“Come now,” the man with the umbrella says, except that sometime in the past half-hour he has discarded or hidden his umbrella and now appears so denuded without it that only his voice and manner give instant confirmation of who he is, “this is all a little bit too much for me to accept. That he would do the dishes certainly. But to not protest—”
“There was a grave matter-of-factness in the way these people lived. Things that were done were done because they were ‘right’ and the ‘right’ thing was, of course, unarguable. The Westfields saved their conflicts for things like politics or aggrandizement or tensions, but there was at no time any debate whatsoever over their life-style or the basic assumption which underlay it. That is why this restoration is so uniquely valuable; it is composed of the artifacts of people who never—at least in the case of the parental generation—undertook the slightest doubts about who they were and why they were doing what they did. For instance, Mr. Westfield got a new car every three years, not because he wanted one and not because he felt compelled to but because, as he said ‘the car depreciates most between the third and fourth year.’ Consider the regularities, the easy convolutions of an intellect which can sustain such a statement. This is something to think about, to reckon with! Incidentally, they often took Sunday drives and in the courtesy room are available maps of the routes which they took as well as moderately-priced miniatures of the cars they owned.”
“Pardon me,” Joanne says, “if I may.”
“Yes?” the guide says with a kind of vague hostility. It is clear that he does not like Joanne but has already forgotten why this is so, and the need to amalgamate response and memory may well make his sleep this evening less peaceful than usual. It is strange the trivial basis upon which sleeplessness and terror can rest but then, with my unusual and growing precognition, I can understand this kind of thing as well as many other factors. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to ask a question about this basic assumption which underlay their lives. You said they never questioned it and you said it was one of the things that made this exhibit so valuable but you never said what it was.”
“Ah,” the guide says. “Aha. That is a good question, a truly important question and I am glad you have raised it. Once again, this is a query which in the normal course of events I would have answered in due time, when we came to the master bedroom, but there is no harm in answering it now and the fact that it is raised indicates that its answer would be apropos. Thank you, young lady.” It is apparent that any source of discord between Joanne and the guide has now been abrogated so thoroughly that its original existence is disputable, and I feel myself torn between pride in her ingratiating manner and a kind of infuriation that these conflicts between people which I have always taken so seriously and which have caused me such pain are, in most circumstances, utterly frivolous, like the tugging of bears at one another in a zoo, and as easily forgotten. I make a note to myself to consider this further at some convenient time and with the rest of us lean forward to apprehend the guide’s answer. He has some awareness of the suspense he has created because he takes several deep breaths before proceeding and then smiles.
“Well,” he says, “well then, the fundamental assumption. Of course. The fundamental assumption behind the lives of the Westfields and so many others of their generation in similar circumstances is that what they did was right. That while they were neither the handsomest, the bravest, the brightest or the most fortunate of people, they had what very few others did and that was the assurance that they were ‘nice,’ that they were ‘moral’ and ‘ethical’ in the high degree and that at any time of metaphysical or personal crisis they could be expected to settle upon that procession of behavior which, in all moral and psychological terms, was ‘correct.’ This gave them quite an air of smugness, as you might expect, and they also would have been disconcerted to know that this entire heterogeneous wedge of people, of which they are a splendid microcosmic example, felt the same way; all of them. Nevertheless, these people must be given their due. They believed this. They believed that their acts came from decent motives for decent purposes and that they functioned in such a way that a disinterested observer would find them an exemplification of all that was ‘right’ and ‘correct’ in human conduct. In short, they believed—all of them believed this, I am not excepting the siblings here—that some fifty centuries of Western thought, struggle, suffering, achievement, injustice, brutality and pain had been superseded by their own code and indeed had reached fruition in their existence. That what all philosophers had toiled in the darkness to understand, what all writers had struggled in anguish to say, was subsumed by the Westfields themselves, who thus became the righteous capstone of all these lonely existences. These people were quite serious. You must give them that. And the demands they made on themselves were no less stringent than those they made on their contemporaries. These people cared. They always wanted to feel that what they did was ‘right’ and they concerned themselves deeply if it wasn’t. They were not hypocritical. They were committed to this. It can be seen in every spoon on this table, every piece of hidden crockery in the kitchen.”
“But that’s impossible,” the fat man says. “I find it impossible to believe that an entire life can be based upon a single assumption as banal as that. It’s simply unrighteous and, besides that, it doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. People aren’t impelled by abstractions.” He points a forearm at the floor for emphasis and then notes with some dismay that his umbrella has disappeared; this brings a deep flush to his face and he adds, as if he had heard remonstrance, “Of course it’s all in the way you look at it.”
“Indeed it is,” the guide says, “but you are entirely wrong in saying that people are not driven by abstractions. You do not think that it was lust which drove the Westfield prick into the Westfield cunt, do you? Not that I have any wish to indulge in obscenity, of course, but a point is a point. No indeed, it is indicated by all available evidence as well as the documents available that for all but the first two years of their married life, Mr. Westfield possessed not the faintest twinge of desire for his spouse and could cheerfully have spent the time he used in copulation for reading or even for a spot of ice-skating which, as has been kindly noted by one of you, was a favorite Sunday activity of his. But did he? He most certainly did not. In fact, Mr. Westfield believed that copulation was a ‘marital duty’ of the ‘highest responsibility’ and despite mingled feelings of awe, revulsion, fear, guilt, horror and fatigue he performed the act of sex upon his wife an average of twice a week for some thirty years, a record of duration under stress which may never be equaled, according to the trustees. Of course physical evidences of his accomplishment are quite sparse, but you may rest assured that this has been verified by disinterested research opinion available and is not to be denied.”
“But point out this, then,” the doctoral candidate says. “Point out that these feelings you mention—awe, guilt, revulsion and whatever else you said—came not from any suspicion of homosexuality but only because, by any objective criterion, Mrs. Westfield was a singularly unattractive woman. In the sexual sense. I have made this the subject of a brief monograph which I did for the North Dakota Studies In Historical Lore which was published shortly before I took my orals, under the title ‘The Role of Sexual Revulsion in the Westfield Marital Relationship As an Encouragement to View Licentiousness’ and I think you might find it very illuminating.”
“Indeed we might,” the guide says, “and indeed all of this is very interesting but I am afraid we must now pass on. We have seen the ‘kitchen’ and the ‘dining room’ and I have described a typical ‘evening dinner’ with the Westfields and shown you some of the artifacts which they employed; we have not gone into the subject of breakfast or lunches to be sure, but that is really not necessary in this context. The fact is that both breakfasts and lunches were taken separately by all members of the family except on weekends, and those weekend lunches were of such a provocative nature that any reminiscence about them should be delayed until we get into the attic. Most of this you can posit anyway.”
“I’m getting hungry again,” the albino says. “Do you really mean there isn’t any end to it? We just have to go on and on?”
“Hush,” says his mother. “Now, we got you ice cream, we got you to the bathroom, we talked and listened to your prattle for fifteen minutes and now it’s really time I think for you to show some manners. This thing wasn’t gotten up for your convenience, you know.”
“But yes,” the guide says, as if he has not heard the mother’s comment and, in any event, as if he found it irrelevant, “the young man has raised a very interesting and important point. I find myself happy to answer it. The answer is that indeed we must go on and on as he puts it, we must go on and on through this exhibit just as the Westfields went on and on through life. Did they glimpse cosmic purpose, did they think of the eventual destiny which they had to play in the working out of the heavens? Did any considerations of the second coming or the last temptation of Christ enter into the small calculations of their days? Did they base their plans for a weekend upon cosmology or the question of stars losing their radiance and exploding? They certainly did not. But despite this, it is to be noted—”
“But they could have,” the Ph.D. says. “They certainly could have.”
“Roger is right,” his companion says, speaking for the first time. “They could not have gone on that way in any event. This is not to deny them.” His voice sounds exactly like that of the scholar, but then, on the other hand what did I expect? Nevertheless, I cannot suppress the feeling of vague dismay which flicker through me at that moment. It is as if I get a complete and compressed foreshadowing of what is to come and in the enormity and placidity of its dimensions it terrifies me: it is a fate so consumptive and on the other hand so implacable that I understand that there will indeed be no answer whatsoever. I must tremble slightly because Joanne once again presses my hand and then kicks me affectionately in the shin. Our fucking has made her kittenish, an old phenomenon but one which I have never found more irritating than at this moment. “Stop this,” I mumble to her and she pouts, then runs her tongue unevenly across her lips and blinks at me with the inconstancy and insight of a madonna plastered somewhere on a wall. “Oh, stop it yourself,” she whispers.
“Of course he’s right,” the guide is saying enthusiastically; apparently I have again missed an important exchange. “But as I have said, this has no effect. The basic fact of the Westfields is that, profundity or none, they would have gone on. This project is the surest indication of their impermeability, their timelessness. Perhaps we can pass on now to the bathroom. There are some profound points of interest there before we get into the sitting room and then into the treasure trove of the three bedrooms, which I think will probably be the highlight of our tour. Except for the courtesy shop, of course. Incidentally, our tour will conclude at noon but the courtesy shop is open until 5 p.m.”
“Not quite so fast,” the scholar says. “I don’t understand why you’re trying to make this so easy for us. This is a national landmark, a first-rate museum which has become one of the most important cultural repositories of our generations, and yet you seem compelled to toss off its subtleties, conflicts and intricacies with clichéd simulations of thought. Nothing was quite that easy, you know. The Westfields lived on more than one level. If you have to package everything to make it palatable for tourists you lose the unspeakable terror and romance of history, isn’t that right? I don’t want to sound partisan but I happen to have put a lot of work into this material and I don’t like to feel that it is being used merely as a way of selling goods from your factories.”
“Now, wait a minute,” the guide says. “You’ve got this all wrong. I’ll have you know that I’ve been here for three and a half years and that all employees are put through a six-month indoctrination course which explores every aspect of the material and which enables them to see it in fullest dimension. Besides that, I have tenure. I’m not so easily spoken to, you know.” It is obvious that the guide is nettled and I cannot say that I blame him; for the first time that day I have a streak of sympathy for the man who, after all, is only a civil servant—with all that that implies—and who is yet trying to perform with honor a very difficult job. The pain that the scholar’s words have caused him is quite real and for an instant he pauses, then runs a hand across his forehead. “Listen here,” he says. “They make us memorize the speeches for convenience, not because we don’t care. And furthermore—”
“He’s right, you know,” I say to the scholar. “There is a great deal of passion and terror here and I would be the last one to deny this. I have done a little research into the Westfields myself. Nevertheless, the only way that material of any type can be made palatable and comprehensible to a heterogeneous audience such as this one is to label it and to attempt to give it an artificial structure and focus. The Westfields, let me remind you, would have struck you as ten times more banal than this guide, who is only, after all, trying to show not only their banality but their essential importance. I’ll remind you then to keep a civil tongue in your head.” And this final strange, twisted archaism—whose origin I do not understand and which leaves me rigid with embarrassment the moment I have said it—draws my speech into a croaking conclusion, where I let it reside for the instant. Joanne presses my hand and allows a breast to brush my elbow. “That’s showing him,” she said. “I’m proud of you. Look,” and the rigidity of her nipple comes against my upper arm. I am moved and yet at the same time extremely discomfited; Joanne, for all her good qualities, is unquestionably something of a slut and at that moment I realize fully what I have been taking this enormous trip with her in denial: we will never marry. I cannot marry her. And never, up until this moment of decision, have I felt as close to her as I do now. I hold her tight against me and would kiss her with the pain and longing except that I know that this would not only create something of a spectacle but would cause me to possibly change my mind and I simply cannot bear it, not at this tenuous divide. “Thank you,” I whisper and run my tongue inside the crevice of her ear, a motion which causes her to whimper.
“Well, sir, that is all I have to say to you,” the scholar is saying. Apparently I have once again missed some important preliminary piece of dialogue, but it is too late; I nod politely and try to show him in my gesture that I appreciate what he has said and would not, for the world, consider arguing with him again. Actually, all my loathing for him has gone away in this moment of decision; not only the loathing for the scholar and my other companions but my very interest in the tour itself has suddenly eased to such a point that were the moment convenient I would devise excuses and leave. I have the feeling—wholly illusory as it might have turned out—that I have learned everything I need to know from the Westfields, that they have taught me everything which is important and that, my thirst for knowledge of them finally satiated, I could walk away from them forever ... if only the tour were over.
“And I would add,” the guide says, “that I appreciate those remarks in my defense very much. It isn’t an easy job, you know, and we take our responsibilities quite seriously. Nevertheless, you do have something there when you point out that we go in for easy answers too often. I plead guilty to this and I think my confreres would as well. The Westfields themselves went in for easy answers and it is difficult, if you take this job seriously, not to be absorbed, albeit unconsciously, by this kind of thing.
“Well,” he says briskly in an apparent complete conversion of mood, a forced jauntiness which makes my heart, or what remains of it, go out to him, “I think that this completes the kitchen and the dining room then. I have, of course, ignored certain miscellaneous curiosa which I should go over briefly just in the interests of a more complete picture; they only confirm the basic impressions already given you, however. Under the table, quite often, reposed the bare feet of Michael Westfield, who had a lamentable habit of taking off his shoes at almost any given time and then not paying attention to his garb or the aspect of those shoes; this whipped Mr. Westfield into a virtual orgy of temper during which, for some ten years in Michael’s life, he would curse him as irresponsible and beg him to wear bedroom slippers while putting restorative materials in the discarded shoes. But that never did any good, of course. It never did. Then too we might mention the fact that the television set was never on during dinner at the Westfields; Mrs. Westfield believed in a ‘family occasion’ at dinner time and permitted interruptions only to come from her own pattering between stove and table, her own chokings and gaspings when they ate ‘boned but unboned fish’, and certain motions performed with windows or fans during hot weather when the apartment seemed untenable. For these reasons dinner at the Westfields was often quite a quiet and uncomfortable occasion although none of the members, it can be safely said, recognized this.”
“What do you mean, never recognized it?” I say “They certainly did recognize it! You cannot understand the pain, the suffering, the sheer terror of going through dinner with close relatives and knowing that you have absolutely nothing to say to them, will never have anything to say to them, the sounds of burping, chewing and light choking only augmenting this knowledge, the silence so oppressive that it seems to be the worst of all imaginable occupations until the conversations begin. ‘Get the car waxed today?’ and ‘How were the kids?’ and ‘Thought I’d go out but the weather was so lousy that I didn’t go out’ and so on and so forth until the mind, I am talking about the actual mind seems to be draining, all intelligence, all possibility leaking out into the humid air as the gravies come from the stiff roast and you realize then that there is nothing you can do, nothing in the world, to change it and that it will always be the same. Oh, the pain, the terror! The loss, the horror, the irretrievable gloom! You misjudge, you misjudge terribly if you think that.”
And then I stop, startled. It is apparent, even as I am speaking, that I have created something of a sensation, but on the other hand I found the words irresistible as they were coming and felt myself being driven on and on, like the motions of sex, toward a conclusion, but this conclusion, like orgasm, is simply not enough and I see that I have placed myself into deep trouble. It is possible, in fact, that I have unwittingly revealed my identity and the embarrassment of that, particularly in terms of Joanne’s presence, would be untenable. “I was just talking,” I say rather sullenly and try to move myself halfway behind the albino’s father, an unfortunate decision since my bulk is at least three times his.
“Well,” the guide says, “this is possible but how can we tell? Only the Westfields would know and they aren’t available.” At this attempt to save the situation his old features split into a dwarf’s leer of confidentiality and my sympathy once again seems to extend right out toward him, embracing him, holding him; I would if I could then come to his side and with a single grip inform him of how I feel about the way in which he has tried to save the situation, but at the same time there is an undercurrent of dismay because I realize now that there is almost nothing that I can say in these rooms which will truly get through to the guide and, by proxy, to the restoration committee. There is something strange and very sad about distant people making property of your artifacts, manipulating them, trading them off, arranging them in patterns without any understanding of the passion which underlay these simple tools. Still, this is the sense of all historical study, I must remember that.
“Are you saying that the Westfields’ lives were utterly terrible and without redeeming merit?” the fat man says to me rather portentously. His eyes wink and glitter and he seems to be measuring me for some kind of judgement, At the same time I feel Joanne’s hand bite against mine again and a flicker of real distaste goes through me, something will have to be done about this dependency of hers very soon; even if I am leaving her she should still not be permitted to act in this fashion.
“No,” I said, “I have no right to say that. I can only point out that there were aspects to their life which can be hinted at in no bare reassessment of their goods, and this reassessment seems to ignore what could be taken as a good quotient of suffering—”
“Ah,” the fat man says. “That is truly interesting. Are you perhaps an expert on the Westfields? Are you claiming first-hand observation?” He gives me a slow leer, a slow rising comprehension spreading on the uneven pan of his face, and I would if I could lean back, gasp once and say, Yes, yes, of course I do, I know everything about them; I tell you, you cannot let nostalgia or sentiment interfere with the memories here, nothing is that simple, everything is complex and terrible, utterly and ultimately terrible. But I will say no such thing, of course, if I admit my identity the tour will become a fiasco and an embarrassment and in the bargain I may be forced to answer some very difficult questions before the trustees. It was part of the foundation agreement at the time the home was established as a shrine that no Westfield would ever visit the premises again or discuss it for the record; this was the only way in which the necessary funds could be secured. I learned all this third-hand in a letter from a distant relative who had hopefully addressed me care of general delivery in a distant city, and my impulse when I read the letter was once again to question the sanity of this insignificant relation because in no way could I conceive of myself, voluntarily or involuntarily, ever going home again. Nevertheless, a matter of years later, here I am. It is very odd and is part of the amnesiac mire which still coats my brains; I will have to work this out later and with some honesty. But of course that time is not now.
“No,” I say, “I have no first-hand knowledge. I’ve done a lot of reading, of course, everybody who ever did any study in this area knows of the Westfields. But I can’t say that I ever knew them or anyone who was associated with them.”
“Ah, yes,” the fat man says. “Oh, my yes. Then how come you seem to take all of this so personally? And why are you so quick with the countering detail? I wonder what your real situation is,” he says and favors me with a slight smirk which passes over the others and then toward the guide where, surprisingly, it becomes somewhat apologetic. “Well, I was only asking,” he says sullenly.
“Of course,” the guide says. “I can understand this. You know I might favor you with a little detail off the record, an extra added bonus so to speak which does not go with the regular lecture but which you may find of some interest, and that detail is that this Westfield restoration seems to affect a large percentage of people in very strange ways. They were a very significant and symbolic family of course—this being their unique value—and the museum itself is so well-stocked and so carefully arranged that the exhibit can have a powerful effect upon visitors. Would you know that almost every week we find at least one person who comes out at the end of the tour and insists that he’s really Michael Westfield, or she, as the case might be, is—Katherine? They begin to cry and create difficult scenes and maintain their identity and it’s very hard to persuade them that they aren’t these people at all. There’s something about this that gets to people. Of course, there’s no chance that anyone coming here could be Michael or Katherine Westfield. Under the terms of the grant for the project, the two siblings were denied entrance to the premises in perpetuity. Besides that, neither has been seen for years and years. They would be somewhere in their mid-thirties now and at last report were somewhere in the West or Midwest, possibly married and with families of their own, living under assumed names. They rather dropped out of circulation, you understand. Of course the marriages may merely be happenstance or rumor; I grant you that there is no indication in the restoration that either of these children would find the patience to get married or the ability to sustain any kind of relationship, but still, statistically, this is possible. Both of the senior Westfields passed away some time ago.”
“Well,” the fat man says. “That is interesting. Of course you’ll hardly find me maintaining that I’m one of those people. I’m just passing through on a business trip—a damned lousy trip I might observe too, I haven’t sold a thing—and since I happened to be in the general area, decided to take this thing in. It doesn’t move me one way or the other, to tell you the truth. I don’t understand why people get so excited about it.”
“Well, they do,” the guide says and stands. “I believe that we’ve now completed the kitchen and the dining room; the living room is behind us, of course, which leaves us only the bathroom at the rear to be finished with this floor. Upstairs are the three bedrooms and the ‘sitting room,’ which showing brings this tour to something of a well-timed climax, but it would be unwise not to pay close attention to the bathroom, which we will now make our way into; it has certain interesting secrets of its own to yield. Since it is quite a small enclosure the best way in which to handle the showing is to permit me to enter myself; you may then stand before the open door and I will point out the objects of interest. But for any of you to come in would only overcrowd the space as well as permit a certain infusion of scatology into the whole which we can presently do without.”
He makes a hand motion and the group starts to follow him. Since the break there has been a change in the collective mood of my companions; now they seem not so much impatient or restless as possessed with a kind of grim thoroughness, a desire to see the job through so that they can go home in peace. I know this mood well, it must have passed into them from the very walls and eaves of this home because it is the one with which I lived for most of my early years and it can be reckoned on the scale of human values far above greed, if not necessarily being anywhere near wisdom. The point was to get on with what you were doing, subject to all kinds of external pressures, of course, and the end was very much as the beginning because the sheer circularity and predictability of this existence was subsumed and aphorized in every mannerism of conversation, every random object scattered. I detect, at this meandering, a certain infusion of sentimentality and, perhaps, self-indulgence and I push it away violently because this plays no part in my present life, has not played any such role for a long time and would be extremely dangerous if entertained in these tender circumstances. Self-dramatization would be far easier and more accessible than the kind of mood I have devised for myself over the past years but it would also lead to the kind of situation in which I might well make an exhibition of myself with all the problems that that entailed. Fortunately, these ruminations are all interrupted by Joanne’s rapid tugging on my coat sleeve. She presses herself against me and says, “I’m ready for a break again. Let’s go outside, back into the garden. Let’s get some air. They’ll never miss us here anyway.”
“But the bathroom—”
“Who wants the bathroom? Besides, you heard that business about scatology. I don’t want to hear any dirty jokes and I don’t want to know how Mr. Westfield took a shit. I’d rather get away for a moment. Please,” she says and contrives a most attractive pout. “I only came because you wanted me to; I’m happy to go along with you but can’t we take a break for a few moments? I can’t stand these people. They’re such strange types and they don’t know what’s going on anyway.”
“Scatology?” I say. “You miss the point, Joanne, didn’t you hear the guide say that he wanted to guard exactly against it? ‘Infusion of scatology’ I think he said and he was right. Why, there was absolutely no scatology in the home of the Westfields, not after Mrs. Westfield passed menopause anyway; there was the question of Katherine’s first menstruation, of course, which was very tricky and difficult since Katherine thought she had been injured and Mrs. Westfield, who should have known better, thought that Katherine was injuring her, and there were family jokes about ‘taking a good trip’ and so on and so forth when really meaning to talk about defecation, but that was all harmless, harmless. No, if the question of meaningful sex or meaningful natural function had ever entered the lives of these people it would have been a far, far better thing, but the point to make is that it never did, and whatever was carried on of significance with these people occurred behind closed doors and was usually masturbatory. One can hardly see a jot of difference between Michael’s masturbatory activities and those of Mr. Westfield while fornicating with his wife; both of them manipulating themselves in a tiny space, far removed from all but memory and regret, spinning out their small, awful necessities in a kind of perpetual gloom. This is something you must consider! There were no dirty jokes here, no revelation of private parts, none of the hearty, sweating, thumping lust of intercourse to filter out of the master bedroom and by proxy educate the children! No indeed! In fact and on the other hand—”
“I’m bored, Michael,” Joanne says. “I’m bored. I know that you’re a kind of expert on all this but I’ve never been very bright. Please let’s walk away for a minute.” A kind of real distress burrows its way to her surfaces, changing the color of her eyes, the shape of her face, and I am momentarily afraid that she is going to be ill, right on the Westfield carpet, but then it passes away and I understand that she is only terribly bored. In different circumstances I would insist that she stay and see the exhibit through—I am very interested in the bathroom and know that after this lapse of many years it will bring back some stark and moving memories—but the knowledge that I will never marry her and will shortly leave her has made me tolerant, has made me almost generous, and so I only give an assenting shrug and, taking her by the concealed softnesses of her arm, lead us away from the pack and toward the open door.
“They’re going away, Mama,” the albino says behind us. “If they’re going away, why can’t we do that too?” And I think that I hear his mother rumble some kind of an answer, think that I even hear the guide beginning some kind of comment, but it is too late, we are through the hallway again and out the front door and even if I wanted to save the situation by going back, there would be no way of guarding against remarks. Besides, what difference does it make to anyone if we leave for a while? I remind myself that the guide has no legal power over me, that the tour is voluntary, the restoration not even a government institution (only government-supported) and that I retain the same license now near noon as I did at 7 a.m., only the circumstances have changed. Nevertheless I feel a kind of loathing overtaking me at the prospect of facing the tourists and guide again shortly and telling them precisely what I have had in mind. There is no easy answer.
