204
PARTISAN REVIEW
fully achieved attempts at prose began to seem less real to him than
her situation, and receded completely at those times when she
brought another letter for his magical services.
It
was apparent that
she appreciated him, but as he translated yet another letter from the
tireless stranger he wondered about his own feelings. The words he
spoke , smoothly on the whole, haltingly at times , were beginning to
exert a peculiar force on him. They were not his words , and yet he
spoke them, addressed them to the young woman who waited so
anxiously for them. They were the words of a lover, often desperate ,
urgent , yet he spoke them quietly, levelly. For all his efforts to
remain apart, as well as one could , he was being drawn in. At times,
aghast, he had to catch himself and force himself to return to his
impersonal delivery. He did not know whether she noticed his rare
slips or not. But something was happening, had been happening. All
day he looked forward to the evening, to reading another man's
words to her, to placing himself again in a rather embarrassing posi–
tion. But there was something that overcame the embarrassment, or
he would have stopped after the first letter. He came to a long
complicated passage enumerating her qualities and sensed rather
than saw her where she sat a few feet away, her gaze directed to the
shaded window. How much longer can this go on, he thought.
''And what does all this mean, my enchantress, my beautiful
one, but that I love you. I love you ." He had finished. He dropped
the letter in his lap and waited. And what does all this mean? All at
once he was angry at the letter, annoyed by its pomposity, its endless
rhetorical effects. The whole thing read like a passage from a bad
sentimental novel, a sham. Who was this man without a face who
wrote so grandly letter after letter, pouring his words out if not his
heart, relying so complacently on another's voice? His jaw hardened
but he said nothing.
"Thank you ."
He looked up. She was gazing at him with a mild smile ,
perhaps a trifle embarrassed, perhaps also sensing a kind of over–
achievement, a strain, in the letter.
"Terry, I don't think I've really managed to thank you for all,
this . I know it's awkward, and it takes a lot of time ... and I'd like to
show my appreciation a bit better than just mumbling something
and running back to my apartment. Would it be all right if I took
you out to dinner this weekend? I've got a great place in mind.. . ."
He pursed his lips before replying. He was not feeling very
amenable. Her offer was probably sincere, but who could tell? Was
