The Breathing Method.pdf

THE BREATHING METHOD

1: The Club

I dressed a bit more speedily than normal on that snowy, windy, bitter night--I admit

it. It was 23 December, 1970, and I suspect that there were other members of the club

who did the same. Taxis are notoriously hard to come by in New York on stormy

nights, so I called for a radio-cab. I did this at five-thirty for an eight o'clock pick-up--

my wife raised an eyebrow but said nothing. I was under the awning of the apartment

building on East 58th Street, where Ellen and I had lived since 1946, by quarter to

eight, and when the taxi was five minutes late, I found myself pacing up and down

impatiently.

The taxi arrived at 8 .10 and I got in, too glad to be out of the wind to be as

angry with the driver as he probably deserved. That wind, part of a cold front that had

swept down from Canada the day before, meant business. It whistled and whined

around the cab's window, occasionally drowning out the salsa on the driver's radio

and rocking the big Checker on its springs. Many of the stores were open but the

sidewalks were nearly bare of last-minute shoppers. Those that were abroad looked

uncomfortable or actually pained.

It had been flurrying off and on all day, and now the snow began again,

coming first in thin membranes, then twisting into cyclone shapes ahead of us in the

street. Coming home that night, I would think of the combination of snow, a taxi, and

New York City with considerably greater unease... but I did not of course know that

then.

At the corner of 3rd and Fortieth, a large tinsel Christmas bell went floating

through the intersection like a spirit. 'Bad night,' the cabbie said. "They'll have an

extra two dozen in the morgue tomorrow. Wino Popsicles. Plus a few bag-lady

Popsicles.'

'I suppose.'

The cabbie ruminated. 'Well, good riddance,' he said finally. 'Less welfare,

right?'

finally.

'Your Christmas spirit,' I said, 'is stunning in its width and depth.'

The cabbie ruminated. 'You one of those bleeding-hear liberals?' he asked

'I refuse to answer on the grounds that my answer might tend to incriminate

me,' I said.

The cabbie gave a why-do-I-always-get-the-wisenheimers snort... but he shut

up.

He let me out at 2nd and Thirty-Fifth, and I walked halfway down the block to

the club, bent over against the whistling wind, holding my hat on my head with one

gloved hand.

In almost no time at all the life-force seemed to have been driven deep into my

body, a flickering blue flame about the size of the pilot-light in a gas oven. At

seventy-three, a man feels the cold quicker and deeper. That man should be home in

front of a fireplace... or at least in front of an electric heater. At seventy-three, hot

blood isn't even really a memory; it's more of an academic concept.

The latest flurry was letting up, but snow as dry as sand still beat into my face.

I was glad to see that the steps leading up to the door of 249 had been sanded--that

was Stevens's work, of course--Stevens knew the base alchemy of old age well

enough: not lead into gold but bones into glass. When I think about such things, I

believe that God probably thinks a great deal like Groucho Marx.

Then Stevens was there, holding the door open, and a moment later I was

inside. Down the mahogany-panelled hallway, through double doors standing three-

quarters of the way open on their recessed tracks, into the library cum reading-room

cum bar. It was a dark room in which occasional pools of light gleamed--reading-

lamps. A richer, more textured light glowed across the oak parquet floor, and I could

hear the steady snap of birch logs in the huge fireplace. The heat radiated all the way

across the room -surely there is no welcome for a man or a woman that can equal a

fire on the hearth. A paper rustled--dry, slightly impatient. That would be Johanssen,

with his Wall Street Journal. After ten years, it was possible to recognize his presence

simply by the way he read his stocks. Amusing... and in a quiet way, amazing.

Stevens helped me off with my overcoat, murmuring that it was a dirty night;

WCBS was now forecasting heavy snow before morning.

I agreed that it was indeed a dirty night and looked back into that big, high-

ceilinged room again. A dirty night, a roaring fire... and a ghost story. Did I say that at

seventy-three hot blood is a thing of the past? Perhaps so. But I felt something warm

in my chest at the thought... something that hadn't been caused by the fire of Stevens's

reliable, dignified welcome.

I think it was because it was McCarron's turn to tell the tale.

I had been coming to the brownstone which stands at 249 East 35th Street for

ten years -coming at intervals that were almost--but not quite--regular. In my own

mind I think of it is a 'gentleman's club', that amusing pre-Gloria Steinem antiquity.

But even now I am not sure that's what it really is, or how it came to be in the first

place. On the night Emlyn McCarron told his story--the story of the Breathing

Method--there were perhaps thirteen clubmembers in all, although only six of us had

come out on that howling, bitter night. I can remember years when there might have

been as few as eight full-time members, and others when there were at least twenty,

and perhaps more. I suppose Stevens might know how it all came to be--one thing I

am sure of is that Stevens has been there from the first, no matter how long that may

be... and I believe Stevens to be older than he looks. Much, much older. He has a faint

Brooklyn accent, but in spite of that he is as brutally correct and as cuttingly

punctilious as a third-generation English butler. His reserve is part of his often

maddening charm, and Stevens's small smile is a locked and latched door. I have

never seen any club records--if he keeps them. I have never gotten a receipt of dues--

there are no dues. I have never been called by the club secretary--there is no secretary,

and at 249 East 35th, there are no phones. There is no box of white marbles and black

balls. And the club--if it is a club--has never had a name.

I first came to the club (as I must continue to call it) as the guest of George

Waterhouse. Waterhouse headed the law firm for which I had worked since 1951. My

progress upward in the firm--one of New York's three biggest--had been steady but

extremely slow; I was a slogger, a mule for work, something of a centrepuncher... but

I had no real flair or genius. I had seen men who had begun at the same time I had,

promoted in giant steps while I only continued to pace -and I saw it with no real

surprise. Waterhouse and I had exchanged pleasantries, attended the obligatory dinner

put on by the firm each October, and had little more congress until the fall of 1960,

when he dropped by my office one day in early November.

This in itself was unusual enough, and it had me thinking black thoughts

(dismissal) that were counterbalanced by giddy ones (an unexpected promotion). It

was a puzzling visit. Waterhouse leaned in the doorway, his Phi Beta Kappa key

gleaming mellowly on his vest, and talked in amiable generalities--none of what he

said seemed to have any real substance or importance. I kept expecting him to finish

the pleasantries and get down to cases: 'Now about this Casey brief,' or 'We've been

asked to research the Mayor's appointment of Salkowitz to -' But it seemed there were

no cases. He glanced at his watch, said he had enjoyed our talk and that he had to be

going. I was still blinking, bewildered, when he turned back and said casually: There's

a place where I go most Thursday nights--a sort of club. Old duffers, mostly, but some

of them are good company. They keep a really excellent cellar, if you've a palate.

Every now and then someone tells a good story, as well. Why not come down some

night, David? As my guest.'

I stammered some reply--even now I'm not sure what it was. I was bewildered

by the offer. It had a spur-of-the-moment sound, but there was nothing spur-of-tbe-

moment about his eyes, blue Anglo-Saxon ice under the bushy white whorls of his

eyebrows. And if I don't remember exactly how I replied, it was because I felt

suddenly sure that this offer -vague and puzzling as it was--had been exactly the

specific I had kept expecting him to get down to.

Ellen's reaction that evening was one of amused exasperation. I had been with

Waterhouse, Garden, Lawton, Frasier, and Effingham for something like twenty years,

and it was clear enough that I could not expect to rise much above the mid-level

position I now held; it was her idea that this was the firm's cost-efficient substitute for

a gold watch.

'Old men telling war stories and playing poker,' she said. 'A night of that and

you're supposed to be happy in the Research Library until they pension you off, I

suppose... oh, I put two Becks' on ice for you.' And she kissed me warmly. I suppose

she had seen something on my face--God knows she's good at reading me after all the

years we've spent together.

Nothing happened over a course of weeks. When my mind turned to

Waterhouse's odd offer--certainly odd coming from a man with whom I met less than

a dozen times a year, and who I only saw socially at perhaps three parties a year,

including the company party in October--I supposed that I had been mistaken about

the expression in his eyes, that he really had made the offer casually, and had

forgotten it. Or regretted it--ouch! And then he approached me one late afternoon, a

man of nearly seventy who was still broad-shouldered and athletic looking. I was

shrugging on my topcoat with my briefcase between my feet. He said: 'If you'd still

like to have a drink at the club, why not come tonight?'

'Well,.. I...'

'Good.' He slapped a slip of paper into my hand. 'Here's the address.' He was

waiting for me at the foot of the steps that evening, and Stevens held the door for us.

The wine was as excellent as Waterhouse had promised. He made no attempt

whatsoever to 'introduce me around'--I took that for snobbery but later recanted the

idea -but two or three of them introduced themselves to me. One of those who did so

was Emlyn McCarron, even then in his early seventies. He held out his hand and I

clasped it briefly. His skin was dry, leathery, tough; almost turtlelike. He asked me if I

played bridge. I said I did not.

'God damned good thing,' he said 'That god damned game has done more in

this century to kill intelligent after-dinner conversation than anything else I can think

of.' And with that pronouncement he walked away into the murk of the library, where

shelves of books went up apparently to infinity.

I looked around for Waterhouse, but he had disappeared. Feeling a little

uncomfortable and a lot out of place, I wandered over to the fireplace. It was, as I

believe I have already mentioned, a huge thing--it seemed particularly huge in New

York, where apartment-dwellers such as myself have trouble imagining such a

benevolence big enough to do anything more than pop corn or toast bread. The

fireplace at 249 East 35th was big enough to broil an ox whole. There was no mantle;

instead a brawny stone arch curved over it This arch was broken in the centre by a

keystone which jutted out slightly. It was just on the level of my eyes, and although

the light was dim, I could read the legend engraved on that stone with no trouble: IT

IS THE TALE, NOT HE WHO TELLS IT. 'Here you go, David,' Waterhouse said

from my elbow, and I jumped. He hadn't deserted me after all; had only trudged off

into some uncharted locale to bring back drinks. 'Bombay martini's yours, isn't it?'

'Yes. Thank you. Mr Waterhouse -'

'George,' he said. 'Here it's just George.'

'George, then,' I said, although it seemed slightly mad to be using his first

name. 'What is all of-'

'Cheers,' he said.

We drank. The martini was perfect. I said so instead of finishing my question.

'Stevens tends the bar. He makes fine drinks. He likes to say it's a small but vital skill.

' The martini took the edge off my feelings of disorientation and awkwardness (the

edge, but the feelings themselves remained--I had spent nearly half an hour gazing

into my closet and wondering what to wear; I had finally settled on dark brown slacks

and a rough tweed jacket that almost matched them, hoping I would not be wandering

into a group of men either turned out in tuxedos or wearing bluejeans and L. L. Bean's

lumberjack shirts... it seemed that I hadn't gone too far wrong on the matter of dress,

anyway). A new place and a new situation makes one crucially aware of every social

act, no matter how small, and at that moment, drink in hand and the obligatory small

toast made, I wanted very much to be sure that I hadn't overlooked any of the

amenities. 'Is there a guest book I ought to sign?' I asked. 'Something like that?' He

looked mildly surprised. 'We don't have anything like that,' he said. 'At least, I don't

think we do.' He glanced around the dim, quiet room. Johanssen rattled his Wall

Street Journal, I saw Stevens pass in a doorway at the far end of the room, ghostly in

his white messjacket. George put his drink on an endtable and tossed a fresh log onto

the fire. Sparks corkscrewed up the black throat of the chimney.

'What does that mean?' I asked, pointing to the inscription on the keystone.

'Any idea?' Waterhouse read it carefully, as if for the first time. IT IS THE TALE,

NOT HE WHO TELLS IT.

'I suppose I have an idea,' he said. 'You may, too, if you should come back.

Yes, I should say you may have an idea or two. In time. Enjoy yourself, David.' He

walked away. And, although it may seem odd, having been left to sink or swim in

such an unfamiliar situation, I did enjoy myself. For one thing, I have always loved

books, and there was a trove of interesting ones to examine here. I walked slowly

along the shelves, examining the spines as best I could in the faint light, pulling one

out now and then, and pausing once to look out a narrow window at the 2nd Avenue

intersection up the street. I stood there and watched through the frost-rimmed glass as

the traffic light at the intersection cycled from red to green to amber and back to red

again, and quite suddenly I felt the queerest--and yet very welcome -sense of peace

come to me. It did not flood in; instead it seemed to almost steal in. Oh yes, I can hear

you saying, that makes great sense; watching a stop-and-go light gives everyone a

sense of peace. All right; it made no sense. I grant you that. But the feeling was there,

just the same. It made me think for the first time in years of the winter nights in the

Wisconsin farmhouse where I grew up: lying in bed in a draughty upstairs room and

marking the contrast between the whistle of the January wind outside, drifting snow

as dry as sand along miles of snow-fence, and the warmth my body created under the

two quilts. There were some law books, but they were pretty damn strange: Twenty

Cases of Dismemberment and Their Outcomes under British Law is one title I

remember. Pet Cases was another. I opened that one and sure enough, it was a

scholarly legal tome dealing with the law's treatment (American law, this time) of

cases which bore in some important respect upon pets--everything from housecats that

had inherited great sums of money to an ocelot that had broken its chain and seriously

injured a postman. There was a set of Dickens, a set of Defoe, a nearly endless set of

Trollope; and there was also a set of novels--eleven of them--by a man named Edward

Gray Seville. They were bound in handsome green leather, and the name of the firm

gold-stamped on the spine was Stedham & Son. I had never heard of Seville nor of his

publishers. The copyright date of the first Seville--These Were Our Brothers--was

1911. The date of the last, Breakers, was 1935.

Two shelves down from the set of Seville novels was a large folio volume

which contained careful step by step plans for Erector Set enthusiasts. Next to it was

another folio volume which featured famous scenes from famous movies. Each of

these pictures filled one whole page, and opposite each, filling the facing pages, were

free-verse poems either about the scenes with which they were paired or inspired by

them. Not a very remarkable concept, but the poets who were represented were

remarkable--Robert Frost, Marianne Moore, William Carlos Williams, Wallace

Stevens, Louis Zukofsky, and Erica Jong, to mention just a few. Halfway through the

book I found a poem by Archibald MacLeish set next to that famous photograph of

Marilyn Monroe standing on the subway grating and trying to hold her skirt down.

The poem was titled The Toll' and it began: The shape of the skirt is -we would say-

the shape of a bell The legs are the clapper--And some such more. Not a terrible poem,

but certainly not MacLeish's best or anywhere near the top drawer. I felt I could hold

such an opinion because I had read a good deal of Archibald MacLeish over the years.

I could not, however, recall this poem about Marilyn Monroe (which it is; the poem

announces it even when divorced from the picture--at the end MacLeish writes: My

legs clap my name: (Marilyn, ma belle). I have looked for it since then and haven't

been able to find it;.. which means nothing, of course. Poems are not like novels or

legal opinions; they are more like blown leaves and any omnibus volume titled The

Complete So-and-So must certainly be a lie. Poems have a way of getting lost under

sofas--it is one of their charms, and one of the reasons they endure. But -At some

point Stevens came by with a second martini (by then I had settled into a chair of my

own with a volume of Ezra Pound). It was as perfect as the first. As I sipped it I saw

two of those present, George Gregson and Harry Stein (Harry was six years dead on

the night Emlyn McCarron told us the story of the Breathing Method), leave the room

by a peculiar door less than three feet high. It was an Alice Down the Rabbit-Hole

door if ever there was one. They left it open, and shortly after their odd exit from the

library I heard the muted click of billiard balls.

Stevens passed by and asked if I would like another martini. I declined with

real regret. He nodded. 'Very good sir.' His face never changed, and yet I had an

obscure feeling that I had somehow pleased him.

Laughter startled me from my book sometime later. Someone had thrown a

packet of chemical powder into the fire and turned the flames momentarily parti-

coloured. I thought of my boyhood again... but not in any wistful, sloppily romantic-

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