Fahrenheit 451 (12 page)

            "Yes," said Millie. "Let old Pete do the worrying."

            "It's always someone else's husband dies, they say."

            "I've heard that, too. I've never known any dead man killed in a war. Killed jumping off buildings, yes, like Gloria's husband last week, but from wars? No."

            "Not from wars," said Mrs. Phelps. "Anyway, Pete and I always said, no tears, nothing like that. It's our third marriage each and we're independent. Be independent, we always said. He said, if I get killed off, you just go right ahead and don't cry, but get married again, and don't think of me."

            "That reminds me," said Mildred. "Did you see that Clara Dove five-minute romance last night in your wall? Well, it was all about this woman who―"

            Montag said nothing but stood looking at the women's faces as he had once looked at the faces of saints in a strange church he had entered when he was a child. The faces of those enamelled creatures meant nothing to him, though he talked to them and stood in that church for a long time, trying to be of that religion, trying to know what that religion was, trying to get enough of the raw incense and special dust of the place into his lungs and thus into his blood to feel touched and concerned by the meaning of the colourful men and women with the porcelain eyes and the blood-ruby lips. But there was nothing, nothing; it was a stroll through another store, and his currency strange and unusable there, and his passion cold, even when he touched the wood and plaster and clay. So it was now, in his own parlour, with these women twisting in their chairs under his gaze, lighting cigarettes, blowing smoke, touching their sun-fired hair and examining their blazing fingernails as if they had caught fire from his look. Their faces grew haunted with silence. They leaned forward at the sound of Montag's swallowing his final bite of food. They listened to his feverish breathing. The three empty walls of the room were like the pale brows of sleeping giants now, empty of dreams. Montag felt that if you touched these three staring brows you would feel a fine salt sweat on your finger-tips. The perspiration gathered with the silence and the sub-audible trembling around and about and in the women who were burning with tension. Any moment they might hiss a long sputtering hiss and explode.

            Montag moved his lips.

            "Let's talk."

            The women jerked and stared.

            "How're your children, Mrs. Phelps?" he asked.

            "You know I haven't any! No one in his right mind, the Good Lord knows; would have children!" said Mrs. Phelps, not quite sure why she was angry with this man.

            "I wouldn't say that," said Mrs. Bowles. "I've had
two
children by Caesarian section. No use going through all that agony for a baby. The world must reproduce, you know, the race must go on. Besides, they sometimes look just like you, and that's nice. Two Caesarians tamed the trick, yes, sir. Oh, my doctor said, Caesarians aren't necessary; you've got the, hips for it, everything's normal, but I
insisted
."

            "Caesarians or not, children are ruinous; you're out of your mind," said Mrs. Phelps.

            "I plunk the children in school nine days out of ten. I put up with them when they come home three days a month; it's not bad at all. You heave them into the 'parlour' and turn the switch. It's like washing clothes; stuff laundry in and slam the lid." Mrs. Bowles tittered. "They'd just as soon kick as kiss me. Thank God, I can kick back!"

            The women showed their tongues, laughing.

            Mildred sat a moment and then, seeing that Montag was still in the doorway, clapped her hands. "Let's talk politics, to please Guy!"

            "Sounds fine," said Mrs. Bowles. "I voted last election, same as everyone, and I laid it on the line for President Noble. I think he's one of the nicest-looking men who ever became president."

            "Oh, but the man they ran against him!"

            "He wasn't much, was he? Kind of small and homely and he didn't shave too close or comb his hair very well."

            "What possessed the 'Outs' to run him? You just don't go running a little short man like that against a tall man. Besides―he mumbled. Half the time I couldn't hear a word he said. And the words I
did
hear I didn't understand!"

            "Fat, too, and didn't dress to hide it. No wonder the landslide was for Winston Noble. Even their names helped. Compare Winston Noble to Hubert Hoag for ten seconds and you can almost figure the results."

            "Damn it!" cried Montag. "What do you know about Hoag and Noble?"

            "Why, they were right in that parlour wall, not six months ago. One was always picking his nose; it drove me wild."

            "Well, Mr. Montag," said Mrs. Phelps, "do you want us to vote for a man like that?"

            Mildred beamed. "You just run away from the door, Guy, and don't make us nervous."

            But Montag was gone and back in a moment with a book in his hand.

            "Guy!"

            "Damn it all, damn it all, damn it!"

            "What've you got there; isn't that a book? I thought that all special training these days was done by film." Mrs. Phelps blinked. "You reading up on fireman theory?"

            "Theory, hell," said Montag. "It's poetry."

            "Montag." A whisper.

            "Leave me alone!" Montag felt himself turning in a great circling roar and buzz and hum.

            "Montag, hold on, don't..."

            "Did you
hear
them, did you hear these monsters talking about monsters? Oh God, the way they jabber about people and their own children and themselves and the way they talk about their husbands and the way they talk about war, dammit, I stand here and I can't believe it!"

            "I didn't say a single word about
any
war, I'll have you know," said Mrs. Phelps.

            "As for poetry, I hate it," said Mrs. Bowles.

            "Have you ever read any?"

            "Montag," Faber's voice scraped away at him. "You'll ruin everything. Shut up, you fool!"

            All three women were on their feet.

            "Sit down!"

            They sat.

            "I'm going home," quavered Mrs. Bowles.

            "Montag, Montag, please, in the name of God, what are you up to?" pleaded Faber.

            "Why don't you just read us one of those poems from your little book," Mrs. Phelps nodded. "I think that'd he very interesting."

            "That's not right," wailed Mrs. Bowles. "We can't do that!"

            "Well, look at Mr. Montag, he wants to, I know he does. And if we listen nice, Mr. Montag will be happy and then maybe we can go on and do something else." She glanced nervously at the long emptiness of the walls enclosing them.

            "Montag, go through with this and I'll cut off, I'll leave." The beetle jabbed his ear. "What good is this, what'll you prove?"

            "Scare hell out of them, that's what, scare the living daylights out!"

            Mildred looked at the empty air. "Now Guy, just
who
are you talking to?"

            A silver needle pierced his brain. "Montag, listen, only one way out, play it as a joke, cover up, pretend you aren't mad at all. Then―walk to your wall-incinerator, and throw the book in!"

            Mildred had already anticipated this in a quavery voice. "Ladies, once a year, every fireman's allowed to bring one book home, from the old days, to show his family how silly it all was, how nervous that sort of thing can make you, how crazy. Guy's surprise tonight is to read you one sample to show how mixed-up things were, so none of us will ever have to bother our little old heads about that junk again, isn't that
right
, darling?"

            He crushed the book in his fists. "Say 'yes.'"

            His mouth moved like Faber's.

            "Yes."

            Mildred snatched the book with a laugh. "Here! Read this one. No, I take it back. Here's that real funny one you read out loud today. Ladies, you won't understand a word. It goes umpty-tumpty-ump. Go ahead, Guy, that page, dear."

            He looked at the opened page.

            A fly stirred its wings softly in his ear. "Read."

            "What's the title, dear?"

            "
Dover Beach
." His mouth was numb.

            "Now read in a nice clear voice and go
slow
."

            The room was blazing hot, he was all fire, he was all coldness; they sat in the middle of an empty desert with three chairs and him standing, swaying, and him waiting for Mrs. Phelps to stop straightening her dress hem and Mrs. Bowles to take her fingers away from her hair. Then he began to read in a low, stumbling voice that grew firmer as he progressed from line to line, and his voice went out across the desert, into the whiteness, and around the three sitting women there in the great hot emptiness:

"'The Sea of Faith

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.

            But now I only hear

            Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,

            Retreating, to the breath

            Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear

            And naked shingles of the world."'

            The chairs creaked under the three women.

Montag finished it out:

"'Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.'"

            Mrs. Phelps was crying.

            The others in the middle of the desert watched her crying grow very loud as her face squeezed itself out of shape. They sat, not touching her, bewildered by her display. She sobbed uncontrollably. Montag himself was stunned and shaken.

            "Sh, sh," said Mildred. "You're all right, Clara, now, Clara, snap out of it! Clara, what's
wrong?
"

            "I―I,", sobbed Mrs. Phelps, "don't know, don't know, I just don't know, oh oh . . ."

            Mrs. Bowles stood up and glared at Montag. "You see? I knew it, that's what I wanted to prove! I knew it would happen! I've always said, poetry and tears, poetry and suicide and crying and awful feelings, poetry and sickness;
all
that mush! Now I've had it proved to me. You're nasty, Mr. Montag, you're
nasty!
"

            Faber said, "Now..."

            Montag felt himself turn and walk to the wall-slot and drop the book in through the brass notch to the waiting flames.

            "Silly words, silly words, silly awful hurting words," said Mrs. Bowles. "Why
do
people want to hurt people? Not enough hurt in the world, you've got to tease people with stuff like that!"

            "Clara, now, Clara," begged Mildred, pulling her arm. "Come on, let's be cheery, you turn the 'family' on, now. Go ahead. Let's laugh and be happy, now, stop crying, we'll have a party!"

            "No," said Mrs. Bowles. "I'm trotting right straight home. You want to visit my house and 'family,' well and good. But I won't come in this fireman's crazy house again in my lifetime!"

            "Go home." Montag fixed his eyes upon her, quietly. "Go home and think of your first husband divorced and your second husband killed in a jet and your third husband blowing his brains out, go home and think of the dozen abortions you've had, go home and think of that and your damn Caesarian sections, too, and your children who hate your guts! Go home and think how it all happened and what did you ever do to stop it? Go home, go home!" he yelled. "Before I knock you down and kick you out of the door!"

            Doors slammed and the house was empty. Montag stood alone in the winter weather, with the parlour walls the colour of dirty snow.

            In the bathroom, water ran. He heard Mildred shake the sleeping tablets into her hand.

            "Fool, Montag, fool, fool, oh God you silly fool . . ."

            "Shut up!" He pulled the green bullet from his ear and jammed it into his pocket.

            It sizzled faintly. ". . . fool . . . fool . . ."

            He searched the house and found the books where Mildred had stacked them behind the refrigerator. Some were missing and he knew that she had started on her own slow process of dispersing the dynamite in her house, stick by stick. But he was not angry now, only exhausted and bewildered with himself. He carried the books into the backyard and hid them in the bushes near the alley fence. For tonight only, he thought, in case she decides to do any more burning.

            He went back through the house. "Mildred?" He called at the door of the darkened bedroom. There was no sound.

            Outside, crossing the lawn, on his way to work, he tried not to see how completely dark and deserted Clarisse McClellan's house was. . . .

            On the way downtown he was so completely alone with his terrible error that he felt the necessity for the strange warmness and goodness that came from a familiar and gentle voice speaking in the night. Already, in a few short hours, it seemed that he had known Faber a lifetime. Now he knew that he was two people, that he was above all Montag, who knew nothing, who did not even know himself a fool, but only suspected it. And he knew that he was also the old man who talked to him and talked to him as the train was sucked from one end of the night city to the other on one long sickening gasp of motion. In the days to follow, and in the nights when there was no moon and in the nights when there was a very bright moon shining on the earth, the old man would go on with this talking and this talking, drop by drop, stone by stone, flake by flake. His mind would well over at last and he would not be Montag any more, this the old man told him, assured him, promised him. He would be Montag-plus-Faber, fire plus water, and then, one day, after everything had mixed and simmered and worked away in silence, there would be neither fire nor water, but wine. Out of two separate and opposite things, a third. And one day he would look back upon the fool and know the fool. Even now he could feel the start of the long journey, the leave-taking, the going away from the self he had been.