Nexus

by Henry Miller

  But what was closer to me than anything in Chinese, Japanese or Tibetan art was this art of India born of the mountain itself. (As if the mountains became pregnant with dreams and gave birth to their dreams, using the poor human mortals who hollowed them out as tools.) It was the monstrous nature, if we may speak of the grandiose as such, yes, the monstrous nature of these creations which so appealed to me, which answered to some unspoken hunger in my own being. Moving amidst my own people I was never impressed by any of their accomplishments; I never felt the presence of any deep religious urge, nor any great aesthetic impulse: there was no sublime architecture, no sacred dances, no ritual of any kind. We moved in a swarm, intent on accomplishing one thing—to make life easy. The great bridges, the great dams, the great skyscrapers left me cold. Only Nature could instill a sense of awe. And we were defacing Nature at every turn. As many times as I struck out to scour the land, I always came back empty-handed. Nothing new, nothing bizarre, nothing exotic. Worse, nothing to bow down before, nothing to reverence. Alone in a land where every one was hopping about like mad. What I craved was to worship and adore. What I needed were companions who felt the same way. But there was nothing to worship or adore, there were no companions of like spirit. There was only a wilderness of steel and iron, of stocks and bonds, of crops and produce, of factories, mills and lumber yards, a wilderness of boredom, of useless utilities, of loveless love…

  18.

  A few days later. A telephone call from MacGregor. You know what, Hen? No, what?

  She’s coming round. All on her own too. Don’t know what’s come over her. You didn’t go to see her, did you?

  No. In fact I’ve hardly had a chance to think about her.

  You bastard! But you brought me luck, just the same. Or rather your pictures did. Yeah, those Japanese prints you had on your wall. I went and bought a couple, beautifully framed, and I sent them to her. Next day I get a telephone call. She was all excited. Said they were just what she always longed for. I told her that it was from you I got the inspiration. She pricked up her ears. Surprised, I guess, that I had a friend who cared anything about art. Now she wants to meet you. I said you were a busy man, but I’d call you and see if we could come to your place some evening. A queer girl, what? Anyway, this is your chance to fix things for me. Throw a lot of books around, will you? You know, the kind I never read. She’s a school teacher, remember. Books mean something to her … Well, what do you say? Aren’t you happy? Say something!

  I think it’s marvelous. Watch out, or you’ll be marrying again.

  Nothing would make me happier. But I have to go easy. You can’t rush her. Not her! It’s like moving a stone wall.

  Silence for a moment. Then—Are you there, Hen?

  Sure, I’m listening.

  I’d like to get a little dope from you before I see you … before I bring Guelda, I mean. Just a few facts about painters and paintings. You know me, I never bothered to brush up on that stuff. For instance, Hen, what about Breughel—was he one of the very great? Seems to me I’ve seen his stuff before—in frame stores and book shops. That one you have, with the peasant ploughing the field … he’s up on a cliff, I seem to remember, and there’s something falling from the sky … a man maybe … heading straight for the ocean. You know the one. What’s it called?

  The Flight of Icarus, I think.

  Of whom?

  Icarus. The guy who tried to fly to the sun but his wings melted, remember?

  Sure, sure. So that’s it? I think I’d better drop around some day and have another look at those pictures. You can wise me up. I don’t want to look like a jackass when she starts talking art.

  O.K., I said. Anytime. But remember, don’t keep me long.

  Before you hang up, Hen, give me the name of a book I could make her a present of. Something clean—and poetic. Can you think of one quick?

  Yes, just the thing for her: Green Mansions. By W. H. Hudson. She’ll love it.

  You’re sure?

  Absolutely. Read it yourself first.

  I’d like to, Hen, but I haven’t the time. By the way, remember that book list you gave me … about sewn years ago? Well, I’ve read three so far. You see what I mean.

  You’re hopeless, I replied.

  One more thing, Hen. You know, vacation time is coming soon. I’ve got a notion to take her to Europe with me. That is, if I don’t cross her up in the meantime. What do you think?

  A wonderful idea. Make it a honeymoon trip.

  It was MacGregor, I’ll bet, said Mona.

  Right. Now he’s threatening to bring his Guelda some evening.

  What a pest! Why don’t you tell the landlady to say you’re out next time there’s a call?

  Wouldn’t do much good. He’d come around to find out if she were lying. He knows me. No, we’re trapped.

  She was getting ready to leave—an appointment with Pop. The novel was almost completed now. Pop still thought highly of it.

  Pop’s going to Miami soon for a brief vacation.

  That’s good.

  I’ve been thinking, Val … I’ve been thinking that maybe we could take a vacation too while he’s away.

  Like where? I said.

  Oh, anywhere. Maybe to Montreal or Quebec.

  It’ll be freezing up there, won’t it?

  I don’t know. Since we’re going to France I thought you might like a taste of French life. Spring is almost here, it can’t be so very cold there.

  We said nothing more about the trip for a day or two. Meanwhile Mona had been investigating. She had all the dope on Quebec, which she thought I’d like better than Montreal. More French, she said. The small hotels weren’t too expensive.

  A few days later it was decided. She would take the train to Montreal and I would hitch hike. I would meet her at the railway station in Montreal.

  It was strange to be on the road again. Spring had come but it was still cold. With money in my pocket I didn’t worry about lifts. If it was no go I could always hop a bus or a train. So I stood there, on the highway outside Paterson N. J., determined to take the first car heading north, no matter if it went straight or zigzag.

  It took almost an hour before I got the first lift. This advanced me about twenty miles. The next car advanced me fifty miles. The countryside looked cold and bleak. I was getting nothing but short hauls. However, I had oodles of time. Now and then I walked a stretch, to limber up. I had no luggage to speak of—tooth-brush, razor, change of linen. The cold crisp air was invigorating. It felt good to walk and let the cars pass by.

  I soon got tired of walking. There was nothing to see but farms. Burial grounds, they looked like. I got to thinking of MacGregor and his Guelda. The name suited her, I thought. I wondered if he’d ever break her down. What a cheerless conquest!

  A car pulled up and I hopped in, without questioning the destination. The guy was a nut, a religious nut. Never stopped talking. Finally I asked him where he was heading. For the White Mountains, he replied. He had a cabin tip in the mountains. He was the local preacher.

  Is there a hotel anywhere near you? I asked.

  No, they had no hotels, nor inns, nor nothing. But he would be happy to put me up. He had a wife and four children. All God loving, he assured me.

  I thanked him. But I hadn’t the least intention of spending the night with him and his family. The first town we’d come to I’d hop out. I couldn’t see myself on my knees praying with this fool.

  Mister, he said, after an awkward silence, I don’t think you’re much of a God-fearing man, are you? What is your religion?

  Ain’t got any, I replied.

  I thought so. You’re not a drinking man, are you?

  Summat, I replied. Beer, wine, brandy…

  God has compassion on the sinner, friend. No one escapes His eye. He went off into a long spiel about the right path, the wages of sin, the glory of the righteous, and so on. He was pleased to have found a sinner like myself; it gave him something to work on.

  M
ister, I said, after one of his harangues, you’re wasting your time. I’m an incurable sinner, an absolute derelict. This provided him with more food.

  No one is beneath God’s grace, he said. I kept mum and listened. Suddenly it began to snow. The whole countryside was blotted out. Now I’m at his mercy, I thought.

  Is it far to the next town? I asked.

  A few more miles, he said.

  Good, I said. I’ve got to take a leak bad.

  You can do it here, friend. I’ll wait.

  I’ve got to do the other thing too, I said.

  With this he stepped on the gas. We’ll be there in a few minutes now, Mister. God will take care of everything.

  Even my bowels?

  Even your bowels, he replied gravely. God overlooks nothing.

  Supposing your gas gave out. Could God make the car go just the same?

  Friend, God could make a car go without gas—nothing is impossible for Him—but that isn’t God’s way. God never violates Nature’s laws; he works with them and through them. But, this is what God would do, if we ran out of gas and it was important for me to move on: He would find a way to get me where I wanted to go. He might help you to get there too. But being blind to His goodness and mercy, you would never suspect that God had aided you. He paused to Jet this sink in, then continued. Once I was caught like you, in the middle of nowhere, and I had to do a poop quick. I went behind a clump of bushes and I emptied my bowels. Then, just as I was hitching up my pants, I spied a ten dollar bill lying on the ground right in front of me. God put that money there for me, no one else. That was His way of directing me to it, by making me go poop. I didn’t know why he had shown me this favor, but I got down on my knees and I thanked Him. When I got home I found my wife in bed and two of the children with her. Fever. That money bought me medicine and other things that were sorely needed … Here’s your town, Mister. Maybe God will have something to show you when you empty your bowels and your bladder. I’ll wait for you at the corner there, after I do my shopping…

  I ran into the gas station, did a little pee, but no poop. There was no evidence of God’s presence in the lavatory. Just a sign reading: Please help us keep this place clean. I made a detour to avoid meeting my Saviour and headed for the nearest hotel. It was getting dark and the cold was penetrating. Spring was far behind here.

  Where am I? I asked the clerk as I signed the register. I mean, what town is this?

  Pittsfield, he said.

  Pittsfield what?

  Pittsfield, Massachusetts, he replied, surveying me coldly and with a tinge of contempt.

  The next morning I was up bright and early. Good thing, too, because cars were fewer and farther between, and no one seemed eager to take an extra passenger. By nine o’clock, what with the miles I had clicked off on my own two feet, I was famished. Fortunately—perhaps God had put him in my path—the man next to me in the coffee shop was going almost to the Canadian border. He said he would be happy to take me along. He was a professor of literature, I discovered after we had traveled a ways together. A gentleman too. It was a pleasure to listen to him. He talked as if he had read about everything of value in the English language. He spoke at length of Blake, John Donne, Traherne, Laurence Sterne. He talked of Browning too, and of Henry Adams. And of Milton’s Areopagitica. All caviar, in other words.

  I suppose you’ve written a number of books yourself, I said.

  No, just, two, he said. (Textbooks, they were.) I teach literature, he added, I don’t make it.

  Near the border he deposited me at a gas station owned by a friend of his. He was branching off to some hamlet nearby.

  My friend will see to it that you get a lift to-morrow morning. Get acquainted with him, he’s an interesting chap.

  We had arrived at this point just a half hour before closing time. His friend was a poet, I soon found out. I had dinner with him at a friendly little inn and then be escorted me to a hostelry for the night.

  At noon next day I was in Montreal. I had to wait a few hours for the train to pull in. It was bitter cold. Almost like Russia, I thought. And rather a gloomy looking city, all in all. I looked up a hotel, warmed myself in the lobby, then started back to the station.

  How do you like it? said Mona, as we drove off in a cab.

  Not too much. It’s the cold; it goes right to the marrow.

  Let’s go to Quebec to-morrow, then.

  We had dinner in an English restaurant. Frightful. The food was like mildewed cadavers slightly warmed.

  It’ll be better in Quebec, said Mona. We’ll stay in a French hotel.

  In Quebec the snow was piled high and frozen stiff. Walking the streets was like walking between ice-bergs. Everywhere we went we seemed to bump into flocks of nuns or priests. Lugubrious looking creatures with ice in their, veins. I didn’t think much of Quebec either. We might as well have gone to the North Pole. What an atmosphere in which to relax!

  However, the hotel was cosy and cheerful. And what meals! Was it like this in Paris? I asked. Meaning the food. Better than Paris, she said. Unless one ate in swell restaurants.

  How well I remember that first meal. What delicious soup! What excellent veal! And the cheeses! But best of all were the wines.

  I remember the waiter handing me the carte des vins and how I scanned it, utterly bewildered by the choice presented. When it came time to order I was speechless. I looked up at him and I said: Select one for us, won’t you? I know nothing about wine.

  He took the wine list and studied it, looking now at me, now at Mona, then back at the list. He seemed to be giving it his utmost attention and consideration. Like a man studying the racing chart.

  I think, he said, that what you should have is a Medoc. It’s a light, dry Bordeaux, which will delight your palate. If you like it, to-morrow we will try another vintage. He whisked off, beaming like a cherub.

  At lunch he suggested another wine—an Anjou. A heavenly wine, I thought. Followed next lunchtime by a Vouvray. For dinner, unless we had sea food, we drank red wines—Pommard, Nuits Saint-Georges, Clos-Vougeot, Macon, Moulin-a-Vent, Fleurie, and so on. Now and then he slipped in a velvety fruity Bordeaux, a chateau vintage. It was an education. (Mentally I was doling out a stupendous tip for him.) Sometimes he would take a sip himself, to make certain it was up to par. And with the wines, of course, he made the most wonderful suggestions as to what to eat. We tried everything. Everything was delicious.

  After dinner we usually took a seat on the balcony (indoors) and, over an exquisite liqueur or brandy, played chess. Sometimes the bell hop joined us, and then we would sit back and listen to him tell about la doulce France. Now and then we hired a cab, horse drawn, and drove around in the dark, smothered in furs and blankets. We even attended mass one night, to please the bell hop.

  All in all it was the laziest, peacefulest vacation I ever spent. I was surprised that Mona took it so well.

  I’d go mad if I had to spend the rest of my days here, I said one day.

  This isn’t like France, she replied. Except for the cooking.

  It isn’t America either, I said. It’s a no man’s land. The Eskimos should take it over.

  Towards the end—we were there ten days—I was itching to get back to the novel.

  Will you finish it quickly now, Val? she asked.

  Like lightning, I replied.

  Good! Then we can leave for Europe.

  The sooner the better, said I.

  When we got back to Brooklyn the trees were all in bloom. It must have been twenty degrees warmer than in Quebec.

  Mrs. Skolsky greeted us warmly. I missed you, she said. She followed us up to our rooms. Oh, she said, I forgot. That friend of yours—MacGregor is it?—was here one evening with his lady friend. He didn’t seem to believe me at first, when I told him you had gone to Canada. ‘Impossible!’ he exclaimed. Then he asked if he could visit your study. I hardly knew what to say. He behaved as if it were very important to show your room to his friend. You can trust us,�
�� he said. ‘I know Henry since he was a boy.’ I gave in, but I stayed with them all the time they were up here. He showed her the pictures on the wall—and your books. He acted as if he were trying to impress her. Once he sat down in your chair and he said to her: ‘Here’s where he writes his books, doesn’t he, Mrs. Skolsky?’ Then he went on about you, what a great writer you were, what a loyal friend, and so on. I didn’t know what to make of the performance. Finally I invited them downstairs to have some tea with me. They stayed for about two hours, I guess. He was very interesting too…

  What did he talk about? I asked. Many things, she said. But mostly about love. He seemed infatuated with the young lady.

  Did she say much?

  No, hardly a word. She was rather strange, I thought. Hardly the type for a man like him.

  Was she good-looking?

  That depends, said Mrs. Skolsky. To be honest, I thought she was very plain, almost homely. Rather lifeless too. It puzzles me. What can he see in a girl like that? Is he blind?

  He’s an utter fool! said Mona.

  He sounds quite intelligent, said Mrs. Skolsky.

  Please, Mrs. Skolsky, said Mona, when he calls up, or even if he comes to the door, will you do us the favor of saying that we’re out? Say anything, only don’t let him in. He’s a pest, a bore. An absolutely worthless individual.

  Mrs. Skolsky looked at me inquiringly.

  Yes, I said, she’s right. He’s worse than that, to tell the truth. He’s one of those people whose intelligence serves no purpose. He’s intelligent enough to be a lawyer, but in every other respect he’s an imbecile.

  Mrs. Skolsky looked nonplused. She was not accustomed to hearing people talk that way about their friends.