“You shouldn’t have done it!” said my mother, just as I had anticipated. She stood there holding the money in her hand and making a gesture as if to return it, as if she couldn’t accept it. For a moment I had the uncomfortable feeling that she might possibly have thought I stole the money. It was not beyond me to do a thing like that, especially in such a desperate situation. However, it was not that, it was just that my mother had the habit, whenever she was offered a gift, be it a bunch of flowers, a crystal bowl or a discarded wrapper, of pretending that it was too much, that she wasn’t worthy of such a kindness. “You oughtn’t to have done it!” she would always say, a remark that always drove me crazy. “Why shouldn’t people do things for one another?” I used to ask. “Don’t you enjoy giving gifts yourself? Why do you talk that way?” Now she was saying to me, in that same disgusting fashion, “We know you can’t afford it—why did you do it?”
“But didn’t I tell you I earned it—and that I’ll get lots more? What are you worrying about?”
“Yes,” she said, blushing with confusion and looking as if I were trying to injure her rather than aid her, “but are you sure? Maybe they won’t take your work after all. Maybe you’ll have to return the money. . . .”
“For God’s sake, stop it!” said my father. “Take it and be done with it! We can use it, you know that. You bellyache when we have no money and you bellyache when you get it.” He turned to me. “Good for you, son,” he said. “I’m glad to see you’re geting on. It’s certainly coming to you.”
I always liked my father’s attitude about money. It was clean and honest. When he had he gave, until the last cent, and when he didn’t have he borrowed, if he could. Like myself he had no compunctions about asking for help when he needed it. He took it for granted that people should help, because he himself was always the first to help when any one was in need. It’s true he was a bad financier; it’s true he made a mess of things. But I’m glad he was that way; it wouldn’t seem natural to think of him as a millionaire. Of course, by not managing his affairs well he forced my mother to become the financier. Had she not contrived to salt a little away during the good years no doubt the three of them would have been in the poor house long ago. How much she had salvaged from the wreckage none of us knew, not even my father. Certainly, to observe the way she economized, one would imagine it to be a very insignificant sum. Not a scrap of food ever went into the garbage can; no piece of string, no wrapping paper was ever thrown out; even the newspapers were preserved and sold at so much the pound. The sweater which she wore when it got chilly was in rags. Not that she had no other, oh no! She was saving the others carefully—they were put away in camphor balls—until the day that the old one literally fell apart. The drawers, as I accidentally discovered when searching for something, were crammed full of things which would come in handy some time, some time when things would be much worse than now. In France I was accustomed to seeing this stupid conservation of clothes, furniture and other objects, but to see it happening in America, in our own home, was something of a shock. None of my friends had ever shown a sense of economy, nor any sentiment for old things. It wasn’t the American way of looking at life. The American way has always been to plunder and exploit and then move on.
Now that the ice had been broken my visits to the house became quite frequent. It’s curious how simple things are when they’re faced. To think that for years I had dreaded the very thought of walking into that house, had hoped to die first and so on. Why, it was actually pleasant, I began to realize, to run back and forth, particularly when I could come with hands full as I usually did. It was so easy to make them happy—I almost began to wish for more difficult circumstances, in order to prove to them that I was equal to any emergency. The mere fact of my presence seemed to fortify them against all the hazards and dangers which the future might hold in store. Instead of being burdened by their problems I began to feel lightened. What they asked of me was nothing compared to what I had stupidly imagined. I wanted to do more, much more, than anything they could think of asking me to do. When I proposed to them one day that I would come over early each morning and irrigate my father’s bladder—a job which I felt my mother was doing incompetently—they were almost frightened. And when I followed that up, since they wouldn’t hear of such a thing, by proposing to hire a nurse I could see from the expression on their faces that they thought I was losing my head. Of course they had no idea how guilty I felt, or if they had they were tactful enough to conceal it. I was bursting to make some sacrifice for them, but they didn’t want sacrifices; all that they ever wanted of me, I slowly began to comprehend, was myself.
Sometimes in the afternoons, while the sun was still warm, I would sit in the backyard with my father and chat about old times. They were always proud of the little garden which they kept there. As I walked about examining the shrubs and plants, the cherry tree and the peach tree which they had grown since I left, I recalled how as a boy I had planted each little bush. The lilac bushes in particular impressed me. I remembered the day they were given me, when I was on a visit to the country, and how the old woman had said to me—“They will probably outlast you, my young bucko.” Nothing was dying here in the garden. It would be beautiful, I thought to myself, if we were all buried in the garden among the things we had planted and watched over so lovingly. There was a big elm tree a few yards away. I was always fond of that tree, fond of it because of the noise it made when the wind soughed through the thick foliage. The more I gazed at it now the more its personality grew on me. I almost felt as if I would be able to talk to that tree if I sat there long enough.
Other times we would sit in the front, in the little areaway where once the grass plot had been. This little realm was also full of memories, memories of the street, of summer nights, of mooning and pining and planning to break away. Memories of fights with the children next door who used to delight in tantalizing my sister by calling her crazy. Memories of girls passing and longing to put my arms around them. And now another generation was passing the door and they were regarding me as if I were an elderly gentleman. “Is that your brother I see sitting with you sometimes?” some one asked my father. Now and then an old playmate would pass and my father would nudge me and say—“There goes Dick So-and-So” or “Harry this or that.” And I would look up and see a middle-aged man passing, a man I would never have recognized as the boy I once used to play with. One day it happened that as I was going to the corner a man came towards me, blocking my path, and as I tried to edge away he planked himself square in front of me and stood there gazing at me fixedly, staring right through me. I thought he was a detective and was not altogether sure whether he had made a mistake or not. “What do you want?” I said coldly, making as if to move on. “What do I want?” he echoed. “What the hell, don’t you recognize an old friend any more?” “I’m damned if I know who you are,” I said. He stood there grinning and leering at me. “Well, I know who you are,” he said. With that my memory came back. “Why of course,” I said, “it’s Bob Whalen. Of course I know you; I was just trying to kid you.” But I would never have known him had he not forced me to remember. The incident gave me such a start that when I got back to the house I went immediately to the mirror and scrutinized my countenance, trying in vain to detect the changes which time had made in it. Not satisfied, and still inwardly disturbed, I asked to see an early photograph of myself. I looked at the photograph and then at the image in the mirror. There was no getting round it—it was not the same person. Then suddenly I felt apologetic for the casual way in which I had dismissed my old boyhood friend. Why, come to think of it, we had been just as close as brothers once. I had a strong desire to go out and telephone him, tell him I would be over to see him and have a good chat. But then I remembered that the reason why we had ceased relations, upon growing to manhood, was because he had become an awful bore. At twenty-one he had already become just like his father whom he used to hate as a boy. I couldn’t understand such a thing then; I a
ttributed it to sheer laziness. So what would be the good of suddenly renewing our friendship? I knew what his father was like; what good would it do to study the son? We had only one thing in common—our youth, which was gone. And so I dismissed him from my mind then and there. I buried him, as I had all the others from whom I had parted.
Sitting out front with my father the whole miniature world of the neighborhood passed in review. Through my father’s comments I was privileged to get a picture of the life of these people such as would have been difficult to obtain otherwise. At first it seemed incredible to me that he should know so many people. Some of those whom he greeted lived blocks away. From the usual neighborly salutations relations had developed until they became genuine friendships. I looked upon my father as a lucky man. He was never lonely, never lacking visitors. A steady stream passed in and out of the house bringing thoughtful little gifts or words of encouragement. Clothes, foodstuffs, medicines, toilet articles, magazines, cigarettes, candy, flowers—everything but money poured in liberally. “What do you need money for?” I said one day. “Why, you’re a rich man.” “Yes,” he said meekly, “I certainly can’t complain.”
“Would you like me to bring you some books to read?” I asked another time. “Aren’t you tired of looking at the magazines?” I knew he never read books but I was curious to see what he would answer.
“I used to read,” he said, “but I can’t concentrate any more.”
I was surprised to hear him admit that he had ever read a book. “What sort of books did you read?” I asked.
“I don’t remember the titles any more,” he said. “There was one fellow—Ruskin, I think it was.”
“You read Ruskin?” I exclaimed, positively astounded.
“Yes, but he’s pretty dry. That was a long time ago, too.”
The conversation drifted to the subject of painting. He remembered with genuine pleasure the paintings with which his boss, an English tailor, had once decorated the walls of the shop. All the tailors had paintings on their walls then, so he said. That was back in the ’80s and ’90’s. There must have been a great many painters in New York at that time, to judge from the stories he told me. I tried to find out what sort of paintings the tailors went in for at that period. The paintings were traded for clothes, of course.
He began to reminisce. There was So-and-so, he was saying. He did nothing but sheep. But they were wonderful sheep, so lifelike, so real. Another man did cows, another dogs. He asked me parenthetically if I knew Rosa Bonheur’s work—those wonderful horses! And George Inness! There was a great painter, he said enthusiastically. “Yes,” he added meditatively, “I never got tired of looking at them. It’s nice to have paintings around.” He didn’t think much of the modern painters—too much color and confusion, he thought. “Now Daubigny,” he said, “there was a great painter. Fine somber colors—something to think about.” There was one large canvas, it seems, which he was particularly fond of. He couldn’t remember any more who had painted it. Anyway, the thing which impressed him was that nobody would buy this painting though it was acknowledged to be a masterpiece. “You see,” he said, “it was too sad. People don’t like sad things.” I wondered what the subject could have been. “Well,” he said, “it was a picture of an old sailor returning home. His clothes were falling off his back; he looked glum and melancholy. But it was wonderfully done—I mean the expression on his face. But nobody would have it; they said it was depressing.”
As we were talking he paused to greet some one. I waited a few minutes until he beckoned me to approach and be introduced. “This is Mr. O’Rourke,” he said, “he’s an astrologer.” I pricked up my ears. “An astrologer?” I echoed. Mr. O’Rourke modestly replied that he was just a student. “I don’t know so very much about it,” he said, “but I did tell your father that you would return and that things would change for the better with your coming. I knew that you must be an intelligent man—I studied your horoscope carefully. Your weakness is that you’re too generous, you give right and left.”
“Is that a weakness?” I said laughingly.
“You have a wonderful heart,” he said, “and a great intelligence. You were born lucky. There are great things in store for you. I told your father that you will be a great man. You’ll be very famous before you die.”
My father had to run inside a moment to empty the bag. I stood chatting with Mr. O’Rourke a few minutes. “Of course,” he said, “I must also tell you that I say a prayer every night for your father. That helps a great deal, you know. I try to help everybody—that is, if they will listen to me. Some people, of course, you can’t help—they won’t let you. I’m not very fortunate myself but I have the power to aid others. You see, I have a bad Saturn. But I try to overcome it with prayer—and with right living, of course. I was telling your mother the other day that she has five good years ahead of her. She was born under the special protection of St. Anthony—June the 13th is her birthday, isn’t it? St. Anthony never turns a deaf ear to those who beseech his favor.”
“What does he do for a living?” I asked my father when Mr. O’Rourke had gone.
“He doesn’t do anything, as far as I can make out,” said my father. “I think he’s on relief. He’s a queer one, isn’t he? I was wondering if I shouldn’t give him that old overcoat that Mother put away in the trunk. I’ve got enough with this one. You notice he looks a bit seedy.”
There were lots of queer ones walking about the street. Some had become religious through misfortune and sorrow. There was one old woman who sent my father Christian Science tracts. Her husband had become a drunkard and deserted her. Now and then she would drop in to see my father and explain the writings of the Master. “It’s not all nonsense,” said my father. “Everything has its points, I suppose. Anyway, they don’t mean any harm. I listen to them all. Mother thinks it’s silly, but when you have nothing to do it takes your mind off things.”
It was strange to me to see how the church had finally gotten its grip on every one. It seemed to lie in wait for the opportune moment, like some beast of prey. The whole family seemed to be touched with one form of religiosity or another. At one of the family reunions I was shocked to see an old uncle suddenly rise and pronounce grace. Thirty years ago any one who had dared to make a gesture like that would have been ridiculed and made the butt of endless jokes. Now everybody solemnly bowed his head and listened piously. I couldn’t get over it. One of my aunts was now a deaconess. She loved church work, especially during festivities, when there were sandwiches to be made. They spoke of her proudly as being capable of waiting on fifty people at once. She was clever, too, at wrapping up gifts. On one occasion she had astounded everybody by presenting some one with a huge umbrella box. And what do you suppose was in the umbrella box when they undid it? Five ten-dollar bills! Quite original! And that was the sort of thing she had learned at the church, through all the fairs and bazaars and what not. So you see. . . .
During one of these reunions a strange thing happened to me. We were celebrating somebody’s anniversary in the old house which my grandfather had bought when he came to America. It was an occasion to meet all the relatives at once—some thirty to forty aunts, cousins, nephews, nieces. Once again, as in olden times, we would all sit down to table together, a huge creaking board laden with everything imaginable that was edible and potable. The prospect pleased me, particularly because of the opportunity it would give me to have another look at the old neighborhood.
While the gifts were being distributed—a ceremony which usually lasted several hours—I decided to sneak outdoors and make a rapid exploration of the precincts. Immediately I set foot outdoors I started instinctively in search of the little street about which I used to dream so frequently while in Paris. I had been on this particular street only two or three times in my life, as a boy of five or six. The dream, I soon discovered, was far more vivid than the actual scene. There were elements which were missing now, not so much because the neighborhood had changed but be
cause these elements had never existed, except in my dreams. There were two realities which in walking through the street now began to fuse and form a composite living truth which, if I were to record faithfully, would live forever. But the most curious thing about this incident lies not in the fitting together of the dream street and the actual street but the discovery of a street I had never known, a street only a hand’s throw away, which for some reason had escaped my attention as a child. This street, when I came upon it in the evening mist, had me gasping with joy and astonishment. Here was the street which corresponded exactly with that ideal street which, in my dream wanderings, I had vainly tried to find.
In the recurrent dream of the little street which I first mentioned the scene always faded at the moment when I came upon the bridge that crossed the little canal, neither the bridge nor the canal having any existence actually. This evening, after passing beyond the frontier of my childhood explorations, I suddenly came upon the very street I had been longing to find for so many years. There was in the atmosphere here something of another world, another planet. I remember distinctly the premonition I had of approaching this other world when, passing a certain house, I caught sight of a young girl, obviously of foreign descent, poring over a book at the dining-room table. There is nothing unique, to be sure, in such a sight. Yet, the moment my eyes fell upon the girl I had a thrill beyond description, a premonition, to be more accurate, that important revelations were to follow. It was as if the girl, her pose, the glow of the room falling upon the book she was reading, the impressive silence in which the whole neighborhood was enveloped, combined to produce a moment of such acuity that for an incalculably brief, almost meteoric flash I had the deep and quiet conviction that everything had been ordained, that there was justice in the world, and that the image which I had caught and vainly tried to hold was the expression of the splendor and the holiness of life as it would always reveal itself to be in moments of utter stillness. I realized as I pushed ecstatically forward that the joy and bliss which we experience in the profound depths of the dream—a joy and bliss which surpasses anything known in waking life—comes indubitably from the miraculous accord between desire and reality. When we come to the surface again this fusion, this harmony, which is the whole goal of life, either falls apart or else is only fitfully and feebly realized. In our waking state we toss about in a troubled sleep, the sleep which is terrifying and death-dealing because our eyes are open, permitting us to see the trap into which we are walking and which we are nevertheless unable to avoid.
The Henry Miller Reader Page 14