CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
IT
was about
“Come in!”
I said. She entered hesitantly, paused
respectfully, then said: “There’s a gentleman
downstairs wants to see you. Says he’s a friend of yours.”
“What’s
his name?”
“He
wouldn’t give his name. Said not to bother you if you were busy.”
(Who the
hell could it be? I had given no one our
address.)
“Tell him
I’ll be down in a minute,” I said.
When I got
to the head of the stairs there he was looking up at me, with a broad grin on
his face. MacGregor,
no less. The last man on earth I
wanted to see.
“I’ll bet
you’re glad to see me,” he piped.
“Hiding away as usual, I see. How
are you, you old bastard?”
“Come on
up!”
“You’re
sure you’re not too busy?” This with full sarcasm.
“I can
always spare ten minutes for an old friend,” I replied.
He bounded
up the steps. “Nice place,” he said, as
he walked in. “How long are you
here? Hell, never mind telling me.” He sat down on the divan and threw his hat on
the table.
Nodding
toward the machine he said: “Still at it, eh?
I thought you had given that up long ago. Boy, you’re a glutton for punishment.”
“How did
you find this place?” I asked.
“Easy as pie,”
he said. “I phoned your parents. They wouldn’t give me your address but they
did give me the phone number. The rest
was easy.”
“I’ll be
damned!”
“What’s
the matter, aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Sure, sure.”
“You don’t
need to worry, I won’t tell anybody. By
the way, is what’s her name still with you?”
“You mean
Mona?”
“Yeah,
Mona, I couldn’t remember her name.”
“Sure
she’s with me. Why shouldn’t she be?”
“I never
thought she’d last this long, that’s all.
Well, it’s good to know you’re happy.
I’m not! I’m in a jam. One hell of a jam. That’s why I came to see you. I need you.”
“No, don’t
say that! How the hell can I help you? You know I’m …”
“All I
want you to do is listen. Don’t get panicky. I’m in love, that’s what.”
“That’s fine,”
I said. “What’s wrong with that?”
“She won’t
have me.”
I burst
out laughing. “Is that all? Is that what’s worrying you? You poor sap!”
“You don’t
understand. It’s different this
time. This is love. Let me tell you about
her …” He
paused a full moment. “Unless
you’re too busy right now.” He
directed his gaze at the work table, observed the blank sheet in the machine, then added: “What is it this time – a novel? Or a philosophical
treatise?”
“It’s
nothing,” I said. “Nothing
important.”
“Sounds
strange,” he said. “Once upon a time
everything you did was important, very important. Come on, what are you holding back for? I know I disturbed you, but that’s no reason
to clam up on me.”
“If you
really want to know, I’m working on a novel.”
“A novel? Jesus, Hen,
don’t try that … you’ll never write a novel.”
“Why? What makes you so sure?”
“Because I
know you, that’s why. You haven’t any
feeling for plot.”
“Does a
novel always have to have a plot?”
“Look,” he
countered, “I don’t want to gum up the works, but …”
“But what?”
“Why don’t
you stick to your guns? You can write
anything, but not a novel.”
“What
makes you think I can write at all?”
He hung
his head, as if thinking up an answer.
“You never
thought much of me as a writer,” said I.
“Nobody does.”
“You’re a
writer all right,” he said. “Maybe you
haven’t produced anything worth looking at yet, but you’ve got time. The trouble with you is you’re obstinate.”
“Obstinate?”
“Obstinate, yeah! Stubborn, mule-headed.
You want to enter by the front door.
You want to be different but you don’t want to pay the price. Look, why couldn’t you take a job as a
reporter, work your way up, become a correspondent, then tackle the great
work? Answer that!”
“Because
it’s a waste of time, that’s why.”
“Other men
have done it. Bigger
men than you, some of them. What
about Bernard Shaw?”
“That was
O.K. for him,” I replied. “I have my own
way.”
Silence
for a few moments. I reminded him of an
evening in his office long ago, an evening when he had flung a new review at me
and told me to read a story by John Dos Passos, then a young writer.
“You know
what you told me then? You said: ‘Hen,
why don’t you try your hand at it? You
can write as good as him any day. Read
it and see!’”
“I said that?”
“Yes. Don’t remember, eh? Well, those words you dropped so carelessly
that night stuck in my crop. Whether
I’ll ever be as good as John Dos Passos is neither here nor there. What’s important is that once you seemed to
think I could write.”
“Have I
ever said any different, Hen?”
“No, but
you act different. You act as if you
were going along with me in some crazy escapade. As if it were all
hopeless. You want me to do like
everyone else, do it their way,
repeat their errors.”
“Jesus,
but you’re sensitive! Go on, write your
bloody novel! Write your fool head off,
if you like! I was just trying to give
you a little friendly advice…. Anyway, that’s not what I came for, to talk
writing. I’m in a jam, I need help. And you’re the one who’s going to help me.”
“How?”
“I don’t
know. But let me tell you a bit first, then you’ll understand better. You can spare a half-hour, can’t you?”
“I guess
so.”
“Well
then, it’s like this…. You remember that joint we used to go to in the Village
Saturday afternoons? The place George
always haunted? It was about two months
ago, I guess, when I dropped in to look things over. It hadn’t changed much … still the same sort
of gals hanging out there. But I was
bored. I had a couple of drinks all by
myself – nobody gave me a tumble, by the way – I guess I was feeling a little
sorry for myself, getting old like and all that, when suddenly I spied a girl
two tables away, alone like myself.”
“A raving
beauty, I suppose?”
“No,
Hen. No, I wouldn’t say that. But different. Anyway I caught her eye, asked her for a
dance, and when the dance was over she came and sat with me. We didn’t dance again, just sat and talked. Until closing time. I wanted to take her home but she refused to
let me. I asked for her phone number and
she refused that too. ‘Maybe I’ll see
you next Saturday?’ I said. ‘Maybe,’ she
replied. And that was that…. you haven’t
got a drink around here, have you?”
“Sure I
have.” I went to the closet and got out
a bottle.
“What’s
this?” he said, grabbing the bottle of Vermouth.
“That’s a
hair tonic,” I said. “I suppose you want
Scotch?”
“If you have it, yes.
If not, I’ve got some in my car.”
I got out
a bottle of Scotch and poured him a stiff drink.
“How about yourself?”
“Never
touch it. Besides, it’s too early in the
day.”
“That’s
right. You’ve got to write that novel,
don’t you?”
“Just as
soon as you leave,” I said.
“I’ll make
it brief, Hen. I know you’re bored. But I don’t give a damn. You’ve got to hear me out…. Where was I now? Yeah, the dance hall. Well, next Saturday I was back waiting for
her, but no sign of her. I sat there the
whole afternoon. Didn’t
have a single dance. No Guelda.”
“What? Guelda? Is that her
name?”
“Yeah,
what’s wrong?”
“A funny
name, that’s all. What is she … what
nationality?”
“Scotch-Irish,
I imagine. What difference does it
make?”
“None, none at all. Just curious.”
“She’s no
Gypsy, if that’s what’s on your mind.
But there’s something about her that gets me. I can’t stop thinking about her. I’m in
love, that’s what. And I don’t think
I’ve ever been in love before. Not this way, certainly.”
“It sure
is funny to hear you say that.”
“I know
it, Hen. It’s more than funny. It’s tragic.”
I burst
out laughing.
“Yes,
tragic,” he repeated. “For the first
time in my life I’ve met someone who doesn’t give a shit about me.”
“How do
you know?” I said. “Did you ever meet
her again?”
“Meet her
again? Man, I’ve been dogging her steps
ever since that day. Sure, I’ve seen her
again. I tracked her home one
night. She was getting off a bus at
Borough Hall. Didn’t
see me, of course. Next day I
rang her up. She was furious. What did I mean telephoning her? How did I get her number? And so on.
Well, a few weeks later she was at the dance hall again. This time I had to literally get down on my
knees to wangle a dance out of her. She
told me not to bother her, that I didn’t interest her, that I was uncouth … oh,
all sorts of things. I couldn’t get her
to sit with me either. A few days later
I sent her a bouquet of roses. No
results. I tried phoning her again, but
as soon as she heard my voice she hung up.”
“She’s
probably mad about you,” I said.
“I’m
poison to her, that’s what.”
“Have you
found out what she does for a living?”
“Yes. She’s a school teacher.”
“A school teacher?
That beats everything. You running after
a school teacher! Now I see her better –
kind of big, awkward creature, very plain but not homely, hardly ever smiles,
wears her hair….”
“You’re close,
Hen, but you’re off too. Yes, she is
sort of big and large, but in a good way.
About her looks I can’t say. I
only see her eyes – they’re china blue and they twinkle….”
“Like
stars.”
“Violets,”
he said. “Just like violets. The rest of the face doesn’t count. To be honest with you, I think she has a
receding chin.”
“How about the legs?”
“Not too
good. A bit on the
plump side. But they’re not piano
legs!”
“And her
ass, does it wobble, when she walks?”
He jumped
to his feet. “Hen,” he said, putting an
arm around me “it’s her ass that gets me.
If I could just rub my hand over it – once – I’d die happy.”
“She’s
prudish, in other words?”
“Untouchable.”
“Have you kiss her yet?”
“Are you
crazy? Kiss her? She’d die first.”
“Listen,”
I said, “don’t you think that perhaps the reason you’re so crazy about her is
simply because she won’t have anything to do with you? You’ve had better girls than her, from what I
gather about her looks. Forget her,
that’s the best thing. It won’t break
your heart. You haven’t got a
heart. You’re a born Don Juan.”
“Not any
more, Hen. I can’t look at another
girl. I’m hooked.”
“How did
you think I could help you then?”
“I don’t
know. I was wondering if … if maybe you
would try to see her for me, talk to her, tell her how
serious I am…. Something like that.”
“But how
would I ever get to her – as an emissary of yours? She’d throw me out quick as look at me,
wouldn’t she?”
“That’s
true. But maybe we could find a way to
have you meet without her knowing that you’re my friend. Work your way into her good graces and
then….”
“Then
spring it on her, eh?”
“What’s
wrong with that? It’s possible, isn’t
it?”
“Everything’s
possible. Only….”
“Only what?”
“Well, did
you ever think that maybe I’d fall for her myself?” (I had no such fear of course, I merely
wanted his reaction.)
It made
him chuckle, this absurd notion. “She’s not your type, Hen, don’t worry. You’re looking for the exotic. She’s Scotch-Irish, I told you. You haven’t a thing in common. But you
can talk, damn it! When you want to,
that is. You could have made a good lawyer, I’ve told you that before. Try to picture yourself pleading a cause … my cause. You could come down from your pedestal and do
a little thing like that for an old friend, couldn’t you?”
“It might
take a little money,” I said.
“Money? For what?”
“Spend
money. Flowers, taxis, theatre,
cabarets….”
“Come off
it!” he said. “Flowers
maybe. But don’t think of it in
terms of a long-winded campaign. Just
get acquainted and start talking. I
don’t have to tell you how to go about it.
Melt her, that’s the thing. Weep,
if you have to. Christ, if I could only
get into her home, see her alone. I’d
prostrate myself at her feet, lick her toes, let her
step on me. I’m serious, Hen. I wouldn’t have looked you up if I wasn’t
desperate.”
“All
right,” I said, “I’ll think it over.
Give me a little time.”
“You’re
not putting me off? You promise?”
“I promise
nothing,” I said. “It needs thinking
about. I’ll do my best, that’s all I can
say.”
“Shake on
it!” he said, and put out his hand.
“You don’t
know how good it makes me feel to hear you say that, Hen. I had thought of asking George, but you know
George. He’d treat it as a joke. It’s anything but a joke,
you know that, don’t you? Hell, I
remember when you were talking of blowing your brains out – over your what’s her name….”
“Mona,” I
said.
“Yeah, Mona. You just
had to have her, didn’t you? You’re
happy now, I hope. Hen, I don’t even ask
that – to be happy with her. All I want
is to look at her, idolize her, worship her. Sounds juvenile, doesn’t it? But I mean it. I’m licked.
If I don’t get her I’ll go nuts.”
I poured
him another drink.
“I used to
laugh at you, remember? Always falling in love. Remember how that widow of yours hated
me? She had good reason to. By the way, whatever became of her?”
I shook my
head.
“You were
nuts about her, weren’t you? Now that I
look back on it, she wasn’t such a bad sort.
A little too old, maybe, a little sad-looking, but
attractive. Didn’t she have a son
about your age?”
“Yes,” I
said. “He died a few years ago.”
“You never
thought you’d get out of that entanglement, did you? Seems like a thousand years ago…. And what about Una? Guess you never did get over that, eh?”
“Guess
not,” I said.
“You know
what, Hen? You’re lucky. God comes to your rescue every time. Look, I’m not going to keep you from your
work any longer. I’ll give you a ring in
a few days and see what’s cooking. Don’t
let me down, that’s all I beg you.”
He picked
up his hat and walked to the door. “By
the way,” he said, grinning, and nodding toward the machine – “What’s the title
of the novel going to be?”
“The Iron Horses of
“No
kidding.”
“Or maybe – This Gentile
World.”
“That’s
sure to make it a best-seller,” he said.
“Give my
best to Guelda, when you phone her again!”
“Think up
something good now, you bastard! And
give my love to….”
“Mona!”
“Yeah, Mona. Ta ta!”
Later that day there came another knock at the
door. This time it was Sid Essen. He seemed excited and disturbed. Apologized profusely for
intruding.
“I just
had to see you,” he began. “I do hope
you’ll forgive me. Chase me away, if
you’re in the midst of something….”
“Sit down,
sit down,” I said. “I’m never too busy
to see you. Are you in trouble?”
“No, no
trouble. Lonely, maybe
… and disgusted with myself.
Sitting there in the dark I was getting glummer and glummer. Almost suicidal. Suddenly I thought of you. I said ‘Why not see Miller? He’ll cheer you up.’ And like that I up and left. The boy is taking care of the shop…. Really,
I’m ashamed of myself, but I couldn’t stand it another minute.”
He rose
from the divan and walked over to a print hanging on the wall beside my
table. It was one of Hiroshige’s, from
“The Fifty-three Stages of the Tokaido”.
He looked at it intently, then turned to gaze
at the others. Meanwhile his expression
had changed from one of anxiety and gloom to sheer joy. When he finally turned his face to me he had
tears in his eyes.
“Miller,
Miller, what a place you have! What an
atmosphere! Just to stand here in your
presence, surrounded by all this beauty, makes me feel like a new man. How I wish I could change places with
you! I’m a roughneck, as you know, but I
do love art, every form of art. And I’m
particularly fond of Oriental art. I
think the Japanese are wonderful people.
Everything they do is artistic…. Yes, yes, it’s good to work in a room
like this. You sit there with your
thoughts and you’re king of the world.
Such a pure life! You know,
Miller, sometimes you remind me of a Hebrew scholar. There’s something of the saint in you
too. That’s why I came to see you. You give me hope and courage. Even when you don’t say
anything. You don’t mind my
running on like this? I have to get it
off my chest.” He paused, as if to
summon courage. “I’m a failure, there’s
no getting round that. I know it and I’m
reconciled to it. But what hurts is to
think that my boy may think so too. I
don’t want him to pity me. Despise me,
yes. But not pity me.”
“Reb,” I
said, “I’ve never looked upon you as a failure.
You’re almost like an older brother.
What’s more, you’re kind and tender, and generous to a fault.”
“I wish my
wife could hear you say that.”
“Never
mind what she thinks. Wives are always hard on those they love.”
“Love. There hasn’t
been any love, not for years. She has
her own world; I have mine.”
There was
an awkward pause.
“Do you
think it would do any good if I dropped out of sight?”
“I doubt
it, Reb. What would you do? Where would you go?”
“Anywhere. As for
making a living, to tell the truth I’d be happy shining shoes. Money means nothing to me. I like people, I
like to do things for them.”
He looked
up at the wall again. He pointed to a
drawing of Hokusai’s – from “Life in the Eastern Capital”.
“You see
all those figures,” he said. “Ordinary people doing ordinary everyday things. That’s what I’d like – to be one of them, to
be doing something ordinary. A
barrelmaker or a tinsmith – what difference?
To be part of the procession that’s the thing. Not sit in an empty store all day killing
time. Damn it, I’m still good for
something. What would you do in my place?”
“Reb,” I
said, “I was in exactly your position once upon a time. Yes, I used to sit all day in my father’s
shop, doing nothing. I thought I’d go
crazy. I loathed the place. But I didn’t know how to break loose.”
“How did
you then?”
“Fate
pushed me out, I guess. But I must tell
you this … while I was eating my heart out I was praying too. Every day I prayed that someone – God perhaps
– would show me the way. I was also
thinking of writing, even that far back.
But it was more a dream than a possibility. It took me years, even after I had left the
tailor shop, to write a line. One should
never despair….”
“But you
were only a kid then. I’m getting to be
an old man.”
“Even so. The years
that are left you are yours. If there’s
something you really want to do there’s still time.”
“Miller,”
he said, almost woefully, “there’s no creative urge in
me. All I ask is to get out the
trap. I want to live again. I want to get back into the current. That’s all.”
“What’s
stopping you?”
“Don’t say
that! Please don’t say that! What’s
stopping me? Everything. My wife, my kids, my
obligations. Myself,
most of all. I’ve got too poor an
opinion of myself.”
I couldn’t
help smiling. Then, as if to myself, I
replied: “Only we humans seem to have a low opinion of ourselves. Take a worm, for example – do you suppose a
worm looks down on itself?”
“It’s
terrible to feel guilty,” he said. “And for what? What
have I done?”
“It’s what
you haven’t done, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes,
of course.”
“Do you
know what’s more important than doing something?”
“No,” said
Reb.
“Being yourself.”
“But if
you’re nothing.”
“Then be
nothing. But be it absolutely.”
“That
sounds crazy.”
“It
is. That’s why it’s so sound.”
“Go on,”
he said, “you make me feel good.”
“In wisdom
is death, you’ve heard that, haven’t you?
Isn’t it better to be a little meshuggah? Who worries about you? Only you. When you can’t sit in the store any more, why
don’t you get up and take a walk? Or go
to the movies? Close the shop, lock the
door. A customer more or less won’t make
any difference in your life, will it?
Enjoy yourself! Go fishing once
in a while, even if you don’t know how to fish.
Or take your car and drive out into the country. Anywhere. Listen to the birds,
bring home some flowers, or some fresh oysters.”
He was
leaning forward, all ears, a broad smile stretched across his face.
“Tell me
more,” he said. “It sounds wonderful.”
“Well,
remember this … the store won’t run away from you. Business won’t get any better. Nobody asks you to lock yourself in all
day. You’re a free man. If by becoming more careless and negligent
you grow happier, who will blame you?
I’ll make a further suggestion.
Instead of going off by yourself, take one of your negro
tenants with you. Show him a good
time. Give him some clothing from your
store. Ask him if you can lend him some
money. Buy his wife a little gift for
him to take home. See what I mean?”
He began
to laugh. “Do I see? It sounds great. That’s just what I’m going to do.”
“Don’t
make too big a splurge all at once,” I cautioned. “Take it slow and easy. Follow your instincts. For instance, maybe one day you’ll feel like
getting yourself a piece of tail. Don’t
have a bad conscience about it. Try a
piece of dark meat now and then. It’s
tastier, and it costs less. Anything to
make you relax, remember that. Always
treat yourself well. If you feel like a
worm, grovel; if you feel like a bird, fly.
Don’t worry about what the neighbours may think. Don’t worry about your kids,
they’ll take care of themselves. As for
your wife, maybe when she sees you happy she’ll change her tune. She’s a good woman, your wife. Too conscientious, that’s all. Needs to laugh once in a
while. Did you ever try a
limerick on her? Here’s one for you …
There was a young girl from
Who
dreamt she was raped by a Jew,
She
awoke in the night,
With
a scream of delight,
To
find it was perfectly true!”
“Good,
good!” he exclaimed. “Do you know any
more?”
“Yes,” I
said, “but I’ve got to get back to work now.
Feel better now, don’t you?
Tomorrow we visit the darkies, eh?
Maybe some day next week I’ll ride out to Bluepoint with you. How’s that?”
“Would
you? Oh, that would be dandy, just dandy. By the way, how is the book coming
along? Are you nearly finished with
it? I’m dying to read it, you know. So is Mrs. Essen.”
“Reb, you
won’t like the book at all. I must tell
you that straight off.”
“How can
you say that?” He was fairly shouting.
“Because it’s no good.”
He looked
at me as if I were out of my mind. For a
moment he didn’t know what to say. Then
he blurted out – “Miller, you’re crazy!
You couldn’t write a bad book.
It’s impossible. I know you tell
well.”
“You know
only a part of me,” I said. “You’ve
never seen the other side of the moon, have you? That’s me.
Terra incognita. Take it from me, I’m just a novice. Maybe ten years from now I’ll have something
to show you.”
“But
you’ve been writing for years.”
“Practising,
you mean. Practising
the scales.”
“You’re
joking,” he said. “You’re over-modest.”
“That’s
where you’re mistaken,” I said. “I’m
anything but modest. I’m a rank egotist,
that’s what I am. But I’m also a
realist, at least with myself.”
“You underrate
yourself,” said Reb. “I’m going to hand
you back to your own words – don’t look
down on yourself!”
“O.K. You win.”
He was
heading for the door. Suddenly I had an
impulse to unburden myself.
“Wait a
moment,” I said. “There’s something I want
to tell you.”
He turned
back to the table and stood there, like a messenger boy. All attention. Respectful attention. I wondered what he thought I was about to
tell him.
“When you
came in a few minutes ago,” I began, “I was in the middle of a sentence in the
middle of a long paragraph. Would you
like to hear it?” I leaned over he machine and reeled it off to him. It was one of those
crazy passages which I myself couldn’t make head nor tail of. I waned a reaction, and not from Pop or Mona.
I got it
too, immediately.
“Miller!” he shouted. “Miller,
that’s just marvellous! You sound like a
Russian. I don’t know what it means but
it means music.”
“You think
so? Honestly?”
“Of course
I do. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“That’s
fine. Then I’ll go ahead. I’ll finish the paragraph.”
“Is the
whole book like that?”
“No, damn
it! That’s the trouble. The parts I like nobody else will like. At least, not the
publishers.”
“To hell
with them!” said Reb. “If they won’t
take it I’ll publish it for you, with my own money.”
“I
wouldn’t recommend that,” I replied.
“Remember, you’re not to throw your money away all at once.”
“Miller,
if it took my last cent, I’d do it. I’d
do it because I believe in you.”
“Don’t
give it another thought,” I said. “I can
think of better ways to spend your money.”
“Not
me! I’d feel proud and happy to launch
you. So would my wife and children. They think very highly of you. You’re like one of the family to them.”
“That’s
good to hear, Reb. I hope I merit such
confidence. Tomorrow, then, eh? Let’s bring something good for the darkies,
what?”
When he
had gone I began pacing up and down, quietly, containedly, pausing now and then
to gaze at a woodblock, or a coloured reproduction (Giotto, della Francesca,
Uccello, Bosch, Breughel, Carpaccio), then pacing again, becoming more and more
pregnant, standing still, staring into space, letting my mind go, letting it
rest where it willed, becoming more and more serene, more and more charged with
the gravid beauty of the past, pleased with myself to be part of this past (and
of the future too), felicitating myself on living this womb or tomb sort of
existence…. Yes, it was indeed a lovely room, a lovely place, and everything in
it, everything we had contributed to make it habitable, reflected the inner
loveliness of life, the life of the soul.
You sit there with your thoughts and you’re
king of the world.”
This
innocent remark of Reb’s had lodged in my brain, given me such equanimity that
for a spell I felt I actually knew what it meant – to be king of the
world. King! That is, one capable
of rendering homage to high and low; one so sentient, so perceptive, so
illumined with love that nothing escaped his attention nor his
understanding. The
poetic intercessor, in short. Not
ruling the world but worshipping it with every breath.
Standing
again before the everyday world of Hokusai…. Why had this great master of the
brush taken the pains to reproduce the all too common element of his
world? To reveal his
skill? Nonsense. To express his love to indicate that it
extended far and wide, that it included the staves of a barrel, a blade of
grass, the rippling muscles of a wrestler, the slant of rain in a wind, the
teeth of a wave, the backbone of a fish…. In short,
everything. An almost impossible
task, were it not for the joy involved.
Fond of
Oriental art, he had said. As I repeated
Reb’s words to myself suddenly the whole continent of
As often
as I had read his words, I was never able to commit them to memory. I was hungry now for that flood of torrential
images, those great swollen phrases, sentences, paragraphs
– the words of the man who had opened my eyes to this stupefying creation of
“In
“It is in
these monolithic temples, on their dark walls, or on their sunburnt façade,
that the true genius of
I read on,
intoxicated as always. The words were no
longer words but living images, images fresh from the mould, shimmering,
palpitating, undulating, choking me by their very
excrescence.
“… the elements themselves will not mingle all these lives with
the confusion of the earth more successfully than the sculptor has done. Sometimes, in
What a
thought, this last! Even when they have returned to the earth….
Ah, and
now the passage….
“… Man is
no longer at the centre of life. He is
no longer that flower of the whole world, which has slowly set itself to form
and mature him. He is mingled with all
things, he is on the same plane with all things, he is a particle of the
infinite, neither more no less important than the other particles of the
infinite. The earth passes into the
trees, the trees into the fruits, the fruits into man or the animal, man and
the animal into the earth; the circulation of life sweeps along and propagates
a confused universe wherein forms arise for a second, only to be engulfed and
then to reappear, overlapping one another, palpitating, penetrating one another
as they surge like waves. Man does not
know whether yesterday he was not the very tool with which he himself will
force matter to release the form that he may have tomorrow. Everything is merely an appearance, and under
the diversity of appearances, Brahma, the spirit of the world, is a unity….
Lost as he is in the ocean of mingled forms and energies, does he know whether
he is still a form or a spirit? Is that
thing before us a thinking being, a living being even, a planet, or a being cut
in stone? Germination and putrefaction
are engendered unceasingly. Everything
has its heavy movement, expanded matter beats like a heart. Does not wisdom consist in submerging oneself
in it, in order to taste the intoxication of the unconscious as one gains
possession of the force that stirs in matter?”
To love Oriental art.
Who does not? But
which Orient, the near or the far?
I loved them all. Maybe I loved
this art so very different from our own because, in the words of Elie Faure,
“man is no longer at the centre of life”.
Perhaps it was this levelling (and raising) of
man, this promiscuity with all life, this infinitely small and infinitely great
at one and the same time, which produced such exaltation which confronted with
their work. Or, to put
it another way, because Nature was (with them) something other, something more,
than a mere backdrop. Because
man, though divine, was no more divine than that from which he sprang. Also, perhaps, because they
did not confound the welter and tumult of life with the welter and tumult of
the intellect. Because
mind – or spirit or soul – shone through everything, creating a divine
irradiation. Thus, though humbled
and chastened, man was never flattened, nullified, obliterated or
degraded. Never made to cringe before
the sublime, but incorporated in it. If
there was a key to the mysteries which enveloped him, pervaded him, and
sustained him, it was a simple key, available to all. There was nothing arcane about it.
Yes, I
loved this immense, staggering world of the Indian which, who knows, I might
one day see with my own eyes. I loved it
not because it was alien and remote, for it was really closer to me than the
art of the West; I loved the love from which it was born, a love which was
shared by the multitude, a love which could never have come to expression had
it not been of, by and for the multitude.
I loved the anonymous aspect of their staggering creations. How comforting and sustaining to be a humble,
unknown worker – an artisan and not a genius! – one
among thousands, sharing in the creation of that which belonged to all. To have been nothing more than a water
carrier – that had more meaning for me than to become a Picasso, a Rodin, a
Michelangelo or a da Vinci. Surveying
the panorama of European art, it is the name of the artist which always sticks
out like a sore thumb. And usually,
associated with the great names, goes a story of woe, of affliction, of cruel
misunderstanding. With us of the West
the word genius has something of the monstrous about it. Genius, or the one who does not adapt; genius, he who gets slapped; genius,
he who is persecuted and tormented; genius,
he who dies in the gutter, or in exile, or at the stake.
It is
true, I had a way of infuriating my bosom friends when extolling the virtues of
other peoples. They asserted that I did
it for effect, that I only pretended to appreciate and esteem the works of alien artists, that
it was my way of castigating our own people, our own creators. They were never convinced that I could take
to the alien, the exotic, or the outlandish in art immediately, that it
demanded no preparation, no initiation, no knowledge
of their history or their evolution.
“What does it mean? What are they
trying to say?” Thus they jeered and
mocked. As if explanations meant
anything. As if I cared what “they”
meant.
Above all,
it was the loneliness and the futility of being an artist which most disturbed
me. Thus far in my life I had met only
two writers whom I could call artists: John Cowper Powys and Frank Harris. The former I knew through attending his
lectures; the latter I knew in my role of merchant tailor, the lad, in other
words, who delivered his clothes, who helped him on with his trousers. Was it my fault, perhaps, that I had remained
outside the circle? How was I to meet
another writer, or painter or sculptor?
Push my way into his studio, tell him that I
too yearned to write, paint, sculpt, dance or what? Where did artists congregate in our vast
metropolis? In
Was it
shyness, timidity, lack of self-esteem which kept me apart and alone throughout
these barren years? A rather ludicrous
incident leaps to mind. Of a time when,
cruising about with O’Mara, searching desperately for novelty and excitement,
anything for a lark, we went one night to a lecture at the Rand School. It was one of those literary nights when
members of the audience are asked to voice their opinions about this author and
that. Perhaps that evening, we had
listened to a lecture on some contemporary and supposedly “revolutionary”
writer. It seems to me that we had, for
suddenly, when I found myself on my feet and talking, I realized that what I
was saying had nothing to do with what had gone before. Though I was dazed – it was the first time I
had ever risen to speak in public, even in an informal atmosphere such as this
– I was conscious, or half-conscious, that my audience was hypnotized. I could feel, rather than see, their upturned
faces strained to catch my words. My
eyes were focused straight ahead, at the figure behind the lectern who had
slumped in his seat, gazing at the floor.
As I say, I was utterly dazed; I knew not what I was saying
nor where it was leading me. I
spouted, as one does in a trance. And
what was I talking about? About a scene from one of Hamsun’s novels, something concerning a
peeping Tom. I remember this
because at the mention of the subject, and I probably went into the scene in
detail, there was a slight titter in the audience followed immediately by a
hush which signified rapt attention.
When I had finished there was a burst of applause and then the master of
ceremonies made a flattering speech about the good fortune they had had in
hearing this uninvited guest, a writer no doubt, though he was regretfully
ignorant of my name, and so on. As the
group dispersed he jumped down from the platform and rushed up to me to congratulate
me anew, to ask who I was what I had written, where did I live, and so forth
and so on. My reply, of course, was
vague and non-committal. I was in a
panic by this time and my one thought was to escape. But he clutched me by the sleeve, as I turned
to go, and in utter seriousness said – and what a shock it was! – “Who don’t you take over these meetings? You’re much better equipped in it than I
am. We need someone like you, someone
who can create fire and enthusiasm.”
I
stammered something in reply, perhaps a lame promise, and edged my way to the
exit. Outside I turned to O’Mara and
asked – “What did I say, do you remember?”
He looked
at me strangely, wondering no doubt if I were fishing for a compliment.
“I don’t
remember a thing,” said I. “From the
moment I rose to my feet I was out. I
only vaguely know that I was talking about Hamsun.”
“Christ!”
he said, “What a pity! You were
marvellous; you never hesitated a moment; the words just rolled out of your
mouth.”
“Did it
make sense, that’s what I’d like to know.”
“Make
sense? Man, you were almost as good as
Powys.”
“Come,
come, don’t give me that!”
“I mean
it, Henry,” he said, and there were tears in his eyes as he spoke. “You could be a great lecturer. You had them spellbound. They were shocked too. Didn’t know what to make of you, I guess.”
“It was
really that good, eh?” I was only slowly
realizing what had happened.
“You said
a lot before you launched into that Hamsun business.”
“I
did? Like what, for instance?”
“Jesus,
don’t ask me to repeat it. I
couldn’t. You touched on everything, it
seemed. You even talked about God for a
few minutes.”
“No!
That’s all blank to me. A complete blank.”
“What’s
the difference?” he said. “I wish I could go blank and talk that way.”
There it was. A trifling incident, yet revelatory. Nothing ever came of it. Never again did I
attempt, or even dream, of opening my mouth in public. If I attended a lecture, and I attended many
in this period, I sat with eyes, mouth and ears open, entranced, subjugated, as
impressionable and waxen a figure as all the others about me. It would never occur to me to stand up and
ask a question, much less offer a criticism.
I came to be instructed, to be opened up. I never said to myself – “You too could stand
up and deliver a speech. You too could
sway the audience with your powers of eloquence. You too could choose an author and expound
his merits in dazzling fashion.” No,
never any such thoughts. Reading a book,
yes, I might lift my eyes from the page upon he conclusion of a brilliant passage,
and say to myself: “You could do that too.
You have done it, as a matter
of fact. Only you don’t do it often
enough.” And I would read on, the
submissive victim, the all-too-willing disciple. Such a good disciple that, when the occasion
presented itself, when the mood was on me, I could explain, analyse and
criticize the book I had just read almost as if I had been the author of it,
employing not his own words but a simulacrum which carried weight and inspired
respect. And of course always, on these
occasions, the question would be hurled at me – “Why don’t you write a book
yourself?” Whereupon I would close up
like a clam, or become a clown – anything to throw dust in their eyes. It was always a writer-to-be that I
cultivated in the presence of friends and admirers, or even believers, for it
was always easy for me to create these “believers”.
But alone,
reviewing my words or deeds soberly, the sense of being cut off always took
possession of me. “They don’t know me,”
I would say to myself. And by this I
meant that they knew me neither for myself nor for what I might become. They were impressed by the mask. I didn’t call it that, but that is how I
thought of my ability to impress others.
It was not me doing it, but a persona which I know how to put on. It was something, indeed, which anyone with a
little intelligence and a flair for acting could learn to do. Monkey tricks, in other words. Yet, though I regarded these performances in
this light, I myself at times would wonder if perhaps it was not me, after all, who was behind these
antics.
Such was
the penalty of living alone, working alone, never meeting a kindred spirit,
never touching the fringe of that secret inner circle wherein all those doubts
and conflicts which ravaged me could be brought out into the open, shared,
discussed, analysed and, if not resolved, at least
aired.
Those strange figures out of the world of art – painters,
sculptors, particularly painters – was it not natural that I should feel
at home with them? Their work spoke to
me in mysterious fashion. Had they used
words I might have been baffled. However
remote their world from ours, the ingredients were the same: rocks, trees,
mountains, water, theatre, work, play, costumes, worship, youth and old age,
harlotry, coquetry, mimicry, war, famine, torture, intrigue, vice, lust, joy,
sorrow. A Tibetan scroll, with its
mandalas, its gods and devils, its strange symbols, its prescribed colours, was
as familiar to me, some part of me, as the nymphs and sprites, the streams and
forests, of a European painter.
But what
was loser to me than anything Chinese, Japanese or Tibetan art, was this art of