A Visit to Priapus and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

all; his impertinence seemed involuntary and was not shamefaced; apparently no one took offence. Something had aroused his marauding instincts of a half-grown man, quickened the progress of emotions about which, up to that night, he had done little more than talk. He himself had a look of astonishment at the liberties he was taking.
    The other boys in consequence grew coarser in their speech and gestures, hoping, if not to outdo him, to check his triumph by embarrassing the girls. In their turn they looked boldly across the room at his supposed cousin from Milwaukee, perhaps thinking of revenge; but not one had the courage to sit down in the conspicuous corner.
    Rita’s mother, with great complacence, had begged them to have a good time and not to break anything, and retired to her bedroom.
    The games were lively but not quite amusing. A ring on a string brought the slightly scarred and stained boys’ hands into contact with smaller moist hands and even among the folds of disheveled costumes. Humiliating positions and red-faced kisses were assigned as forfeits. A girl played the piano, but not many of them knew how to dance, and these seemed unhappy to be in each other’s arms under the eyes of their friends. Then chairs were placed in a row, around which they marched; the music stopped and started without warning, and they scrambled for seats; there were pushes and pinching and needless collisions. Sometimes one or two would pause by the dining-room door to stare at the pitchers of lemonade, the plates of sandwiches and cake covered with napkins; but Rita did not want to serve the refreshments too soon, lest the party come to an end.
    One of the Indians and the girl with a bunch of violets moved chairs into Philip’s corner, one on each side of him. They found nothing to say. The girl’s look of languid interrogation shifted from her partner to the disguised boy and back again. The Indian pulled his fingers. Then the girl rose and darted out on the porch. Glancing back at Philip with an indefinable expression, the sturdy youth followed. Through the bay window Philip saw a single shadow made of both their figures, and supposed it was a kiss.
    The party could not go on much longer in those small warm rooms. An increasing impatience for the dark and the bushes, for long grass in which footsteps would be lost, for soft boughs lost in the sky, was revealed by everyone’s glances toward the doors and windows.
    Carl pursued his Irish-Turkish girl from one chair or sofa to another with boisterous but somber violence. Philip waited until they reached the opposite corner of the other room, and then slipped into the hall. No one was there; the door stood open and the freshness of cut grass and blossoming syringas drifted in. He wanted to go out on the porch, but did not dare, because of the sweethearts who had just left him. He sat down a little way up the stairs, took off his gloves and his half-mask, rested his overladen woman’s head in the palms of his boy’s hands …
    He was not alone many minutes. The boy in the uniform of no particular country followed him. Neither knew what to say; the soldier sat down on the same step. Philip knew him by sight—his father was a carpenter, his name was Art Sampson. He supposed he must have figured out his identity. Then Art Sampson took his hand and put one arm around him. Philip twisted about in confusion and changed his mind—obviously the soldier did not know who he was. He tried to get up, but one foot somehow caught in the skirt and he was afraid of tearing it. The soldier sighed with his lips pursed. Philip did not know what to do. “Give me a kiss,” the other muttered. The kiss slipped off Philip’s cheek into the scented strands of his wig. He got away, giving the soldier a kick, leaving him to his astonishment. The kick hurt his own foot because Lucy’s slippers were so thin. He came back into the sitting room alone.
    Not many of the guests were there. They had gone out