394
PARTISAN REVIEW
midst of cheers and applause, Horace reached over and stroked her
hair. Then he started pedaling hard again, and as the tricycle headed
back up the carpeted hallway, gathering speed, everyone watched in
breathless silence, as if it were about
to
take flight. The performance
was such a success that he repeated it; and the laughter and applause
were beginning again when suddenly, just as he reached the yard, he
lost a back wheel. There were cries of alarm, but when he showed he
wasn't hurt, there was more laughter and applause. He' d fall en on his
back, on top of Daisy, and was kicking his legs in the air like an insect.
The guests laughed till they cried. Frank gasped and spluttered:
"Boy, you looked like one of those wind-up toys that goes on
walking upside down! "
Then they all went back into the dining room. The men working
on the props in the glass cases had surrounded Horace and were asking
him to lend them Daisy and the tricycl e for a scene. He refused; but he
was so happy he invited everybody into the showroom for a glass of
French wine.
"If
you could tell us what you feel watching the scenes," said one
of the boys, "I think we could all learn something."
He started to rock back and forth on his heels, staring a t his
friends' shoes. Finally he made up his mind and said:
"It's very difficult to put into words, but I'll try .
If
you promise
meantime to ask no more ques tions and accept anything I care to say. "
"Promised!" said one who was a bit hard of hearing, cupping a
hand to his ear.
Still, he took his time, clasping and unclasping his hands; and
then, to quiet them crossed his arms and began:
"When I look at a scene... " Here he stopped, and then took up the
speech again, with a digression: "(It 's very important to see the dolls
through a glass, because that gives them a certain dreamlike quality,
like memories. Before, when I could stand mirrors-now I can ' t any
more, but it would take too long
to
explain why-I liked to see the
rooms reflected in them.) So... When I look at a scene, it's like
catching a woman in the act of remembering an important moment of
her life. A bit-if you'll forgive the expression-as if I were opening a
crack in her head. Stealing her memory, like a bit of underwear. Then I
can use it to guess and invent all sorts of things , even to break into her
most intimate thoughts. Sometimes I have the feeling the woman is
dead; and then it's like picking a corpse, waiting for something to stir
in it. .. " Here again he stopped, not daring to tell them of the strange
stirrings he'd seen.
