The Rosy Crucifixion 2 - Plexus

by Henry Miller

  To vary the monotony Mona and I would make an excursion on our own occasionally, selecting some distant spot, any old spot, which we would get to by hitch-hiking. We made these excursions merely to kill time. (In the South time flies like lead.) Sometimes we took the first car that came along, not caring which direction it was taking. Like that, observing one day that we were headed for South Carolina, I suddenly recollected the name of an old school chum who, from last reports, was teaching music in a little college in South Carolina. I decided that we would pay him a visit. It was a long ride and, as usual, we had not a cent in our pockets. I was sure, however, that we could count on having a good lunch with my old friend.

  It was a good twenty years since I had last seen this good old chum. He had left school ahead of us in order to study music in Germany. He became a concert pianist, traveled all over Europe, and then returned to America to accept an insignificant post in this little Southern town., I had had a few cards from him—and then silence. As I mused I began to wonder if he could have forgotten who I was. Twenty years is a long time.

  Every day, on our way home from school, I would stop at his home to listen to him play. He played all the compositions I was later to hear in concert halls, and he played them (to my youthful mind) as well as the maestros. He had the size and the reach to command attention. On his forehead was a budding growth which, when he grew inspired, looked almost like a short horn. He towered over me by a good foot. He looked like a foreigner and he spoke like a European of the upper class who had learned English with his mother tongue. Add to this that he usually wore striped trousers and a soft black coat. It was in the German class that we struck up a friendship. He had taken German, which he knew perfectly, in order to have that much less to study. The teacher, a delightful, flirtatious young woman with a keen sense of humor, was really taken by him. She pretended, however, to be annoyed with him. Every now and then she gave him a sly dig. One day, incensed by the perfect translation he had just delivered aloud, and without preparation, she asked him why he hadn’t chosen to learn some other language. Hadn’t he any desire to learn something new? And so on. Putting on a malicious smile, he replied that he had better things to do with his time.

  Oh you have, have you? Like what, may. I ask?

  I have my music.

  So! You’re a musician? A pianist—or perhaps a composer?

  Both, he said.

  And what have you composed thus far?

  Sonatas, concertos, symphonies and operas … plus a few quartets.

  The class burst into an uproar.

  You’re even more of a genius than I thought you were, said she, after the hubbub had died down.

  Before the lesson was over he handed me a note which he had hastily scribbled and folded up. I had no more than read it when I was ordered up front. I handed it to her face open. She read the message, blushed crimson, and threw it into the waste basket. All it said was: Sic ist wie eine Blume.

  I thought of other things in connection with this genius. How he despised everything American, for example, how he detested our literature, how he mimicked the professors, how he loathed any form of exercise. But above all, I remembered the freedom he enjoyed in his own home and the respect shown him by his parents and brothers. There wasn’t another chap like him in the whole school. How delighted I was when I got my first letter from him, dated Heidelberg. He was thoroughly at home, he wrote, even more of a German than the Germans. Why was I staying in America? Why didn’t I join him and become a good German poet?

  I was just thinking how odd it would be if he should say—I don’t remember you—when I realized that we had entered the town. It took less than no time to learn that my old friend had left the day before to tour the East. What luck! We were famished, it being long after noon. In desperation I held on to the Dean, a brittle, querulous old lady, trying to impress upon her the fact that we had made a tremendous detour, on our way to Mexico—our car having broken down some miles away—expressly for the purpose of greeting my dear boyhood friend of long ago. By dint of holding on, chewing her ear off, I managed to get across to her (telepathically) that we were in need of refreshment. With bad grace she eventually ordered up tea and scones for us.

  We walked to the edge of the town, to stretch our legs. There we caught a lift homeward in a battered Ford. The driver, a veteran and somewhat cracked, also a bit spifflicated—in the South everyone drinks like a fish—said he would be passing through Asheville. He didn’t seem to know very definitely where he was going, except northward. The conversation which we carried on during the long ride back to Asheville was absolutely crazy. The poor devil had not only been banged up in the war, had not only lost his wife to his best friend, but had been in several bad accidents since. To make it worse, he was a dunce and a bigot, one of those ornery cusses who become even more ornery when they happen to be Southerners. We flitted from subject to subject like grasshoppers, nothing apparently being of interest to him except his own woes and miseries. As we neared Asheville he became more cantankerous than ever. He made it plain that he thoroughly and heartily disliked everything about us. including our manner of speech. When he finally deposited us on the sidewalk in Asheville he was fuming.

  We stuck out our hands to thank him for the lift and, without wasting words, said—Good-bye!

  Good-bye? he cried. Aren’t you going to pay me?

  Pay? I was dumbfounded. Whoever heard of paying for a ride?

  You didn’t expect to ride for nothing, did you? he shouted. What about the gas and oil I bought? He leaned out of the car belligerently.

  I had to do some tall explaining, and fast. He looked at us incredulously, then shook, his head and mumbled: I thought as much when I set eyes on you. As an afterthought: I’ve a good mind to run you in. Then something I would never have expected happened: he burst into tears. I leaned forward to say a comforting word, my heart completely melted. Go way from me! he yelled. Go way! We left him sitting huddled up over the steering wheel, his head in his arms, weeping to break his heart.

  What in Christ’s name do you make of that? I said, somewhat shaken.

  You were lucky he didn’t pull a knife on you, said Mona. The experience confirmed the conviction she had always held about Southerners—that they were absolutely unpredictable. It was time we thought of returning home, she thought.

  The next day, as I sat at the machine with a vacant stare, I began to wonder how much longer we could carry on in sunny Carolina. Several weeks had passed since we last paid a cent towards our room. What we owed the good Mr. Rawlins for meals I didn’t dare think.

  The following day, however, to our utter astonishment we received a telegram from Kronski informing us that he and his wife were on their way, would see us that very evening. A wind-fall!

  Sure enough, just a little before dinner time they blew in.

  Come all ye out of the wilderness

  And glory be, the

  Father, Son and Holy Ghost

  Through all eternity.

  Almost the first thing we asked, disgraceful as it sounds, was whether they had any money to spare.

  Is that all that’s eating yez? Kronski was fairly beaming. That’s easy. How much would you like? Will fifty do?

  We hugged one another for joy. Money he said—why didn’t you wire me? And in the next breath—Do you really like it here? Kinda scares me, to tell you the truth. This ain’t no country for niggers—nor for Jews. Makes me creepy…

  Over the meal he wanted to know what I had written, whether I had sold anything, and so on. He had suspected, so he said, that things weren’t going well with us. That’s why we hopped down sort of sudden like. I’ve got thirty-six hours to spend with you. He said this with a smile which meant—you won’t have to put up with me a minute longer.

  Mona was all for going back with them, but for some perverse reason I insisted that we stick it out a little longer. We argued about this rather heatedly but got nowhere.

  The hell with that ques
tion, said Kronski. Now that we’re here, what can you show us before we leave?

  Promptly I replied: Lake Junaleska. I didn’t know why I said it, it just popped out of my mouth. But then suddenly I did know. It was because I wanted to see Waynesville again.

  Every time I get near this place—Waynesville—I feel as though I would like to settle down. I don’t know what it is about the place, but it gets me.

  You’ll never settle down in the South, said Kronski. You’re a born New Yorker. Listen, why don’t you stop roaming through the hinterland and go abroad? The place for you is France, don’t you know that?

  Mona agreed most enthusiastically. You’re the only one who talks sense to him, said she.

  If it were me, said Kronski, I’d pick Russia. But I don’t have the wanderlust. I don’t find New York so bad, would you believe that? Then, in characteristic fashion, he added: Once I set up practice I’ll stake you two to a trip to Europe. I’m serious about it. I’ve had the thought many a time. You’re getting stale here. You don’t belong in this country, neither of you. It’s too small, too petty … it’s too god-damned prosaic, that’s what. As for. you, Mister Miller, quit writing those damned things for the magazines, do you hear me? You’re not meant to write that stuff. You’re cut out to write books. Write a book, why don’t you? You can do it…

  The next day we went to Waynesville and to Lake Junaleska. Neither place made the least impression on any of them.

  Funny, said I, as we were riding back, you can’t picture a guy like me spending the rest of his days in a spot like that—like Waynesville, I mean. Why? Why does it seem so fantastic?

  You don’t belong, that’s all.

  I don’t, eh? Where do I belong, I asked myself. France? Maybe. Maybe not. Forty million Frenchmen was a lot to swallow in one dose. If anything, I preferred Spain. I took instinctively to Spaniards, as I did to Russians.

  Somehow the conversation had got me to pondering the economic question again. That was always a nightmare. In a weak moment I found myself wondering if we hadn’t better return to New York after all.

  The next day, however, I was of a different mind. We accompanied Kronski and his wife to the edge of the town where they quickly got a lift. We stood there a moment waving good-bye, then I turned to Mona and mumbled thickly: He’s a good egg, that Kronski.

  The best friend you’ve got, said she quick as a flash.

  With the fifty from Kronski we paid something on our debts, and, trusting that Kronski would send us a little more when he got back to New York, we made another stab at it. By sheer force of will I succeeded in finishing another story. I tried to begin another, but it was hopeless: I hadn’t an idea in my bean. So instead I wrote letters to all and sundry, including that kind editor who had once offered to give me a job as his assistant. I also looked up O’Mara, but found him in such a despondent mood that I didn’t have the heart to mention money.

  There was no doubt about it, the South was getting us down. The landlord and his wife did everything to make us comfortable; Mr. Rawlins, too, did his best to encourage us. Never a word from any of them about the money we still owed them. As for Matthews, his trips to West Virginia were becoming more frequent and more protracted. Besides, we simply couldn’t bring ourselves to borrow from him.

  The heat, as I have already said, had a great deal to do with our lowered morale. There is a heat which warms and vitalizes, and there’s another kind which enervates one, saps one’s strength, one’s courage, even one’s desire to live. Our blood was too thick, I suppose. The general apathy of the natives only added to our own apathy. It was like somnolescing in a vacuum. Never did one hear the word art: it was absent from the vocabulary of these people. I had the feeling that the Cherokees had produced more art than these poor devils ever would. One missed the presence of the Indian whose land, after all, it was. One felt the overpowering presence of the Negro. A heavy, disturbing presence. The tar heel, as the native is called, is certainly no nigger lover. He’s not much of anything, in fact. As I say, it was a vacuum, a hot, smouldering vacuum, if one can imagine such a thing.

  It made me itchy at times to walk up and down the desolate streets. Walking the road was no fun either. On every side a gorgeous setting presented itself to the eye, yet inwardly one felt nothing but despair and desolation. The beauty of the surroundings only served to ravage one. God had certainly meant for man to lead a different life here. The Indian had been much closer to God. As for the Negro, he would have thrived here had the white man given him a chance. I used to wonder, and I wonder still, whether eventually the Indian and the Negro will not get together, drive the white man out, and reestablish Paradise in this land of milk and honey. Ah well—

  The very next blessing that Mary had

  Hit was the blessing of two

  To think her little Jesus

  Could read the Bible through

  Read the Bible through.

  A few contributions dribbled in—pin money, no more!—as a result of the letters I had sent out to all and sundry. Not a word from Kronski, though.

  We held out a few more weeks, then totally discouraged, we decided one night to get up at the crack of dawn and sneak away. We had only two little grips to lug. After a sleepless night we rose with the first streak of light and, carrying our shoes in one hand and a grip in the other, we eased out as noiseless as mice. We walked several miles before a car came along. It was noon by the time we reached Winston-Salem, where I decided to send my father a collect message asking for a few dollars. I suggested he wire the money to Durham, where we planned to spend the night.

  Towards evening we entered Durham. A telegram was waiting for me, sure enough. It read: Sorry son but I haven’t a cent in the bank. I felt like weeping, not over our own plight but because of the humiliation it must have caused the old man to send a message like that.

  Thanks to a stranger, we had had a sandwich and coffee around noon. We were now famished, more famished than ordinarily, of course, because of the impossible distance still to go on an empty stomach. There was nothing to do but take to the road again, which we did—like automatons.

  As we were standing on the highway, too tired and defeated to trudge another step, as we stood there blankly watching the sun go down like a burst tomato, all of a sudden a rather snazzy car pulled up and a cheery voice called out—Want a lift? It was a couple headed for some little town about two hours distant. The man was from Alabama, and spoke with the accent of a man of the deep South, the woman was from Arkansas. They were cheerful, lively individuals who seemed not to have a care in the world.

  On the way we had car trouble, one little thing after another. Instead of making it in two hours it took almost five. By the time we reached our destination, thanks to the delays, we had become firm friends. We had told them the truth about ourselves, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and it had gone straight to their hearts. I shall never, never forget the way that good woman, immediately we entered the house, rushed to the bathroom, filled the tub with hot water, laid out the soap and towels, and begged us to relax while she scared up a meal. When we reappeared, clothed in their bathrobes, the table was set; we sat down at once to an excellent meal of hash and friend eggs with hot muffins, coffee, preserves, fruit and pie. It was about three in the morning when we turned in. At their request we slept in their bed, never realizing until we awoke that our kind hosts had improvised a bed for themselves by removing the seats from the car.

  When we got up, around noon, we had a hearty breakfast, after which the man showed me around his huge backyard where the remains of cars were strewn about. Wrecks were his livelihood. He was certainly a happy-go-lucky sort of fellow, and his wife even more so. Our unexpected visit seemed to make them slap-happy. Why we didn’t stay with them a few days, as they begged us to do, I don’t know.

  As we made ready to leave, the woman took Mona to one side and furtively pressed a few bills in her hand, while the husband shoved a carton of cigarettes under my a
rm. They insisted on driving us out of town a little distance so that we might get a lift more easily. When we finally parted they had tears in their eyes.

  It was getting on and we were bent on making Washington that day. We would have made it too, were it not for the fact that we got nothing but short hauls. By the time we sailed into Richmond it was nightfall.

  And again we were broke. The few dollars the woman had given us had disappeared—the purse with it. Had someone robbed us of those miserable few dollars? If so, it was a grim joke. However, we felt too good, tool near our goal, to be depressed over the loss of our little fortune.

  Time to eat again…

  With a calculating eye we scanned the various I restaurants and finally decided on a Creek one. would eat first, then explain our predicament. We put away a good meal, with extra helpings of dessert, and! then gently broke the news to the proprietor. Our story made no impression on him whatever, or rather, it made the wrong impression. All he could think of—hardly solution!—was to call the police. In a few minutes motorcycle cop appeared. After the usual grilling he asked us point blank what we intended to do about the situation. I said that if he would pay for the wire would send a message to New York, that undoubtedly the money would be forthcoming in the morning. He thought this a reasonable idea and volunteered to put us up in a hotel nearby. He then turned to the Greek and informed him that he would be responsible for us. All of which struck me as damned decent.