Free The Recognitions (Dalkey Archive edition) by William Gaddis Page B

sitting sullenly in the sleigh looking far beyond the walls of the barn, as though dreaming of days under the Moroccan sun, in another generation, stealing from the gardens of the Arabs. He had never met Aunt May. He knew her thin shape, appearing to hang clothes on the line (where she inclined to hang male and female garments separately, or directed Janet to do so), or coming out alone with a trowel and scissors to tend the hawthorn tree on the edge of the upper lawn. He knew her singing voice too, and he hated it. She had never seen Heracles, and never mentioned him, but drew her lips tightly together and looked in another direction when his name came into conversation. So disquieting to her Christian scheme thatshe had never mentioned it, nor admitted it even to herself, was the sense that this monkey had replaced Camilla.
    —Now where have you been? she demanded as Wyatt came up the steps, but her voice was almost gentle. —And what is the matter, have you been crying? He rubbed his eyes, and then drew his hand down over his face, but did not answer a word. —You look feverish, she said as he took her skirts in the sudden self-effacing embrace of childhood, and thus hobbled, she led him into the house. —Today is your mother’s birthday, she said, once inside, and then, —You have dirt all over your hands.
    —What is a hero? he asked abruptly, separating himself and looking up at her.
    —A hero? she repeated. —A hero is someone who serves something higher than himself with undying devotion.
    —But . . . how does he know what it is? he asked, standing there, grinding one grimy hand in the other before her.
    —The real hero does not need to question, she said. —The Lord tells him his duty.
    —How does He tell him?
    —As He told John Huss, she answered readily, seating herself, reaching back with assurance to summon that “pale thin man in mean attire,” and she started to detail the career of the great Bohemian reformer, from his teachings and triumphs under the good King Wenceslaus to his betrayal by the Emperor Sigismund.
    —And what happened to him then?
    —He was burned at the stake, she said with bitter satisfaction, as footsteps were heard in a hall from the direction of the study, —with the Kyrie eleison on his lips . . . Here, where are you going? What have you been up to . . . ? He had turned away, but Gwyon stood filling the doorway, and between them the child started to cry. Gwyon raised a hand nervously, uncertain whether to punish or defend, and Aunt May took up, —What have you done? I know that guilty look on your face, what is it?
    —Go to your room, Gwyon brought out, trying to rescue him.
    Aunt May started from her chair with, —To his room! . . . but Gwyon’s upraised hand seemed to halt her, and she turned on the small retreating figure with, —To your room, go to your room then, and read . . . read what we’ve been reading, and I’ll be up before supper to see if you know it.
    —What have you been reading? Gwyon asked her, a strain in his voice.
    —He’s learning about the Synod of Dort.
    —Dort? Gwyon mumbled, dropping his hand.
    —Dort. The final perseverance of the saints. Good heavens, you . . .
    —But . . . the child . . .
    —Did you see the guilty look on his face? His sinful . . .
    —Sinned! Where has he sinned . . . already . . .
    —That you, as a Christian minister, can ask that? You . . . Suddenly she came closer to Gwyon, who stepped back into the hall away from the assault of her voice. —Not his sin then, but the prospect, she came on in a hoarse breathless voice, near a whisper, as though she were going to cry out or weep herself, —the prospect draws him on, the prospect of sin.
    She stood there quivering, until the sound of Gwyon’s footsteps had disappeared back down the hall. Then she sniffed, biting her lower lip, and stepped into the hall herself.
    Later that evening Reverend Gwyon stood over the