by Henry Miller
Carruthers was indeed a drunkard—a pleasant, sociable one too. One of those who drink and sober up at intervals. One of those who never think of food. One of those who have an uncanny memory, who observe everything with an eagle’s eye and yet seem to be unconscious, sunk, dead to the world.
“Where’s that drawing of mine?” he asked suddenly, out of the blue, looking steadily at the spot on the wall where it had been hung.
“I took it down,” said Mara.
“So I see,” he snarled, but not too disagreeably. “I wanted to show it to your friend here.”
“He’s already seen it,” said Mara.
“Oh, he has? Well then, it’s all right. Then we’re not concealing anything from him, are we? I don’t want him to have any illusions about me. You know that if I can’t have you I won’t let anybody else have you, isn’t that so? Otherwise everything’s fine. Oh, by the way, I saw your friend Valerie yesterday. She wants to move in here—just for a week or two. I told her I’d have to speak to you about it—you’re running the place.”
“It’s your place,” said Mara testily. “You can do as you please. Only, if she comes in I move out. I have a place of my own to live in; I only come here to look after you, to prevent you from drinking yourself to death.”
“It’s funny,” he said, turning to me, “how these two girls detest each other. On my word, Valerie is an adorable creature. She hasn’t an ounce of brains, it’s true, but then that’s no great drawback; she has everything else a man wants. You know, I kept her for a year or more; we got along splendidly too—until this one came along,” and he nodded his head in Mara’s direction. “Between you and me I think she’s jealous of Valerie. You should meet her—you will if you stick around long enough. I have a hunch she’s going to drop in before the day’s over.”
Mara laughed in a way I had never heard her laugh before. It was a mean, ugly laugh. “That nitwit,” she said scornfully, “why she can’t even look at a man without getting into trouble. She’s a walking abortion . . .”
“You mean your friend Florrie,” said Carruthers with a stupid fixed grin.
“I wish you’d leave her name out of this,” said Mara angrily.
“You’ve met Florrie, haven’t you?” asked Carruthers, ignoring the remark. “Did you ever see a more lascivious little bitch than that? And Mara is trying to make a lady of her . . .” He burst out laughing. “It’s strange, the trollops she picks up. Roberta—that was another wild one for you. Always had to ride around in limousines. Had a floating kidney, she said, but what it really was . . . well, between ourselves, she was just a lazy bum. But Mara had to take her under her wing, after I kicked her out, and nurse her. Really, Mara, for an intelligent girl, as you pretend you are, you do behave like a fool sometimes. Unless”—and he looked up at the ceiling meditatively—“there’s something else to it. You never know”—still gazing at the ceiling—“what makes two women stick together. Birds of a feather flock together, that’s the old saying. Still, it’s strange. I know Valerie, I know Florrie, I know this one, I know them all—and yet, if you were to press me, I don’t know anything about them, not a thing. It’s another generation than the one I was brought up with; they’re like another species of animal. To begin with, they have no moral sense, none of them. They refuse to be housebroken; it’s like living in a menagerie. You come home and find a stranger lying in your bed—and you excuse yourself for intruding. Or they’ll ask you for money in order to take a boy friend to a hotel for the night. And if they get into trouble you have to find a doctor for them. It’s exciting but sometimes it’s a damned nuisance too. It would be easier to keep rabbits, what!”
“That’s the way he talks when he’s drunk,” said Mara, trying to laugh it off. “Go on, tell him some more about us. I’m sure he enjoys it.”
I wasn’t so sure that he was drunk. He was one of those men who talk loosely drunk or sober, who say even more fantastic things, in fact, when they are sober. Embittered, disillusioned men, usually, who act as if nothing could surprise them any more; at bottom however, thoroughly sentimental, soaking their bruised emotional system in alcohol in order not to burst into tears at some unexpected moment. Women find them particularly charming because they never make any demands, never show any real jealousy, though outwardly they may go through all the motions. Often, as with Carruthers, they are saddled with crippled, thwarted wives, creatures whom out of weakness (which they call pity or loyalty) they allow themselves to be burdened with for life. To judge from his talk, Carruthers had no difficulty in finding attractive young women to share his love nest. Sometimes there were two or three living with him at the same time. He probably had to make a show of jealousy, of possessiveness, in order not to be made an utter fool of. As for his wife, as I found out later, she was an invalid only to this extent—that her hymen was still intact. For years Carruthers had endured it like a martyr. But suddenly, when he realized that he was getting on in years, he had begun tearing around like a college boy. And then he had taken to drink. Why? Had he found that he was already too old to satisfy a healthy young girl? Had he suddenly regretted his years of abstinence? Mara, who had vouchsafed this information, was of course purposely vague and clinical about the subject. She did admit, however, that she had often slept with him on the same couch, leaving me to infer that obviously he never dreamed of molesting her. And then in the next breath adding that of course the other girls were only too pleased to sleep with him; the implication was, of course, that he only “molested” those who liked to be molested. That there was any particular reason why Mara should not want to be molested I couldn’t see. Or was I supposed to think that he wouldn’t molest a girl who had his welfare so much at heart? We had quite a ticklish wrangle about it as I was taking leave of her. It had been a crazy day and night. I had gotten tight and had fallen asleep on the floor. This was before dinner, and the reason for it was that I was famished. According to Mara, Carruthers had grown quite incensed over my conduct; she had had quite a time dissuading him from breaking a bottle over my head. In order to mollify him she had lain down with him on the couch for a while. She didn’t say whether he had tried to “molest” her or not. Anyway he had only taken a cat nap; when he awoke he was hungry, wanted to eat right away. During his sleep he had forgotten that he had a visitor; seeing me lying on the floor sound asleep he had become very angry again. Then they had gone out together and had a good meal; on the way home she had induced him to buy a few sandwiches for me and some coffee. I remembered the sandwiches and the coffee—it was like an interlude during a blackout. Carruthers had forgotten about me with Valerie’s arrival. That I remembered too, though dimly. I remembered seeing a beautiful young girl enter and fling her arms about Carruthers. I remembered being handed a drink and falling back again into a torpor. And then? Well then, as Mara explained it, there had been a little tiff between herself and Valerie. And Carruthers had gotten blind drunk, had staggered out into the street and disappeared.
“But you were sitting on his lap when I woke up!” I said.
Yes, that was so, she admitted, but only after she had been out searching for him, wandering all through the Village, and finally picking him up on the steps of a church and bringing him home in a taxi.
“You must certainly think a lot of him to go to all that trouble.”
She didn’t deny it. She was tired of going all over that ground again with me.
So that was how the evening had passed. And Valerie? Valerie had left in a huff, after smashing an expensive vase. And what was that bread knife doing alongside me, I wanted to know. That? Oh, that was some more of Carruthers’ tomfoolery. Pretending that he was going to cut my heart out. She hadn’t even bothered to take the knife out of his hand. He was harmless, Carruthers. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Just the same, I thought to myself, it would have been wiser to wake me up. What else had happened, I wondered. Christ only knows what went on during the blackout. If she could let me put the blocks to her, knowing that Carruther
s was apt to walk in at any moment, surely, she could let him “molest” her a few minutes (if only to pacify him), seeing that I was in a deep trance and would never be any the wiser.
However, it was now four in the morning and Carruthers was sound asleep on the couch. We were standing in a doorway on Sixth Avenue trying to come to some understanding. I was insisting that she let me take her home; she was trying to make me understand that it was too late.
“But I’ve taken you home before at an even later hour.” I was determined not to let her return to Carruthers’ den.
“You don’t understand,” she pleaded. “I haven’t been home for several weeks. All my things are there.”
“Then you’re living with him. Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”
“I’m not living with him. I’m only staying there temporarily until I find a place to live. I’m not going back home any more. I had a bad quarrel with my mother. I walked out. Told them I’d never come back again.”
“And your father—what did he say?”
“He wasn’t there when it happened. I know he must be heartbroken, but I couldn’t stand it any longer.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “if that’s how it is. I suppose you’re broke too. Let me walk you back—you must be fagged out.”
We started walking through the empty streets. She stopped suddenly and threw her arms around me. “You trust me, don’t you?” she said, looking at me with tears in her eyes.
“Of course I do. But I wish you would find another place to stay. I can always dig up the price of a room. Why don’t you let me help you?”
“Oh, I won’t be needing any help now,” she said brightly. “Why, I almost forgot to tell you the good news! Yes, I’m going away for a few weeks—to the country. Carruthers is sending me to his cabin up in the North woods. The three of us are going—Florrie, Hannah Bell and myself. It’ll be a real vacation. Maybe you can join us? You’ll try, won’t you? Aren’t you glad?” She stopped to give me a kiss. “You see, he’s not a bad sort,” she added. “He’s not coming up himself. He wants to give us a treat. Now if he were in love with me, as you seem to think, wouldn’t he want to go up there with me alone? He doesn’t like you, that I admit. He’s afraid of you—you’re too serious. After all, you’ve got to expect him to have some feelings. If his wife were dead he’d undoubtedly ask me to marry him—not because he’s in love with me but because he wants to protect me. Do you see now?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t see. But it’s all right. You certainly need a vacation; I hope you’ll enjoy yourself there. As for Carruthers, no matter what you say about him, I don’t like him and I don’t trust him. And I’m not at all sure that he’s acting from such generous motives as you describe. I hope he croaks, that’s all, and if I could give him a drop of poison I’d do it—without a qualm.”
“I’m going to write you every day,” she said, as we stood at the door saying farewell.
“Mara, listen,” I said, drawing her close to me and murmuring the words in her ear. “I had a lot to tell you today and it’s all gone up in smoke.”
“I know, I know,” she said feverishly.
“Maybe things will change when you’re gone,” I continued. “Something’s got to happen soon—we can’t go on this way forever.”
“That’s what I’m thinking too,” she said softly, snuggling against me affectionately. “I hate this life. I want to think it out when I’m up there and alone. I don’t know how I ever got into this mess.”
“Good,” I said, “maybe we’ll get somewhere then. You’ll write, that’s a promise?”
“Of course I will . . . every day,” she said, as she turned to go.
I stood there a moment after she had turned in, wondering whether I was a fool to let her go, wondering if it wouldn’t be better to drag her out and just smash a way through, wife or no wife, job or no job. I walked off, still debating it in my mind, but my feet dragging me towards home.
6
Well, she was off to the North woods. Just arrived, in fact. Those two polecats had accompanied her and everything was just ducky. There were two wonderful backwoodsmen who looked after them, cooked their meals, showed them how to shoot the rapids, played the guitar and the harmonica for them on the back porch at night when the stars came out, and so on—all crammed on the back of a picture postcard showing the wonderful pine cones which drop from the pine trees up in Maine.
I immediately went round to Carruthers’ den to see if he was still in town. He was there all right and quite surprised, and not any too pleased, to see me. I pretended that I had come to borrow a book which had caught my fancy the other evening. He informed me dryly that he had given up the practice of lending out books long ago. He was thoroughly sober and obviously determined to freeze me out as quickly as possible. I noticed, as I was taking leave, that he had tacked up the picture of me with the dagger through the heart. He noticed that I had noticed it but made no reference to it.
I felt somewhat humiliated but vastly relieved just the same. For once she had told me the truth! I was so overjoyed that I rushed to the public library, buying a pad and an envelope on the way, and sat there till closing time writing her a huge letter. I told her to telegraph me—couldn’t wait to receive word by mail. After mailing the letter I wrote out a long telegram and dispatched it to her. Two days later, not having heard from her, I sent another telegram, a longer one, and after I had dispatched it I sat down in the lobby of the McAlpin Hotel and wrote her an even more voluminous letter than the first one. The next day I received a short letter, warm, affectionate, almost childish. No mention of the first telegram. That made me quite frantic. Perhaps she had given me a phony address. But why would she do that? Anyway, better telegraph again! Demand full address and nearest telephone. Had she received the second telegram and both letters? “Keep a sharp lookout for mail and future telegrams. Write often. Telegraph when possible. Advise when returning. I love you. I’m mad about you. The Cabinet Minister speaking.”
The “Cabinet Minister” must have done the trick. Soon there came a telegram for Glahn the Hunter, followed by a letter signed Victoria.* God was looking over her shoulder as she wrote. She had seen a deer and she had followed it through the woods and had lost her way. The backwoodsmen had found her and carried her home. They were wonderfully simple fellows, and Hannah and Florrie had fallen in love with them. That is, they went canoeing with them and sometimes slept in the woods with them all night. She was coming back in a week or ten days. She couldn’t bear staying away from me longer than that. Then this: “I am coming back to you, I want to be your wife.” Just as simple as that, the way she put it. I thought it marvelous. I loved her all the more for being so direct, so simple, so frank and honest. I wrote her three letters in a row, moving from place to place, as I shuffled about in a delirium of ecstasy.
On fever hooks waiting for her return. She had said she’d be back Friday night. Would telephone me at Ulric’s studio soon as she hit town. Friday night came and I sat there until two in the morning waiting for her phone call. Ulric, always skeptical, said maybe she meant the following Friday. I went home thoroughly dejected but certain I would hear from her in the morning. Next day I telephoned Ulric several times to inquire if he had had any word from her. He was bored, thoroughly disinterested, almost a little ashamed of me, I felt. At noon, as I was leaving the office, I ran into MacGregor and his wife sporting a new car. We hadn’t seen each other for months. He insisted on my having lunch with them. I tried to get out of it but couldn’t. “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “You’re not yourself. A woman again, I suppose. Jesus, when will you ever learn to take care of yourself?”
During the lunch he informed me that they had decided to take a ride out on Long Island, perhaps spend the night there somewhere. Why couldn’t I come along? I said I had made a date with Ulric. “That’s all right,” he said. “Bring your friend Ulric along. I haven’t much use for him, but if it’ll make you any happier,
sure we’ll pick him up, why not?” I tried to tell him that Ulric might not be so eager to join us. He wouldn’t listen. “He’ll come,” he said. “You leave that to me. We’ll go out to Montauk Point or Shelter Island and just lie around and take it easy—it’ll do you good. As for that Jane you’re worrying about, why forget it! If she likes you she’ll come round by herself. Treat ‘em rough, that’s what I say, eh Tess?” and with that he gave his wife a dig in the ribs that knocked the breath out of her.
Tess Molloy was what you’d call a good-natured Irish slob. She was about the homeliest woman I’ve ever seen, broad in the beam, pock-marked, her hair scant and stringy (she was getting bald), but jolly and indolent, always ready to fight at the drop of a hat. MacGregor had married her for purely practical reasons. They had never pretended to be in love with one another. There was scarcely even an animal affection between them since, as he had readily explained to me shortly after their marriage, sex didn’t mean a thing to her. She didn’t mind being diddled now and then, but she got no pleasure from it. “Are you through?” she would ask every now and then. If he took too long a time over it she would ask him to fetch her a drink or bring her something to eat. “I got so damned sore at her once that I brought her the newspaper to read. ‘Now go ahead and read,’ I says to her, ‘and see that you don’t miss the comic strip!’”
I thought we’d have a hard time persuading Ulric to come along. He had only met MacGregor a few times and each time he had shaken his head as though to say—“It beats me!” To my surprise Ulric greeted MacGregor quite cordially. He had just been promised a fat check for a new can of beans he was to do next week and he was in a mood to lay off work for a while. He had just been out to get himself a few bottles of liquor. There had been no phone call from Mara, of course. There wouldn’t be any, not for a week or two, thought Ulric. Have a drink!