King Coffin: A Novel Read online

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  King Coffin

  A Novel

  Conrad Aiken

  Contents

  I The Particular Occasion

  II The Idea Germinates

  III The Background

  IV The Friends Who Might Be Murdered

  V But Perhaps a Stranger

  VI The Stranger

  VII The Seven Words of the Stranger

  VIII The Daily Life of the Stranger

  IX The Stranger Is Gay

  X The Pure Murder

  XI The Regret

  XII What It Is to Be a Stranger

  XIII The Stranger Becomes Oneself

  About the Author

  “I think you are wise, and I shall mar my philosophy with no more murders. If, indeed, I have killed him; for I assure you that beyond administering the poison to his wretched body I have done nothing. Perhaps he is not dead. Can you hear his heart beating?”

  “I can hear the spoons of my children beating on their empty platters!”

  “Is it like that with you? Poor devil! Oh, poor, poor devil! Philosophers should have no wives, no children, no homes, and no hearts.”

  —RICHARD MIDDLETON

  I The Particular Occasion

  In the prime assurance of his youth, in the fresh arrogance of his wisdom, and power in wisdom, with a sense of his extreme handsomeness, if not indeed beauty (for Gerta had said more than once that he was beautiful, and his own mirror had pleasantly corroborated this) Jasper Ammen leaned from the sixth floor window and projected his own image upon the world. In particular, he projected it against the sunset: a more melancholy, and therefore more pleasant, form of this occupation, and one in which he frequently indulged. The sunset lay long and level and bright-banded above the hills of Belmont and Mount Auburn. Against a streak of white light, horizontal and cold, the black tower of the cemetery marked the presence, or the absence, of Henry James; to the right of it, slowly darkening, as the evening deepened to mystery, ran the irregular line of trees toward Belmont. And as he leaned his cheek on his left hand he felt once again how all this scene, this width and depth of air and light, was becoming himself. This was all Jasper Ammen, a singular magnification or distillation of his own essence, it was himself gone abroad for the greater exercise of his subtlety and power. The tower was his strength, the trees were his strength, the evolving and changing of the light were merely, as it were, the play of his thought over an earth everywhere his own; and the clear abyss of twilit sky, the lucid profundity into which he now figured himself as looking not upward but directly and amazingly downward, was simply his own mind. Below him, across the little street, the horse chestnut tree was uncurling its first soft-russet fingers of leaf: in another three weeks, it would blossom, and this too he felt as a precise and surer emanation of himself. The gesture would be as simple as his now taking out his pipe: as his remembering the sight of the folded newspaper protruding from his letter box in the hall downstairs: or the letter from Sandbach which just perceptibly stiffened his side pocket. Sandbach, like the chestnut blossom, could wait: one could curl a handsome lip at Sandbach, one could defer or dismiss him as an inferior part of oneself, keep him at a distance, measure him from afar with an omnipotent and all-understanding eye. It was exactly like viewing and appraising one’s own past: or even despising it; for the past should always be cut ruthlessly away, allowed to fall from one, remembered not for its leaves but for its seeds.…

  In this sense he despised the gradual sentimental dislimning of the spring sunset: without any sense of loss, he watched it go, gave it to the evening, allowed it to drown slowly in his own receptive darkness. He felt his face assuming its habitual expression of proud contempt, the feeling as of looking down at something very small and unimportant from a Himalayan summit. He became increasingly conscious of his high cheekbones, his narrowed green eyes, the sleepy superciliousness of his fixed gaze, the curtness of his mouth: but then he relaxed, and permitted himself to play another, and equally habitual, part, one which he often used (and to effect) in social gatherings: the part of the poet,—detached, remote, inscrutable: the Zarathustrian prophet. Ridiculous, to consider how few people knew enough of themselves to be able to use, for such social effect, their own presence, their own bodies! An elementary mistake, a fault of adolescence, if not of childhood. To know one’s moroseness, and to use it, one’s meanness and to use it, one’s hatred, and to project it vigorously and without mercy—this was, after all, only the beginning, only the beginning. One should know with scientific minuteness one’s exact appearance from every angle—the back, the sides, the look of the shoulders as they turn away, the value of one’s six-feet-two, the rhythm of one’s gait. There must be no accidents! But above all, one must value one’s capacity for hate, and use it with the finest justice. And one’s deliberate rudenesses must be carefully relished.

  Bringing back his gaze from the deployed subtleties and cold venoms of the faded sunset, he turned it shortly downward toward the two flat roofs which were immediately below him. On the nearer, beyond the cement runway of the garage, a young man was sitting in a deck chair: one of The Crimson editors. His head was thrown back, his arms were lifted behind his head, a book was open on his knees. Examined, he was at once understood. A faithful and earnest joiner and belonger: a member of society. To see through him, disemboweling all his little clipped ambitions with a single penetrating eye, was as easy as it would be, from this window, to shoot him; and to consider the justice of the metaphor was only to weigh, pleasurably, one’s sense of power in a situation as superior in altitude as it was in consciousness. The young fool was comprehended, or killed, without knowing it. He had stopped reading not because it was as yet too dark, but in a twilight mood of narcissism: something had passed into him from the opened pages of that book, and he was now weakly luxuriating in that something: he was as helpless as a schoolgirl. To demonstrate this helplessness and also to prove to himself that he was not afraid of a direct action, Jasper whistled. The head turned round a little, then turned up, the eyes were surprised, the mouth was slightly opened—in short, the whole expression was foolish. The young man stared upward for a moment, but finding that his gaze was met without sign and without discomposure, turned away again, embarrassed. He was blushing. He then closed his book, rose, and walked very self-consciously to the steps which led down into the building on the far side. The dignity of his disappearance was terrific.

  The flat roof beyond was a narrower and longer one, covered with tar paper and gravel; and to look at it was to observe, of course, that the cast-iron chimney pipe, at the back, had been restored to its upright position. An excellent minor example of the value of habitual observation: and it had given him pleasure to recognize in the street the woman who owned the house (merely by the way she walked) and to inform her (she not knowing him from Adam) that her chimney had fallen on the roof in the snow and might prove a source of danger. She had looked at him as if he were mad. So that was why her kitchen fire hadn’t been drawing properly! She was still saying this, from beneath her umbrella, and staring, when he bowed and walked away.…

  Quarter to seven.

  He took Sandbach’s letter from his pocket, the blue envelope, tapped it against his long thumb, and walked along the linoleumed corridor toward his room. He walked quickly, with a slight self-conscious scuffing of the heels, pleased with the total effect (which he had often studied in street mirrors and shop windows) of graceful casualness, and also with the echoed sound of the light iambics: his shoes were expensive. Arrived at his door, he he
sitated. Sandbach might be inside, or Gerta, or both—not that it much mattered. Ostensibly, they would have come to take him to the meeting at Tremont Temple, they would chatter about that, nervously no doubt, and of course Sandbach would as usual, in that oblique sniffing way of his, be hinting about money for the sacred cause of anarchism or the strikers at Haverhill. But beneath all that would be the real sense of crisis—the sense of the personal and psychological crisis which he himself had so carefully constructed; and he was not quite sure whether, supposing Gerta and Sandbach had now decided to make common cause, he wanted to see them together or separately. They had spent the entire day looking for him, they had left notes, they had repeatedly telephoned, Sandbach had finally sent his special delivery letter; it had all gone off just as he had willed it and planned it; and he himself had remained hidden in the University Theater all afternoon, enjoying, in that seclusion, the muffled sense of their frightened activity, while he analyzed the social function of Popeye the Sailor Man. The universal Oedipus complex, no doubt? But it would perhaps be better not to see them until immediately before the anarchist meeting, when it would of course be impossible for them to be personal, to be anything but professional—to meet them lightly and coldly there, and to make it clear at once that he did not intend to have any disgusting emotional dealings with them, none whatever. Not that he wasn’t, of course, profoundly curious about their little mutual fever, their cooperative eagerness, and their desire to turn toward him a joint expression of bright and sympathetic explanation—not at all! But that pleasure he was already, and deliciously, tasting. What they must learn was that he could intrude, but not they.… Hearing no sound from the room, he entered.

  One candle had been lighted on the white mantel, beneath the mask of Nietzsche, and against it was propped a note from Gerta. Jasper my dear—I have waited here all afternoon in your hushed little chamber, hoping to have a private word with you before you see Sandbach. I have the feeling, as no doubt you intend, that you are avoiding me: of course I understand that, for if you’ll forgive me for saying so I do know you pretty well. But don’t you think you could overdo it? There are features which might better be discussed without Sandbach—I mean, you and me. I make no preposterous claims: you ought to realize that I respect your privacy and individualism and don’t want to infringe. But my dear, human nature is not as easy as that, there are obligations—well, of a shadowy sort; you could find a better word. It’s quite all right, of course, and as it should be, you needn’t be so afraid, but what I suggest is that what is private for us—you and me—might be a little bruised if Sandbach is allowed to participate at the outset. Do you see what I mean—or would you regard this as a claim? I am not going to the meeting. But I shall be in my room all evening, and I wish you would come there when the fireworks are over. I gather you are going to resign, from what S says, and he is hurt, and of course is divided between that and anger, and also tries to comfort himself by saying that you were never really sincere anyway. He thinks you are just an esthete, and that anarchism is no more important for you than the taste you exercised in the decorating of this very chaste and epicene room. It is chaste and epicene—good lord, yes! Gerta.

  Good lord, yes! Gerta.

  So that was what Sandbach thought—or said.

  With his hat still on, he sat down at the little red table, on which was a blue and orange square of Chinese embroidery, and looked across the room at the window. The curtain ring, hanging motionless, made a sharp little oval against the pale sky, beyond which, on the roof of the A. D. Club, was a rapidly spinning chimney pot. Chaste and epicene? It was exactly what Julius Toppan was always saying downstairs, Gerta had probably been discussing it with him, and come to think of it that identical remark had appeared in Julius’s diary. That was a week ago. There must, by this time, be several more entries in Julius’s diary, entries about himself—it was time he went in and read them. Perhaps by now Julius had definitely reached the conclusion—to which he already tended—that he was crazy: he would certainly think so if he knew that his diary was one of Jasper’s chief sources of entertainment. An abuse of hospitality? of trust? But Julius knew his views about these things, knew that he proposed to live beyond ordinary morals, so it hardly mattered. If one’s brains could be picked by others, let them be picked.

  Yes, Gerta had been discussing his taste with Julius, she had been to Toppan’s room, perhaps several times, perhaps today—that was worth knowing and noting, it was a significant little light, and of course the import of it was clear enough—she too was trying, in her little way, to surround him, to triangulate him into view, and that was admirable enough too, although bound to be futile. It was all a sort of conspiracy of fright, with which also a little designingness and greed was mixed: Sandbach looking for his money, Julius for his “influence,” the secret of his power, Gerta for his love. The fright was perhaps genuine as far as Gerta was concerned, she genuinely and unselfishly—questionable, though—liked him; anyway, she was concerned, a little foolishly so, about his sanity, and of course had to run to and fro discussing him with her friends and acquaintances: little realizing that on a lower and. simpler plane of morals this would have been very reprehensible. In fact, it was reprehensible on her plane, but not on his. The dear little fool, playing desperately at a losing game! And so earnest about it, too.

  He opened Sandbach’s letter.

  Gosh, you certainly are an elusive cuss, I’ve been pussyfooting all over town after you to tell you that a Chicago member will be there tonight and that as the attendance will be very small I hoped you would come and also that you would perhaps refrain from throwing any bombs of a private nature, they could be postponed for a better occasion—unless you have really decided to clear out. From what Gottlieb said at the C Bookshop the other day on the Hill, I gather you have finally decided to take an individualist turn and go the whole metaphysical or Hegelian Hog and coddle your ego in the footsteps of Max Stirner. Maybe you were only kidding, but in the light of some of our talks I can see it might be logical for you, though you can’t expect me to applaud. I have always hoped you would become one of our most active and useful members, would really help us, as you are in a position to do, not that you haven’t already helped us a lot. But what I mean is, please don’t choose tonight for any bust-up, it would be a little impolite to Breault (Chicago), if you don’t mind. I also wanted to see you about Gerta, you know how things stand there, and I just wanted to assure you that there isn’t and hasn’t been and won’t be any treachery. S.

  Treachery by Sandbach? A contradiction in terms, for one could only be betrayed by an equal, never by an inferior. A treachery foreseen and understood, or even to some extent fomented, was not a treachery, it was simply one’s own action: and to explain this to Sandbach would be his natural punishment, or rather, humiliation. And Gerta’s too, though Gerta perhaps did understand it, and was (at any rate partially) an equal?…

  Just the same, he quite recognized his own quick anger, as he tore one strip and then another from the edge of Sandbach’s ill-written letter and laid the strips along the table before him: it was necessary to be angry with Sandbach’s “belongingness,” his politicalness, his Jewish mixture of guile and affection and effrontery: his parasitism. It was necessary to be angry, but to be only privately angry. Publicly, only a gentle contempt, only the natural expression of a natural superiority: the mere exercise of personal presence. And this was easy enough. One simply looked down at little Sandbach, one smiled, one wore one’s clothes, one lighted one’s pipe, one entered or left a room, and Sandbach knew what one meant. Sandbach knew that one knew all about his dirty little sycophantic hand-rubbing soul, quite as clearly as one knew that he seldom changed his underclothes and socks. He would resent this, and would scheme an answer to it, he was always wanting to make, as it were, an injurious little place for himself in the souls of his superiors, just as now he was no doubt enormously pleased with himself for his conquest—permitted, and partial—of Gerta. H
is ascent to Gerta was seen by himself as a climb over dangerous scaffolding towards Jasper? And now the moment had come, perhaps, to kick him down, to kick him in the face, but precisely by not bothering to kick him. Beyond that, he had no importance, and it was absurd to be angry at all: except as one was consciously aware of one’s anger with oneself.

  But Gerta was more difficult, Gerta was deeper. Gerta had a real virtue of her own, or a partial one, she had in her the power to challenge. She was challenging him now.

  He dropped the strips of Sandbach’s letter into the metal wastebasket, forgetfully, and with his hat pushed back on his head went to the mantelpiece and examined the mask of Nietzsche; and it was exactly as if he were examining Gerta’s challenge. Lighted thus from below by the little calm candle flame, the mad face looked madder than ever, demonic, voracious: it was the face of a revenger, the eaten one who wanted to eat. “Oh, my brethren, am I then cruel?… Everything of today—it falleth, it decayeth; who would preserve it! But I—I wish also to push it!” Yes, one must separate oneself. And Gerta’s challenge was just there—it was the last line of her defense of “belongingness” that thus she would invoke this thing she wanted to call “love.” It was her only obvious weakness? For otherwise——

  The sense of her came immediately into this room, too immediately, as if she were herself entering and taking possession, her face was between his and the mask, somber and sibyline, but mischievous as well, and as he turned away, toward the window, it was difficult to suppose that she had not herself moved also, to stand there against the last of the sunset, as she was often in the habit of standing. She was decidedly more difficult, he was always thus projecting himself in her image and with a weakly disguised tenderness, it must stop. Take care lest a parasite ascend with you! But the parasite was actually, in such a case, simply oneself—one was oneself only the cage for the bird, the container; the cause of one’s hatred was not without but within; it was not therefore a question of getting rid of Sandbach or Gerta, not at all, but of getting rid of one’s need. If one could not dismiss them, one could perhaps replace them with symbols more innocent: with this mask of Nietzsche: with the brass Russian teapot on the window sill, dark against the pale sky, the little Woolworth cage of glass hung from its spout: the seashell: the blue-green ginger jar. Could one not successfully deploy oneself in these simpler images? and thus keep one’s virtue harder and clearer, readier for the fine purity of hate? less roiled?