The Rosy Crucifixion 2 - Plexus

by Henry Miller

  Another breathing spell. We were all ready with the bottle this time. Caccicacci was laboring. He had derailed. It was not knowledge, or the lack of it, that he was so desperately concerned with. I was aware of the silent effort he was making to retrace his steps; I could feel him floundering about in his struggle to get back to the main line.

  Faith! I was talking about faith a moment ago. We’ve lost it. Lost it completely. Faith in anything, I mean. Yet faith is the only thing man lives by. Not knowledge, which is admittedly inexhaustible and in the end futile or destructive. But faith. Faith too is inexhaustible. Always has been, always will be. It is faith which inspires deeds, faith which overcomes obstacles—literally moves mountains, as the Bible says. Faith in what? Just faith. Faith in everything, if you like. Perhaps a better word would be acceptance. But acceptance is even more difficult to understand than faith. Immediately you utter the word, there is an inquisitioner which says: ‘Evil too? And if one says yes, then the way is barred. You are laughed out of countenance, shunned like a leper. Good, you see, may be questioned, but evil—and this is a paradox—evil, though we struggle constantly to eliminate it, is always taken for granted. No one doubts the existence of evil, though it is only an abstract term for that which is constantly changing character and which, on close analysis, is often found to be good. No one will accept evil at its face value. It is, and it is not. The mind refuses to accept it unconditionally. It would really seem as if it existed only to be converted into its opposite. The simplest and readiest way to accomplish this is, of course, to accept it. But who is wise enough to adopt such a course?

  I think of Picodiribibi again. Was there anything ‘evil’ about his appearance or existence? Yet he was held in dread by the world in which he found himself. He was regarded as a violation of nature. But is man himself not a violation of nature? If we could fashion another Picodiribibi, or one even more marvelous in his functioning, would we not be in ecstasy? But suppose that, instead of a more marvelous robot, we were suddenly confronted by a genuine human being whose attributes were so incomparably superior to our own that he resembled a god? This is a hypothetical question, to be sure, yet there are, and always have been, individuals who maintain, and persist in maintaining, despite reason and ridicule, that they have had witness of such divine beings. We can all summon suitable names. Myself, I prefer to think of a mythical being, someone nobody has ever heard of, or seen, or will know in this life. Someone, in brief, who could exist and fulfill the requirements I speak of…

  Here Caccicacci digressed. He was forced to confess that he did not know what had prompted him to make such a statement, nor where he was heading. He kept rubbing his poll and murmuring over and over: Strange, strange, but I thought I had something there. Suddenly his face lit up with joy. Ah yes, I know now. I’ve got it. Listen … Supposing this being, universally admitted to be superior to us in every way, should take it to address the world in this fashion: ‘Stop where you are, O men and women, and give heed! You are on the wrong track. You are headed for destruction.’ Supposing that everywhere on this globe the billions which make up humanity did stop what they were doing and listened. Even if this god-like being said nothing more than what I’ve just put in his mouth, what do you suppose the effect would be? Has the entire world ever stopped to listen in unison to words of wisdom? Imagine, if you can, a total, drastic silence, all ears cocked to catch the fatal words! Would it even be necessary to utter the words? Can you not imagine that everyone, in the silence of his heart, would supply the answer himself? There is only one response that humanity longs to give—and it can be voiced in one little monosyllable: Love. That little word, that mighty thought, that perpetual act, positive, unambiguous, eternally effective—if that should sink in, take possession of all mankind, would it not transform the world instantly? Who could resist, if love became the order of the day? Who would want power or knowledge—if he were bathed in the perpetual glory of love?

  It is said, as you know, that in the fastnesses of Tibet there actually exists a small band of men so immeasurably superior to us that they are called ‘The Masters.’ They live in voluntary exile from the rest of the world. Like the androids I spoke of earlier, they too are ageless, immune to disease, and indestructible. Why do they not mingle with us, why do they not enlighten and ennoble us by their presence? Have they chosen to remain isolate—or is it we who keep them at a distance? Before you attempt to answer, ask yourself another question—what have we to offer them which they do not already know, possess, or enjoy? If such beings exist, and I have every reason to believe they do, then the only possible barrier is consciousness. Degrees of consciousness, to be more exact. When we reach to deeper levels of thought and being they will be there, so to speak. We are still unready, unwilling, to mingle with the gods. The men of olden times knew the gods: they saw them face to face. Man was not removed, in consciousness, from either the higher or the lower orders of creation. Today man is cut off. Today man lives as a slave. Worse, we are slaves to one another. We have created a condition hitherto unknown, a condition altogether unique: we have become the slaves of slaves. Doubt it not, the moment we truly desire freedom we shall be free. Not a whit sooner! Now we think like machines, because we have become as machines. Craving power, we are the helpless victims of power … The day we learn to express love we shall know love and have love—and all else will fall away. Evil is a creation of the human mind. It is powerless when accepted at face value. Because it has no value in itself. Evil exists only as a threat to that eternal kingdom of love we but dimly apprehend. Yes, men have had visions of a liberated humanity. They have had visions of walking the earth like the gods they once were. Those whom we call ‘The Masters’ undoubtedly found the road back. Perhaps the androids have taken another road. All roads, believe it or not, lead eventually to that life-giving source which is the center and meaning of creation. As Lawrence said with dying breath—’For man, the vast marvel is to be alive. For man, as for flower, beast and bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly, most perfectly, alive …’ In this sense, Picodiribibi was never alive. In this sense, none of us is alive. Let us become fully alive, that is what I have been trying to say.

  Exhausted by this unintended flight, Caccicacci took leave abruptly in embarrassment and confusion. We who had listened in silence remained seated in the corner by the window. No one seemed able to summon breath for a few minutes. Arthur Raymond, usually immune to such disquisitions, looked from one to another defiantly, ready to pounce upon the slightest provocation. Spud Jason and his consort were already three sheets to the wind. No argument coming from that quarter! Finally it was Baronyi who broke the ice, remarking in a gentle, perplexed voice that he had never imagined Caccicacci to be so serious. Trevelyan groaned, as if to say—You don’t know the half of it! Then, to our stupefaction, without the slightest preliminary, he launched into a long monologue about his own private troubles. He began by telling how his wife, who was not only pregnant but mad, mad as a hatter, had tried to strangle him in bed while asleep just the night before. He confessed, in his bland, suppressed, underdone way—he was British to the core—that he had certainly treated her abominably. He made it painfully clear that from the very beginning he had loathed her. He had married her out of pity, because the man who had made her with child had run out on her. She was a poetess and he thought highly of her work. What he couldn’t abide was her moods. She would sit for hours, knitting woollen socks which he never wore, and never a peep out of her. Or, she would sit in the rocker, doing absolutely nothing, and while swaying back and forth would hum, hum for hours. Or, she would suddenly get a talking jag, corner him in the kitchen or the bedroom, and fill him with dreamy stuff which she called inspiration.

  What do you mean—dreamy stuff? asked O’Mara, grinning maliciously.

  Oh, said Trevelyan, it might be about fog, fog and rain … how the trees and bushes looked when the fog suddenly drifted away. It might be about the color of fog, all the shades of gray
which she could discern with her cat-like eyes. She had lived on the coast of Cornwall during her childhood—they’re all a bit loony there—and she would relive her walks in the fog, her experiences with goats and cats, or with the village idiot. In these moods she talked another language—I don’t mean a dialect, I mean a language of her own which no one could understand. It used to give me the creeps. It was a sort of cat language, as best I can describe it. She yowled now and then, a real yowl that made your blood curdle. Sometimes she imitated the wind, all kinds of wind, from a gentle breeze to a ripping gale. And then she would snuffle and weep, trying to convince me that she mourned the flowers which had been cut down—the pansies and the lilies particularly, they were so helpless, so defenceless. Before you knew it she would be walking through strange places, describing them intimately, as if she had lived there all her life. Places like Trinidad, Curasao, Mozambique, Guadeloupe, Madras, Cawnpore and such like. Eerie? I’ll tell you, I thought for a while she had second sight … By the way, couldn’t we have another drink? I haven’t a farthing, as you probably know…

  She’s a queer one, all right. And a bloody, obstinate cuss, too. Get in an argument with her and you’re doomed. She knows how to block all the exits. You’re trapped, once you start in with that one. I never realized that women could be so utterly logical. It wouldn’t matter what you were discussing—odors, vegetation, diseases or sun-spots. Hers is always the last word, no matter what the subject. Add to all that, a mania for detail, a mania for minutiae. Shell sit at the breakfast table, for example, with a broken petal in her hand, and she’ll examine it for an hour. She’ll ask you to concentrate on a minute piece of this petal no bigger than the merest sliver of a splinter. Claims she can see all sorts of curious and wondrous things in this piece of nothingness. All with the naked eye, mind you. Her eyes are not human eyes, by God. She can see in the dark, of course, even better than a cat. She can see with her eyes closed, believe it or not. She demonstrated that to my own satisfaction one might. But what she can’t see is the other person! She looks right through you when she talks to you. She sees only what she is talking about, whether it’s fog, cats, idiots, remote cities, floating islands or floating kidneys. In the beginning I used to grab her by the arm and shake her—I thought perhaps she was in a trance. Nothing of the sort! Just as wide-awake as you or I. Even more awake, I’d say. Nothing escapes her. ‘Did you hear that?’ she says sometimes, right in the middle of a sentence. ‘Hear what?’ Maybe a cake of ice slipped just the fraction of an inch in the ice-box. Maybe a leaf just fell to the ground in the back-yard. Maybe a drop of water dripped from the kitchen faucet. ‘Did you hear that?’ I’d jump whenever she said it. After a while I began to think I was growing deaf—she gave such importance to these inaudible nothings. ‘It’s nothing,’ she’d say, ‘it’s just your nerves.’ And with all that she has absolutely no ear for music. All she hears is the scratching of the needle: her pleasure is derived solely from detecting whether the record is an old one or a fairly new one, and how new, or how old. She can’t tell the difference between Mozart, Puccini and Satie. She likes hymns. Dingy, melancholy hymns. Which she always hums with a seraphic smile, as if she were already among the angels. No, really, she’s the most detestable bitch imaginable. There’s not a spark of joy or gayety in her. If you tell her a funny story she’s bored. If you laugh she’s outraged. If you sneeze you have bad manners. If you indulge in a drink you’re a sot … We’ve had intercourse—if you can call it that—about three times, I guess. She closes her eyes, lies rigid as a pole, and begs you to get done with it as quickly as possible. Worse than raping a martyr. When it’s over she gets a pad, props herself up in bed, and writes a poem. To purify herself, I suppose. I could kill her sometimes…

  What about the brat? O’Mara piped up. Does she want the child?

  Search me! said Trevelyan. She never mentions the subject. It might just as well be a tumor, for all it seems to matter. Now and then she says she’s getting too stout … she wouldn’t say ‘fat’, that’s too coarse. Stout. As though it were strange to be blowing up like a balloon when you’re seven months along!

  How do you know she is pregnant? asked Spud Jason sleepily. Sometimes it’s only imaginary.

  Imaginary, huh! I only wish to Christ it were; She’s pregnant alright … I’ve felt it moving inside her.

  It could be wind, said someone.

  Wind doesn’t have arms and legs, said Trevelyan, getting irritated. Wind doesn’t roll over or have conniption fits.

  Let’s get out of here, said Spud Jason. You’ll be giving this one ideas. and with this he gave his sidekick a poke in the ribs that almost knocked her off the chair.

  As if it were a game they played time and again, Alameda rose quietly, walked round him, then gave him a resounding thwack on the face with the palm of her hand.

  So that’s it? cried Spud Jason, leaping from his chair and twisting her arm. With his other hand he grabbed her long mane and pulled it vigorously.

  Behave yourself, or I’ll blacken your eyes for you!

  You will, will you? Alameda was brandishing an empty bottle.

  Get out of here, the two of you! shouted Mona. And don’t come back again, please!

  How much do I owe you? said Spud Jason sheepishly.

  You don’t owe anything, said Mona. Just get out and stay out!

  11

  To my surprise MacGregor dropped in one night, ordered a drink, and paid for it without a murmur. He seemed unusually mellow. Inquired solicitously how we were doing, what the prospects were, did we need any help—legal help—and so on. I couldn’t make out what had come over him.

  Suddenly, when Mona had turned her back, he said: Couldn’t you pull yourself away for a few hours some night?

  Without waiting for me to say yes or no, he went on to tell me that he was in love again, head over heels, in fact. Guess you can tell it, can’t you. She was a funny gal, in a way, he explained. A divorcee, with two kids on her hands. How do you like that? He then said that he wanted to impart something very confidential. He knew it was hard for me to keep my trap shut, but just the same … Teas, you know, doesn’t suspect a thing. I wouldn’t hurt her for the world. Damn it! Don’t laugh! I say it only because you might spill the beans some night in one of your chivalrous moods.

  I grinned.

  So that was the set-up. Trix, the new one, lived in the Bronx. To hell and gone, as he put it. He was out every night till three, four or five in the morning. Tess thinks I’m gambling. The way the money’s going I might just as well be out shooting crap every night. But that’s neither here nor there. What I’m asking you is—can you steal away some night, just for a few hours? I said nothing, just grinned again. I’d like you to look her over … tell me if I’m cuckoo or not. Here he paused a minute, as if embarrassed. To focus it a little better for you, Hen, let me tell you this: every night after dinner she gets the kids to sit in my lap, one on each knee. And what do you think I do? Tell them bed-time stories! Can you picture that? He burst out into a loud guffaw. You know, Hen, I can hardly believe it myself. But it’s a fact. I couldn’t be more considerate of them if they were my own kids. Christ, I’ve already bought them a whole menagerie of toys. You know, if Tess hadn’t had her insides cleaned out, we would have had three or four brats ourselves. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why we’ve drifted apart. You know Tess, Henry—she’s got a heart of gold. But she’s not much to talk to. Interested in her law work and that’s about all. If I stay home of a night I fall asleep. Or else I get drunk. Why the hell I ever married her I don’t know. You, you bastard, you never said a word: you let me sail straight into it. Thought it would do me good, didn’t you? Well, I’m drifting … You know, sometimes, listening to myself, I hear my old man talking. He can’t stick to the point longer than two minutes. Mother’s the same way … How about another drink? I’m paying for them, don’t worry

  There was silence for a few moments, then I asked him point-blank just why he was s
o eager to have me meet his new gal. I know damned well, I added, that you don’t want my approval.

  No, Hen, and he looked down at the table top, to be serious about it, I wanted you to come for dinner some night when the kids are eating with us and…

  And what?

  And give me some pointers about these damned fairy tales. Kids take these things seriously, you know. I have a feeling I’m doing it ass-backwards. Maybe I’m telling them things they oughtn’t to hear till they’re five years older…

  So that’s it? I blurted out. Well, I’ll be damned! And what makes you think I know anything about this business?

  Well, you had a kid of your own, didn’t you? Besides, you’re a writer. You’re up on this crap, I’m not. I start a story and I don’t know how to finish it. I’m all at sea, I tell you.

  Haven’t you any imagination?

  Are you kidding? Listen, you know me. All I know is law, and maybe not too much of that. I’ve got a single-track mind. Anyway, it’s not just for that I want you to come … I want you to meet Trix. I think you’ll like her. Boy, she’s some cook! Tess, by the way—well, I don’t have to tell you—but Tess can’t even fry an egg. This one’ll make you think you’re dining at the Ritz. She does it with class. She has a bit of a cellar, too—maybe that will get you. Listen, what are you hemming and hawing about? I’d like you to have a good time, that’s all. You’ve got to have a change once in a while. O’Mara can take over for’ a few hours, can’t he? That is, if you trust him! Personally, I wouldn’t trust him out of my sight…