TWO MCNEILS

He skips out lithe and tense into the light,
Throws off his gown, and smiling, lifts his hands
With a theatric gesture, opening fingers,
Like a vain child. And having rippled slowly
Under the smooth white tights the gleaming muscles,
Smiling again, he turns; and lifts black weights,--
Staggering, flushing deep his face and neck,--
To drop them with a crash. She, sweet and blonde,
Stands by (in white tights too), smiles at the people,
Catching the handkerchief he tosses to her
When he has wiped his hands; and at the end,
Feigning timidity, sits in a chair
Which he heaves up to balance in his teeth.
But as she sits there, waving frantic hands,
And sees his coarse red fist gesticulating,
She looks down on him with a look of hatred,
And wishes he would only burst a vein.

"Where did you get that ring?" he said to her,
While they were waiting turn. She looked at it,
Twisting her head to this side and to that
To see it sparkle. "What is that to you?"
"That drummer gave it to you. I've seen him watch you."
"What if he does?" "You cut it out, that's all!
Don't you forget that time that I half-killed Schmidt."
She smiled at him. "Why drag that up again?"
Then, they went on,--he quivering, she cool....
And as she caught his handkerchief, she turned
Disgusted from him, thinking of her lover;
And how he said in his delicious voice,
"I'll meet you Thursday night at half-past ten."

Conrad Aiken

Getting Old!

AMOROSA AND COMPANY

Well, there was still a sure hand, anyway,
When she stood up alone, in a casket of light,
In the jet velvet blackness; and round her neck,
And along her outstretched naked gleaming arms,
Felt the cool python slowly coil and coil....
But that was for the snake, more than for her.
And when that Russian upstart ran out dancing,
Flinging her little knees up, so affected,
And throwing her arms about so foolishly,
The audience went half-crazy with applause!
Pretty? Well, if you call it pretty, to have
That listless scanty flaxen hair, and eyes
So sentimentally blue. When she was hired,
She was half-starved, poor thing, and cried and cried,--
And, really, it was half in pity she took her.
And now to have her getting all the notice,
With those ridiculous dances! Hopping about,
Frisking her hands up, perking her rat's head sideways,
Smiling, or looking sad, running and jumping,
Or toddling on her toes--it was disgusting.
And as if that weren't enough, to have her men
All whining round this girl like a lot of tom-cats,
Even her husband!-- (not that she wanted him).
And then, to have that cornet player get up
And give her a box of roses, on top of all!...
She wondered if her strength would fail her, sometimes;
And if, instead of smiling, when the girl
Was given an encore (taking her hand to share it),
She'd suddenly burst out laughing and slap her face:
The wretched thin little measly skin-and-bones!

--She paused, fatigued with combing out her hair,
Sick of trying to get those scraps of tinsel,
And stared at red mirrored eyes. She was getting old.

Conrad Aiken

Do you, like me, find something rather disturbing in this story of obsessive possessiveness?

AERIAL DODDS

Ingratitude--the damned ingratitude!
After these years, and all he'd done for him,
To run away like this without a word!
Without so much as thanks,--and still a boy,--
Though he had taken him as a child and trained him!
This moment, he could kill him with his hands,
Wring his young neck.... And worst of all, to think,
After he'd poured out love on him so long,
That he should run off with that rotten girl,
That whore, who couldn't dance, and couldn't sing,
Who only kept her job because, being shameless,
She splashed about in the spotlight like a mermaid!
My God; he'd kill him if he ever found him.
Had he been cruel to him? No, not cruel.
Sure, he had whipped him sometimes,--once in a while,--
Partly for discipline, of course.... But never
More than to make him shrink, or his lips tremble,
His cheeks a little white. Not more than that.
And then, he had loved him so! And given him things,
All the money he needed, and all the clothes....
--And the boy had been a foundling to begin with!

He got up from his chair, groped in the darkness,
And struck a match under the mantelpiece,--
Watching it spurt from blue to yellow flame,
Startling the room with agitated shadows.
And one by one he lifted from the trunk
The clothes the boy had worn: the soft-soled shoes;
The white ones with the sockets in the heels,
For whirling in the swing; the satin tights,
And the broad golden girdle, crystal starred.
He had looked lovely in this sleek white satin--
And he remembered now the day they bought it;
And how he stood up, smiling, by the mirror,
With big blue fearless eyes, and curly hair,
Just as he looked, sitting in his trapeze,
Wiping his hands so calm, and gazing down.
His throat was just like ivory, in this lace....
And he had looked so slim, so like a child,
So white and fragile!

And now, my God, he'd gone.
And he would never touch again that skin,
So young and soft; or have against his mouth
Those curls ... or feel the long-tongued venomous whip
Curl round those knees, and see the young mouth tremble.

Conrad Aiken

Another Aiken story from behind the footlights.

THE APOLLO TRIO

From acting profile parts in the "legit,"
He came to this; and he is sick of it.
The singing part is easy. What he hates
Is traveling with these damned degenerates,
Tight-trousered, scented, both with women's hips,
With penciled eyes, and lean vermilioned lips.
Loving each other so, they pick on him,--
Horse him, off stage and on. He smiles, is grim,
Plays up the part, saving his final card
Till Jones should dare to slap his face too hard.
But what's "too hard"?--Meanwhile, four times a day
He drinks, to make things pleasanter; while they
(Those damned degenerates) eat up cocaine.
The call-boy calls him on. And once again
With a crushed hat, long hair, and powdered face,
Dressed as the villain, in black, he booms deep bass,
Asks the fool question, takes the slap, and sings
As if he did for the first time all those things.
My God, how tired he is of hearing Jones,
Simpering sweetly in falsetto tones,
"Chase me, boys, I issue trading-stamps:"
Tired of grease-paint, dirty clothes, and lamps.
At ease on sawdust floors, he leans and drinks,
Swapping old stories with the crowd; or thinks,
Roving a blear green eye about the bar,
Of the girl he loved, or the one time he was star.

Conrad Aiken

What do you think of Conrad Aiken's strange "Showbiz" stories?
I think it is an acquired taste.
However, here is another - and there are about eight more to come.
You have been warned!

GABRIEL DE FORD

He slips in through the stage-door, always singing;
Still singing, he slips out, without a word
To stage-door man, or any of the others.
All through his act, wagging upon each hand
A grotesque manikin, he laughs and sings,
Sings with a far-off ventriloquial voice
Through fixed and smiling lips. Sometimes, not often,
He barely moves his mouth, for a ghostly word.
You see his throat fill, or his nostrils quiver.
But then, staring ahead with stretched white eyes,
And never stirring, he throws his voice way off,
Faintly under the stage, or in the wings,
Creeping nearer, or fading to a whisper.
And since he always sings and never talks,
And flits by nervously, swinging his cane,
Rumors are thick about him through the circuit.
Some say he hates the women, and loves men:
That once, out West, he tried to kiss a man,
Was badly hurt, then almost killed himself.
Others maintain a woman jilted him.
But the one story they tell everywhere
Is how, at his father's funeral, he threw his voice
Suddenly into the coffin; and all the mourners
Jumped from their seats and ran, and women fainted,
And the preacher stopped the service, white as wax.

Zudora said a friend of hers had seen him
Mooning alone at "Carmen." And at the end
He cried like a baby: what do you think of that?

Conrad Aiken