Quarto 1955 Spring Issue

I

wring, r a

1955

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY I SCHOOL OF GEN L STUDIES

25c

QUARTO VOLUME VII

NUMBER I

A Literary Magazine PUBLISHED AT THE SCHOOL OF GENERAL STUDIES COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

FICTION

POETRY

CONTRIBUTORS

3 Visiting Day Victor Marcus 10 The Notable Mrs. Wickley Wray Gregory Walter 18 Let's Make It Papa Armand J. Ferretti 32 The Finite and the Swans L. A. Heilbrun 41 Rising Young Man Edgar Acken 45 Extract From An Unpublished Diary of A Soldier 2A Truth Conrad Van Hyning 25 Where Are The Words We Speak Henrietta Weigel 25 Weep For The Winner Alberta T. Turner 26 Clowns Walk 27 Apollo's Head 28 A Wake 28 Sonnet 29 Tintern Revisited Judith Bishop 58 Editors Commentary Harry Prince Combs, Jr. 60

EDITOR Harry Prince Combs, Jr. POETRY EDITOR Judith Bishop

PROSE EDITOR Armand J. Ferretti

FACULTY ADVISORS

Helen Hull Vernon hoggins WOODCUTS

Hans A. Mueller

ART EDITOR Marjorie Dunand

CIRCULATION ASSISTANTS

Ann Brier, Mary Dalton, Frances Gambella, Clara Lee Hansson, Carmencita Hoge, Audrey Jewett, Peggy Kenny, Susan Kerin, Marjorie Malcolm, Marianne MacDonald, Gail Norman, Ann Palmer, Monique Purris, Joan Risko, Mary Scheffler, Evelyn Svec.

is published semi-annually during the winter and spring sessions by the students of the School of General Studies, Columbia University. Copyright 1955 by QUARTO. Office of Publication and Editorial Office, 801 Business Building, Columbia University, New York 27, N.Y. Manuscripts will not be returned unless accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope. No material in this magazine may be reprinted without permission of the Publishers.

QUAKTO

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Set in Linotype Caledonia, ten point, leaded two points, on fifty-five pound book paper, antique laid.

Printed in the United States by The Columbia University Press.

VISITING DAY Victor Marcus

XHE MAN behind the wheel of the parked automobile gave the little boy a nudge. "There's your father now," he said. "You'd better get out."

Richie pushed the door open and stood uncertainly in front of the car. Down the silent dirt road, lined with tall elms heavy with foliage, came a gray-haired man carrying a stool under one arm. He caught sight of the boy and quickened his step, his feet moving in a confused shuffle that stirred up little puffs of dust.

When he was still thirty or forty feet away, he called out, "I have a present for you, Richie," and held out the stool in a supplicating gesture. His voice was thin and singsong and humble, as if it were apologizing for something beyond apology. In his eagerness to get to the boy, he kept his arm outstretched, and the weight of the stool threw him so badly off balance that he seemed in danger of falling.

"I made it myself," he said, "I made it for you," and he placed his offering in the road at the little boy's feet.

Richie, uncertain and reserved, stared dumbly at the backless stool, which had a seat of woven raffia and four black wooden legs decorated with yellow ducks, birds and fish.

"Try it." The man spoke with the soft patience of a suitor willing to wait a long time if only he can gain his end. "See if it fits you."

Richie stared at the stool but did not move.

"I made it for you, Richie," the man said, his voice humble and pleading. "Should Daddy sit on it?"

Richie nodded, and the man clumsily lowered himself onto the little stool in the middle of the dirt road. "See how strong it is? Do you want to try it now?"

Richie climbed onto the stool, patted one of the painted ducks, then looked up at his father. For the first time, he smiled. Happy with his victory, the man bent down and swiftly kissed him.

"Let's go back by the pool, Richie," he said, his voice more eager now, more hopeful. "Maybe we can find some frogs for you to catch." Without looking at the driver of the car, he took Richie by the hand and walked down the road with him, his feet shuffling a little, his body bent in apology. They followed the curving road, climbed a small hill and skirted a large, stone building that lay silently at the summit. At the side door, the man said: "You wait here, Richie; I'll go in the hospital and get us some Cokes."

"Can't I come?"

"No, they don't allow little boys in there."

"Will I get sick if I go in?"

The man took a soiled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. "It's awful hot, Richie," he said absently, and then added, "No, you wouldn't catch anything in there, but you wait here."

As he moved toward the door, a twisted sound of sobbing came from an upper window, slowly floating down in the thick, humid air to the man and boy.

"What's that?" Richie wanted to know.

"Sounds like a man crying, doesn't it?"

"Is somebody hurting him?"

"No, he just cries," the father said.

"Who is he?"

"I don't know. He never comes out of his room."

At the pool, they sat on a stone bench, shielded from the hot sun by the thick branches of a tree. No one else was on the lawn, and the only sound was the lazy hum of airplanes overhead as they approached or departed from the near-by airport. The man stared thoughtfully at the motionless and stagnant water, which was flecked with small, green patches of scum. Although about forty, his hair was quite gray, and pain had traced deep lines in his face. His eyes, a faded brown, took on a remote quality as he gazed silently at the pool. At last he turned to his son, and a look of tenderness shone on his face. The boy looked so clean and handsome and fresh — almost edible. The. man put his arms around him and kissed him. His face broke. Forgetting himself, he embraced the boy frantically, clinging to him as if stricken, and covered his face and neck and shoulders with painful kisses. Richie, frightened by the man's intensity, struggled

to free himself, but the assault ceased as suddenly as it had begun.

"I kiss my mother all the time," Richie said, still a little ruffled.

"I like to kiss my mother."

"Don't you like to kiss your Daddy?"

"N-o spells no."

"Why, too many whiskers?" the man asked hopefully.

Richie thought for a moment, then generously accepted the explanation and nodded his head. His gray eyes wide open, staring, taking everything in, he sat motionless on the bench, holding his stocky little body gracefully erect.

"Are you going to school, Richie?" the man asked.

"There isn't any school," the boy said, and then seeing the puzzled look on his father's face added, "It's shut for the summer."

"Ah, yes, I had forgotten. Sure, it's summer. Have a stick of gum?" he asked, extending the pack he had bought in preparation for the visit.

Richie took the gum and carefully, meticulously, peeled off the paper. "That's how my mother does it," he said proudly.

The man did not answer. His eyes looked out over the lawn, turned slightly yellow from the intense July heat, and fastened on a squirrel hopping leisurely toward a tree. He tried to picture Richie and his mother together, but the image would not come into focus. It all seemed so long ago, a time lost forever. "What is that?" he said to Richie. "What did you say?"

"I was singing."

"What was the song? I didn't hear you."

"You used to sing it," Richie said, and then in his high, clear child's voice sang: Around her neck She wore a yellow ribbon, She wore a yellow ribbon In the merry month of May. When I asked WTiy the yellow ribbon She said it's for her lover Who is far, far away.

He had been taught the song in the army, where he had stamped out its strong rhythm on training marches. After the war, he had sung it all the time, with the constant repetition of

a man who has difficulty in learning a tune and clings to it once he does. He had sung it in the shower, hummed it absently while at work, crooned it softly to soothe Richie on nights when the boy lay ill and could not sleep. He had sung the sad and tender words to his wife. He did not stir on the bench, and Richie, too, was quiet. There was no breeze to cut into the heat, and the leaves on the trees were still. The grass, burned by the strong sun, gave off a musty smell. The man frowned. Hesitantly, he asked the boy, "Is anything new at home?"

Richie seemed to weigh his answer, apparently sharing his father's sensitivity to the question. "We got a cat."

"That's right. What's its name again?"

"Paw White."

"Sure enough, White Paw. I remember."

"Not White Paw," Richie said stubbornly, "Paw White."

"All right," the man said, giving in quickly, not wanting to antagonize the boy, "Paw White. How big is he now?"

"This big," Richie said, putting his hands about four inches apart.

The man stared at him in bewilderment, his face strained and showing fear at the ordeal of trying to remember, of trying to fix reality. How long had he been away? Was it possible that the kitten could still be so small? Then he saw the amusement in Richie's eyes and laughed in relief. "Hey, are you trying to kid me?"

"So big," Richie said, and held his arms as far apart as he could.

This time, the man was not deceived. "That big, really?"

"Big as a jet," Richie said solemnly but obviously enjoying his joke. He looked up at a plane, twisting his graceful head to follow its flight. It began to climb swiftly, and the roar of its engine stirred a memory within him. "Roy Rogers tried to shoot me yesterday, only he couldn't."

"No, why not?"

"Because I'm the Sheriff." He was silent for a moment, chewing his gum vigorously. "He chews gum, too."

"What kind?"

"Doublemint."

"What kind of gum does his horse chew?" the man asked, the wit that had made him a good television writer not dead.

"Spearmint."

6

"Two sponsors, eh?"

"What are sponsors?"

"Sponsors are people who drive you. . . ." The man did not finish the sentence.

"Did sponsors make you sick, Daddy?"

"They helped. Lots of people helped. I did, too, I guess."

Richie got up from the bench and stalked over to the pool, crouching as menacingly as any avenging Indian on television.

He concealed himself in the trailing branches of a weeping willow and stared quietly at the water. At last he saw a frog. He crept to the very edge of the pool. Tensely, he bent over and slowly stretched out his right arm. Just as he was about to plunge his hand into the water, he stopped and slowly straightened up, his relaxed body reflecting his disappointment.

"Did it get away?" the man called.

"It was the airplane," Richie said, pointing to the sky. "It frightened him. I knew all the time that would happen."

"Did you?" the man laughed, and he looked fondly at the boy standing there in his checked red and white blouse and gray shorts, his skin fresh and firm and a little rosy. Suddenly, he wondered what Richie looked like when he was asleep. Was his face rosy then, too, his mouth as moist and baby-like? Who covered him in the middle of the night? Who fixed his bike, and answered his questions, and helped him to laugh away his tears when he hurt himself? Who romped with him, praised him, scolded him, this boy who was his son and yet not his son? The heat was oppressive and seemed intensified by the isolation of the lawn, cut off from the hospital and the countryside beyond by the thickly planted trees and bushes. For the man, the world was limited to the two of them, and he wished he could keep it so. But he knew that he could not hold the boy in his own secluded world, and that he could not follow him into the outside world. There was an intangible barrier that neither physical strength nor will power nor desire could shatter.

A woman in a white dress came down a gravel path. "Well, young man, I guess it's time for you to go," she said. "Did you have a nice visit with your father?"

Without protest, the man allowed the nurse to take the boy's hand. Near tears, his face strained and pleading, he said: "Will you come to see me again, Richie?" In his voice and eyes was all the loneliness of hospital life, of breakfast at seven, dinner at

five and lights out at nine-thirty, of quiet corridors and the soft sounds made by the rubber soles of the nurses' shoes, of the carefully modulated and impersonal voices of the doctors, of the spacious grounds and tree-lined walks and road that were always empty of laughter and swift movement. "Will you come back, Richie?"

The little boy nodded, giving his promise silently, irrevocably.

"Are you going to stay here, Daddy?"

"Yes, I'm going to stay."

"Are you still sick?"

"A little bit," he said apologetically, asking his son's forgiveness. "Just a little bit, Richie."

"Anyway, it's good you don't stay away from people any more."

The statement was so unexpected, so mature and penetrating that at first the man did not understand.

"Stay away . . . ?"

"You wouldn't see anyone for a long time."

Motionless on the bench, his face tender and anguished, the man watched his son walk away with the nurse. He knew that he could not follow, and that it would be pointless to cry out in protest or rage. He stayed fixed to the bench, his body tired and slack, and as he stared after the retreating figures, a helpless, remote look came into his faded eyes.

The nurse and the boy walked toward the car. A helicopter droned overhead, and Richie observed it for a while.

"I seen a heelacocter once come right down on a man's head."

"You mean a helicopter?" the nurse asked. She looked at him, then gave his hand a friendly squeeze. "Oh, yes, of course, a heelacocter."

"And then it picked him up by the head and flew up into the sky with him."

"My, he must have been surprised."

"He was scared," Richie shouted, his gray eyes wide, his sharp face serious, "what do you think! And then it smashed a whole house, and it killed everyone in it." His stocky body was stiffly erect and tense.

"That was a naughty heelacocter," the nurse said gently.

"Then it came to this hospital, and it landed right on the roof.

And its propeller went spinning around, and it killed all the doctors and nurses."

8

The nurse smiled at him warmly.

"All except one nurse," he added. "She was outside."

"Well, thank you for that. But what happened to the patients?"

"The what?"

"The people who stayed at the hospital."

"They went home," he said simply.

They were near the car now. The nurse, seeing that no one was around, kissed the boy and quickly walked away.

Richie climbed into the car. The driver started it at once and drove down the empty road to the highway. "How was the visit?" he asked. "Did you have a good time?"

Richie stared straight ahead, silent, his small hands locked in his lap, his rosy face grave and thoughtful.

"What did you talk about?"

"Nothing." Richie did not look at the man. He sat rigidly, his gray eyes wide open and fixed to the road.

"Don't you want to talk about it?" the man asked. "You can tell me."

Richie was unyielding. "You're not my father."

"I'm your stepfather, Richie. I want you for my son."

Richie did not answer, and suddenly understanding, the man took his hand from the wheel and patted the boy's leg. "You mustn't worry. He's going to be all right. It just takes a little time."

Richie turned on the man. "He's all right now," he shouted.

"He's all right, he's all right."

The man put his hand back on the wheel and hurried the car toward home, down the dirt road, bumpy at such a high speed, past the old and dignified elms with their heavy green foliage.

Behind them lay the silent hospital, the secluded lawn and the frogs lying in the stagnant water of the cement-lined pool, the nurses and the softly spoken doctors and the patients and the sheltered routine of their private world.

The tears came at last. Richie turned away so that the man would not see.

THE NOTABLE MRS. WICKLEY WRAY Gregory Walter

I T HAD ALL come about on Monday, after the noon lunch hour, a time when final cigarettes are ground out, wax paper rolled up, thermos bottles capped or the last guilty feeling about having spent sixty-five instead of fifty for lunch is dismissed. Like everything else Wickley Wray did, it was sharp and to the point: "one o'clock" it said, and down in the left-hand corner of the slip, in controlled, careful script were the initials "W W"; Wickley Wray was never grandiose.

Potter had been faintly startled when he first saw the note, remembering Grayson and Coles, both of whom had received similar summonses, and both of whom had left the firm of Couriers, Halcott and Wray one week later.

He made a brief mental check as to his activities of the previous week but came up with nothing outstanding. On Wednesday, he had been two minutes late in getting back from lunch and on Friday he had requisitioned his third pencil that month; otherwise, everything was in order. Nevertheless, he felt vaguely disturbed as he entered the elevator to the top floor of the Wray building.

Wickley Wray, the sole remaining partner of Couriers, Halcott and Wray was a small, slim, nattily dressed gentleman in his late sixties. His sparse white hair was ever impeccably combed, his magnificent suitings, in superb taste and masterfully tailored.

Wickley Wray had devoted his life to the acquisition of money and considered himself, with no false modesty, the original Horatio Alger (a role which he determined to embellish at all costs). He spoke softly and haltingly, allowing each phrase to dramatize the preceding and following phrases.

From his office, he not only supervised his staff of fifty lawyers, but lorded over a multi-million dollar empire of stock holdings.

In short, Wickley Wray was generally recognized as the wealthiest man in the Western Hemisphere. (Life had done an article on 10

him entitled: Wickley Wray and His Money Machine.) Wickley Wray never smiled; Wickley Wray quietly and coldly made men or destroyed them.

"Sit down, Potter," said Wickley Wray.

"Thank you, sir."

"You've been with us how long, Mr. Potter?"

Potter cleared his throat nervously; his palms sweated profusely. "Three months, sir," he said.

"Three months," repeated Wickley Wray in a flat, toneless voice. The fan whirred softly over his head. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a large wallet. He opened it carefully and studied something inside. Potter swallowed rapidly, trying to ignore the perspiration he felt seeping down his forehead into his eyes. For a full two minutes, Wickley Wray studied the something inside the wallet and Potter studied Wickley Wray. Finally, he looked up: "Three months and two days."

Potter swallowed again. "Sir?" he asked.

"I say you've been here three months and two days." There was a pause. "Graduated Harvard, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let me see," Wickley Wray mused " — first name's Peter?

That right?"

"Well — yes, sir." (Why had he said 'well'!)

"How's that?"

"Nothing, sir — " He hesitated: "P. B. Potter, sir," he said, then was horrified at the childish pride he detected in his voice.

"I see," said Wickley Wray slowly. He closed the wallet and returned it to its place.

The fan whirred on above them. "Mr. Potter — " he paused.

"Yes, sir?"

The man said nothing. Perhaps he was slightly deaf. "Yes, sir," Potter repeated more loudly.

Wickley Wray fixed him with a wilting stare. "Mr. Potter, you will be my guest at dinner on Friday evening, November 19th at eight o'clock — sharp."

Potter stared at him. Wray was looking idly at the ceiling. He could hardly believe his ears; he'd heard that a few men had had the honor of an invitation to the Wray mansion, but here to fore they had been men who had been with the firm for some time.

Then, he thought of Grayson and Coles.

11

He wondered if it meant that Nancy was invited too; one hardly invited an associate to dinner without his wife. Nevertheless, he said: "I'm sure my wife and I are greatly honored, sir."

"Your wife?" said Wickley Wray bemusedly.

"Yes, sir?"

"Mr. Potter — " Wray paused. "Mr. Potter, if you don't mind, I think I would prefer that your wife did not accompany you this first time — it's rather, well, it's rather a fetish with my wife, you know — wants to meet the young men I employ, without their wives, at first. You understand — gives her a better perspective on them — " "Very well, sir," said Potter. They sat silently for a moment.

Potter wondered if he was excused. Wray had picked a sheet of paper up from his desk and was studying it with some care.

He started to rise, then thought better of it. (What was he going to do, make an obeisance!) He found himself fumbling for words again. "Thank you very much, sir," he mumbled.

"That — " began Wickley Wray.

"Thank you very much, sir," Potter mumbled on. " — is all, Mr. Potter."

Potter rose and walked toward the double doors, grasped the wrong handle, turned politely, still mumbling thankyous, found the right handle and completed his exit.

Once downstairs, he made his way to his desk.

"Well?" It was Shanlon, an ex-classmate speaking.

Potter looked up. "Really nothing," he said calmly.

Shanlon laughed. "It is never," he paused, "nothing, when the old boy calls you up."

"Well, it's not quite nothing," Potter said, trying to hide the excitement in his voice.

"But, you weren't sacked?"

Potter laughed. "No, far from it."

"What, then?"

"Dinner, then, that's what then."

"No! At home?"

"Yes," said Potter and he began to riffle through some papers on his desk.

Shanlon slapped him on the back and retired.

The remainder of the day dragged slowly by. Through hours 12

of practice, he had learned most methods useful in speeding the hours; there was the Johnson case which was now completely prepared — that is, except for a few minor typographical errors in the brief; they would have to be corrected. Oh, and of course he and Shanlon would have to go over one or two minor details again. He spent two hours with Shanlon. As he was going, regretfully, Shanlon said: "Well, I think we've just about exhausted that." He grinned.

Potter flushed faintly and hurried out. Five o'clock would never come. He would never get home to Nancy —how they'd celebrate when he told her about Friday.

Dinner at Wickley Wray's meant only one thing, a raise; and a raise meant that little house out on Long Island and the pleasant security of the commuter's circle.

The days were going by. Shanlon had talked, of course, so he found a strange assortment of persons dropping into his small office. It began on Wednesday with Finley, an associate to whom he rarely said two words.

"I say, Potter?"

Potter looked up. "Yes, come in." Finley seemed nervous.

"I say, Potter, are you — well, I mean, it's none of my business and all that, but — has the old boy asked you out?"

Potter grinned expansively. "Yes. Friday. At home." He stressed the last two words.

"Oh," said Finley quietly, and he disappeared. Potter looked after him, shrugged his shoulders and went back to work.

Two more dropped by that afternoon to inquire, and the last, as he was leaving, turned and said: "Did he mention anything about his wife by any chance?"

"No," said Potter, basking in this unforeseen notoriety, "why?"

The visitor appeared faintly disturbed, but said, hesitantly: "Oh, nothing, really, nothing —you see, I've been out myself, she's charming, utterly charming, really. Well, good day." He withdrew. A Femme Fatale, thought Potter, but he considered the matter little more.

Finally, just as he was leaving on Friday, Finley approached him again.

"Tonight's the night, eh, Potter?"

"Right," said Potter.

13

"Look, old man," said Finley, quickly, "best not take things too seriously at the old boy's tonight, eh?"

"Oh — right," said Potter, surprised.

"You know, want to make a good impression and all that, especially with the wife — " "Sure," said Potter, "thanks."

At eight o'clock, sharp, he stood expectantly at the huge front door of the Wray mansion. A nattily uniformed butler opened the door and bowed him in.

"Mr. Peter Potter?"

Potter blanched visibly and handed him a neat, white card.

"P. B. Potter," he said austerely.

"Very well, sir," replied the butler.

He led Potter across the wide, marble hallway to a small panelled room. A fire burned softly in one corner.

"Mr. Wray has asked that you be shown in here to wait cocktails with him, sir," declared the butler and he left Potter alone in the room.

"Thank you," said Potter, and he sat down in a large leather chair by the fire. He looked about him. Over the fire hung a gold-framed Rembrandt; it glowed faintly in the soft lamps of the room, and Potter, gazing at it, reflected on the obvious benefits of wealth and his own startlingly fortunate position in the firm of Couriers, Halcott and Wray. One had to give a little of one's self to make all this possible; someday, he would laugh at the things he had had to do to get where he was.

Just then, Wickley Wray, himself, entered the room. He leapt to his feet.

"I trust," said Wickley Wray, "that I have not kept you waiting."

"Oh, no, sir!" Potter almost shouted, "no, sir, not at all — " "Very good." He began to walk out of the room; Potter padded after him. He turned mid-way across the spacious hallway and looked Potter in the eye. "I want you to meet my wife, Mr. Potter."

"Oh, fine, sir," shouted Potter.

"You needn't shout, Mr. Potter," said Wickley Wray quietly.

"Yes, sir," whispered Potter. He cursed himself silently; where was his training? His dignity? "I shall be very pleased," he said, gravely, "to meet Mrs. Wray."

14

They continued their journey across the hallway. At the farthest extreme, they arrived at two wooden doors nearly as large as those of the main entrance.

Wickley Wray paused and turned again. "You will — have to excuse my wife if she is not looking overly well this evening," he said earnestly.

Potter, ready to die for God and for Wray at this moment, looked concerned. "I'm terribly sorry, sir," he said, "what, if I might inquire, is the nature of her illness?"

"Falling hair," said Wickley Wray, sadly, and he pushed firmly at the two doors; they swung open.

Wickley Wray preceded him. The room was enormous, hung with long, velvet drapes and panelled in the most exquisite wood.

In the middle of the farthest wall was a great, brownstone fireplace, and in front of that were two large chairs and several couches. Occupying one chair, looking primly austere, was the great bulk of the blackest ape Peter B. Potter had ever seen.

"Darling," began Wickley Wray, "may I present Mr. Peter Potter; Mr. Potter, my wife, the notable Mrs. Wickley Wray."

Potter stepped forward with agility. He grasped the proffered hand. "P. B. Potter, madam," he said and bowed low. A set of sharp teeth closed down on his fingers.

"Mrs. Wray was imported from Africa, the Pihodesian sector, of course," confided Wickley Wray in a low voice.

"Of course," said Potter. "Charming, utterly charming."

"By special steamship," continued Wickley Wray.

"No! Really?"

"Yes. You will excuse my wife's immediate — affectionate impulses, I trust."

"Of course, sir, of course," said Potter; he withdrew his hand.

"Very well," said Wickley Wray, taking a seat. "We — shall have cocktails. Would you be so kind as to ring, my dear?"

Mrs. Wickley Wray leapt to her feet and tugged at the bellpull near the fireplace, then sat down with an impassioned, grunting sound.

Wickley Wray was regarded him stoically. "Let me see now, Mr. Potter, you've been with us, how long?"

"Three months, sir."

"Three months." Wickley Wray once more extracted his pocket calendar. "Three months and six days, Mr. Potter —facts are important to the lawyer, Mr. Potter."

15

"Yes, sir."

From the mantelpiece came the sound of a ticking clock. Potter said nothing, keeping his gaze, as best he could, away from that of the ape. She stared at him intently, intermittently rubbing her mouth and picking delicately at her nose. Wickley Wray seemed absorbed in something high up on the ceiling.

Cocktails were brought and still they sat in silence. Potter had consumed his fifth martini when something struck him above the left eye — a green olive. At the sixth, Mrs. Wickley Wray had moved over to the couch and seemed fascinated by a spot directly above his ear. Her intense, questioning expression was almost more than he could bear; he had just turned to address Wickley Wray when he felt the chilly contents of the martini shaker flowing down the side of his face onto his best Brooks' Brothers'.

Wickley Wray was disturbed.

"Now that's quite all right — it's nothing, really, nothing," Potter assured him. Fortunately, by this time, the consumed portion of the shaker had had its numbing effect.

"You understand, I trust —my wife's natural desire to entertain you," drawled Wickley Wray.

"Certainly, sir," Potter asserted with an air of lighthearted good fellowship.

Dinner was served.

Wickley Wray seated himself at the head of the twenty foot table; Mrs. Wickley Wray took her place with a bound at the foot, and Potter sat between the two.

The meal was conducted in utter silence. By the time desert had arrived, Potter was covered with several shreds of lamb, two pats of butter, sundry blotches of mashed potatoes and a goodsized streak of brown gravy which he regarded with a melancholy air. The incidents were ignored, however, and when the meal was finished, the notable Mrs. Wickley Wray rose, belched genteelly and excused herself by leaping twice around the top of the chair in which Potter sat.

The two sat in silence for several minutes, then Wickley Wray spoke: "She's not felt overly well these past few days," he said.

"You noticed the hair?"

"Yes, sir," said Potter measuredly, "it's very unfortunate indeed."

Mr. Wickley Wray rose. He held out his hand. "It's been — pleasant," he said, "but, I trust you will excuse me — the children, you know."

16

"Of course, sir." He held out his hand. "Good night, sir," he said, and he departed.

Finley sat in his office.

"You got your raise, I see, old man," he said.

"Yes," said Potter, and he lighted the cigar he'd bought himself after lunch.

"You met the wife?"

"Yes." "Charming, didn't you think?"

"Utterly," said Potter and he blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

"You — didn't meet the children, did you, old man?"

"No," said Potter, slowly, "did you?"

"Yes, rather! Nice little chaps." Finley stood up. "Well — cheerio!"

"Right," said Potter, rather slowly.

Hans A. Mueller 17

LET'S MAKE IT PAPA Armand J. Ferretti

F OR A LONG TIME Tomasso Ditello had waited for his cat Bianca to have little ones. He wanted this against the wishes of his father, who barely tolerated Bianca and never mind kittens, but Tomasso reasoned that the birth of kittens would soften his father's attitude. Even so, he didn't tell his father when he asked his cousin Giorgio to bring his big tomcat over, and they put him and Bianca in the barn. All Tomasso knew was, it should be pretty soon. What did that doctor in the town tell him?

Nine weeks. Well, seven times nine makes sixty-three days.

That's nine weeks and it's way past that now. Better be pretty soon, he thought, as he walked toward the barn in the early morning, swinging his empty milk pail.

He walked into the weathered plank and stone barn, and there, curled in a pocket at the base of the haystack were Bianca and six kittens huddled against her body. The boy whooped and raced back to the house trailing the unfilled milk bucket.

"Papa, papa! Theresa! Bianca has six kittens just like little furry balls. And they're all different colors, and they're so small, and they're. . . ."

Pietro Ditello looked up quietly from his breakfast. "The milk pail is empty. Why is it not filled?" But Tomasso's sister Theresa was excited. "Where? Oh where are they, Tomasso? Where are they?"

"Come on. I'll show you." The two children banged through the rear door and out to the barn.

Pietro Ditello looked after his two children, frown-ridges lining his forehead and the corners of his mouth creasing down. He was a big, solid, well-muscled man, with but a trace of heaviness about his middle. His ageing, rock-like, sun and wind eroded face rarely smiled. He was too busy working to smile. His hands were calloused and bent at the knuckles as if they were continually gripping plow handles. His big back was humped for18

ward from bending to this plow. He moved ploddingly on wide flattened feet, as if never able to forget that he wasn't behind his plow.

His neighbors couldn't say whether they liked or disliked Pietro. He spoke to them — when he was spoken to, never bothered them and was self-sufficient, never asking for nor volunteering help. They usually saw him on Sunday, when, his children trailing after him, he would tramp to early Mass and then return to his farm in time to plow two hours before lunch.

As a matter of fact, Pietro didn't think about, much less care about his neighbors. They were there and so it had to be. They'd say hello, he'd say hello. But as for visiting them, that took too much time. He preferred to sit at home and he preferred that his children should sit at home too.

His leathered hands toyed with his pipe as he looked through the rear door, hearing his children laughing in the barn. He was afraid this was going to happen. Why did that damned cat have to give birth. Didn't he have enough animals to take care of without playing nursemaid to these kittens? They would only interfere, would be under his feet all the time. Look what happended this morning already. The boy sees the kittens and forgets his work. Now I'll have to milk the cows and feed the horses myself. Well goddamit I'm not going to let them interfere with work. Nothing should interfere with work. Must train these children. Like I was trained. How else have I become the most wealthy farmer in Cilona? By work, by God. It is too easy for the children, he thought. And now that damned cat. Why couldn't she have died with her kittens like his wife Lucia had with their third child. A tremor went the length of his back as he thought of his wife. Bianca lives and Lucia dies. Why? Was a cat more than his Lucia? Her kittens live, his baby dies, and kills his woman. Damn kittens. Cause death. Death of Lucia. Now he would have to care for them. The killers of his wife. Pietro Ditello, he thought, watcher of children and kittens.

Well he'd be goddamned if he would watch all of them. The children were enough to care for, but now this. Well, he thought, the cat and the kittens will have to go. That's all there is to it.

They'll have to go. And the children will have to get used to it.

His thoughts were interrupted by his children as they burst through the door cradling the kittens in their arms. "Look papa," 19

said Tomasso. "Look. Bianca had them all herself. Look papa.

Papa! Look!"

Pietro turned back to his breakfast, ignoring the children, and they, after failing to interest him, walked slowly through the door back to the barn.

"I guess papa doesn't like them," Theresa said.

"It's not that. He's just not used to them. He will get so he will like them," Tomasso said.

They returned to the house and ate breakfast in silence. Pietro rose from the table and walked into the living room. The children cleared the kitchen table and washed the dishes. They walked upstairs for their schoolbooks and heard their father leave the house. When they left for school they saw Pietro striding through the hay field with his fork on his shoulder.

But he was waiting for them when they returned to the house for lunch. He met them at the gate and followed them into the house. He seemed very different to the children. They didn't know why, but he had a funny expression on his face. His eyes flitted from the children to the table and he fidgeted and urged them nervously to eat their food. When the meal was finished, he said, "I have a surprise for you. I have fixed your kittens. They are in the back yard."

Tomasso and Theresa ran into the yard and found the kittens all fixed. All dead with Bianca atop them, and thrown in one of papa's burlap onion sacks.

They froze, looking for a moment, cheeks white with shock, .then Tomasso picked up the sack and walked slowly from the yard. Not speaking, tears streaking her cheeks, the girl followed.

They waded through the wheat field and up to the top of La Collina Calva, The Bald Hill, a sloping grass and rock knob that overlooked the town. There, Tomasso up-ended the sack and the bodies tumbled out. The kittens still looked alive. Still round, still furry, still with their slitted eyes and still around Bianca. Just as in the morning. Except for the little crooked lines and trickles of blood that had dried where their heads had been cracked.

Tomasso fondled them gingerly, and placed them upright in a line with Bianca's big body at one end. He laughed through his tears. "Just like little fat soldiers," he said, "and General Bianca." Theresa smiled, wiping her eyes. "Or like cows. Like papa's cows," said the boy, placing the bodies in a haphazard 20

grouping. Theresa overcame her horror of the dead bodies and began to play with them. The children "grazed" the "cows" on La Collina Calva, herding them with imaginary dogs, so they would not stray. And later, with Theresa playing la insegnante, the teacher, to her seven pupils, Principale Tomasso looked on, frowning and harrumphing, hands clasped behind his back.

At dusk, tiring of their play, the boy and girl put the bodies into the sack and began walking toward their house.

"What will we do with them now?" asked Theresa.

"I don't know."

"Think we ought to bring them home?"

"Better not. Papa'll sure chop them up or something."

"I guess so."

"I know. Let's have a funeral for them. We can bury them on the hill so they can look at the town and look at the barn where they lived."

Tomasso and Theresa walked quickly back to the hill. The boy dug shallow holes, spading the earth with a sharp stone and with his hands. Theresa gathered sticks, and with the vines from the wild ivy that grew along Pietro Ditello's fence, she tied them together in the shape of crosses.

They walked to the sack. Tomasso lifted Bianca from it and moved slowly to the first hole.

"Bianca is our momma," he announced solemnly, "because she was a real momma too." Gently he laid the slack body in the first grave. The children looked at it and then Theresa pushed a little cross into the ground at its head and Tomasso covered the body with dirt.

The miniature procession moved back to the sack. Reaching in, the boy pulled out a small gray kitten. "Who'll this be, Theresa?"

"Make it Gramma, because it has gray hair like her."

"All right."

They laid "Gramma" next to "Momma's" grave. "She even has a little wrinkled face like Gramma has," said the girl. Then there were two dirt mounds.

Tomasso dumped the sack inside out and the remaining five small bodies tumbled out. "Let's make these ones, the two spotted ones, our cousins. You know, Giorgio and Maria. They're twins. Like the kittens. All right?" asked the boy. Theresa nodded. The boy hurried to the row of holes and scratched out 21

the earth between two of them. Into this enlarged grave the two bodies were laid and covered.

"Zia Clementina" and "Zio Giuseppi" followed their twin children, and then a gray and black kitten was left.

"Who will this be?" asked Theresa.

"I don't know," said Tomasso. "How about Grampa?"

"No." "I know," said the boy, suddenly excited. "Let's make it papa."

"Papa?"

"Yes. Papa."

The boy picked up the little kitten, carried it to the remaining grave and dropped it in. It slapped limply on the earth. They looked at it and then the boy picked up a stone and threw it at the kitten. It hit the kitten in the body. "Good-bye papa," he gasped, tears welling in his eyes. He gathered more stones.

"Good-bye papa. Good-bye papa. Good-bye papa," he cried as each stone stung into the body.

The girl walked to the bruised body, crying noisily. "Me too papa. Me too. Good-bye," she said as she kicked the body again and again. She stamped on it. Crying uncontrollably, she began throwing dirt into the grave. Tomasso joined her feverishly. The sixth grave was covered and, panting from the effort, the two children looked at each other in the near-darkness.

22

Hans A. Mueller

23

, .

truth is in the smelling do you?

(Live, I mean) love is in the tasting have you?

(Loved, I mean) hate is in the ignorance have you? (been afraid, I mean) success is in the finding will you?

(Love, I mean) peace is in the having won't you?

(Cry, I mean) CONRAD VAN HYNING

24

WEEP FOR THE WINNER Weep for the winner — the race he has won Is dead before the runner can be crowned; The dive is drowned when the diver turns to the sun; The flight is doomed when the flier touches ground; For no maker remains a part of what he has made, Nor doer becomes one with what he has done — Their work is coral: it can be displayed Only when those secreting it have gone.

Yet they would have it so, because they know That doing is the restless track of need, That as the river, having found the ocean, Loses its direction and its speed, So must the doer know salt dissolution If he should find his way into his deed.

ALBERTA T. TURNER

WHERE ARE THE WORDS WE SPEAK? Where are the words we speak for ourselves Or to audiences seeing us not?

Ghosts in a room, we blend With the landscape leaping in.

Are they too ghosts to whom we speak not, Caught in some film not to be shown Until yellow morning finds us alone Except for dreams no washing can erase.

Are they the brave, The guests who spoke, Or ghosts muttering to make our dreams?

I do not know which is true, The speech that crept into silver sleep, Or words we were never free to weave.

All are one, a wild wind sighed In dark when silence could speak, One, the words we did not make And those that pursued like birds freed In the night only creatures could see.

HENRIETTA WEIGEL

25

CLOWN'S WALK After the sun-struck crowd the tent's torn up for the holier one of night and I, an ancient mimic, slide through window light, a naked snail quick among shifting shells of the deserted city.

Down the rattling street of glass I walk back upon my age and pass the priest in his black and withered smock of trust, the shimmering pigeons lifting to the unkempt trees, and all the studied repetition of my drunkenness.

Down the alleys of the artists' town past blurred and furtive water-colors of parks and clowns and once loved women, I stroll in the deriding mind.

Perpetual youths with made up eyes dance from my walking; the stalking girls sighing, turn back to their wives.

But there is no room for derision, Too simply can I break the fragile faces and reveal the innocence of question.

II But after memory there is doubt of memory for I have made their masks, not they, and their wigs too.

I dressed them up as caricatures and laughing, propelled their strut down the streets of my youth.

The gaiety of destruction was not a somber thing but a firm accepted stance above a construction's crumbled chance of understanding.

26

Ill Fallen, weeping in the hungry dust, I laughing, found a clay of skill and molded a shining waxen feast to laden my table of fear.

This I juggle to delight the shout from children in the rickety stands; this I carve to a smudge of a smile and wring the awe from their blessing hands.

But here on the mirroring street, apart, I do not know if I'm artist or audience, or an audience I've made with myJ art.

JUDITH BISHOP

APOLLO'S HEAD What do they hold in their withering hands, Ashes of impossible wedding bans, Or faded and shriveled pillow-sheets Where tears have bred the days and then the weeks?

Or on the other hand Apollo's head Lifted high in Venus's stead Above the lingering finger tips That would mold his eyes, his cheeks, his lips?

These men, and men they yet remain Though they their masculinity disdain, Drift a shrill distorted shell Singing the tenor of heaven without the base of hell.

Without the water there can be no air, Without the mother there can be no heir, But if the water rest a heavy sea There is no rise towards eternity.

The sea is a strong creative place, But only if the seed will race The shattering and possessive tide To win the sand and there abide.

And by the acid of persistent birth Fuse the sand to fruitful earth.

The wrench is a desperate but vital one, To quit the moon and gain the sun. ^

째

JUDITH BISHOP

27

A WAKE My lovers drift in with evening, deferent past my empty coffin.

Dare touch my dust, slip my dust through finger tips and once, stroke my flowering hair?

Having drunk my life reel by my death for I no longer care nor sport the mirrors of my eyes, the glass of speech, nor glimmering touch.

Over my tongue your rivers ran, down the wings of my back you plumed your hands and flew to the waxen sun, till morning rose still stained with strength and I went out to search the sea and find your sunken souls.

You saturated with me, and I, vacant as the atmosphere appears to be, wavered between your funneling hands and died by the music you made of me.

JUDITH BISHOP

SONNET Spring forward storm, unroll my wintery youth Plow your clean torrents down my years And catch in instant lightning, tardy truth, That I have drowned but not destroyed my fears.

Dead in my skull's round sea, against the reeds They lilt in sunken sunlight, belly white; Entangled in the net of bright seaweeds, Only one or two float up to sight.

But there on the burning sands they truly died, Stripped as art by honest reason's pull, They can support the structure of the tide, My love that with the moon is waxing full.

Storm churn down where I am scared to reach And strew those fears on the redeeming beach.

JUDITH BISHOP

28

TINTERN REVISITED or MEDITATION ON THE RELATIONS OF NATURE AND MAN with all due disrespect to Mr. Wordsworth Chide the father of the man Jealously banning when he could, The growth of child to adulthood.

The bells are tolling the church's hour And I in the city in a concrete tower, Sitting by my simple table of wood, Recall the complex passions of my wild childhood.

The immense and meditating sea Turned my eyes around to hear It tonguing the throaty caves And all the craving I had sung Was echoed back along the rocks.

Wondering along the marbled beach I put no shells in my fingerprint pockets But left them there for the wind to trumpet My untouched gift to the universal sea.

Up from the ocean the elephant cliffs, Straining under their sun-cracked hides, Rolled their slimy burden of birth And lifted the seeds to the alpine tides.

Wondering among the fields I'd not take the flowers But guarded their clustered and magical hours, Short in my sight as the night of the Cyrius; And closer to the earth the cobwebs bloomed Jeweling the throats of the spinster grass, Till up the advancing mountains Life receded and the skeleton was bared Where the dwarves and fissures of the curious earth And I could reign naked and uncensored there.

29

Humbled now in my city tower, What decayed my godly power?

The rot and crack in my oaken plan Was, like God's, a love of man Insinuating and intruding in Where hate of nature's ravenger had been.

What distorted my mountainous power?

I was more than a thinking flower, I was the dwarfed, imperfect and alone, For there's no distortion in the sun-cracked stone But only in those who can identify And their imperfection deify.

But where now was I to seek grandeur's grace, In the human form and face Or in it what I could find Of what rich nature had left behind?

Geometrical though the form and face may be I found more perfection in nature's symmetry: The moon balanced twelves times to the turning year And the well tuned tympany of the night owl's ear, The rhythm of need in the animal conception That's continual purpose and eternal direction.

But lonely in nature's ultimate space, I knew I was man and must take man's place: Abandoning where I was nurtured and wed, An animal, feeling, in nature's bed, Divorced and born where I was born, The singular and contemplating man.

Hearing the churches bell Clanging in fear of hearing hell, I think my love of man rang not from love But to find I was not of The mythical human inadequacy To love but not become the sea.

So to reflective man I went Suffering my fateful banishment.

His sight was less than the heron's, He could not smell the dangerous breeze, Slower than the running deer, 30

He was less than all of these.

But neither can the quick fish hear, The mole see nor the possum run, And man having all of the senses some, Need not heed a natural fear.

He was a perfect imperfection.

But I found nothing in him to cry or praise For by the genius of his mind He was his own expression.

His motions and actions sang his thought What was there left for me to find That placed him in the generalities Of the dumb and silent verities.

All the world was in his imagination, He expressed all death and all creation.

What in the passions of my wild childhood Could guide me now to adulthood?

What in nature's unsung truth Could show me man's age and his youth?

One thought through my growth I'd left behind, That man was nature as well as the wind.

And nature must have its place in man As man has the place where he began.

One without the other cannot endure or succeed And I must sing of their mutual need, Not for the stature of either's singular plan, But man in nature's scheme and nature in the mind of man.

JUDITH BISHOP

31

THE FINITE AND THE SWANS L. A. Heilbrun

No. No. No. No! No! No! No! He was shouting the words when he awoke from the dream.

But it didn't matter.

Then he heard foot steps and some whispering outside the door: "Gorman's at it again."

"Something wrong, Gorman?"

"No." "You OK?" "Yes. Sure. Go way."

Three times he had had the same dream. Twice last week.

And tonight. The same dream. At first he was walking through the Commons and the people going by, perfect strangers, pulled at his arm. Save us, Gorman. Save us, Gorman. Their faces were strained and anxious. Then he was sitting by the pond in the Boston Gardens watching the two white swans. The place was strangely empty of people. And why —with the trees leafing and the tulip beds beginning to bloom? The swans waved to him and started swimming closer. As they swam the perfectwhite of their feathers started changing color until both were a miserable gray. Then he could see: one swan had the face of Professor Norton and the other Miss Been.

They swam right up to him and said: "We too, we too."

"But not I." "Yes, Gorman. You too, you too, you too."

No! He got up from the bed and walked to the wash stand with the oval mirror above it. He looked in, almost afraid to look, to see if his skin was turning gray. But no, it was just flushed and sweating. He ran cold water and soaked the wash cloth and wiped the sweat away. His legs were sweaty too. He soaked his hair with the wet cloth and combed it into a pompadour. He still felt hot and weak even after the cold water on his face. He 32

should take another shower, really. But instead he took off his bathrobe, flung it on the bed, sat down at his desk and opened the top button of his pajama shirt.

There was enough moon that he could see the Commons and catch glimpses of the Garden. It was good to have a fifth story room. Beacon Street was sprinkled with street lights and car lights and people — a few people.

It was only then that time occurred to him. He glanced at the alarm on the dresser.

Eleven.

He had slept an hour.

It was ten, he remembered, when his eyes got intolerably heavy from reading Norton's assignment in his NATURE OF GOD. So he had stretched out on the bed and slept. And dreamed.

He opened the book now to page 183 — the chapter on SURD EVIL. He had read the chapter twice already. Last week. And yesterday. If God is good, why is there evil in the world? It gave an answer to it. He had read so many answers. For some it is easy: No God. But what kind of an answer is that? For others — the long-time battle between God and Satan for control of the universe. And for still others it is man who can be blamed for the bulk of his own misery: MAN who insists on breaking the laws of God. (He could use himself, himself and Natty, to show the pain of it — both only sixteen when the sperms — a hundred million sperms — touched the womb and went up the fallopian tube and some surrounded the egg and one speared through and the chromosomes united and the mitotic division of cells began and the baby was made; and the scar of it — social ruin and shattered nerves and a bastard child born and a hunger whetted; and the redemption of it — a lad made into a man and the man made into the Son of God.) And as for the rest of the world's evil: Physical pain — a necessity to survival (an oft misunderstood wisdom of God). Earthquakes, floods, tornadoes . . . well, something must be left to faith. He knew this much — all of it fit in some way with God's plan to keep the universe in balance and bring man to the footstool of His glory.

But this chapter, and Norton's lecture: an outright blasphemy, a vicious, subtle plan to sabotage man's faith in God and God's power to redeem man. It said this: It is easy to account for evil in the universe, for there is a portion of irrational, surd evil in 33

every substance, every creature, even God. And God, therefore being finite, is limited more than some would care to think. For not only is He limited in power and knowledge, but in his goodness as well. In God Do We Trust? Certainly not. For in Him, as in man and the elements, there is the same portion of surd evil.

So like a drop of black mixed with a much greater portion of pure white the mixture turns a miserable gray. And, mixed thus from the beginning, it cannot be retracted.

Gorman slammed the book shut.

No! It cannot be!

To sabotage a nation is one thing. To stain the holy name of God is another. And unless the false prophet repents. . . The unforgivable sin. Gorman had often wondered about it. Certainly and indeed, this would be it!

— Then, sir, this leaves perfection impossible?

— Yes, Gorman.

— What about Jesus?

— I return the question, Gorman.

— He was perfect. The Bible says so.

— Is the Bible infallible? Who wrote the Bible, Gorman?

— Apostles of Jesus wrote the Gospels.

— And sometimes they were in error.

— They said nothing of Jesus' imperfections. He is the Son of God. He was without sin. Born pure. He could not sin.

— The Gospel writers said nothing about Jesus from the ages of 12 to 30, Gorman. Could He have sinned then?

— No . . . I don't know . . . I . . .

BLASPHEMOUS! . . . you who hate the good and love the evil who tear the skin from off my people, and their flesh from off their bones; who eat the flesh of my people, and flay their skin from off them, and break their bones in pieces, and chop them up like meat in a kettle, like flesh in a caldron . . . . . . it shall be night to you, without vision, and darkness to you, without divination.

34

You are the false prophet, Dean Norton!

Gorman had concluded it yesterday. Yesterday, having finished the second reading of the chapter on SURD EVIL, he had gone to the office Christopher Norton DEAN Professor of Systematic Theology to request an interview, to have it out, to stop the heresy. He saw the smiles that passed between Norton and Miss Been.

Perhaps they thought he had not seen them. But nothing escaped him. Neither the smiles nor the full meaning of them —twinsmiles pregnant with meaning: one the embryo of love; the other: We know what Gorman wants. We must be clever with him, appear innocent, eager to sooth, reluctant to arouse.

— Dean, Mr. Gorman would like to see you. (Then the smile, first meaning: I love you, Christopher, I love you.)

— Has he an appointment?

— No, sir. (Another smile, second meaning: We must be clever, cautious.) Shall I arrange it?

— Yes, by all means, Miss Been; please make an appointment.

Consult your calendar.

— Sorry, Mr. Gorman, the first opening I have is tomorrow at ten. Can you see Dean Norton then?

— I have a class.

-Three?

— Class.

— Friday, then, what time are you free?

— At nine.

— The Dean has a class then. Theology I. How about lunch.

Would you like to have lunch with him?

— Ah . . . yes. Yes, I guess that would be the best . . .

— I'll put you down. Friday lunch.

Very clever, Miss Been. Very clever. Not until tomorrow.

And then in a public place where conversation must be tempered, limited, cramped. And in the meantime, tonight, he will go to you. Or will you come to him? And the two of you, the two false prophets, will whet your cunning to face the servant of the 35

Lord. But I will find a way. A way. One with God is a majority! . . . The LORD, GOD of hosts, he who touches the earth and it melts, and all who dwell in it mourn, and all of it rises like the Nile, and sinks again, like the Nile of Egypt; who builds his upper chambers in the heavens, and founds his vault upon the earth; who calls for the waters of the sea, and pours them out upon the surface of the earth — the LORD is his name . . .

Omnipotent, omnific, omniscient, omnipresent GOD, enter my soul. Be with Thy servant this night. Give him the wisdom and the power. Show me the way. Lead me to them and allow me to fill them with Thy spirit. Let me penetrate their darkness and show the way. Amen.

Never mind, Mrs. Norton, I will return him to you. I will be the soul-surgeon. I will cut and I will heal. . . Forgive me, Lord. Not I. But Thee. I will be the willing instrument in Thy hand.

Since then — since Natty and the baby, and since that glorious day when I laid all upon the altar — since then I have heeded the vows. I have tried. I have applied myself. I have fought the good fight. I have entered the Kingdom. O glorious day that fixed my choice!

— Have you faith in Christ?

— I have.

— Do you know the doctrines of our church?

- I do.

— Will you keep them and live by them?

- I will.

— Will you practice fasting and abstinence?

— With God being my helper I will.

— Are you resolved to devote yourself wholly to God? — I am.

— Do you expect to be made perfect in love in this life?

- I do.

36

— Are you now going on to perfection?

— With the help of God I will reach perfection.

— Let us pray.

But what of you, Dean Norton? Have you forgotten your vows? Have you forgotten the road to perfection? The daily reading of the Holy Scriptures. Fasting. Prayers. Prayers, Dean Norton, have you forgotten how to pray — the union of your soul with the soul of God, as two lovers unite their bodies in . . . or is she much more important to you now, Dean Norton? She or God? Even tonight, perhaps, you will turn your back on the vows and join her in a lover's bed.

But no matter. I will find you. God will direct me and I will find you and talk with you and prove it to you that there is perfection in God and perfection in me and that there can be perfection in you if you turn from your blasphemy and cry unto the Lord; and I will pray with you that you may repent of your sins and denounce your false teachings and return to the fold of God and enter the Kingdom.

But what if they refuse to listen? What then? God will surely give me wisdom. He will show me the way.

PERFECTION! It is a costly thing to gain. So few, so very few obtain it.

The great prophets of old — Isaiah, Jeremiah, Amos, Micah, and Jesus of course; and the great prophets of today — Billy Sunday and Billy Graham (Ghandi, perhaps, had he been a Christian).

And now you, Herbert Gorman. You. Bread of Life. Son of God. Purpose amid chaos. Saint Gorman the Pure of Thought!

Yes, perfection is a hard and stony way —a costly thing . . .

— My pipes, Martha, did you move them when you cleaned today?

— Why no, John, I . . .

— They're in the trash can, father.

— The . . . the . . . I'm afraid my hearing . . .

-Trash can, father. T-R-A-S-H-C-A-N. I threw them out.

They're a stumbling block in the road.

— The road, Herbert?

— The road, father. The road to perfection. The one we should all strive to . . .

— Jesus Christ God! Herbert Gorman, you've gone completely . . .

37

-John!

— Sorry, Martha. I keep forgetting. Come here, son. Sit by me. Now tell me about it.

That was a year ago. Just before seminary. And after the conversation father had called Dr. Festen again . . .

— Let Dr. Festen talk with you about it, son.

-No. — But son . . .

— No! No! No! I must be about my Father's business. I must leave this house of sin. And I must never return!

They thought Jesus was crazy too — his brothers and his mother thought so. It is the cost of it. The cost!

Then last week. It wasn't the right way to do it —to run through the halls at two in the morning yelling THEY MUST BE SILENCED! THEY MUST BE SILENCED! It was not considerate, not a bit considerate of those sleeping of course.

But the LORD had spoken to him and had told him to awaken the sleeping watchmen and warn them about Norton and Miss Been. It was just after the first time he had dreamed about the gray swans; he was so wrought up with the spirit of the Lord speaking to him (DO SOMETHING, GORMAN; DO SOMETHING, GORMAN. AWAKEN THE SLEEPING WATCHMEN. DO IT NOW) that he just had to awaken the others and tell them. It was to avoid chaos, utter darkness; it was to save the souls of millions.

— What is it Gorman? What are you screaming about?

And when he told them they led him back to his room and they whispered outside the door. Like tonight.

— He had a breakdown once you know.

-Really?

— He told me so himself.

— We'd better keep watch tonight by the door. He might . . .

— I think he'll be alright now.

— Just the same . . .

— We'll take turns, then. An hour each.

And the multitude. Many of them thought Jesus was crazy, too. It is the cost! The cost!

Poor innocent victims. Poor innocent victims of an eternal 38

tragedy. Of a vicious scheme to destroy the foundation of the universe! All. All of them swans. Gray swans. All but God and Jesus and the prophets of old and the prophets of now. God and Jesus and St. Gorman the Pure in Thought. The Beginning, the Middle, the End. The Holy Trinity. But these were enough for proof — to prove to Dean Norton that surd evil does not infest every being, even God; and to prove that every being, were they willing to pay the price, could find redemption in the true light of God. It is your mission, Gorman, to show the way, to purify the swans, to wash them whiter than snow. What is so glorious as to be the Chief Builder in the Kingdom of God! But first to destroy . . .

Gorman took Norton's NATURE OF GOD in his hands and turned from the desk. He ripped out the first page of the chapter on SURD EVIL, crumpled it and tossed it to the center of the floor.

Then another.

And another.

When the book was empty of pages and the crumpled papers made a sizable pile, Gorman searched through his pockets one by one and carefully. Then through his desk drawers. And his dresser. In the top drawer he found a packet of paper matches.

He struck one against the rough, brown-bottom edging of the cover and stooped to set the pages aflame.

The flames went high, halfway to the ceiling.

"Gorman."

"Come in."

But no one entered.

"Gorman."

He went to the door this time and peered out. The hall was empty. He shut the door again.

"Gorman. Do you not know MY voice?"

"Lord, Lord, Thy servant heareth."

He fell to his knees beside the flames.

"Go to them, Gorman. Silence their tongues from further blasphemy by opening their eyes to the truth."

"Yes, Lord, Thy servant heareth. But am I worthy?"

"Doubt not Thy God. Thou art the chosen one. I will give thee the wisdom sufficient."

"Yes, Lord, Thy servant heareth. But where?"

"I have shown thee in a dream."

39

"Yes, Lord."

He arose and without waiting to smother the burning papers or to change his clothes he left the room.

The hall was empty. Dark. Quiet. The watchmen sleep in innocence!

He touched the stairs with light footsteps. They must not hear me. They will only bring me back. They will bring me back.

Three flights down. The Lord is my shepherd — even in the valley of the shadow.

The front door. I am the Way, the Truth and the Light. If any man enter by this door he shall have eternal salvation.

The sidewalk. Empty, too. Narrow is the road — and straight — that leadeth to salvation.

Across Beacon. I am the light of the world!

Through the northwest corner of the Commons. Every man, common or of high station may find redemption in and through the Lord God of Hosts.

Across Charles into the Gardens. Jesus too entered the garden — the Garden of Gethsemane.

Across the bridge to the edge of the pond. Jesus walked by the sea and called to him: Peter, follow me!

And there he saw them — the two swans. Gray and cuddled together.

They swam toward him.

"You too, Gorman, you too."

"No. NO! Look. I'll prove it. LOOK!" And he started tearing off his pajamas to show them his purity.

40

RISING YOUNG MAN Edgar Acken

Then he rolled them around. Yep, it was his own apartment, all right. He squinted as he looked — bathroom door open, no sound of running water; by lifting his head very, very, quietly and slowly he could see into the kitchenette; the burners were all turned off. He dropped his head back on the pillow and winced as a thousand pains shot through it.

There was something wrong with the picture though, something missing. Then, without looking, he knew what it was.

The chair on which his clothes were tossed had a twin that usually stood beside it — and it wasn't there now. He must have moved it over by the twin bed.

He started to look, but the pains shot through his skull — like atoms or something, he thought.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. First time in his life he'd ever blacked out. Couldn't remember coming in last night — or this morning. Couldn't even remember leaving the others.

Gosh! What if whatzisname had brought him home! That would just about stop any sales to the Lancaster Company. Even assistant sales managers weren't supposed to get drunk when they took very important customers out. Assistant sales managers, especially, weren't supposed to — . He groaned and concentrated some more.

Let's see, from the theater they went to Janessi's —had some drinks and saw the show, then they went to John & Henry's — Lancaster wanted particularly to go there, he'd read so much about it — and had some more drinks, then they'd gone to —.

He groaned again.

His head hurt. Stomach felt awful, too. Coffee? He shuddered.

Where'd he leave them — and how? Valerie? Somehow, she'd been in the background all evening. Mostly he remembered Mrs. Lancaster — good lookin' girl. "Call me Jane" she'd said.

"I'm going to call you Bill."

He had. He could remember that much. He'd danced with her, too. Funny, he'd had that impulse to kiss her when they BILL OPENED HIS EYES.

41

were dancing at, at, that last place — or was it the last place?

Anyway, he wanted to kiss her. She'd known it, too, he could tell by the way she looked at him. Gosh! Had he?

How about Valerie? Probably be around —no, she wouldn't come, of course not. She'd send a messenger — with a note.

Bill's face twisted. He was overwhelmed. Lost his girl — the sweetest, loveliest girl on earth. Fouled everything up! Lost his girl and Oh, my God! — the sales! Okay. They were lost.

Maybe the whole account. Maybe his job. The phone rang.

Have that telephone taken out. First thing tomorrow. Or something done to the bell. Loud enough to wake everybody in the block up. Terrible.

Feebly, he started to reach for it, then stopped.

Valerie! Call to tell him everything was off. Or Mr. Whatzisname Lancaster, to challenge him to a duel or whatever men with insulted wives did.

He pulled the pillow over his head, and held it tight to his ears. When he took his hands away, the phone had stopped.

He pulled the pillow off and let his body go limp under the covers. He was trying to remember something.

There was that waiter — the fresh one. Where was that? Was it in Jimmy's, or . Oh, well, he'd argued with him. Of course he was right —the head waiter'd admitted it, and corrected the bill, but anyway — Valerie must be disgusted with him!

Arguing with a waiter, — and about a check! In front of that guy Lancaster, too!

He groaned as the telephone rang again. When it stopped and he removed the pillow, he started remembering some more.

That guy Lancaster. What was his first name? Wife's name was Jane — good lookin' girl. What was it he'd said? Something, something — what was it? Something mean, or discouraging, anyway. Right after his wife had been insulted, probably. Think of it soon enough, probably something nasty. Can't blame a man whose wife's been insulted by a drunk.

The phone rang again. Bill stiffened. Well, he had to face it sometime. He reached out and grabbed the receiver, "Hello?"

He must have a cold, his voice was hoarse.

"Hello. Bill?"

"Yeah. Whozis?"

"Jimmy. How you feel this morning?"

Bill grunted.

42

• •I

"I don't blame you. You were feelin' pretty good last night."

"Where were you? I don't ."

"I was with a crowd at Himmy Blake's. Didn't think you saw me. You were with Valerie and another couple. The girl was really somethin'! The guy was talkin' to you, real hard. Kind of a sour puss, he looked like. He was kinda high, too."

Blake's! Good Lord, thought Bill, I don't even remember being there. He tried to be casual.

"Didn't happen to hear what he was sayin', did you?" Hastily he added, "He's a customer, an' he might've told me something I forgot." He was silent a second, and then added hollowly, "Might've given me an order, even." He tried to laugh but that cold bothered him.

"Only thing I heard him say, was somethin' about seein' your boss — name's Burton, isn't it? Said he was goin' to see him, first thing Monday."

"Oh-h-h. I see. Say, Jimmy, someone's ringin' my doorbell.

I'll call you tomorrow — Okay?"

"Okay. G'by."

"G'by." He hung up rapidly and sank back.

That was it! I knew it was somethin' awful. Hell tell Burton I insulted his wife. Tell him I made a scene with a waiter.

Burton'll fire me. Job gone. Valerie gone. I'm washed up.

He lay there thinking. Then he carefully rose up in bed and slid his feet over the side, his back to the twin bed. He sighed.

Might's well get up. Certainly made a mess of things. Funny.

Nothing like this ever happened before. Never passed out in my life. Never insulted anybody. Then, zing! It happens.

The phone rang again. He sat there a moment, debating whether or not to answer it. He sighed and reached for it. Get rid of it in the morning.

"H'lo."

"Billy!" It was Valerie's voice.

"Yeah."

"What's the matter? You sound funny."

"Oh, I, — just woke up, I guess."

"You guess? I know, you had a hangover. You and that Mr. Lancaster both got a little tight last night. I never saw you drink so much."

"Un-hunh. Say, Valerie, I'm sorry about the waiter."

"What waiter?"

43

"Oh-h, you know. The argu —" Valerie laughed. "The one that tried to overcharge you? Bill, I admired you." She giggled a little. "Most men are afraid of waiters! That's why he tried to pad that bill. Most men wouldn't say anything. Mrs. Lancaster said you were one of the few men she'd ever seen that knew how to handle a waiter."

Bill gulped and swallowed. "Glad she felt that way."

"Wasn't she nice, though? I thought she was lovely."

"Who?" "Mrs. Lancaster, of course, silly."

"Oh, yeah. Sure."

"I didn't think he was very attractive, though, but he certainly liked you."

"What!"

"Well, I'm sure he did. He said — he'd been saying it all evening, too, that he was going to see Mr. Burton, and tell him that — just because of you — he was placing all his business with the company for the next six months. Don't you remember that?"

Bill choked. "Oh. That? Aw, I guess that was just the drinks talkin'."

"No, I'm sure he meant it. He said it enough, goodness knows, long before he got so tight. — You know, I'll bet he's still sleeping in some Turkish bath, that was the last thing he kept talking about. Had to take a Turkish bath, right away.

"Oh Bill, how about going to Phil and Mabel's? I told them I'd have to call you. They want us out there later for cocktails."

Bill straightened up. "Well-1-1, I dunno." He paused.

"I'll tell you, let's not go there — let's drive out in the country someplace. Just us, by ourselves."

Haltingly he added, "I, I don't feel much like cocktails today.

I'd rather just be with you. Just the two of us."

As he hung up, he started to roll back on the bed for one last minute. He saw the missing chair. It was at the foot of the twin bed. There were clothes on it. Not his clothes. Not men's clothes.

Bill's jaw dropped. Ever so slowly, his eyes moved to the twin bed and along it. There was a slender arm on the cover, then a mass of dark brown hair. The mass revolved, and a pale, pretty face with large, sleepy, blue eyes, came into view, yawning.

Bill gulped. He was silent for a moment.

"G-good morning, Mrs. Lancaster," he said politely.

44

RETURN TO CHALONS Extract From An Unpublished Diary of a Soldier

The Hotel de Ville, or Town Hall, was my first stop in Chalons.

It was in this lovely building, in the Louis XVI style, that, after the 1914-1918 war, the American Unknown Soldier was chosen in a highly dramatic ceremony. Parking in the square, I climbed the stairs to the offices of the mayor whom I had informed by mail of my intended visit. He assured me of every bit of cooperation he could personally give and gave me several letters to read from former G.I.'s who wrote of revisiting Chalons. He also invited me to dine with his family that evening but I had to decline because of a previous engagement. I accepted his invitation for the following evening.

Rather than take his official time up, I told him that after dinner the next evening we could discuss my visit. "Au revoir" and I was off to the Prefecture. Louis XVI had stayed here on his return to Paris from Varennes in 1791 when it was the Hotel de lTntendance de Champagne. My good friends, the Faurois, lived here and Henri the son, or Hank as I had called him, had offered me lodging during my visit, also his services as a guide once more.

With many "mes amis," handshaking, hugs and kisses the Family Faurois welcomed me after ten years of not seeing or hearing from me. Mama Faurois had died but Papa was still there with Henri, Henri's wife Marie and two little ones. Henri Jr. and Annette (after grandmere). The girls, Odette and Helene were coming later with their families to make a big reunion.

We had luncheon in the kitchen because I had been accepted once more as a member of the family and it would have been rude to insist upon eating in the dining room. Two little, redcheeked, well-scrubbed, shiny-eyed children took turns eating from "Honkle 'arry's" lap. Several hours later I had to rock the lovable little cherubs to sleep.

Hank was still the fine featured, husky fellow that I had known, being only 31. A former member of the Maquis, prisoner of the Germans nine months before his escape, 2 years an officer in 45

Indo-China, he had been my boon companion during those good days in Chalons. He could speak fluent English and, when necessary, French with an American accent.

Once, though, we ran into a little trouble with the American accent and he had to fall back on the genuine French accent to tell a French farmer off. We had gone on a little picnic up the Marne and were sunning ourselves on a patch of sand surrounded by tall reeds. The girls were making lunch and Rudy Schulze, my G. I. buddy, Hank and I were dozing after a swim. Suddenly a farmer broke through the reeds and began berating us.

We were this and we were that, he was going to do this and he was going to do that, he was going to the American general and have us arrested for all sorts of things from robbery to rape.

Two of the girls began to cry and Schulze and I stood there just catching bits of what he was saying. Hank stood up, thrust his dark, savage face close to the farmer's and shouted back twice as loudly and much more heatedly. He began by casting aspersions upon the fellow's ancestry, intelligence, patriotism, physical appearance, ownership of property and ended up by telling the, by now, poor, bewildered farmer that if he bothered us anymore he would be arrested and held in jail until the fall harvest. Hank sure had what it takes because the farmer apologized and shook hands with us and left us to finish our picnic.

We had started to reminisce upon such incidents as this when Odette and Helene swung their cars into the driveway, circled the fountain and parked by the kitchen door. We were outdoors by this time and the two girls jumped out of their cars leaving their husbands and children to follow in a more sedate fashion.

Helene was nearest and, so, first to reach me. She had been a big girl when I saw her last, ten years ago, but she was an even larger woman. She threw her arms around me and I did likewise. I stepped back from the bear hug and braced myself for Odette's leap.

Odette gave a little cry, "Harry," flung her arms around me and kissed me on the left cheek. The past decade had been kind to her, she had not changed noticeably. Undoubtedly she would remain the same for many years to come. Slender, with blonde hair tumbling down over her shoulders as of old, beautiful brown eyes flashing, medium height but her regal bearing making her appear tall, she had on one of my favorite outfits, a chic, black crepe sheath dress with a single strand of pearls.

46

The three of us embraced once more and then I stepped diplomatically back. Helene's husband was a bluff, heavy set textile manufacturer from Troyes who could appreciate old friends greeting each other with fervor. Odette's husband, I could sense, was partially inclined to resent this very warmly welcomed stranger. His unfounded suspicions stemmed from his past, no doubt, as he was almost as tall as I, dark and quite good looking. A wealthy industrialist from Paris, he had all the petty doubts of all sophisticated urbanites in connection with their women.

Five little children came crowding at their heels, shouting to Henri Jr., Annette and Grandpere. Three little girls and one boy were Helene's and a cute, serious girl of three, Odette's. After introductions, the children all ran, up the driveway, through the Prefecture and into the formal gardens in the rear to play.

Questions, questions, questions. Some answered, some unanswered, some not even asked but I could see them in eyes and behind lips, others forgotten in new questions. Because I would be around Chalons for some time, I just answered a few and asked none.

In the United States it's Paris everyone talks about, but outside of the States everyone wants to hear about New York.

Whether it is to deride it, or to want to visit it some time, eventually they ask about New York. This was sheer happenstance.

I led the conversation to Columbia University and mentioned that several Parisians were students there. Much to my good fortune, and better than I had reckoned on, Roger Bressac, Odette's husband, had a cousin attending Columbia whom I remembered as a classmate in a journalism class. Whatever the connection, he warmed up to me immediately.

I did not know her as well as he figured but, as it eased the tension he had created between us, I let it ride. I was pleased because I did not want him to imagine there had been anything more than friendship in my relations with his wife at any time.

It is a shame that you cannot meet old friends today of the opposite sex without someone believing that only the most intimate relationship must have existed.

After several glasses of Papa's best champagne, vintage year 1928, kept hidden during the war and now just used for special occasions, they gathered the children from the gardens where they had been playing the French version of hide and seek.

47

These happy children were vastly different from the children I remembered from the war years. Those kids were already grown up and too busy trying to live to play.

This reminded me of the time I was joking with some friends in front of my house down the street when the Mother Superior of the convent next door stopped. She shook her head and said smilingly "You Americans, nothing but big, happy boys. Always joking and laughing. Is not life serious, does nothing disturb you?"

"Mother," I said respectfully, "you are right, we are always laughing and are big happy boys. But did you ever stop to think that we might have the right attitude towards life? The Americans haven't started any of these wars and yet many of our always laughing boys have died over here finishing them. There might not be so many wars and so much distrust among peoples if the rest of the world learned to laugh and play as the Americans do.

For all our childishness, we have accomplished much and made it possible for people in Europe to regain their freedom."

She smiled again, but answered seriously, "You may be right, for that is true. Without the Americans the world would be badly off today. You must visit me next door some day and we will talk more about this."

I asked Hank about her, and he said that she had often talked about the big American boy who had given her a new thought but that she had died four or five years ago.

Piling the children into the cars, the Bressacs and the Rimbauds took off for home. Waving and asking me to be sure to see them before I left they went through the archway in a hurry to get the children back to their beds.

Dishes done, the two children tucked in bed, Papa Faurois got out the old pictures and souvenirs. He still had a watercan that I had given him. Marie rocked quietly away, crocheting, saying nothing, but taking in everything with serious grey eyes and pretty little ears.

With Papa exhausted and sleepy, Hank and I settled down to reminisce and give him a chance to brag in front of his wife.

I could see he didn't fool her with his stories for she smiled a quiet, shy smile at me when he was at his height.

We talked of the big party held in the Prefecture for the officers with the lovely walled gardens lighted by Japanese lan48

terns and candles, the small quantity of food but great bowls of punch and champagne, dancing with girls from the surrounding towns to the music of the division band. Of swimming in the Marne and some of its side streams, sitting up in fear and astonishment once as a girl walked towards us out of the water with apparently nothing on. Our falling back in relief as we saw our first Bikini bathing suit. It was brief all right, but the trunks the French men wore were even more revealing.

The volley ball games, the softball and baseball games. My bewilderment as some French spectators asked the meaning of "lezgo" and then clapping hands. Two innings later, I dropped back off first base to clear the mystery. It was the stock sports cry of all American athletes. Clapping your hands, slapping your glove or someone on the team on the back and saying "let's go." Of course when I tried to explain that "lezgo" was what they understood for our way of saying "let's go," "let us go," "let us start," or "play ball," they thought that I wasn't able to speak English any better than the ones they had heard saying "lezgo."

But then, as always, "All Americans are crazy."

We talked of the funeral we had attended in honor of the returned body of a soldier comrade of Henri's. The great funeral coach that carried the coffin in the rear of the hearse and sat the family and driver in the front half. Everyone else walked and it was particularly sorrowful when the cortege passed the little monument erected in front of the bullet scoured wall where 100 fellow townsmen had been executed by the Germans directly across from the old Notre Dame-en-Baux church built in 1130 A.D. How we enjoyed the circus when it played in the town gardens and the one and only U.S.O. show to hit the town. The French vaudeville show where the singers and comedians fooled us with "swange" until we figured out it was French for swing. Schulze and I would wait until the rest of the audience started to laugh at the comedian's jokes and then join in the laughter. We timed it right, they all thought that we understood the jokes and the comedians were encouraged to do better. The natives had not known how to accept the only G.I.'s in the theatre but our laughing with them put us in right with them. Laughter is a wonderful way to get people to like you if it is not directed at them.

We recalled how Hank had taken me to the Sengelese barracks in town to see them drill. These men looked every inch the fierce 49

fighters their reputation said they were. Their area was off limits to everyone at night and they were not allowed out of it at any time, day or night, as they were so unpredictable. They would whip out their long knives and slash away without provocation.

Coming home alone late one night I heard a yell from near that quarter, then a shot, so I flattened myself in a gateway and stood still. A wildly running G. I. shot out of an alley and headed towards town. I surmised that it was only some irate husband or father instead of a Sengelese soldier that had fired or else there would have been two figures running.

A wrestling match was held outside of town with only a few G. I's present in the large crowd that stood in a cow pasture to see some fine wrestling. Schulze, Hank and I stood up in a jeep.

At one point, one wrestler had his opponent's arm pinned by a scissors grip and was bridging his body. The opponent was helpless and no headway was being made whereupon I let out a loud shout "Estomac." The crowd roared with laughter as the pinned wrestler, quick to comprehend my execrable French, butted his opponent in the stomach, with his head, broke the grip and waved his thanks to me.

Feeling my way delicately, for I did not know if the subject would be a sore one, but wanting to find out before I saw his sisters again, I asked Hank if he knew what had happened to Therese, one of the reigning queens of th G. I. occupation. I asked about her, and I thought the subject might be a touchy one, because Therese, Odette and Helene were but three of the girls I had tried to convince that their current G. I. beaus had no intention of divorcing their American wives and marrying them. They could be convinced all right but it would not happen to them, only the other foolish girls. Nine or ten girls came to me; "M'sieu 'arry is tres correct vous connetre." Yes I might have been "very proper you know" but for the most part my asked for advice fell upon eager but unheeding ears. Odette had asked me about her major, who was different, he was really going to divorce his wife, but she was afraid her sister Helene's boy friend wouldn't marry her when he could. Helene's story was just the reverse of Odette's, so you can imagine why I treaded easily, for both romances ended when the soldiers went back home.

Hank and I had been standing outside the gateway to my house one afternoon, talking to a tall good looking blonde, when 50

a captain from one of the camps stopped in front of his light o' loves' house down the street. He spotted us and wheeled his jeep alongside of us and said "In like Flynn, heh, Harry'' The girl turned to him and with ice and venom in her voice said, "I beg your pardon?" Just a nice Red Cross girl from Plainfield, Connecticut. The captain's jaw dropped, he turned rainbow colors, gasped out a "sorry" and zoomed out of sight in his jeep.

Hank told Marie one of my pet linguistic anecdotes. Angelo Borracchini from Seattle, Rudolph Schulze from St. Louis and I had been in the driveway discussing something while three French boys had been listening. Finally one of them tapped me on the arm and asked, "Do you understand each other?"

We looked at each other questioningly but said "Yes." He said proudly "I speak the English better than do you, but I do not understand you people and cannot see how you speak the so poor English and understand each other."

Hank ended the night's bull session with a final little tale about Therese, about whom the Chief of Staff had remarked, "I must compliment you on your good taste in women." No wonder though, three-quarters of the military personnel and the entire civilian population were fighting, and I mean really fighting, for her favor. She had not only "what it takes" but brains besides.

Therese made the average sweater girl and cheesecake model look like a fence post. She did not live in Chalons anymore, having moved to Paris a week after I left town.

Papa had fallen asleep by this time and Hank roused him and helped him to his room. I said goodnight to Papa, Hank and Marie and went to my large bedroom off the dining room. This was the little used, prize bedroom and over the bed was one of those very heavy, French lace covers that Mama Faurois had been so proud of. Her grandmere had crocheted it years ago.

I folded it neatly on the dresser and lost myself in a feather mattress that literally swallowed me up but put me to sleep before I had time to think about it.

The sun was shining on the fountain and many cars were inside the courtyard when I awakened for there was a conference on agricultural matters being held in the Prefecture. We probably wouldn't see M. Faurois all day.

Henri and Marie were in the kitchen making bacon and eggs for me when I had finished washing. The two kids were in school at the convent down the street. Breakfast went down in 51

a hurry as I was eager to see the house that I had occupied during my stay in Chalons.

Walking down to the telephone exchange, Hank and I stood there looking across the street at the house. To the right of it stood the Ministry Building and to the left of it the convent of which I have spoken.

It was the town house of Joseph Perrier, the leading Champagne firm in Chalons. There was the usual large, wooden, double door guarding the driveway entrance with a kitchen for summer use to the left, garage in the rear and bedrooms overhead. To the right was the main house with about fifteen rooms including a two story high, all glass conservatory facing the gardens to the rear.

The halls were all tapestried and if you did not see the glass plate at the catch you could not always find the doors leading to the various rooms. Extremely confusing, embarrassing and annoying at times.

Hank and I crossed to the front entrance, rang the bell and waited. M. Perrier and his gracious wife opened the door and bade us enter. Hank had told them that I would be visiting so I was not an unexpected guest. We passed the usual pleasantries before they showed me through the house.

I could not see any changes outside of a modernized kitchen and new bathrooms. The dining room still impressed me with its magnificently decorated ceiling and crossed beams.

Upstairs was my old bedroom, beautifully panelled, with two large windows fronting the street, and bathroom with tub, foot bath and "sitzplatz." At these windows, each morning, I would do my setting up exercises, wash my hands and face, shave and shine to the delight of the people working in the telephone exchange across the way. They took turns coming to the windows and waving or calling good morning to me. The Chief-of-Staff mentioned once that he could always tell when it was time to get up by looking out the window of his bedroom to see if the windows on the other side of the street were filled with smiling girls.

When I came here before, the sergeant in charge of the house, had shown me to my room and then left. I had stripped to the waist to shave and wash when I heard a giggle. I looked around and a girl flopped down on the bed and pulled her dress, the only article of clothing besides her shoes that she had on, up 52

over her head. What she had to offer did not impress me, nor was I interested, so I picked her up and dumped her in the hallway.

This evidently made her think that I was playing or wouldn't pay for she ran right back into the room and repeated the performance, pointing and saying "M'sieu pour vous." It might have been for me but it was probably for the entire military personnel of the French, German and United States armies also.

Throwing her over my shoulder, I marched downstairs to the kitchen where the sergeant and his men were having coffee with the chef and other household help. I set her on the table and told the chef to tell her she was not to enter my room and neither was any other maid except when cleaning. Everyone looked at me with astonishment. For free, and an American soldier refusing it?

Afterwards there was a succession of girls who aspired to the same spot, but none of them reached it. One morning I was sitting in the driveway, leaning in my captain's chair against the pillar upon which I had carved my initials in six inch letters.

A tall, slender, blonde girl came by and I gave her my usual "bon jour ma'mselle." She surprised me by replying "Good morning, Harry." Blinking, I jumped to my feet and said "You speak English, you know me?"

"Not only English, but Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, German, French, Spanish, Dutch and a little Italian. I was an interpreter for the German army for a while until I was captured and then I became an interpreter for the 45th Division."

Well, interpreter was a new name for it, but if she wanted to call herself an interpreter it was no skin off my butt.

"Sure I know you, everybody in town knows you by sight if not by name. You are the big, happy American who is so nice to people. Always smiling and saying "bon jour," "bon aprimidi" and "bon nuit," to everyone you pass. I came up here twice before but you did not see me so I am here this morning."

Okay, I waited for the rest of her pitch, and I wasn't disappointed. She poured it on nicely.

Calling into the kitchen I asked Jesse, the G. I. cook, if he had a cup of coffee for a pretty girl. He took one look out of the door and if he hadn't had coffee he would have run down to the headquarters mess hall and back again for some. We went inside and I introduced her to Jesse. I have forgotten her name 53

by now. She hung around for a few weeks, but Jesse could get nowhere for his girl friend was a maid in the house. The last I knew of the Norwegian girl is that she was occupying the bedroom over the driveway with the sergeant in charge of the house.

The four of us sat in the conservatory all afternoon discussing little sidelights of my stay in their house. The butler wheeled in a cart full of cakes and cookies with the tea and around four o'clock he served some delicious lime sherbet. I promised the Perriers that I would have dinner with them Saturday night, and stay for a gala party in honour of Mme. Perrier's niece from nearby Ay. She was to marry a scion (no pun intended) of a large vineyard owner the following Sunday.

The Perriers knew the Maurice Cunys with whom I had become quite friendly after our first real meeting. Mme. Cuny had been supervisor of the telephone operators across the way. Very sophisticated looking, with a good sense of humor. After several weeks of negotiating in sign language from my vantage point in the driveway, I received an invitation for Schulze and myself to have Sunday dinner at her house. Her husband met her at the building after work so I more or less knew him and figured that he knew me well enough.

We twisted the doorbell at one and Mme. Cuny answered it accompanied by an equally attractive, dark haired woman of about thirty.

"Entre!"

We stepped inside and I looked around for her husband. Not seeing him, I asked, "Where is your husband?"

She didn't seem to understand, so I pointed to her wedding ring and repeated, "Husband?" " 'usban' ?"

"Yes, isn't he home?"

Mystified glances, a torrent of French between the two women and then they burst out laughing. Schulze and I just stood there, a trifle embarrassed. We spoke so little French, they spoke so little English. German? Okay, we tried it. Fine. The dark haired woman spoke it well. Schulze spoke his parents' native tongue like a landsman so, with me speaking English to Schulze, Schulze speaking German to the woman, she translating into French for Mme. Cuny and then reversing the process, we carried on a reasonably clear conversation.

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They explained their laughter. With great delicacy they had sent their husbands on a canoe trip up the Marne. They had never expected any self respecting American soldier to want an encumbrance like a husband around. I am not sure whether they were disappointed or not in the romance department but we were all laughing pleasantly as we sat down to dinner.

Onion soup, potatoes (that Schulze and I had provided), green vegetables and some sort of meat. It tasted all right so we asked no questions. Probably because Schulze and I could never bring ourselves to eat horsemeat, though "Cheval" shops were prevalent in France.

The dining room furniture and silverware intrigued me. The furniture was a beautiful French Provincial set in light oak.

The silver service was the equal of the best I have ever seen, the soup spoons being almost too thick and heavy to manage easily.

Neither was in keeping with the rest of the household furnishings. I remarked about this later and Mme. Cuny explained.

They had just managed to salvage these pieces from their old house. The house had been in that quarter of the town where the Germans had met the most resistance. Circling an area of four blocks with flame throwers, tanks, and machine guns, the Germans sprayed gasoline on the houses and then set them on fire. They killed everyone caught inside the ring. The only things left standing were three door frames, the Cuny's being one of the fortunate ones. They had hidden the silver quite a while ago but just managed to get the dining room set out two days prior to the burning.

Following dinner we sat around making small talk until about six when Maurice arrived home with his friend. Maurice was a slightly built, wiry muscled man around 32 or 33 years of age.

Real dapper, always faultlessly dressed, light brown hair slicked back and never without his gloves, he was the true French male aristocrat. His companion was a heavy set, dour individual who said only two words all night, "bon nuit."

The girls lost no time after introductions in acquainting their husbands with our surprise at not finding them home when we came. Maurice became quite friendly. His relief was very evident. We all sat down at the table again for coffee and cake.

Schulze and I had brought along a few things to compensate for the food we had eaten. It was a very interesting evening. Maurice was an excellent canoeist, having won several competitions, 55

and because he thought that I must be an athlete — he kept feeling my muscles and chest and exclaiming "cest magnifique" — he invited me to go canoeing with him. I declined graciously for I knew that a few miles of paddling with him would knock me out. I preferred he kept on thinking that I was "magnifique."

He and his pickle-puss companion were dead tired so they went to bed early. Men are such trustful creatures. We had brought along a requisitioned German radio and tuned in Radio Luxembourg for dance music. We jitterbugged with both girls, not that we could dance, but they didn't care nor did we.

By this time the wine the girls had been drinking all afternoon and evening was beginning to have effect and Schulze showed the effects of his two big glassfulls. They began to get a little amorous and the dark haired girl moved in a little closer when we danced a dreamy fox-trot. She whispered her address in my ear. It was in Troyes, a mere seventy miles south of Chalons. Both the blonde and the brunette were looking better and better to me so I sent Schulze in to look at the husbands.

Blondie went with him and they took about ten minutes to go ten feet and return. Brown-eyes and I danced slowly in the center of the room with me holding her closer and closer as she breathed heavily in my ear.

When the other two stepped back into the room and said that both husbands were sound asleep, snoring as if they would never awaken and that they had closed the door, I had just about reached the boiling point. The four of us stood there with that well known single thought so apparent in our minds. There were three available rooms downstairs and Schulze grabbed Blondie by the waist and stepped back into the hallway. That broke the spell I had put myself into.

Telling the girls that we would be back for the radio the next day I grabbed Schulze by the arm and pulled him towards the door. He wasn't too reluctant and we said our "adieus" outside. We weren't escaping a "fate worse than death" but we could face Maurice Cuny the next day and feel all right about it.

I told the Perriers how I had lost $10,000 in their driveway.

It was my invariable custom to park a Packard staff car directly behind me in the driveway and a "moonlit requisitioned" Opel sport roadster behind the Packard. Half-past eleven one morning I was sitting out front, wondering about what we would have for lunch, when a civilian stopped in front of me.

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"Will you sell your car?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"I'll give you $10,000 cash in American money."

"No sale, Mac, I won't do it."

"Look, here is the money."

He opened his jacket and there were pockets sewed into the inner lining with a sheaf of bills sticking out of each one. Now here was a grand opportunity to pick up an easy $10,000, but I couldn't bring myself to acquire it by selling a government car.

Besides the risk was great for Packards were scarce in France that year and it also had the big star stamped on the side that would still show up even if it was painted over.

I groaned inwardly. $10,000. All clear profit. No tax, no overhead, no partner to share it with. Should I risk it? No. Better to be known as Honest Harry than to suffer the shame of disposing of government property illegally. Temptation ($10,000 worth) prodded me. Conscience (5 or 10 years in prison) pushed temptation away.

"Can't do it."

"If you change your mind, I'll be down around the corner for half an hour. Just drive the car down and get your money."

He left and I forgot all about it. At twelve the dinner bell rang and I got up to eat. There in the windshield of the Opel was the reflection of the world's prize jackass. Myself. I had taken the little sports roadster out for a spin and had forgotten that it was parked in front of the Packard instead of in back of it.

I could have given the Opel away, dumped it into the river, smashed it up or disposed of it in any manner that I pleased without a word of reproval, in fact, the following week I drove it down to the motor pool and left it there.

What an idiot. I ran down to the corner but the man was gone, as was my chance to earn an honest dollar so easily. My failure to be tempted enough to even just turn my neck had cost me $10,000.

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EDITOR'S COMMENTARY

Primavera, Printemps, Fruehling, no matter how you say it, it's Spring! Throughout the entire world people are celebrating the return of warmer, longer sunnier days. The breezes that blow are balmy and carry pleasant scents with them.

Even the large cities share in this. Exclusive of the parks that are city people's concession to the little bit of rustic in everyone, they have many evidences of spring. The warmth radiating from the buildings, people sunning themselves on corners, the reluctance of people to scurry back to their jobs, stenographers crowding the hat shops, men lingering over the outdoor displays of garden tools, school yards jumping with laughing, shouting children, the inevitable twosomes twining hands and slowly strolling along oblivious to the outside world, the young girls smelling sweeter because the season demands it; all these tell the city it's spring.

But the country is really spring's empire. It is here that man fully realizes that his mightiest works can never compare with God's lightest handiwork. Soft, warm breezes carry scents that have a stimulating, a soporific or a lulling effect on mankind.

They carry the scent of freshly turned earth, steaming manure piles, flowers just budding or pushing their way into life, the wood smells from drying in the spring sun, the cool dampness along rushing brooks in the woods, cows turned out to pasture, horses frisking about and the gay shouting of school children at recess time as they play outdoors.

This is spring, the season of awakening. QUARTO salutes spring with this edition. The quantity and quality of the stories graciously submitted have made our selection of stories difficult.

Limitation of space has caused us to reject several worthwhile stories with regret. Great pride is derived from being the first to print a really good literary endeavor and, so, returning stories that we wanted to print makes us unhappy.

New, and as yet unknown, authors for the most part make up our contributors, but we season them with a sprinkling of 58

tried and found worthy veterans of magazine writing. We do not hold a writer's lack of having ever been in print against him nor do we discriminate against established writers. Of course, we do not solicit the Hemingways or Faulkners, the T. S. Elliots and Frosts, for they have so many more outlets for their creations, but our contributors represent a rather large group on the ladder of success.

Perhaps not at the very top, but from the crowded bottom rung of neophytes and diffused at different levels upward, to the established authors, our contributors are ever climbing upward to take their proper places at or near the top.

The Writers Club was very fortunate this past year in having so many wonderful lecturers, particularly James T. Farrell, Carson McCullers, Tennessee Williams and Martha Foley, to impart some of their very special brand of knowledge to its members.

These colloquies and forums are of great interest and benefit to all classes of writers, novices or veterans. Professor Vernon Loggins, chairman, moderates these meetings on a pleasant and informal basis and allows time for pertinent questions from the audience.

(The back cover will acquaint you with all other details.)

We have continued our new format because of its pleasing reception and wish to expressly thank Hans Mueller, lecturer, Graphic Arts, Columbia, for his superlative woodcuts that have added so much to the magazine.

The only sadness attached to spring is that it is not with us long enough. This is true also of the staff members who leave us wishing that we could hold them here in school, just not to help in editing QUARTO, but to hold them as friends who have proven themselves countless times. Our thanks to them.

Thanking readers and authors whom you never get to see may seem wasteful effort but it has always been our desire to thank anyone who contributes to our pleasure, and so, availing ourselves of the only opportunity afforded us, we say, with deepest appreciation, Thank you, HARRY PRINCE COMBS, JR.

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CONTRIBUTORS

VICTOR MARCUS . . .

A copy reader for the "New York Herald Tribune."

Quarto presents his first published story.

GREGORY WALTER . . .

Attended Martha Foley's Workshop at Columbia. Mr. Walter now lives in Washington, D.C. ARMAND J. FERRETTI . . .

This is the first published short story of Quarto's Prose Editor, who is attending Columbia's School of General Studies.

CONRAD VAN HYNING . . .

A New Yorker who is having his first published poem presented here.

HENRIETTA WEIGEL . . .

Has appeared in "New Voices in American Writing," has a short story in the current Martha Foley collection and had a book of poems published last year.

ALBERT TURNER . . .

An Oberlin, Ohio resident with several poems to her credit.

L. A. HEILBRUN . . .

Wrote his story for Martha Foley's Workshop and lives in Irvington-on-Hudson, N. Y. EDGAR ACKEN . . .

Editor and book reviewer, traveler and student, now attending School of General Studies.

JUDITH BISHOP . . .

Poetry Editor for the last two years, has previously published in Riverside Poets of 1953.

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COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY SUMMER SESSION July 5 to August 12, 1955 Registration, June

i and July 1

COURSES IN WRITING SHORT STORY NON-FICTION TELEVISION AND RADIO

WRITER'S CONFERENCE July 18 to August 4 Speakers will include well-known novelists, short story writers, poets, playwrights, authors of non-fiction books and articles, representatives from radio and television studios, and publishers and editors.

All courses are subject to the conditions and regulations stated in the Summer Session Bulletin of Information which may be obtained on written request to the < Bee of University Admissions, Columbia University, New York 27, N. Y.