never done a thing to invite it.”
“So long now,” he said, slamming the gate to.
“So long,” said I.
And that was that.
If he had knocked me down I couldn’t have felt more flattened. I was ready to bury myself then and there. What little armature had been left me melted away. I was a greasespot, nothing more. A stain on the face of the earth.
Re-entering the gloom I automatically lit a candle and, like a sleepwalker, planted myself in front of my idea of a play. It was to be in three acts and for three players only. Needless to say who they were, these strolling players.
I scanned the project I had drawn up for scenes, climaxes, background and whatnot. I knew it all by heart. But this time I read as if I had already written the play out. I saw what could be done with the material. (I even heard the applause which followed each curtain fall.) It was all so clear now. Clear as the ace of spades. What I could not see, however, was myself writing it. I could never write it in words. It had to be written in blood.
When I hit bottom, as I now had, I spoke in monosyllables, or not at all. I moved even less. I could remain in one spot, one position, whether seated, bending or standing, for an incredible length of time.
It was in this inert condition they found me when they arrived. I was standing against the wall, my head against the sheet of wrapping paper. Only a tiny candle was guttering on the table. They hadn’t noticed me there glued to the wall when they burst in. For several minutes they bustled about in silence. Suddenly Stasia spied me. She let out a shriek.
“Look!” she cried. “What’s the matter with him?”
Only my eyes moved. Otherwise I might have been a statue. Worse, a stiff!
She shook my arm which was hanging limp. It quivered and twitched a little. Still not a peep out of me.
“Come here!” she called, and Mona came on the gallop.
“Look at him!”
It was time to stir myself. Without moving from the spot or changing my position, I unhinged my jaw and said—but like the man in the iron mask—: “There’s nothing wrong, dearies. Don’t be alarmed. I was just . . . just thinking.”
“Thinking?” they shrieked.
“Yes, little cherubs, thinking. What’s so strange about that?”
“Sit down!” begged Mona, and she quickly drew up a chair. I sank into the chair as if into a pool of warm water. How good to make that little move! Yet I didn’t want to feel good. I wanted to enjoy my depression.
Was it from standing there glued to the wall that I had become so beautifully stilled? Though my mind was still active, it was quietly active. It was no longer running away with me. Thoughts came and went, slowly, lingeringly, allowing me time to cuddle them, fondle them. It was in this delicious slow drift that I had reached the point, a moment before their arrival, of dwelling with clarity on the final act of the play. It had begun to write itself out in my head, without the least effort on my part.
Seated now, with my back half-turned to them, as were my thoughts, I began to speak in the manner of an automaton. I was not conversing, merely speaking my lines, as it were. Like an actor in his dressing room, who continues to go through the motions though the curtain has fallen.
They had grown strangely quiet, I sensed. Usually they were fussing with their hair or their nails. Now they were so still that my words echoed back from the walls. I was able to speak and to listen to myself at the same time. Delicious. Pleasantly hallucinated, so to speak.
I realized that if I stopped talking for one moment the spell would be broken. But it gave me no anxiety to think this thought. I would continue, as I told myself, until I gave out. Or until “it” gave out.
Thus, through the slit in the mask, I continued on and on, always in the same even, measured, hollow tone. As one does with mouth closed on finishing a book which is too unbelievably good.
Reduced to ashes by Stanley’s heartless words, I had come face to face with the source, with authorship itself, one might say. And how utterly different this was, this quiet flow from the source, than the strident act of creation which is writing! “Dive deep and never come up!” should be the motto for all who hunger to create in words. For only in the tranquil depths is it granted us to see and hear, to move and be. What a boon to sink to the very bottom of one’s being and never stir again!
In coming to I wheeled slowly around like a great lazy cod and fastened them with my motionless eyes. I felt exactly like some monster of the deep who has never known the world of humans, the warmth of the sun, the fragrance of flowers, the sound of birds, beasts or men. I peered at them with huge veiled orbs accustomed only to look inward. How strangely wondrous was the world in this instant! I saw them and the room in which they were seated with eyes unsated: I saw them in their everlastingness, the room too, as if it were the only room in the whole wide world; I saw the walls of the room recede and the city beyond it melt to nothingness; I saw fields ploughed to infinity, lakes, seas, oceans melt into space, a space studded with fiery orbs, and in the pure unfading limitless light there whirred before my eyes radiant hosts of godlike creatures, angels, archangels, seraphim, cherubim.
As if a mist were suddenly blown away by a strong wind, I came to with both feet and with this absolutely irrelevant thought uppermost in my mind—that Christmas was on us.
“What are we going to do?” I groaned.
“Just go on talking,” said Stasia. “I’ve never seen you this way before.”
“Christmas!” I said. “What are we going to do about Christmas?”
“Christmas?” she yelled. For a moment she thought I was speaking symbolically. When she realized that I was no longer the person who had enchanted her she said: “Christ! I don’t want to hear another word.”
“Good,” said I, as she ducked into her room. “Now we can talk.”
“Wait, Val, wait!” cried Mona, her eyes misty. “Don’t spoil it, I beg you.”
“It’s over,” I replied. “Over and done with. There is no more. Curtain.”
“Oh, but there is, there must be!” she pleaded. “Look, just be quiet . . . sit there . . . let me get you a drink.”
“Good, get me a drink! And some food! I’m famished. Where’s that Stasia? Come on, let’s eat and drink and talk our heads off. Fuck Christmas; Fuck Santa Claus! Let Stasia be Santa Claus for a change.”
The two of them now hustled about to do me pleasure. They were so terribly eager to satisfy my least whim . . . it was almost as if an Elijah had appeared to them from out of the sky.
“Is there any of that Rhine wine left?” I yelled. “Trot it out!”
I was extraordinarily hungry and thirsty. I could scarcely wait for them to set something before me.
“That damned Polack!” I muttered.
“What?” said Stasia.
“What was
