Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch

by Henry Miller

  The discussion about the book incited me to have a look at it myself. I had read quite a little about Mary Baker Eddy but I had never, strangely enough, gone to the book itself. I discovered immediately that I was in for a pleasant surprise. Mary Baker Eddy became very real to me. My critical opinion of her fell away. I saw her as the great soul she was, human, yes, human to the core, but filled with a great light, transformed by a revelation such as might occur to any of us were we big enough and open enough to receive it.

  As for Moricand, it was as if we had removed the last stepping stone from under his feet. He was depressed as never before. Absolutely despondent, wretched, miserable. Every night he wailed like a banshee. Instead of an apéritif before dinner he would treat us to an exhibition of his sores. “It’s inhuman,” he would say. “You’ve got to do something!” Then, with a sigh, “If only I could take a warm bath!”

  We had no bath tub. We had no miracle drugs. We had nothing but words, empty words. At any rate, by now he was just a flaming wretch who had delivered himself to the mercy of the Devil.

  Only one evening before the final breakdown stands out clearly. I remember it well because earlier that evening, while we were still eating, he had expressed his irritation with Val, who was sitting beside him, in a way I can never forget. Bored with the conversation, she had begun to play with the knives and forks, rattle the dishes, anything to gain attention. Suddenly, in a playful way, she had snatched the piece of bread lying beside him. Furious, he snatched it from her fist and placed it on the other side of his plate. It was not the gesture of annoyance so much as the look in his eyes which startled me. It was a look full of hatred, the look of a man so beside himself that he might even commit murder. I never forgot it and I never forgave it.

  It was a hour or two later, after the child had been put to bed, that he launched into a lengthy tale which I shall recapitulate briefly. What provoked it I no longer remember. But it was about a child, a girl of eight or nine. The telling of it seemed to take up the entire evening.

  As often happened, when beginning a yarn, he shrouded the opening in irrelevant wrappings. It was not until (following him down the grands boulevards) he made mention of the Passage Jouffroy that I was aware that he was spinning a tale. The Passage Jouffroy happens to be one of those arcades which are freighted with souvenirs for me. Many thing had happened to me, in years gone by, while strolling through that well-known landmark. I mean inner happenings, events one never thinks to write about because too fleeting, too impalpable, too close to the source.

  And now here is Moricand suddenly shocking me into awareness of the fact that he is following on the heels of a woman and her daughter. They have just turned into the Passage Jouffroy, window shopping, seemingly. When he began following them, why, how long, has lost importance. It’s the sudden inner excitement which his looks and gestures betray that takes hold of me, rivets my attention.

  I thought at first it was the mother he was interested in. He had described her swiftly, deftly, much as a painter would. Described her as only Moricand could describe a woman of that type. In a few words he had stripped her of her nondescript garb, her pseudo-maternal air, her pretense of strolling the boulevards with her innocent little lamb. He had recognized her for what she was the moment she had turned into the Passage Jouffroy, that moment when she had hesitated just the fraction of a second, as if she were about to look back, but didn’t. He knew then that she knew he was following.

  It was almost painful to hear him rhapsodize about the little girl. What was it about her that so excited him? The look of the perverted angel!

  His words were so graphic, so diabolically searching, that despite myself, I was ready to believe that the child was steeped in vice. Or else so innocent that….

  The thought of what was passing through his mind made me shudder.

  What followed was mere routine. He took a stand before a window display of manikins dressed in latest sports models while a few feet away the woman and child dallied to gaze upon a virginal figure garbed in a beautiful Communion dress. Observing that the child was rapt in wonder, he threw the woman a quick glance and nodded meaningfully toward her charge. The woman responded with the barest perceptible sway of her head, lowered her eyes a moment, then, looking straight at him, through him, grasped the child’s hand and led her away. He permitted them to get a respectable distance ahead, then followed in their wake. Near the exit the woman stopped a moment to buy some sweets. She made no further sign, except to turn her bowed head in the direction of his feet; she then resumed what was to all appearances an innocent promenade. Once or twice the little girl made as if to turn around, as would any child whose attention had been caught by the flutter of pigeon wings or the gleam of glass beads.

  There was no increase in their pace. The mother and daughter sauntered along as if taking the air, enjoying the sights. Leisurely they turned down one street and up another. Gradually they approached the neighborhood of the Folies-Bergère. Finally they came to a hotel, a hotel with a rather flamboyant name. (I mention it because I recognized the name; I had spent a week in this hotel once, in bed most of the time. During that week, flat on my back, I had read Céline’s Voyage au bout de la nuit.)

  Even as they entered the woman made no visible effort to see if he were following. She had no need to look: it had all been worked out telepathically in the Passage Jouffroy.

  He waited outside a few moments to collect himself, then, though his guts were still quivering, he walked calmly up to the desk and booked a room. As he filled out the fiche the woman laid her key down a moment to stuff something in her purse. He didn’t even have to turn his head to catch the number. He gave the garçon a liberal tip and, since he had no bags, told him it was unnecessary to show him the way. By the time he reached the top of the first flight of stairs his heart was in his mouth. He bounded up the next flight, turned quickly down the passage towards the room he was looking for, and came face to face with the woman. Though there was not a soul about, neither paused an instant. They brushed by each other like two strangers, she as if going to the lavatory, he as if to his room. Only the look in her eyes, the drooping, sidewise glance, conveyed the message he knew was forthcoming: “Elle est là!” He walked swiftly to the door, removed the key which had been left outside, and pushed his way in.

  Here he paused in his narration. His eyes were positively dancing. I knew he was waiting for me to say “Then what?” I struggled with myself not to reveal my true feelings. The words he was waiting for got stuck in my throat. All I could think of was the little girl sitting on the edge of the bed, half-undressed probably, and nibbling at a piece of pastry. “Reste-là, p’tite, je reviens toute de suite,” the woman had probably said as she closed the door behind her.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I heard myself saying to him: “Eh bien, what then?”

  “What then?” he exclaimed, his eyes aflame with a ghoulish glee. “Je I’ai eue, that’s what!”

  As he uttered these words I felt my hair stand on end. It was no longer Moricand I was facing but Satan himself.

  The rains continued to descend, the leaks grew worse, the walls got wetter and wetter, the sow bugs increased and multiplied. The horizon was now completely shut out; the wind had become a howling fury. Back of the two studios stood three tall eucalyptus trees; under the lash of the gale they seemed to bend in two. In Moricand’s shattered state they were three demons with a thousand arms beating a terrifying tattoo upon his brainpan. Wherever he looked, indeed, there was nothing but a wall of water, a forest of swaying, swirling, twisting tree trunks. And with it, what disturbed him more than anything, the whine and moan of the wind, the whistling, crackling, hissing sound which never abated. To anyone in his right senses it was grand, magnificent, absolutely intoxicating. One felt deliciously helpless, insignificant, even less than a rubber doll. To venture outdoors at the height of it was to be slapped down. There was something insane about it. All you could do was to wait it
out. It must die of its own fury.

  But Moricand could not wait it out. He was at the breaking point. He came down one afternoon—it was already dark—saying that he couldn’t stand it another minute. “It’s a howling inferno!” he cried. “Nowhere in the world can it possibly rain like this. C’est foul”

  At dinner, rehearsing his miseries, he suddenly burst into tears. He begged me—supplicated, rather—to do something to relieve him of his torment. He pleaded and entreated as if I were made of stone. It was sheer torture to listen to the man.

  “What can I do? said I. “What is it you think I should do?”

  “Take me to Monterey. Put me in a hospital. I must get out of this place.”

  “Very well,” I said. “I’ll do that. I’ll move you just as soon as we can get off this hill.”

  What did that mean? he wanted to know. A feeble look of terror spread over his countenance.

  I explained that not only was my car not working but that the road leading to the highway was blocked with boulders; the storm would have to abate before we could even think about moving.

  This only increased his desperation. “Think, think!” he begged. “There must be some way to get out of here. Do you want me to go stark mad?”

  The only thing left to do was to walk down the road to the highway next morning and leave a note in the mailbox for the mail man to deliver to Lilik. The mail was still getting through. All day long and into the night the highway crew kept clearing the road of debris. I knew that Lilik would get to us if it were humanly possible. As for the boulders that blocked the foot of the road, I would just pray that some Titan would push them aside.

  So I got down, dispatched the message, making it life and death, and told Moricand to be in readiness. I had told Lilik to come the next morning, at six o’clock, or perhaps I said five-thirty. I figured that by that time the storm would have moderated and some of the boulders been cleared away.

  That night, his last night, Moricand refused to go back to his cell. He decided to sit up all night in the armchair. We kept him at table as long as we could, plied him with drink, regaled him as best we could, and finally, towards morning, bade him goodnight. There was just the one room, and our bed was in the middle of it. We climbed in and tried to go to sleep. A tiny lamp flickered on the table beside him as he sat in the big armchair, bundled up in overcoat and muffler, his hat pulled down over his eyes. The fire went out, and though not a window was open, the room soon grew damp and chill. The wind was still whistling around the corners of the house, but it seemed to me that the rain was letting up.

  Naturally, I couldn’t sleep. I lay there as quiet as I could and listened to him mumbling to himself. Every now and then he groaned and broke out with a “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! when will it end?” Or—“Quel supplice!”

  About 5:00 A.M. I climbed out of bed, lit the Aladdin lamps, put some coffee on the stove, and dressed. It was still dark, but the storm had broken. There was just a normal high wind which was sweeping away the rain.

  When I asked him how he felt, he groaned. Never had he known such a night. He was finished. He hoped he would have the strength to last till we reached the hospital.

  As we were swallowing the hot coffee, he got a whiff of the bacon and eggs. That gave him a momentary lift. “J’adore ça,” he said, rubbing his hands. Then a sudden panic seized him. “How do we know he will come, Lilik?”

  “He’ll come, never fear,” I said. “He would wade through Hell to rescue you.”

  “Oui, c’est un chic type. Un vrai ami.”

  By this time my wife had dressed, set the table, lit the stove, served the bacon and eggs.

  “Everything will be fine,” she said. “You’ll see, Lilik will be here in a few minutes.” She spoke to him as if he were a child. (Don’t worry, dear, mamma’s here, nothing can happen to you.)

  Seized with a sense of the dramatic, I suddenly decided to light the lantern and go to the top of the road above us to signal Lilik. As I climbed the hill I heard his car snorting down below, probably at the bend near the Roosevelt’s. I waved the lantern to and fro and, now thoroughly elated, gave a great shout. He must have seen the light, for immediately there came the honk-honk of his horn, and in a few moments the car came into sight, puffing and snorting like a wounded dragon.

  “Christ!” I shouted, “What luck! You made it! Grand!” I gave him a warm hug.

  “I had a bad time of it down below,” he said. “I don’t know how I ever cleared those rocks away. Luckily, I brought a crowbar with me…. How’s Moricand? Is he awake yet?”

  “Is he awake? Man, he’s never been to sleep. Come on down and have a cup of coffee. Have you had breakfast?”

  He hadn’t. Not even a cup of coffee.

  We walked in, and there was Moricand licking his chops. He seemed quite revived. As he greeted Lilik, tears came to his eyes. “C’est la fin,” he said. “But how good of you to come! You’re a saint.”

  When it came time to go Moricand rose to his feet, tottered, staggered to the bed and collapsed.

  “What’s up?” cried Lilik. “You’re not going to give out now, are you?”

  Moricand looked up woefully. “I can’t walk,” he said. “Look!” And he pointed to the swelling between his legs.

  “What’s that?” we cried in unison.

  “My testicles!” he exclaimed. “They’ve swollen up on me.”

  They had indeed. They were like two rocks.

  “We’ll carry you to the car,” said Lilik.

  “I’m too heavy,” said Moricand.

  “Nonsense!” said Lilik.

  Moricand put his arms around our shoulders, and Lilik and I joined hands under his legs. He weighed a ton. Slowly, gently, we hoisted him up the garden steps and into the car. He groaned like a bull in agony.

  “Easy, easy now. It will pass. Just hold your breath, grit your teeth. Du courage, mon vieux!”

  As we cautiously picked our way down the winding hill, observing the havoc the storm had wrought, Moricand’s eyes opened wider and wider. Finally we came to the last stretch, a rather steep descent. Huge boulders towered above menacingly. When we reached the highway I saw what Lilik had done. It didn’t seem possible for human hands to have accomplished such a task.

  Dawn had come, the rain had stopped altogether, and we were on our way. Every few yards we had to stop and clear the road of debris. This continued until we reached the sign which said: “Watch for falling rocks. Dangerous curves and falling rocks for the next 46 miles.” But that was all behind us now.

  My thoughts reverted to Moricand’s promenade between the battlefronts. The two valises. And Iamblichus! By comparison, all that seemed unreal, a nightmare that he had dreamed up.

  “How do your balls feel now?” I asked.

  He felt them. Somewhat better, he thought.

  “Good,” said Lilik. “It’s just nervousness.”

  I restrained a laugh. “Nervousness!” What a word to describe Moricand’s anguish!

  When we got to Monterey we stopped to fetch him a cup of coffee. The sun was out strong, the roof-tops glistened; life was pursuing its normal course again. Only a few more miles, we told him, and you’ll be there. Meaning at the County Hospital in Salinas.

  He felt his testicles again. The swelling had almost disappeared.

  “What did we tell you!”

  “Ouais!” said Moricand. “Mais, c’est drôle. How do you explain it?”

  “Nervousness,” said Lilik.

  “Angoisse!” said I.

  We rolled up in front of the hospital. It didn’t look as bad as I had imagined it would. From the outside, in fact, it seemed rather cheerful. Just the same, I was glad it wasn’t my turn.

  We went inside. It was still rather early. The usual routine: questions, explanations, papers to fill out. Then wait. No matter if you’re dying, they always ask you to wait.

  We waited a while, then inquired when the doctor would show up. I had thought we would get Moricand a bed
immediately, then see the doctor. No, first you see the doctor, then a bed—if there is one vacant!

  We decided to have a second breakfast. There was a glassed-in dining room which was connected with the hospital, or so it seemed to me. We had bacon and eggs again. And more coffee. The coffee was vile and weak, but Moricand said it tasted good. He lit a gauloise bleue—and smiled. He was probably thinking of the comfortable bed, the attention he would receive, the luxury of relaxing in the midst of ministering angels.

  Finally it came time to visit the clinic. It was like all such places, cold, bare, glittering with instruments, smelling of disinfectants. You bring your poor, frail body and you hand it over to be inspected. You are one thing and your body is another. Lucky you if you get it back again.

  He’s standing there nude, naked as a herring. The doctor is tapping at him, just like a woodpecker. We’ve explained that it’s the itch he’s suffering from. No matter. Must see if there’s anything else first—phthisis, gallstones, asthma, tonsilitis, cirrhosis of the liver, miner’s elbow, dandruff…. The doctor’s not a bad chap. Affable, courteous, willing to chatter. Speaks French too. Rather pleased on the whole to see a specimen like Moricand for a change.

  Moricand too seems rather pleased. At last some real attention. Something indefinable about his expression gives me the impression that he hopes the doctor will find something seriously wrong with him, something more than the itch.