The Rosy Crucifixion 2 - Plexus

by Henry Miller

  When the scalp, tired of the onslaught of the prelunar states, opens the frontiers of consciousness about which there is always a struggle, then there appears the old, the unconscious, in the magical transmutation and identification of the T, in the early experience of the everywhere and the eternal. The hereditary patrimony…

  Of the middle brain! exclaimed Ulric. Jesus, Henry, what a line, that! I wish you would explain that to me a little more fully. No, not now … afterwards, perhaps. Excuse me.

  The hereditary patrimony of the middle brain, I continued, lies still deeper and is eager for expression: if the covering is destroyed in the psychosis there emerges, driven upward by the primal instincts, from out the primitive-schizoid sub-structure, the gigantic archaic instinctive T, unfolding itself limitlessly through the tattered psychological subject.

  The tattered psychological subject! Wow! exclaimed Ulric. Thanks, Henry, that was a treat. He turned to the others. Do you wonder sometimes why I’m so fond of this guy? (He beamed in my direction.) There isn’t a soul who comes to my studio capable of bringing me that sort of pabulum. I don’t know where he gets these things—certainly I never stumble on them by myself. Which only goes to show, no doubt, how differently we’re geared.

  He paused a moment to fill his glass. You know, Henry, if you don’t mind my saying so, a passage like that could have been written by you, don’t you think? Maybe that’s why I like Gottfried Benn so much. And that Hugo Ball is another guy—he’s got something on the ball, too, what? The curious thing, though, is this—all this stuff, which means so much to me, I’d never have known about it if it weren’t for you. How I wish sometimes that you were with me when I’m with that Virginia bunch! You know, they’re really not unintelligent, but somehow this sort of thing seems to repel them. They look upon it as unhealthy. He gave a wry smile. Then he looked at Marjorie and Mona. Forgive me for dwelling on these things, won’t you? I know it’s not the moment to indulge in windy discussions. I was going to ask Henry something about the hereditary patrimony of the middle brain, but I guess we could leave it until some more suitable occasion. How about a stirrup cup?—and then I’ll be off.

  He filled our glasses, then went over to the mantelpiece and leaned against it.

  I suppose it will always be a thing of wonder and mystery to me, he said slowly, caressing his words, how we ran into each other that day on Sixth Avenue after a lapse of so many years. What a lucky day it was for me! You may not believe it, but often when I was in some weird place—like the middle of the Sahara—I would say to myself: ‘I wonder what Henry would have to say if he were here with me.’ Yes, you were often in my thoughts, even though we had lost all touch with one another. I didn’t know that you had become a writer. No, but I always knew that you would become something or somebody. Even as a kid you gave off something which was different, something unique. You always made the atmosphere more intense, more sparkling. You were a challenge to all of us. Maybe you never realized that. Even now, people who met you only once continue to ask me—’How is that Henry Miller?’ That Henry Miller! You see what I mean? They don’t say that about anyone else I know. Oh well … you’ve heard this a dozen times or more, I know.

  Why don’t you get a good rest and stay the night? said Mona.

  I’d like nothing better, but … He cocked the left eyebrow and twisted his lips. The scalp, tired of the onslaught of the prelunar states … Some day we’ll have to go into all this more thoroughly. Right now the gigantic archaic instinctive I is struggling upward through the schizoid sub-structure. He left off and began shaking hands with us. You know, he went on, I’m sure to have a fantastic dream tonight. Not a dream, but dozens of them! I’ll be slithering in the primal ooze, trying to prove to myself that I’m living in the Pleocene epoch. I’ll probably meet up with dragons and dinosaurs—unless the covering has been entirely destroyed by previous psychoses. He smacked his lips, as if he had just swallowed a dozen succulent bivalves. He was on the threshold now. By the way, I wonder if it would be imposing on you too much to borrow that Forel book from you again? There’s a passage on amorous tyranny that I’d like to reread.

  As I was going to bed I opened Transition at random. My eye fell on this sentence: Our human biological presence carries in its body two hundred rudiments: how many the soul carries is unknown.

  How many the soul carries! With this phrase on my tongue I plunged into a profound trance. In my sleep I reenact a scene out of life … I am with Stanley again. We are walking rapidly in the dark towards the house where Maude and the little one live. Stanley is saying that it is a silly, futile thing to do, but since I wish it he will go through with it. He has the key to the front door; he keeps reassuring me that no one will be home. What I want is to see what the child’s room looks like. It is ages since I have seen her and I am afraid that when I next meet her—when?—she won’t recognize me any more. I keep asking Stanley how big she is, what she wears, how she talks, and so on. Stanley answers gruffly and brusquely, as usual. He sees no point to this expedition.

  We enter the house and I explore the room minutely. Her toys intrigue me—they are lying everywhere. I begin to weep silently, as I examine her toys. Suddenly I perceive a battered old stuffed doll lying on a shelf in a corner. I tuck it under my arm and motion to Stanley to clear out. I can’t utter a word, I’m shaking and sputtering.

  When I awake next day the dream is still vivid with me. Out of habit I get into my old clothes, a pair of faded corduroys, a torn, frayed denim shirt, a pair of busted shoes. I haven’t had a shave for two days, my head is heavy, I feel restless. The weather has changed overnight; a cold, fall wind is blowing and it threatens to rain. In listless fashion I kill the morning. After lunch I don an old cardigan jacket out at the elbows, slap my wilted hat over my ear, and set out. I’ve become obsessed with the idea that I must see the child again, at any cost.

  I emerge from the subway a few blocks from the house and with eyes pealed I edge into the danger zone. I creep nearer and nearer to the house, until I am at the corner, only half a block away. I stand there a long while, my eyes riveted to the gate, hoping to see the little one appear any moment. It’s getting chilly. I put my collar up and pull my hat down over my ears. I pace back and forth, back and forth, opposite the lugubrious Catholic church made of mossgreen stone.

  Still no sign of her. Keeping to the opposite side of the street, I walk rapidly past the house, hoping that I may detect a sign of life indoors. But the curtains have been pulled to. At the corner I stop and begin pacing to and fro again. This goes on for fifteen, twenty minutes, perhaps longer. I feel lousy, itchy, crummy. Like a spy. And guilty, guilty as hell.

  I’ve almost decided to return home when suddenly a troop of youngsters swing around the far corner opposite the church. They run wildly across the street, shouting and singing. My heart is in my throat. I have a feeling that she is among them, but from where I stand it is impossible to pick her out. Now I hasten towards the other corner. When I get there I see no signs of them. I’m baffled. I stand there like a lost soul for a few minutes, then decide to wait. After a few moments I notice a grocery store a few doors beyond the church. It’s just possible they are in the store. Carefully now I ease up the side street. A bit beyond the store, on the opposite side of the street, of course, I dash up a stoop and stand at the top of the stairs, my heart pounding like mad.

  I’m sure now that they are all in the grocery store. Not for a second do I take my eyes off the door. Suddenly I realize that I am rather conspicuous, standing there at the top of the stairs. I lean back against the door and try to make myself inconspicuous. I am shivering, not so much with cold as with fright. What will I do if she spots me? What will I say? What can I say or do? I am in such a state of funk that I am almost on the point of bolting down the steps and running away.

  Just then, however, the door opens with a bang and three children dash out. They dash right into the middle of the street. One of them, seeing me standing on the stoo
p, suddenly grabs the others by the arm and rushes back into the store with them. I have a feeling that it was my own little one who did this. I avert my gaze for a few moments, trying to appear nonchalant and disinterested in their behavior, as though I were waiting for someone to come out of the house from above and join me. When I look again I see a little face pressed against the window pane of the door across the way. She is looking up at me. I look at her long and hard, unable to tell if it is she or not.

  She withdraws and another little one presses her nose against the glass pane. Then another and another. Then they all retreat into the depths of the store.

  A panicky feeling now overcomes me. It was her, I am certain of it now. But why are they so shy? Or is it that they are afraid of me?

  Beyond the shadow of a doubt it is fear which grips them. When she looked up at me she didn’t smile. She looked intently to make sure it was me, her father, and no other.

  Suddenly I realize how disgraceful is my appearance. I feel my beard, which seems to have grown an inch longer. I look at my shoes and the sleeves of my jacket. Damn it, I might well pass for a kidnapper.

  Kidnapper! Her mother had probably dinned it into her that if she ever ran across me in the street she must not listen to me. Run home immediately and tell mamma!

  I was crushed. Slowly, painfully, like one broken and bruised, I descended the steps. When I reached the foot of the stoop the door of the grocery store was suddenly flung open and out trooped the whole group, six or seven of them. They ran as if the Devil himself were pursuing them. At the corner, though cars were speeding by, they turned obliquely and ran for the house—our house. It seemed to me that it was my little one who stopped in the middle of the street—for just a second—and looked around. It could have been one of the others, of course. All I could be certain of was that she was wearing a little bonnet trimmed with fur.

  I walked slowly to the corner, stood there a full minute gazing in their direction, then marched rapidly towards the subway station.

  What a cruel misadventure! All the way to the subway I chided myself for my stupidity. To think that my own daughter should be frightened of me, that she should run away from me, in terror! What a pass!

  In the subway I stood in front of a slot machine. I looked like a bum. a derelict. And to think that maybe I would never see her again, to think that this might be the last impression of me she would retain! Her own father crouching in a doorway, spying on her like a kidnapper. It was like a horrible cheap movie.

  Suddenly I recalled my promise to Ulric—to see Maude and talk things over. Now it was impossible, utterly impossible. Why? I couldn’t say. I knew only that is was so. I would never see Maude again, not if I could help it. As for the little one—I would pray, yes, pray to God, to give one more chance. I must see her and talk to her. When, though? Well, some day. Some day when she would be able to see things in a better light. I begged God not to let her hate me … above all, not to let her fear me. It’s too horrible, too horrible, I kept mumbling to myself. I love you so, my little one. I love you so much, so much…

  The train came along, and as the doors slid open, I began to sob. I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and stuffed it over my mouth. I almost ran to the vestibule where I hid myself in a corner, hoping the noise of the grinding wheels would drown my convulsive sobs.

  I must have been standing there like that a few minutes, unconscious of anything but my aching misery, when I felt a hand gently pressing my shoulder. Still holding the handkerchief to my mouth, I turned around. An elderly lady dressed all in black was looking at me with a most compassionate smile.

  My dear man, she began, in a soft, soothing voice. My dear man, what on earth has happened to you?

  With that I literally howled. The tears were blinding me. All I could see was a compassionate blur in front of me.

  Please, please, she begged, try to control yourself!

  I continued to weep and sob. And then the train came to a halt. Some passengers entered and we were crowded against the door.

  Have you lost some one dear to you? she asked. Her voice was so gentle, so soothing.

  I shook my head by way of answer.

  Poor, dear man, I know what it is. Again I felt the pressure of her hand.

  The doors were about to close. Suddenly I dropped the handkerchief, pushed my way through the crowd, and got out. I ran up the steps top speed and began walking like a madman. It had begun to rain. I walked into the rain with head down, laughing and crying. I jostled into people and was jostled back. Someone gave me a shove which sent me spinning into the gutter. I never even looked around. I kept on with head down, the rain running down my back. I wanted to be soaked through and through. I wanted to be cleansed of all iniquity. Yes, that’s how I put it to myself—cleansed of all iniquity. I wanted to be soaked through and through, then stabbed, then thrown into the gutter, then flattened out by a heavy truck, then ground down into the muck and mire, obliterated, annihilated for good and all.

  10

  With the turn of the solstice a new phase of existence has opened for us—not in the sunny South but in Greenwich Village. The first stage of the underground life.

  To run a speakeasy, which is what we are doing, and to live in it at the same time, is one of those fantastic ideas which can only arise in the minds of thoroughly impractical individuals.

  I blush when I think of the story I concocted to wheedle the money which we required to open the place from my mother.

  Ostensibly I’m the manager of this joint. I also wait on tables, fill short orders, empty the garbage, run errands, make the beds, clean house and in general make myself as useful as possible. (The one thing I shall never be able to do is to clear the rooms of smoke. The windows have to be kept closed during operations, for reasons soon to be disclosed.) The place—a typical basement flat in the poor section of the Village—is composed of three small rooms, one of them a kitchen. The windows are heavily curtained, so that even in daytime the light scarcely filters through. No doubt about it, if the enterprise proves a success we’ll have tuberculosis. Our intention is to open towards evening and close when the last customer leaves, which will probably be towards dawn.

  There’ll be no writing done here, I can see that. I’ll be lucky if I can find time to stretch my legs once a day.

  Only our most intimate friends are to know that we live here—and that we are married. Everything is to be veiled in secrecy. Which means that if the bell rings and Mona happens to be out, I am not to answer it. I’m to sit quiet in the shadows until the person has gone away. If possible I am to peek out and see who it is—just in case. In case what? In case it’s a detective or a bill collector. Or one of the more recent, hence ignorant and intrepid, lovers…

  Such is the set-up, in brief. The most we shall get out of if, I know in advance, is fret and worry. Mona, of course, is full of dreams about retiring in a few months and buying a house in the country. Pipe dreams. I’m so inoculated with them, however, that I’m immune. The only way to burst the bubble is to go through with the ideal. I have Another flock of dreams, but I’ve sense enough to keep them under my hat.

  It’s amazing the number of friends we have, all of whom have promised to be on hand for the opening night. Some who were mere names to me before—all from Mona’s retinue—have been helping us put things to rights. Cedric Ross, I discover, is a fop with a monocle who pretends to be a pathobiologist; Roberto de Sundra, one of the heavy lovers, is a Chilean student reputed to be fabulously rich; George Innes, an artist who indulges in opium bouts occasionally, is a superb fencer; Jim Driscoll, whom I have seen in the ring, is a wrestler with intellectual pretentions; Trevelyan, an English writer with a past, is a remittance man; Caccicacci, whose parents are supposed to own a marble quarry in Italy, is a clown with a flair for telling incredible stories.

  And then there’s Baronyi, the most ingratiating of all, who simply cannot do enough, to make the venture a success. A publicity man, he styles himself
.

  To my great surprise, the night before the opening, two ancient lovers appeared simultaneously, neither knowing the other, of course. I mean Carruthers and that man Harris who had paid a princely sum for the privilege of breaking my wife’s hymen. The latter arrived in a Rolls Royce with a chorus girl on either arm. Carruthers also had two girls with him, both former friends of Mona’s.

  Of course all my old cronies have sworn to be on hand the opening night, including O’Mara who has just returned from the South. Cromwell is also expected, though he may only be able to stay for a few minutes. As for Rothermel, Mona is trying to persuade him to stay away—he blabbers too much. I’m wondering if Sheldon will show up—just by chance. Certainly one or two of the millionaires will make an appearance—the shoe manufacturer possibly, or the lumber king.

  Will we have enough liquor to go round?—that’s our primary concern. Marjorie has promised to let us tap her private stock—in a pinch.

  The understanding, between Mona and myself, is this—should either of us happen to get drunk the other will remain sober. Of course neither of us is a booze artist, but just the same … The chief problem will be—how to get rid of the drunks. The cops will be sitting on our necks, no use fooling ourselves about that. The natural thing, under the circumstances, would be to put something aside for hush money. But Mona is certain we can get better, bigger protection. Talks about Rothermel’s friends from the swamp lands—judges, politicians, bankers, ammunition makers.

  That Rothermel! I’m dying to set eyes on him…

  There’s one little detail about the new establishment which pleases me no end and that’s the ice-box. It’s filled with delicious edibles, and it’s got to be kept filled no matter what happens. I keep opening and closing the damned contraption just to gaze at all the wonderful good things to eat. The bread is excellent too—Jewish bread from the East Side. When I get bored I’ll sit down all by my lonesome and enjoy a little snack. What better than a caviar sandwich on black bread smeared with sweet butter’—at 2.00 A.M.? With a glass of Chablis or Riesling to wash it down, certes. And to round it off, perhaps a dish of strawberries floating in sour cream, or if not strawberries then blackberries or huckleberries or blueberries or raspberries. I see Halvah and Baklava too. Goody goody! And on the shelf Kirschwasser, Strega, Benedictine, Chartreuse Verte. As for the whiskey—we have a dozen different brands—it leaves me cold. The beer likewise. Beer and whiskey—they’re for the dogs. C’est-a-dire—les clients.