CHAPTER EIGHT

ebutpowerfulashewasfreshandvigorous,runningaboutthehouse,scoldingRebecca. TheletterlayuponthehalltableFlorindacominginthatnighttookitupwithher,putitonthetableasshekissedJacob,andJacobseeingthehand,leftitthereunderthelamp,betweenthebiscuit-tinandthetobacco-box.Theyshutthebedroomdoorbehindthem. Thesitting-roomneitherknewnorcared.Thedoorwasshutandtosupposethatwood,whenitcreaks,transmitsanythingsavethatratsarebusyandwooddryischildish.Theseoldhousesareonlybrickandwood,soakedinhumansweat,grainedwithhumandirt.Butifthepaleblueenvelopelyingbythebiscuit-boxhadthefeelingsofamother,theheartwastornbythelittlecreak,thesuddenstir.Behindthedoorwastheobscenething,thealarmingpresence,andterrorwouldcomeoverherasatdeath,orthebirthofachild.Better,perhaps,burstinandfaceitthansitintheantechamberlisteningtothelittlecreak,thesuddenstir,forherheartwasswollen,andpainthreadedit.Myson,myson—suchwouldbehercry,utteredtohidehervisionofhimstretchedwithFlorinda,inexcusable,irrational,inawomanwiththreechildrenlivingatScarborough.AndthefaultlaywithFlorinda.Indeed,whenthedooropenedandthecouplecameout,Mrs.Flanderswouldhaveflounceduponher—onlyitwasJacobwhocamefirst,inhisdressing-gown,amiable,authoritative,beautifullyhealthy,likeababyafteranairing,withaneyeclearasrunningwater.Florindafollowed,lazilystretchingyawningalittlearrangingherhairatthelooking-glass—whileJacobreadhismother'sletter. Letusconsiderletters—howtheycomeatbreakfast,andatnight,withtheiryellowstampsandtheirgreenstamps,immortalizedbythepostmark—fortoseeone'sownenvelopeonanother'stableistorealizehowsoondeedsseverandbecomealien.Thenatlastthepowerofthemindtoquitthebodyismanifest,andperhapswefearorhateorwishannihilatedthisphantomofourselves,lyingonthetable.Still,therearelettersthatmerelysayhowdinner'satsevenothersorderingcoalmakingappointments.Thehandinthemisscarcelyperceptible,letalonethevoiceorthescowl.Ah,butwhenthepostknocksandthelettercomesalwaysthemiracleseemsrepeated—speechattempted.Venerableareletters,infinitelybrave,forlorn,andlost. Lifewouldsplitasunderwithoutthem."Cometotea,cometodinner,what'sthetruthofthestory?haveyouheardthenews?lifeinthecapitalisgaytheRussiandancers…."Theseareourstaysandprops.Theselaceourdaystogetherandmakeoflifeaperfectglobe.Andyet,andyet…whenwegotodinner,whenpressingfinger-tipswehopetomeetsomewheresoon,adoubtinsinuatesitselfisthisthewaytospendourdays?therare,thelimited,sosoondealtouttous—drinkingtea?diningout?Andthenotesaccumulate.Andthetelephonesring.Andeverywherewegowiresandtubessurroundustocarrythevoicesthattrytopenetratebeforethelastcardisdealtandthedaysareover."Trytopenetrate,"forasweliftthecup,shakethehand,expressthehope,somethingwhispers,Isthisall?CanIneverknow,share,becertain?AmIdoomedallmydaystowriteletters,sendvoices,whichfalluponthetea-table,fadeuponthepassage,makingappointments,whilelifedwindles,tocomeanddine?Yetlettersarevenerableandthetelephonevaliant,forthejourneyisalonelyone,andifboundtogetherbynotesandtelephoneswewentincompany,perhaps—whoknows?—wemighttalkbytheway. Well,peoplehavetried.Byronwroteletters.SodidCowper.Forcenturiesthewriting-deskhasco