by Henry Miller
The dominant passion was the acquisition of knowledge, skill, mastery of technique, inexhaustible experience, but like a subdominant chord there existed steadily in the back of my head vibration which meant order, beauty, simplification, enjoyment, appreciation. Reading Van Gogh’s letters I identify myself with him in the struggle to lead a simple life, a life in which art is all. How glowingly he writes about this dedication to art in his letters from Arles, a place I am destined to visit later though reading about it now I don’t even dream of ever seeing it. To give a more musical expression to one’s life—that is how he puts it. Over and over again he makes reference to the austere beauty and dignity of the life of the Japanese artist, dwelling on their simplicity, their certitude, their naturalness. It is this Japanese quality which I find in our love nest; it is this bare, simple beauty, this stark elegance, which sustains and comforts me. I find myself drawn to Japan more than to China. I read of Whistler’s experience and fall in love with his etchings. I read Lafcadio Hearn, everything he has written about Japan, especially what he gives of their fairy tales, which tales impress me to this day more than those of any other people. Japanese prints adorn the walls; they hang in the bathroom as well. They are even under the glass on my writing table. I know nothing about Zen yet, but I am in love with the art of jujitsu which is the supreme art of self-defense. I love the miniature gardens, the bridges and lanterns, the temples, the beauty of their landscapes. For weeks, after reading Loti’s Madame Chrysanthemum, I really feel as if I were living in Japan. With Loti I travel from Japan to Turkey, thence to Jerusalem. I become so infatuated with his Jerusalem that I finally persuade the editor of a Jewish magazine to let me write something about Solomon’s Temple. More research! Somewhere, somehow, I succeeded in finding a model of the temple, showing its evolution, its changes—until the final destruction. I remember reading this article I wrote on the Temple to my father one evening; I recall his amazement that I should possess such a profound knowledge of the subject.… What an industrious worm I must have been!
My hunger and curiosity drive me forward in all directions at once. At one and the same time I am interested and absorbed in Hindu music (having become acquainted with a Hindu composer I met in an Indian restaurant), in the ballet russe, in the German expressionist movement, in Scriabin’s piano compositions, in the art of the insane (thanks to Prinzhorn), in Chinese chess, in boxing and wrestling bouts, in hockey matches, in medieval architecture, in the mysteries connected with the Egyptian and Greek underworlds, in the cave drawings of the Cro-Magnon man, in the trade guilds of former times, in everything pertaining to the new Russia, and so on and so forth, from one thing to another, sliding from one level to another as naturally and easily as if I were using an escalator. But was it not in this fashion that the artists of the Renaissance acquired the knowledge and material for their amazing creations? Were they not reaching out into all avenues of life at once? Were they not insatiable and devouring? Were they not journeymen, tramps, criminals, warriors, adventurers, scientists, explorers, poets, painters, musicians, sculptors, architects, fanatics and devotees all in the same stride? Naturally I had read Cellini, Vasari’s Lives, the history of the Inquisition, the lives of the Popes, the story of the Medici family, the Italian, German and English dramas of incest, the writings of John Addington Symonds, Jacob Buckhardt, Funck-Brentano, all on the Renaissance, but never did I read that curious little book by Balzac, called Sur Cathérine de Medici. There was one book I was constantly dipping into, in moments of peace and quiet: Walter Pater’s book on the Renaissance. Much of it I read aloud to Ulric, marveling over Pater’s sensitive use of the language. Glorious evenings these, especially when having finished a long passage I would close the book and listen to Ulric expatiate lovingly on the painters he adored. The mere sound of their names put me in ecstasy: Taddeo Gaddi, Signorelli, Fra Lippo Lippi, Piero della Francesca, Mantegna, Uccello, Cimabue, Piranesi, Fra Angelico, and such like. The names of towns and cities were of equal fascination: Ravenna, Mantua, Siena, Pisa, Bologna, Tiepolo, Firenze, Milano, Torino. Thus one evening, continuing our festal bouts on the splendors of Italy at the French-Italian grocery, Ulric and I, joined later by Hymie and Steve Romero, got into such a state of exaltation that two Italians who were seated at the end of the table stopped conversing with each other and listened in openmouthed admiration as we moved rapidly from one figure to another, one town to another. Hymie and Romero, equally intoxicated by a language which was as foreign to them as it was to the two Italians, remained silent, contenting themselves, with replenishing the drinks. Exhausted finally, and about to pay up, the two Italians suddenly began to clap their hands. “Bravo! Bravo!” they exclaimed. “So beautiful!” We were embarrassed. The situation demanded another round of drinks. Joe and Louis joined us, offering us a choice liqueur. Then we began to sing. Fat Louis, moved to the guts, began to weep joyously. He begged us to stay a little longer, promising to fix us a beautiful rum omelette with some caviar on the side. In the midst of it who should walk in but that extraordinary Senegalese, Battling Siki, who was also a client of the establishment. He was a bit high and playful in a dangerous way. He amused us by doing little tricks with matches, cards, saucers, cane, napkins. He was jolly and disgruntled at the same time. Something was irking him. It took the greatest finesse on the part of the proprietors to prevent him, in his playfulness, from wrecking the place. They had to ply him with drinks, stroke his back, salve him with compliments. He sang and danced, all by himself, applauding himself, slapping his thighs, patting us on the shoulder—playful little pats that jolted our vertebrae and made our heads spin. Then, for no reason at all, he suddenly scooted off, knocking over a few cases of beer in his boyish enthusiasm. With his departure every one breathed more easily. Came the omelette and the caviar. Some whitefish too, washed down with a golden white wine, followed by some excellent black coffee and another rare liqueur. Louis was in ecstasy. “Have some more!” he kept saying. “Nothing too good for you, Mr. Miller.” And Joe: “When you go to Europe, Mr. Miller? You no stay here long, I see it. Ah, Fiesole! By God, one day I go back too!”
I rolled home in a cab, singing like a man under anesthesia. Unable to navigate the stoop, I sat on the bottom steps laughing to myself, hiccuping, mumbling and muttering crazily, orating to the birds, the alley cats, the telephone poles. Finally I made my way up the steps, slowly, painfully, sliding back a step or two and starting up again, reeling from one side to the other. A veritable Sisyphean ordeal. Mona hadn’t come home yet. I fell on the bed fully dressed and went sound asleep. Towards dawn I felt Mona tugging away at me. I awoke to find myself in a pool of vomit. Phew! What a stench! The bed had to be remade, the floor scrubbed, my clothes removed. Still groggy, I staggered and reeled about. I was still laughing to myself, disgusted yet happy, remorseful but gay. To stand under the shower was a feat requiring the most extraordinary skill. What amazed me throughout was Mona’s gentle acceptance. Not a word of complaint from her. She moved about like a ministering angel. The one pleasurable thought which kept recurring to mind, as I made ready to go to bed again, was that I would not have to go to work when I got up. No more excuses. No remorse. No guilt. I was a freewheeler. I could sleep as long as I pleased. There would be a good breakfast awaiting me and, if I were still groggy, I could go back to bed and sleep the rest of the day. As I closed my eyes I had a vision of Fat Louis standing at the blazing stove, his eyes wet with tears, his heart pouring out into that omelette. Capri, Sorrento, Amalfi, Fiesole, Paestum, Taormina.… Funiculi, funicula.… And Ghirlandajo.… And the Campo Santo.… What a country! What a people! You bet I’d go there one day. Why not? Long live the Pope! (But I’ll be damned if I kiss his ass!)
Weekends took a different tenor. The usual visit to Maude, a stroll in the park with her and the child, perhaps a round on the carrousel, or rigging up a kite, or a row in the lake. Chitchat, gossip, trivialities, recriminations. She was growing a bit daffy, it seemed to me. The alimony which we raked up wi
th such effort was being pissed away on trifles. Worthless knickknacks everywhere. Drivel about sending the child to a private school, the public school being unfit for our little princess. Piano lessons, dancing lessons, painting lessons. The price of butter, turkey, sardines, apricots. Melanie’s varicose veins. No parrot any more, I noticed. No pet poodle, no dog biscuits, no Edison phonograph. More and more furniture piling up, more empty candy boxes lying on the floor of the closet. Leaving her, it was the same old tug of war. Frightful scenes. The child screaming and clinging to me, begging me to stay and sleep with mamma. Once, in the park, seated on a beautiful knoll with the child, watching her fly the kite I had bought her, Maude meanwhile meandering about on her own in the offing, the child suddenly came up to me and put her arms around my neck, began kissing me tenderly, calling me daddy, dear daddy, and so on. In spite of all my efforts, a sob broke loose, then another and another and with it a flood of tears fit to drown a horse. I staggered to my feet, the child clinging to me for dear life, and looked blindly about for Maude. People stared at me in horror and walked on. Grief, grief, unbearable grief. The more so because all about me there was nothing but beauty, order, tranquillity. Other children were playing with their parents. They were happy, radiant, bursting with joy. Only we were miserable, alienated, forever alienated. Every week the child was growing older, more comprehending, more sensitive, more reproachful in her own silent way. It was criminal to live thus. Under another system we might have continued to live together, all of us, Mona, Maude, the child, Melanie, the dogs, cats, umbrellas, everything. At least so I thought in moments of desperation. Any situation was better than these heartrending reunions. We were all being wounded, lacerated, Mona as much as Maude. The more difficult it got to raise the weekly alimony, the more guilty I felt towards Mona who was bearing the brunt of it all. What good was it to lead the life of a writer if it entailed such sacrifices? What good was it to live a life of bliss with Mona if my own flesh and blood had to suffer? At night, awake or in dream, I could feel the child’s little arms about my neck, pulling me towards her, pulling me homeward. Often I wept in my sleep, groaned and whimpered, reliving these scenes of anguish. “You were weeping in your sleep last night,” Mona would say. And I would say: “Was I? I don’t remember.” She knew I was lying. It made her miserable to think that her presence alone was not sufficient to make me happy. Often I would protest, though she hadn’t said a word. “I am happy, can’t you see? I don’t want a blessed thing.” She would be silent. Awkward pauses. “You don’t think I’m worried about the child, do you?” I would blurt out. And she would answer: “You haven’t been there for several weeks now, do you know that?” It was true. I had taken to staving off the regular weekly visits, would send the money by mail or by messenger boy. “I think you ought to go this week Val. After all, she’s your own child.” “I know, I know,” I would say. “Yes, I’ll go.” And then I would give a groan. And still another groan when I’d hear her say: “I bought something for the little one for you to take this time.” Why did I not buy anything myself? Often I stood looking into shop windows, choosing in my mind all the things I would like to buy, not just for the child, but for Mona, for Melanie, even for Maude. But I didn’t think it was right of me to buy things when I wasn’t earning anything myself. The money Mona earned at the theater was not enough for our needs, not nearly enough. She was constantly gold digging, week in and week out. Sometimes she came home with staggering gifts for me, after an unusual touch, I suppose. I begged her not to get me things. “I have everything,” I said. And it was true. (Except for the bicycle and the piano. Somehow, I had forgotten all about these items.) Things piled up so fast, that even if I had received them, I doubt that I would have used them. It would have been more sensible to give me a mouth organ and a pair of roller-skates.…
Sometimes strange nostalgic fits assailed me. I might wake up with the hangover of a dream and decide that it was most imperative to revive certain strong recollections, as of that fat tub I called “Uncle Charlie,” who used to sit me on his lap and regale me with stories of his exploits during the Spanish-American war. It meant a long ride, by elevated line and trolley, to a little place called Glendale, where Joey and Tony had once lived. (Uncle Charlie was their uncle, not mine.) After all the years which had passed, the sleepy little hamlet still wore a quaint air to me. The houses where my little friends had lived were still standing, hardly altered, fortunately. The tavern with its stables, where friends and relatives used to gather of a summer’s evening, were also there. I could recall running from table to table as a tiny tot, sipping the dregs from the beer mugs, or collecting pennies and dimes from the tipsy revelers. Even the maudlin German songs, which they sang with iron lungs, ran in my ears: “Lauderbach, lauderbach, hab’ ich mein Strumpf verlor’n.” I see them suddenly sobered, dead serious now, gathered in hollow square, like the last remnants of a gallant regiment, men, women and children, shoulder to shoulder, all members of the Kunst Verein (a nucleus of the great ancestral Saengerbund), waiting solemnly for the leader to sound the tuning fork. Like faithful warriors standing at the border of a foreign land, their chests heaving, their eyes bright and liquid, they raise their powerful voices in a heavenly choir, intoning some deeply moving lied which stirs them to the depths of their souls.… Moving along. Now the little Catholic church where Mr. Imhof, the father of Tony and Joey (the first artist I was to meet in the flesh) had made the stained glass windows, the frescoes on the walls and ceiling, and the carved pulpit. Though his children were fearful of him, though he was stern, tyrannical, aloof, I was always strongly drawn to this somber man. At bedtime we were always led to his study in the garret to bid him goodnight. Invariably he was sitting at his table, painting water colors. A student’s lamp threw a soft light on the table, leaving the rest of the room in chiaroscuro. He looked so earnest and tender then, distraught, and ever remote. I used to wonder what impelled him to remain long hours of the night glued to his worktable. But what registered most of all was that he was different: he was of another breed.… Still strolling about. At the railroad tracks now, where we used to play in the ravine: a sort of no man’s land between the edge of the village and the cemeteries on the other side of the tracks. Somewhere hereabouts there had lived a distant relative whom I called Tante Grussy, a youngish woman of great beauty, with large gray eyes and black hair, who even then, even though I was but a child, I sensed to be an unusual person. No one had ever known her to raise her voice in anger; no one had ever heard her speak ill of another; no one had ever asked her for help in vain. She had a contralto voice, and when she sang she accompanied herself on the guitar; sometimes she dressed in masquerade and danced to the tambourine, fluttering a long Japanese fan. Her husband became a drunkard; he used to beat her up, it was said. But Tante Grussy only became sweeter, gentler, more compassionate, more charming and gracious. And then, after a time it began to be rumored about that she had become religious—this was always said in whispers, as if to imply that she had gone mad. I wanted so much to see her again. I searched and searched for the house but no one seemed to have any knowledge of her. It was hinted that she may have been committed to the asylum.… Strange thoughts, strange remembrances, walking about in the sleepy village of Glendale. This adorable, this saintly Tante Grussy, and the jovial sensual tub of flesh whom I called Uncle Charlie—I loved them both. The one spoke of nothing but torturing and killing the Igorotes, of tracking down Aguinaldo in the swamps and mountain fastnesses of the Philippines; the other hardly spoke at all, she was a presence, a goddess in earthly guise who had elected to stay with us and illumine our lives through the divine radiance which she shed.
When he left for the Philippines as a lance corporal, this Charlie boy was a normal-sized individual. Some eight years later, when he returned as a commissary sergeant, he weighed almost four hundred pounds and was constantly perspiring. I remember vividly a gift he made me one day—six dumdum bullets for which he had had a blue linen case made. These, he
maintained, had been taken from one of Aguinaldo’s men; for being guilty of using these bullets (which the Germans had furnished the Filipinos) they had executed the rebel and stuck his head on a pole. Stories such as this, together with horripilating tales about the “water cure” which our soldiers administered to the Filipinos, made me sympathize with Aguinaldo. I used to pray every night that the Americans would never capture him. Unwittingly, Uncle Charlie had made him my hero.
Thinking of Aguinaldo, I suddenly recalled a banner day on which I was dressed in my best Lord Fauntleroy outfit and taken early in the morning to a beautiful brownstone house on Bedford Avenue, where, from a balcony, we were to watch “the parade.” The first contingent of our heroes had just returned from the Philippines. Teddy Roosevelt was there—“up front”—leading his Rough Riders. There was tremendous excitement over this event; people wept and cheered, flags and bunting everywhere, flowers showered from the windows. People kissed one another and shouted Alleluias. I had a grand time, but it was a bit confusing to me. I couldn’t grasp the reason for such extravagant emotions. What impressed me were the uniforms—and the horses. That evening a cavalry officer and an artillery man came to our home for dinner. This was the beginning of a romance for my two aunts. Nipped in the bud, however, because my grandfather, who hated the military, wouldn’t hear of having them for sons-in-law. I can still remember his scorn and contempt for the whole Philippine campaign. To him it was just a skirmish. “It should have been over in thirty days,” he snorted. And then he talked of Bismarck and Von Moltke, of the battle of Waterloo and the siege of Austerlitz. He had come to America during the days of our Civil War. That was a war, he kept asserting. To lick helpless savages, anybody could do that. Just the same, he was obliged to give a toast to Admiral Dewey, the hero of Manila Bay. “You’re an American now,” said someone. “And I’m a good American,” I can hear my grandfather saying. “But that doesn’t mean that I like to kill. Put away the uniforms, get back to work!”