a most affectionate smile, which caused every wrinkle in her face to become a rivulet of sympathy. “It
has
been a glorious day, hasn’t it?” she said, in a thin, English voice.

“Yes, hasn’t it?” he replied politely.

“And
I
think, by the look of you, that
you
are going to have a
very merry evening
.” She smiled again, showing a double row of old and rather endearing false teeth. “I pride myself on
always
being able to recognize a young American,” she said.

He gave her a very polite smile, and then, with nervous determination edged his eyes away from her, and glanced hastily at the various doorways, fearful that he might have missed someone who mattered. Patience, absolute patience, he told himself sternly: you’re not a child any more. He selected an illustrated American weekly from an international stockpile of magazines and began to leaf through it with great resolution. But all at once he began to feel disturbed—why? There was a cute picture captioned “Poor Boy Gives Own Electric Train to Incurable Lad.” Then there was a long editorial which said that the Sermon on the Mount was the most substantial answer to Hitler. Next came a huge picture of a shrieking woman, a child in her arms, both in flames, jumping from a burning hotel window to a red-hot sidewalk. Why did all this seem so familiar, so homey? Then he remembered that he had been looking over this same issue in the living-room of his home, while he waited for the car to take him to the station; and it had crossed the Atlantic with him, in the same boat, as though it were his ghost. He so much disliked this idea that he changed to a German magazine of the same type, which showed a half-developed girl, stark-naked, about to be
attacked under a cypress tree by a gorilla. I be damned, he said to himself; this is certainly another culture. More nudes followed, and he followed the nudes: he hid his extreme pleasure by turning the pages with sharp flips and giving a bored hiss. Over the top of the magazine, he watched the passers-by: they all seemed intent on reaching some other place.

He thought of going to the local movie, and dismissed the thought as unworthy of him.

After half an hour, he began to wonder if some of the things Divver had said about Europe were true; the bad things.

For the first time since he left home, he dared to think: perhaps nothing is going to happen. Perhaps nothing in my life will ever change.