Lillian Gish rocks in Intolerance—and went to dinner.
But later, when ready for bed, they could not quite manage to disregard it. They tipped it, finding that it rocked with a sort of bulky motion, soon coming to rest again. It had somehow a great weightiness to it, a dense heaviness that struck them both as incongruous in a baby-bed.
Perhaps what happened next was their effort to escape the fascination of the cradle there on the hearth (she never said so, made no attempt at explaining anything). In any case, they began horsing around and her friend, before she realized what was happening, picked her up and put her in the cradle. And then he ran across the room and turned the lights off.
And it was dark then, of course, but it was not a darkness that she recognized. It was as though there lacked not light, but the flow of time. It was not, across the black room, a distance in steps, that even the blind might feel their way, but a space of centuries, a loss total and immeasurable. And she could not get out of the cradle, which she felt rocking. She could not even struggle. With the utmost effort, she managed to form her friend’s name, but cried it so feebly that she knew it would never carry across the emptiness.
He meanwhile, as it turned out, was feeling much the same thing as she and was searching, terrified, for the light switch, which he could not find again. Finally his hand, groping blindly, hit the right spot and the room burst into light—the same room, with its paneling, its four-poster, its cradle in the fireplace, and her, clambering out of the cradle. They were both terror-stricken and refused to stay the night in that room.
You should not suppose that I am writing this to judge between my father and my mother. It would hardly be reasonable, now that they are both gone, to decide their quarrel. In my mind it remains a given, and goes on, an eternal argument.
My father named me Bernard, after Shaw, and Keith, for Sir Arthur Keith (my father’s name was Arthur). “Two old atheists,” my mother always said, certain he had picked the names to irritate her. (Her notion of atheist was a bit vague.) My father generally professed agnosticism, but in his last years—especially while drinking—insisted that he believed in God. “Otherwise,” he said, “how could I be a Mason?”
One of his favorite recollections (it must be remembered that he was half a century older than I) was the attempt of William Allen White, editor of the Emporia Gazette, to get into the local lodge. “They came to the question,” my father related, tapping my knee for emphasis, “which every applicant has to answer. They asked him, Do you believe in God? He said, I believe in William Allen White ” A dramatic pause, whether of outrage or admiration I could never decide. It was certainly portentous, our most celebrated citizen hanging in the balance. “And they turned him down!” My father had gone on up, into the Scottish Rite and the Shrine.
In the era of the Civil War, the Methodists, already old and formal, charged rental on their pews. The seceding branch, preaching largely to outcasts and the needy, decided to abolish this charge and so denominated themselves Free. It was a common practice among congregations of that time, especially near the frontier, to hire musicians for Sunday services—which meant, more often than not, bringing players from the local theater into the house of God. The Free Methodists, with all-or-nothing zeal, abolished instruments from their church, and in the early nineteen forties, when I attended and after much hesitation joined them, the singing was entirely congregational—no choir—and regulated by, at most, a pitch pipe. Sister Eliot or Sister Faulkner would lead (the one somewhat faster, the other somewhat slower, than expected tempo), not moving their hands, but simply by facing the congregation and singing out.
So when Sunday morning came around, or Sunday night, or Wednesday night, my mother would cease from her moanings, comb her hair, put on her best, and she and Elaine and I would hasten to South and Commercial for some a cappella praise, some middling preaching and, with luck, a breath of ecstasy. As long as she was there, among the saints, her life seemed clear and meaningful. Outside, in the world, she was a complex of miseries that I am still not sure I can quite sort out. “My heart,” she would say, fingers to her throat, but it stood for a whole existence.
Her greatest pride was the smallness of her hands and feet. If one of us bought her bedroom slippers for her birthday—demanding at the store their very most smallest size—they were sure to be too large and she was sure to be enraged that we should think her feet so gross. On less emotional occasions, “I have Cinderella feet,” she would say, and it was terribly plain that, not only the prince, but the entire fairy-tale realm, had passed her by, leaving the most workaday ashes.
Her first husband had been a deception. Her second she treated frankly as an enemy. It only gradually dawned on me, between battles, that I was disputed territory. Every time I went to church, it was a victory for her, and I came to regard my father as an alien power, sinister in behavior, but possessed of strange forces. His occupation itself was mysterious: as a railroader, he was fanatically punctual, continually checking his watch and angry if it got more than a few seconds from the official Santa Fe clock. But since he worked on freight trains, he was liable to appear at any hour of the night or day and just as arbitrarily to be called away. The unknown figure of the caller—just a voice on the telephone—made its way into my private mythology. Simply to answer the anonymous ring put one within the possibility of hearing, instead of an Hello that would connect with a remembered face, the disorienting but imperative “This is the caller.”
Between the living room, which for some reason or other was my bedroom for a time, and the room where my parents slept, there were huge sliding doors. (This was a house on Neosho Street, the most nearly permanent of our homes—but there was inevitably, wherever we were, a sense of provisional arrangements, of waiting for better weather, a new government.) One night when my father was in, not likely to be called, I settled down on my convertible but could not enjoy my insomnia because of the argument from the other side of the door. An argument meant that my father’s voice continued on and on into the night, occasionally raised to a shout or broken by a murmur from my mother, who for the most part maintained a dead silence. All their nights together spread out like this into an agonizing deadlock. I don’t know what they argued about, or if indeed there was a subject. To escape from the oppressive sound, I set myself to wait for the unattainable moment of entering sleep. To be conscious for once at that magical transition seemed to me—I don’t know why—a knowledge I would need, that I could not well do without.
But just when I had dozed off, slipping past the threshold I wanted so much to examine, I was jolted awake by doors slid open, then slid shut again. And then, in the dark, my father lay down beside me, breathing heavily. I made no sign of life and gradually he subsided into, I thought, a sleep of his own. But apparently he was listening, there in the dark beside me, for before I quite had a chance to miss again my moment of going to sleep, he had thrown off the cover and the great doors rolled back with a crash and he was swearing loudly. After he left his bed, Elaine had slipped in beside my mother. Now she raced back to her own room as he switched the lights on. “This is what happens,” he was yelling, “as soon as I turn my back.” The giant doors cracked shut again, leaving me dazzled with the light that was now shut out. His shouts continued on the other side, Elaine’s voice sometimes chiming in from a distance. (Neither Charles nor Julian were there—Charles was in the war in the South Pacific.) I lay tense while the shouts got louder. I heard Sister Eliot’s name. Finally there were other sounds: movements, doors. Then a blow and my mother’s scream and Elaine howling.
I began to pray. I began, with an earnestness I have rarely recaptured in any action since then, to pray to God that he would strike my father dead. My prayer was answered, some dozen years later, after both my hatred and my faith had died long lingering deaths. The only immediate aftermath of that night was a peace-offering from my father, a new secondhand piano, at which my mother sat, eyes closed, playing what she could remember of something by Chopin, a syncopated waltz from 1920, brilliant variations on “Pass Me Not.”
II
Once
