by Henry Miller
She vows never to let him know that she cares for him so. “So?” she asks herself. Up till then she was unaware that he meant anything to her—in this way. “Why has he never said anything? Is he afraid of me?” She is delighted with her powers, and clasps her bosom with a strange, possessive joy. “Oh, Dion,” she murmurs, “if you only knew, if you only knew.” She hugs the shadow of her lover. Her knees are dimpled from the pressure of the carpet. Quivers shoot up and down her spine.
It is tragic, this senseless frustration life deals. Cora is beyond question the woman Dion Moloch should have married. She has everything to offer him: love, health, beauty. God, how he knows it, too! He loves her so much that he wants to crawl to her on his belly and invite her to use him as a footstool.
“This will never occur again,” he tells himself.
How truly the heart speaks in crises like this! Later, when he wants to love, when there is every reason for him to flower again, his heart is strangely empty. He no longer thinks of Cora, unless some accident has precipitated her memory. He does not realize, in such moments, that he has given himself to her irrevocably. Such gifts are impossible to repeat.
But, to return. . . . The club is holding an affair. It will be the last racket run by “the Deep Thinkers” for some time. Several of the fellows are going off to college. Moloch is one of them.
There is nothing of an unusual nature about this gathering. The atmosphere is hardly more tense than at any time in the past. The same simple incidents are repeated. Not a shadow of the deeper life to come mars their pleasures. All is joy. Youth is having its day. The morrow will be like any other. Not one among them doubts his capacity to meet the future.
Moloch, too, shares this fatuous belief. But he has reason to feel confident. He should exult. Has not Cora been unusually kind to him this evening? She has eyes for no one else, it seems. Oh, he will go off to college and make a name for himself. And when he returns . . .
“What’s this? She’s asking for me? For me?
Young Dion Moloch gets up and threads his way through the noisy, chattering group. The room is whirling. He doesn’t know what to say to her, nor how he’ll behave when he finds her in the hall. All evening he has been waiting for the moment when it will come his turn to invite someone outside “to get a few letters.” That she should call him . . .no, that he never expected.
In the few steps that are left he already sees himself as a swashbuckling figure. Women are clamoring for him . . . can’t wait till they are called. Great guns! What is this magnetism he possesses?
The face that Cora turns to his in the dim light of the hall is the most beautiful sight in the world. One glance at her and he has lost all that bravado. Not a word is exchanged.
It is up to him to kiss this divinity.
Cora stands ready, her head just the least bit tilted, her arms hanging limp. Her bosom is heaving. It makes him tremble uncontrollably. He has never been so close to her, not even in his dreams.
Without knowing how he finds her in his arms. Their lips touch. The feel of her flesh staggers him. His sensations are so acute, so unique, he wants to scream. He has never held a woman in his arms. He imagines there is a certain amount of struggling to be gone through—what is called “putting up a fight.” But Cora is swaying limply in his arms. There is no resistance. He is certain she is clinging to him; he can feel her grip tightening.
He no longer fastens his mouth to hers; he seeks her ears, her eyes, her throat. She groans as he does so and repeats again and again: “Oh, God! Oh God!” He no longer cares what he says, what he does. Get at her! Conquer her! Devour her!
He is lost to everything.
Now he leans her against the wall, pressing his full weight against her, stroking her hair, uttering her name with hoarse vehemence. His violence terrifies her. To be the target of such passion!
“He must love me tremendously . . . !”
She, too, does her part—returns pressure for pressure. Her lips are parched and bruised.
“God help me for what I am thinking!”
There is no help for it . . . she permits him to fasten himself upon her and crush her. “Oh, what can this come to?” She wants time to think. She tries to appeal to him.
Oh, God, what is he up to now?
His hands are clutching at her, straying over her body. His movements become convulsive. There is something bestial about him. . . .
There are things no gentleman ever does to a lady, not even in a moment of passion. One does not play with a woman’s body as if it were a guitar.
Dion Moloch buries his face in his arms and leans against the wall. Nothing but dry sobs fill the hall.
Shortly after this episode his father gives him money to enter college. It is too late. There is a different ordeal in store for him.
The money which his father can scarcely spare young Moloch squanders on a woman who is almost old enough to be his mother. He is hooked.
Cora seems so far beyond his reach that he no longer hopes. The sweet, mysterious, painful world of sex opens. Pauline is a mother to him—and a concubine. She needs someone to cling to, someone who will appreciate the sacrifice she desires to make. Dion Moloch accepts her with open arms. He attaches himself to her body as a tick does to a cow.
The thought that he is making a greater sacrifice nourishes him.
Pauline has a frail, consumptive child. This child, George, is only a year younger than her lover. At night she kisses George tenderly, and tucks him in bed. Then she kisses her lover also, and steals into bed with him. In the morning George finds her sleeping peacefully.
Months pass and Moloch is almost ready to believe that he is happy with his mistress. He has found a job, a paltry one, to be sure, but it enables him to keep her. George has been shipped to a sanitarium. It is better with George away. There is no longer any need for dissembling. George will die soon, anyway. Pauline knows that. So does Moloch.
When Pauline breaks the news that she is with child her lover’s attitude is one of keen disappointment. In a mistress pregnancy is an unpardonable sin. Pauline’s lover interprets this accident in the usual masculine way: it is a trap! The idea is strengthened because it corroborates the opinions of friends and advisers. No one has been able to see any good in this absurd relationship. “It will never work”—that is the unanimous verdict.
Poor Pauline! No one has ever made the least attempt to probe the depths of her affection. It is concluded, because of her age, that she is a schemer, a succubus. A woman of her years has no business to fall in love with a child! How many harsh things were said of her!
On top of this George passes out. Grief overwhelms Pauline. Now she has neither son nor lover, for Dion is hiding away.
Pauline wonders would Dion refuse to see her if he knew George was dead. She does not rush to act immediately on this idea. She surveys it from every angle. Her life and happiness are at stake. A false move and Dion will be lost forever.
Carefully now she tries to piece together his character. First of all, does he love her? She is not misled by his running away. She understands his fear. Men have run away from her before.
Supposing it is only pity. Supposing it is her body—simply that. What then? What then?
These questions drive her frantic. Meanwhile she’s got to think about burying George. And there’s a bastard under her belt. . . . That also has to be disposed of. But how? How?
She looks about the room with terror-stricken eyes. His books are still scattered about, plaguing her with memories of quiet, peaceful evenings—so many of them—spent just with him. Mechanically she gets up and examines the titles of the books. She hasn’t the faintest idea what it is all about. The titles baffle her. His mentality is the one thing she has left unexplored.
An hour later her mind is made up. She is at the telephone, calling Dion’s home. Her voice is faint and timid.
“Please tell Dion that George is dead. Yes, that’s all. He will understand.”
At bre
akfast next morning Dion is given the message.
“What George is that?” asks his father.
“George? Huh . . . just an acquaintance. You don’t know him.”
He sips his coffee and goes on reading the newspaper. The news affects him, but not in the way Pauline had pictured. He is sorry for her, if it is true. But is it? Isn’t this possibly just another trap?
A week later Pauline becomes panic-stricken. She is absolutely convinced of her lover’s faithlessness. He has become a monster in her eyes. She’d like to strangle the bastard in her womb. She’ll strangle him, too, if she can lay her hands on him. . . .
Day after day, as soon as dark approaches, she stations herself outside his home. A loaded revolver is in her bag. And every evening, after a forlorn, fruitless wait, she returns to her room and takes the revolver out of her bag. Distracted, beside herself with rage and grief, she toys with the weapon and practices by taking aim at herself in the mirror. . . .
Will she have the strength to pull the trigger? Her fingers are weak with fear and dread.
“This is no solution,” she whispers to herself. “God, he must come back! He can’t leave me alone like this.”
She throws the gun aside and weeps.
A guardian angel must be watching over this lover of hers, preserving him from harm and from a fate that he would be unable to cope with. He hasn’t the slightest suspicion of Pauline’s doings. If someone were to tell him about the revolver he would laugh. “She’ll get over it,” he repeats to himself. He grows more and more hardened each day, more and more disgusted with himself.
If we had been with Pauline and Dion one evening in early summer, just a few weeks before these dramatic events, we might have had an inkling of the tortures which brought about this determined resolution on the part of Pauline’s lover.
It was a very warm night and Pauline had complained of a stifling feeling. They decided to take a ride to Coney Island. As they listen to the band concert at Luna Park they are entertained by a slack-wire performance high up above the artificial lake. Boats filled with merrymakers shoot down the steep incline and smack the surface of the water. The woman with the parasol slides dexterously above the blare and confusion. She seems to float in the air, like the opening notes of the Tannhäuser Overture. Presently they get up and saunter over to the dance pavilion. He thinks it would do Pauline good to exercise a bit.
As they come abreast of the pavilion he begins to doubt whether, in her present condition, it is the wisest thing to cause her this exertion. Little does he realize the ordeal he is to go through.
On the very steps of the pavilion, watching him breathlessly, is Cora.
She watches him fully a minute before he becomes aware of her presence. Cora takes Pauline in with one devastating glance. She notes the way the woman hangs on his arm. No words are necessary to convey the intimacy of these two. All the ugly rumors that she had given the lie were true, alas. Dion was living with this woman.
“The strumpet!” she thought. “Taking a boy for her lover.” Ugh! It was abominable. She could forgive him if he had taken a woman off the street, but this . . . She notes the dejected way he drags along. “Ashamed of himself, is he? Well, he ought to be! She’s old enough to be his mother.”
Dion has averted his eyes. He knows that he is under fire.
“Christ! How long will it take to get by her?”
He squeezes Pauline’s arm so as to hasten her steps. He is like a soldier being drummed out of the regiment. There is no room in his mind for anything but the disgrace which shackles him.
To pass Cora without a greeting is out of the question. He must lift his face for just an instant, if only to nod to her. ... If only Pauline wouldn’t cling to him so. He might pass her off as an aunt. A wave of disgust passes over him as he thinks of her figure. How much does it show?
God, what a cruel predicament! (He is thinking of himself.)
At last he can put it off no longer. Another step and it must happen. His temples are hammering, his tongue is dry and thick. He knows what an ass he is. Nevertheless, he tries to appear calm.
His lips form a hollow, noiseless salutation. He thinks he is saying “How do you do,” as if he were a gentleman out strolling with a lady of his acquaintance ... as though it were the most casual greeting ever. His spine stiffens as he makes a slight bow and doffs his hat.
It all happens so swiftly that Pauline almost fails to notice the gesture. They walk in silence for a few paces. Presently Pauline asks in a pleasant voice, “Who was it?” Then, noticing the color in his cheeks, “Why Dion, how you’re blushing!” He begins to stammer. “Tell me,” she begs, drawing him close to her, “who was it?”
He implores her not to look back. “I’ll tell you in a minute. Am I really blushing so? Pshaw! I thought I was over that nonsense. I don’t see why I should be blushing. What the devil! Who was it, you say?”
By this time Pauline was eyeing him gravely. There was no escape. And yet, he didn’t wish to hurt Pauline. This business with Cora was done for. Was he still blushing, he wondered.
“Look here, Pauline, don’t go thinking a lot of fool things. It’s nothing at all—just a girl I knew once. A pretty kid, but nothing much to her. Once I thought I liked her a good deal... ah, but that was ages ago. I forgot about her long ago. . . . Funny we should bump into her down here, though.” He shut up like a clam.
His “ages ago” did not deceive Pauline. She detected in this expression about as much sincerity as one attributes to the slips of a slack-wire performer. And just as one’s heart leaps to his mouth at every purposive slip of these performers, so her fears assailed her in spite of his assurances. One can sometimes carry these assurances too far. The air was heavy with danger. However, she told him nothing about her fears.
It was much later—after she had put the revolver away permanently—that she understood his blushes. They imparted meaning to her fears.
6
LESLIE’S PARENTS HAD JUST RETURNED FROM A SUCcessful carnival tour. They had been away eighteen months. The time which elapsed between greetings had been sufficient to transform a hobbledehoy into a raw, brass-lipped youth whose affection had soured and whose obedience was a mirage.
Leslie’s mother was a loving, trustful creature whose devotion had been imposed on, first by her husbands, and then by her son. Her first husband was a railroad man who beat her in her cups. He died during an attack of delirium tremens. Leslie had only a vague remembrance of him, but it was a memory that he cherished. He had absolutely no use for his stepfather, a stranger whom his mother had married in order that she might later reform him.
This individual had failed in the first flush of his career as a “con” man, and after serving a term in the penitentiary, married Leslie’s mother; thereafter he attempted to repudiate his past by eking out a precarious living “playing the grifts and the grinds.” As a boy Leslie accompanied these two in their wanderings over the face of the earth; there was hardly a civilized country they had not traversed. Speaking of his experiences, Leslie always referred to his people as circus folk, a vague description which permitted the credulous to glut their fancy. Pinned down, he spoke more definitely, as the whim dictated, of lion tamers, equestrians, acrobats, and so on. The fact was, he was ashamed of his folk. Not of his mother so much (he recognized her helplessness), but of his stepfather.
In the last three years he had been left behind to acquire a less desultory education. Alas, his education was already in advance of his years. The placid, sterile, surrogate form of instruction of the schools proved unpalatable to him. At fifteen he knew more about life—the vital aspects of it—than the spinsters and eunuchs whose desiccated, bankrupt emotional vitality makes them regarded by our age as the fit mentors of youth.
During his parents’ last tour he had kicked over the traces and taken a job. A job is incorrect. In the course of a year he had held over a dozen jobs. He had what employment managers and entrepreneurs recognize as personalit
y. To sell himself was so simple a trick that he became enamored of it. A fit of malaise was sufficient to make him surrender his job—there was always another around the corner. He had no more difficulty securing recommendations than a bank president has in slipping into a silk-lined tuxedo jacket. Just as he had been fascinated by the gaping yokels under the carnival tent, so now he longed to probe the rich gullibility of hornswoggled employers.
Moloch put him to work in the spirit of a pickpocket engaging a confederate. He wasn’t the least taken in by Leslie’s “savoir faire.” “Play the game,” he warned him at the outset, “or I’ll give you a thrashing.” And forthwith he proceeded with diligence, at every turn of the road, to undermine Leslie’s conceit. Never for a moment did he allow Leslie to believe that he was anything but a convenient (and submissive) tool—one that he could dispense with arbitrarily at an instant’s notice. In these matters he was a despot.
There was another sort of training going on, however, that acted as compensation and eased the chafing which smarted Leslie’s spirit. Moloch introduced him to the companionship of such exiles as Herbert Spencer, winwood Reade, Kropotkin, De Gourmont, Nietzsche, Latzko, Ambrose Bierce. . . .
And so Lesliè gradually came to behave with the conviction that he was employed by a god, a very warm, human, personable deity who was accessible and with whom he could be as intimate as a sympathetic older brother. He saw his savior as a sturdy immoralist, a dispassionate liar who cared deeply about the larger truths, a skeptic among fanatics, an iconoclast who destroyed from a sheer superabundance of health and strength. . . . He imitated—sometimes disastrously. A fierce hunger gnawed him to break his fetters and test his eagle wings in truly empyreal realms.