by Henry Miller
There was one aspect of the situation which intrigued me vastly. I got hep to it later, on hearing her report certain conversations which she had had with Pop. Conversations dealing with her work. Pop was not altogether a fool, apparently. He would ask questions. Difficult ones sometimes. And she, not being a writer, could hardly be expected to know that, faced with a direct question—Why did you say this?—the answer might well be: I don’t know. Thinking that she should know, she would give the most amazing explanations, explanations which a writer might be proud of had he the wits to think that fast. Pop relished these responses. After all, he was no writer either.
Tell me more! I would say.
And she would, though much of it was probably fictive. I would sit back and roar with laughter. Once I was so delighted that I remarked—How do you know you might not also be a writer?
Oh no, Val, not me. I’ll never be a writer. I’m an actress, nothing more.
You mean you’re a fake?
I mean I have no real talent for anything.
You didn’t always think that way, I said, somewhat pained to have forced such an admission from her.
I did too! she flashed. I became an actress … or rather I went on the stage … only to prove to my parents that I was more than they thought me to be. I didn’t really love the theatre. I was terrified every time I accepted a role. I felt like a cheat. When I say I’m an actress I mean that I’m always making believe. I’m not a real actress, you know that. Don’t you always see through me? You see through everything that’s false or pretentious. I wonder sometimes how you can bear to live with me. Honestly I do…
Strange talk, from her lips. Even now, in being so honest, so sincere, she was acting. She was making believe now that she was only a make believer. Like so many women with histrionic talent, when her real self was in question she either belittled herself or magnified herself.
She could only be natural when she wished to make an impression on some one. It was her way of disarming the adversary.
What I wouldn’t have given to overhear some of these conversations with Pop! Particularly when they discussed writing. Her writing. Who knows? Maybe the old geezer, as she reluctantly called him, did see through her. Maybe he only pretended to be testing her (with this writing chore) in order to make it easier for her to accept the money he showered on her. Possibly he thought that by permitting her to think she was earning this money he would save himself embarrassment. From what I gathered, he was scarcely the type to openly suggest that she become his mistress. She never said so squarely but she insinuated that physically he was somewhat repulsive. (How else would a woman put it?) But to continue the thought … By flattering her ego—and what could be more flattering to a woman of her type than to be taken seriously as an artist?—perhaps she would assume the role of mistress without being asked. Out of sheer gratitude. A woman, when truly grateful for the attentions she receives, nearly always offers her body.
The chances were, of course, that she was giving value for value, and had been from the very beginning.
Speculations of this order in no way disturbed the smooth relationship we had established. When things are going right it’s amazing how far the mind can travel without doing damage to the spirit.
I enjoyed our walks after dinner. It was a new thing in our life, these walks. We talked freely, more spontaneously. The fact that we had money in our pockets also helped; it enabled us to think and talk about other things than our usual sad predicament. The streets roundabout were wide, elegant, expansive. The old mansions, gracefully gone to seed, slept in the dust of time. There was still an air of grandeur about them. Fronting some of them were iron Negroes, the hitching posts of former days.
The driveways were shaded by arbors, the old trees rich in foliage; the lawns, always neat and trim, sparkled with an electric green. Above all, a serene stillness enveloped the streets; one could hear footsteps a block away.
It was an, atmosphere which was conducive to writing. From the back windows of our quarters I looked out upon a beautiful garden in which there were two enormous shade trees. Through the open window there often floated up the strains of good music. Now and then there came to my ears the voice of a cantor—Sirota or Rosenblatt usually—for the landlady had discovered that I adored synagogue music. Sometimes she would knock at the door to offer me a piece of home-made pie or a strudel she had baked. She would take a lingering look at my work table, always strewn with books and papers, and rush away, grateful, it seemed, for the privilege for having had a peek into a writer’s den.
It was on one of our evening walks that we stopped off at the corner stationery store, where they served ice cream and sodas, to get cigarettes. It was an old time establishment run by a Jewish family. Immediately I entered I took a fancy to the place; it had that faded, somnolescent air of the little shops I used to patronize as a boy when looking for a chocolate cream drop or a bag of Spanish peanuts. The owner of the place was seated at a table in a dim corner of the store, playing chess with a friend. The way they were hunched over the board reminded me of celebrated paintings, Cezanne’s card players particularly. The heavy man with gray hair and a huge cap pulled down over his eyes continued to study the board while the owner waited on us.
We got our cigarettes, then decided to have some ice cream.
Don’t let me keep you from your game, said I, when we had been served. I know what it is to be interrupted in a chess game.
So you play?
Yes, but poorly. I’ve wasted many a night at it. Then, though I had no intention of detaining him, I threw out a few remarks about Second Avenue, of the chess club I once haunted there, of the Cafe” Royal, and so on.
The man with the big cap now got up and approached us. It was the way he greeted us which made me realize that he had taken us for Jews. It gave me a warm feeling.
So you also play chess? he said. That’s fine. Why don’t you join us?
Not to-night, I replied. We’re out for a breath of air.
Are you living in the neighborhood?
Right up the street, I replied. I gave him the address.
Why that’s Mrs. Skolsky’s house, he said. I know her well. I’ve got a gents’ furnishing shop a block or so away … on Myrtle Avenue. Why don’t you drop in some time?
With this he extended his hand and said: Essen’s the name. Sid Essen. He then shook hands with Mona.
We gave our names and again he shook hands with us. He seemed strangely delighted. You’re not a Jew, then? he said.
No, said I, but I often pass for one.
But your wife, she’s Jewish, isn’t she? He looked at Mona intently.
No, I said, she’s part Gypsy, part Roumanian. From Bukovina.
Wonderful! he exclaimed. Abe, where are those cigars? Pass the box to Mr. Miller, will you? He turned to Mona. And what about some pastry for the Missus?
Your chess game … I said.
Drat it! he said. We were only killing time. It’s a pleasure to talk to some one like you—and your charming wife. She’s an actress, isn’t she?
I nodded.
I could tell at a glance, he said.
It was thus the conversation began. We must have gone on talking for an hour or more. What intrigued him, evidently, was my fondness for things Jewish. I had to promise that I would look him up at his store soon. We could have a game of chess there, if I felt like it. He explained that the place had become like a morgue. He didn’t know why he held on to the place—there was only a handful of customers left. Then, as we shook hands again, he said he hoped we would do him the honor of meeting his family. We were almost next door neighbors, he said.
We’ve got a new friend, I remarked, as we sauntered down the street.
He adores you, I can see that, said Mona.
He was like a dog that wants to be stroked and patted, wasn’t he?
A very lonely man, no doubt.
Didn’t he say he played the violin?
Yes, said Mona. Don
’t you remember, he mentioned that the string quartet met at his home once a week … or used to.
That’s right. God, how the Jews love the violin! . I suspect he thinks you have a drop of Jewish blood in you, Val.
Maybe I have. I certainly wouldn’t be ashamed of it if I did.
An awkward silence ensued.
I didn’t mean it the way you took it, I finally said.
I know it, she replied. It’s all right.
They all know how to play chess too. I was half talking to myself. And they love to make gifts, have you ever noticed?
Can’t we talk about something else?
Of course I Of course we can! I’m sorry. They excite me, that’s all. Whenever I bump into a real Jew I feel I’m back home. I don’t know why.
It’s because they’re warm and generous—like yourself, she said.
It’s because they’re an old people, that’s what I think.
You were made for some other world, not America, Val. You get on famously with any people except your own. You’re an outcast.
And what about you? You don’t belong here either.
I know, she said. Well, get the novel written and we’ll clear out. I don’t care where you take me, but you must see Paris first.
Righto! But I’d like to see other places too … Rome, Budapest, Madrid, Vienna, Constantinople. I’d like to visit your Bukovina too some day. And Russia—Moscow, Petersburg, Nijny-Novgorod … Ah, to walk down the Nevsky Prospekt … in Dostoievsky’s footsteps! What a dream!
It could be done, Val. There’s no reason why we can’t go anywhere we want … anywhere in the world.
You really think so?
I know so. Then, impulsively she blurted out—I wonder where Stasia is now?
You don’t know?
Of course I don’t. I haven’t had a word from her since I got back. I have a feeling I may never hear from her again.
Don’t worry, I said, you’ll hear from her all right. She’ll turn up one day—just like that!
She was a different person over there.
How do you mean?
I don’t know exactly. Different, that’s all. More normal, perhaps. Certain types of men seemed to attract her. Like that Austrian I told you about. She thought he was so gentle, so considerate, so full of understanding.
Do you suppose there was anything between them?
Who knows? They were together constantly, as if they were madly in love with each other.
As if, you say. What does that mean?
She hesitated, then heatedly, as if still smarting: No woman could fall for a creature like that! He fawned on her, he ate from her hand. And she adored it. Maybe it made her feel feminine.
It doesn’t sound like Stasia, I said. You don’t think she really changed, do you?
I don’t know what to think, Val. I feel sad, that’s all. I feel I’ve lost a great friend.
Nonsense! I said. One doesn’t lose a friend as easily as that.
She said I was too possessive, too…
Maybe you were—with her.
No one understood her better than I. All I wanted was to see her happy. Happy and free.
That’s what every one says who’s in love.
It was more than love, Val. Much more.
How can there be anything more than love? Love is all, isn’t it?
Perhaps with women there’s something else. Men are not subtle enough to grasp it.
Fearing that the discussion would degenerate into argument I changed the subject as skilfully as I could. Finally I pretended that I was famished. To my surprise she said—So am I.
We returned to our quarters. After we had had a good snack—pate de foie gras, cold turkey, cole slaw, washed down with a delicious Moselle—I felt as if I could go to the machine and really write. Perhaps it was the talk, the mention of travel, of strange cities … of a new life. Or that I had successfully prevented our talk from degenerating into a quarrel. (It was such a delicate subject, Stasia.) Or perhaps it was the Jew, Sid Essen, and the stir of racial memories. Or perhaps nothing more than the Tightness of our quarters, the feeling of snugness, cosiness, at homeness.
Anyway, as she was clearing the table, I said: If only one could write as one talks … write like Gorky, Gogol, or Knut Hamsun!
She gave me a look such as a mother sometimes directs at the child she is holding in her arms.
Why write like them? she said. Write like you are, that’s so much better.
I wish I thought so. Christ! Do you know what’s the matter with me? I’m a chameleon. Every author I fall in love with I want to imitate. If only I could imitate my self I
When are you going to show me some pages? she said. I’m dying to see what you’ve done so far.
Soon, I said.
Is it about us?
I suppose so. What else could I write about?
You could write about anything, Val.
That’s what you think. You never seem to realize my limitations. You don’t know what a struggle I go through. Sometimes I feel thoroughly licked. Sometimes I wonder what ever gave me the notion that I could write. A few minutes ago, though, I was writing like a madman. In my head, again. But the moment I sit down to the machine I become a clod. It gets me. It gets me down.
Did you know, I said, that toward the end of his life Gogol went to Palestine? A strange fellow, Gogol. Imagine a crazy Russian like that dying in Rome! I wonder where I’ll die.
What’s the matter with you, Val? What are you talking about? You’ve got eighty more years to live. Write! Don’t talk about dying.
I felt I owed it to her to tell her a little about the novel. Guess what I call myself in the book! I said. She couldn’t. I took your uncle’s name, the one who lives in Vienna. You told me he was in the Hussars, I think. Somehow I can’t picture him as the colonel of a death’s head regiment. And a Jew. But I like him … I like everything you told me about him. That’s why I took his name…
Pause.
What I’d like to do with this bloody novel—only Pop might not feel the same way—is to charge through it like a drunken Cossack. Russia, Russia, where are you heading? On, on, like the whirlwind! The only way I can be myself is to smash things. I’ll never write a book to suit the publishers. I’ve written too many books. Sleep-walking books. You know what I mean. Millions and millions of words—all in the head. They’re banging around up there, like gold pieces. I’m tired of making gold pieces. I’m sick of these cavalry charges … in the dark. Every word I put down now must be an arrow that goes straight to the mark. A poisoned arrow. I want to kill off books, writers, publishers, readers. To write for the public doesn’t mean a thing to me. What I’d like is to write for madmen—or for the angels.
I paused and a curious smile came over my face at the thought which had entered my head.
That landlady of ours, I wonder what she’d think if she heard me talking this way? She’s too good to us, don’t you think? She doesn’t know us. She’d never believe what a walking pogrom I am. Nor has she any idea why I’m so crazy about Sirota and that bloody synagogue music. I pulled up short. What the hell has Sirota got to do with it anyway?
Yes, Val, you’re excited. Put it in the book. Don’t waste yourself in talk I
13.
Sometimes I would sit at the machine for hours without writing a line. Fired by an idea, often an irrelevant one, my thoughts would come too fast to be transcribed. I would be dragged along at a gallop, like a stricken warrior tied to his chariot.
On the wall at my right there were all sorts of memoranda tacked up: a long list of words, words that bewitched me and which I intended to drag in by the scalp if necessary; reproductions of paintings, by Uccello, della Francesca, Breughel, Giotto, Memling; titles of books from which I mean to deftly lift passages; phrases filched from my favorite authors, not to quote but to remind me how to twist things occasionally; for ex: The worm that would gnaw her bladder or the pulp which had deglutinized behind his forehead. In th
e Bible were slips of paper to indicate where gems were to be found. The Bible was a veritable diamond mine. Every time I looked up a passage I became intoxicated. In the dictionary were place marks for lists of one kind or another: flowers, birds, trees, reptiles, gems, poisons, and so on. In short, I had fortified myself with a complete arsenal.
But what was the result? Pondering over a word like praxis, for example, or pleroma, my mind would wander like a drunken wasp. I might end up in a desperate struggle to recall the name of that Russian composer, the mystic, or Theosophist, who had left unfinished his greatest work. The one of whom some one had written—He, the messiah in his own imagination, who had dreamed of leading mankind toward ‘the last festival’, who had imagined himself God, and everything, including himself, his own creation, who had dreamed by the force of his tones to overthrow the universe, died of a pimple. Scriabin, that’s who it was. Yes, Scriabin could derail me for days. Every time his name popped into my head I was back on Second Avenue, in the rear of some cafe, surrounded by Russians (white ones usually) and Russian Jews, listening to some unknown genius reel off the sonatas, preludes and etudes of the divine Scriabin. From Scriabin to Prokofiev, to the night I first heard him, Carnegie Hall probably, high up in the gallery, and so excited that when I stood up to applaud or to yell—we all yelled like madmen in those days—I nearly tumbled out of the gallery. A tall, gaunt figure he was, in a frock coat, like something out of the Drei Groschen Oper, like Monsieur les Pompes Funebres. From Prokofiev to Luke Ralston, now departed, an ascetic also, with a face like the death mask of Monsieur Arouet. A good friend, Luke Ralston, who after visiting the merchant tailors up and down Fifth Avenue with his samples of imported woolens, would go home and practise German Lieder while his dear old mother, who had ruined him with her love, would make him pigs’ knuckles and sauerkraut and tell him for the ten thousandth time what a dear, good son he was. His thin, cultivated voice too weak, unfortunately, to cope with the freight-laden melodies of his beloved Hugo Wolf with which he always larded his programs. At thirty-three he dies—of pneumonia, they said, but it was probably a broken heart … And in between come memories of other forgotten figures—Minnesingers, flutists, ‘cellists, pianists in skirts, like the homely one who always included Schubert’s