Please don’t! he begged. I can handle the situation. I’m used to it, you know. He thinks I’m a Hun, that’s what bothers him. Sit down a moment, won’t you? Have a drink. You mustn’t let these things disturb you. Here he tailed off into a long anecdote about his experience during the war—first as an intelligence officer, then as a spy. As I listened to him I could hear Rothermel’s voice rising higher and shriller. It sounded as if he were having the tantrums. I signalled to Ned and O’Mara to quiet him.

Suddenly I heard him scream: Mona! Mona! Where is that bitch? I’ll fuck her yet, by Christ!

I rushed to his table and shook him, none too gently. I looked quickly at his friends to see if they I were going to make trouble. They seemed embarrassed and disconcerted.

We’ll have to get him out of here, I explained.

Certainly, said one of them. Why don’t you call a cab and send him home? He’s a disgrace.

Ned, O’Mara and myself bundled him into his overcoat and pushed him out into the street. A light sleet had fallen; it was now covered with a thin coat of snow. Rothermel was unable to stand without support. While Ned went in search of a cab, O’Mara and I half-dragged, half-shoved him towards the corner. He was fuming and cussing; he was particularly venomous towards me, naturally. In the scramble he lost his hat. You don’t need a hat, said O’Mara. We’ll use it to piss in. Rothermel was now blind with rage. He tried to unhitch his arms in order to take a swing at us, but we held him tight. Suddenly and instinctively we both let go at once. Rothermel stood swaying lightly, not daring to make a move for fear his legs would give way. We retreated a few steps and then, moved by a common impulse, we began dancing around him like goats, making faces at him, taunting him, thumbing our noses, scratching our behinds like monkeys, capering and cavorting like zanies. The poor bugger was beside himself. He was actually bellowing now. Fortunately the street was deserted. Finally he could stand it no longer. He made a lunge for us, lost his footing and slid into the gutter. We picked him up, stood him safely on the sidewalk, and repeated our antics, this time to the tune of a little ditty in which we made shameful use of his name.

The cab pulled up and we bundled him in. We told the driver that he had the D. T’s, gave him a phoney address in Hoboken, and waved good-bye. When we returned his friends thanked us and apologized all over again. He belongs in the asylum, said one of them. With that he ordered a round of drinks and insisted on buying us steak sandwiches. If you ever have any trouble with the flat-footed guys, just call on us, said the bald-headed politician. He handed me his card. Then he suggested the name of a bootlegger from whom we could get credit, if we ever needed credit. And so we had a second round and a third round, always of the best Scotch, which could have been horse piss for all I cared about it.

Shortly after they left, Arthur Raymond fell into a violent quarrel with some young chap whom I had never seen before, insisting that the latter had insulted Mona. Duffy was the lad’s name. Seemed like a decent chap, even if a little under the weather. He’ll have to apologize publicly, Arthur Raymond kept insisting. Duffy thought this a great joke. At last Arthur Raymond could stand it no longer. He got up, twisted Duffy’s arm, and threw him on the floor. Then he sat on Duffy’s chest and banged his head against the floor. Will you or won’t you? he repeated, banging the poor fellow’s head mercilessly. At last Duffy mumbled a thick apology and Arthur Raymond lifted him to his feet. There was a dead silence, an unpleasant one for Arthur Raymond. Duffy searched for his coat and hat, paid his bill, and left—without a word. Arthur Raymond sat alone at his table, head down, looking glum and shame-faced. In a few moments he got up and stalked out.

It was not until a few nights later, when he showed up with a pair of black eyes, that we learned that Duffy had waited for him outside and given him a good beating. Oddly enough, Arthur Raymond appeared to be happy over the trouncing he had received. It turned out that after the fracas Duffy and he had become good friends. With his usual false modesty he added that he had been somewhat at a disadvantage, always was when it came to fisticuffs, because he couldn’t afford to ruin his hands. Anyway, it was the first time in his life that he had taken a beating. It had given him a thrill. With a touch of malice he concluded: Everybody seems to by happy about it. Maybe I deserved it.

Maybe it will teach you to mind your own business, said Mona.

Arthur Raymond made no reply.

And when are you going to pay your bill? she added.

To everyone’s astonishment, Arthur Raymond replied: How much is it? Fishing into his pocket he brought up a roll of bills and peeled off the amount due.

Didn’t expect that, did you? he said, looking around like a bantam cock. He got up, went to the kitchen, and crossed his name off the list.

And now I’ve got another surprise for you, he said, requesting that drinks be served all around. A month from today I’m giving a concert. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Ravel, Prokofieff and Stravinsky. You’re all invited to come—it’s on me. My last appearance, so to say. After that I’m going to work for the Communist party. And I don’t care what happens to my hands. I’m through with this sort of life. I’m going to do something constructive. Yes sir! and he banged his fist on the table. From now on I disown you all.

As he sailed out he turned round to deliver this: Don’t forget the concert! I’ll send you seats up front.

From the time that Arthur Raymond delivered himself of this declaration things took a definite turn for the worse. All our creditors seemed to descend on us at once, and not only the creditors but the police and the lawyer whom Maude had engaged to collect the back alimony. It would begin, in the early morning with the iceman pounding furiously on our door and we pretending to be sound asleep or out. Afternoons, it would be the grocer, the delicatessen man or one of the bootleggers rapping on the front window. In the evening, trying to pass himself off as a client, would come a process server or a plain clothes man. Finally the landlord began to dun us for the rent, threatening to hail us to court if we didn’t pay up. It was enough to give one the jitters. Sometimes we felt so done up that we would close the joint and go to a movie.

One night the old trio—Osiecki, O’Shaughnessy and Andrews—arrived with three girls from the Follies. This was towards midnight and they were already lit up like ocean liners. It was one of those nights when just our intimate friends-were on hand. The Follies girls, beautiful, brittle, and extraordinarily vulgar, insisted on putting the tables together so that they could dance on the table tops, do the split, and that sort of thing. Osiecki, imagining himself to be a Cossack, kept spinning like a top, to our utter amazement. Hadn’t improved a whit in the interim, of course. But he was jollier than usual, and for some queer reason fancied himself to be an acrobat. After a few chairs had been broken and some crockery smashed, it was suddenly decided that we all go to Harlem. Mona, Osiecki and I got into a cab with Spud Jason and his Alameda who was carrying on her lap a mangy little dog called Fifi. By the time we reached Harlem it had peed over everyone. Finally Alameda peed in her pants from excitement. At Small’s, which was then the rage, we drank champagne, danced with the colored folk and ate huge steaks smothered with onions. Dr. Kronski was in the party and seemed to be enjoying himself hugely. Who was paying for it all I had no idea. Probably Osiecki. Anyway, we got home toward dawn and tumbled into bed exhausted. Just as we were falling asleep Alan Cromwell rapped at the window, begging to be allowed in. We paid no attention to him. It’s me, Alan, let me in! he kept shouting. He raised his voice until it sounded as if he were screaming. Obviously he was soused to the gills and in a bad way. Finally a cop came along and dragged him away, giving him a few love taps with his night stick as he did so. Kronski and O’Mara, who were sleeping on the tables, thought it a hell of a good joke. Mona was worried. However, we soon fell back into a dead slumber.

The next evening Ned, O’Mara and myself hatched an idea. We had taken to sitting in the kitchen with a ukelele, humming and talking softly while Mona took care of the customers. It was the time of the Florida boom. O’Mara, always restless, always itching to strike it rich, got the idea that the three of us ought to light out for Miami. It was his belief that we could make enough in a few weeks to send for Mona and lead a new life. Since none of us had money to invest in real estate we would have to get it from those who had made it. We would offer our services as waiters or bell hops. We were even willing to shine shoes. Anything for a start. The weather was still good, and it would get better the farther south we travelled.

O’Mara always knew how to make the bait attractive.

Naturally Mona wasn’t very keen about our project. I had to promise that I would telephone her every night, no matter where we might be. All I needed was a nickel to drop in the slot; the charges could be reversed. By the time the telephone bill arrived the speakeasy would be closed and she would be with us.

Everything was set to decamp in a few days. Unfortunately, two days before starting the landlord served us with a summons. In desperation I tried to raise at least part of the money we owed him. On an impulse I looked up the son of one of my father’s bosom friends. He was quite a young man but making good in the steamship business. I don’t know what on earth possessed me to tackle him—it was like grasping at a straw. The moment I mentioned money he turned me down cold. He even had the cheek to ask me why I had singled him out. He had never asked me for any favors, had he? (Already a hard-boiled business man. In a few years he would be a success.) I swallowed my pride and bored in. Finally after being thoroughly humiliated, I succeeded in extracting a ten spot from him. I offered to write out a promissory note but he spurned this derisively. When I got back to the joint I felt so wretched, so beaten, that I almost set fire to the place. However…

It was a Saturday afternoon when O’Mara and I set forth for Miami. It was high time. The air was thick with wet, heavy snow-flakes—the first snow-fall of the season. Our plan was to get on the highway outside Elizabeth, there to catch a car as far as Washington where we were to meet Ned. For some reason of his own Ned was going to Washington by train. He was taking the ukelele along—for morale.

It was almost dark when we bundled into a car outside Elizabeth. There were five darkies in the car and they were all liquored up. We wondered why in hell they were driving so fast. Before long we found out—the car was full of dope and the Federal men were on their tail. Why they had stopped to pick us up we couldn’t figure out. We felt vastly relieved when a little this side of Philadelphia they slowed down and dumped us out.

The snow was falling heavily now and a stiff gale was blowing, an icy gale. Moreover, it was pitch dark. We walked a couple of miles, our teeth chattering, until we struck a gas station. It was hours before we got another lift, and then only as far as Wilmington. We decided to spend the night in that God-forsaken hole.

Mindful of my promise I called Mona. She held me on the phone for almost fifteen minutes, the operator butting in every so often to remind us that the toll was rising. Things were pretty black at her end: she was to appear in court the following day.

When I hung up I had such a fit of remorse that I was of a mind to turn-back in the morning.

Come on, said O’Mara, don’t let it get you down. You know Mona, she’ll find a way out.

I knew that myself but it didn’t make me feel any better.

Let’s get started bright and early tomorrow, I said. We can be in Miami in three days, if we try.

The next day, around noon, we walked in on Ned who had installed himself in a broken-down hotel for a dollar a night. His room was like a setting for Gorky’s Night Lodging. Every other window-pane was broken; some were stuffed with rags, some with newspapers.

The faucets didn’t work, the bed had a straw mattress, and the springs had completely given way. There were cobwebs hanging everywhere. The smell of ‘dust was so thick it almost choked us. And this was a hotel for white people. In our glorious capital no less.

We bought some cheese, wine and salami, a good loaf of bread and some olives, and moved across the bridge, into Virginia. Once across the line, we sat down on the grass under a shady tree and filled our bellies. Then we stretched out in the warm sunshine, smoked a cigarette or two, and finally sang a little tune. This tune was to become our theme song—something about looking for a friendly face.

We were in high spirits when we got up on our hind legs. The South looked good—warm, inviting, gracious, spacious. We were already in another world.

Entering the South is always inspiring. By the time one hits Maryland and starts going over the roller coaster curves everything has undergone moderation, softening. When you come to the Old Dominion you are definitely in a new world, no mistaking it. People have manners, grace, dignity. The State that gave us the most Presidents, or at least the best ones, was a great State in its day. It still is, in many ways.

Many times I left New York, not caring in what direction I was wafted, so long as I could put some distance between myself and the city I loathed. Often I wound up in North Carolina or Tennessee. Passing through Virginia was like rehearsing a motif from a familiar symphony or quartet. Occasionally I would stop in a little burg and ask for a job because I liked the looks of the place. Of course I never took the job. I would linger for a while in an effort to imagine what it would be like to pass the rest of my days there. Hunger always routed me out of my reverie…

From Washington we got to Roanoke not without difficulty, since we were three; not many drivers are willing to pick up three vagabonds, especially from the North. We decided that night that it would be better to split up. We looked at the map and decided that we would all meet the next evening at the Post Office in Charlotte, N.C. The plan worked out beautifully. One by one we arrived at our destination, the last one only a half hour later than the first. Here we again changed plans, since Ned had discovered that he might have gone all the way through to Miami with the man who had picked him up. We decided that our next rendezvous would be in Jacksonville. O’Mara and I were to stick together; Ned would travel alone. It was a drizzling rain we faced next morning, shortly after dawn, standing on the highway outside of Charlotte. For an hour or more no one gave us a tumble. Fed up, we decided to stand in the middle of the road. It worked. The next car in sight came to a stop with a screech.

What in Christ’s name’s the matter with you? shouted the driver.

Where are you headed? we shouted. Jacksonville!

The door opened and we tumbled in. We were off again, at a record breaking clip. Not a word out of the driver for several minutes. When he did open his trap it was to say—Lucky I didn’t run you down. We said nothing. I didn’t know whether to shoot or to run you over, he continued. O’Mara and I exchanged glances. Where are you from? he asked. What’s your racket? We told him. He looked at us searchingly, decided, I suppose, that we were speaking the truth, then slowly, painfully, related to us that he had accidentally killed a friend of his at a bar in a drunken brawl. He had hit him over the head with a bottle, in self-defense. Terrified and panic-stricken, he had fought his way out of the place, piled into his car, and skipped. He had two guns in his pockets and was ready to use them should anyone attempt to bar his way. You had a narrow escape, he said.

After a while he confided that he was making for Tampa, where he could safely hide away for a while. At least he thought he could. I’ll probably go back and take what’s coming to me. I’ve got to collect myself first, he said. Again and again he repeated: It wasn’t my fault, I never meant to kill him. Once he broke down and wept like a child.

When we stopped for lunch he insisted on paying the bill. He paid for dinner too. In Macon (Georgia) we took a room with two beds, for which he also footed the bill. At the far end of the wide hall, seated in a rocker under a red light, sat a whore. As we were undressing our friend laid his revolvers out on the dresser, together with his wallet, remarking quietly that whoever got to them first would be the lucky man.

Early next morning we set out again. Our friend should have gone straight on to Tampa but no, he insisted on depositing us first in Jacksonville. Not only that, but we had to accept the ten dollar bill he handed us—for good luck.

You’d better get the lay of the land before you go any farther, he warned. I have a hunch the boom is over. We wished him good luck and watched him take off again, wondering how long it would be before the law caught up with him. He was a simple, honest chap with a good heart, a mechanic by trade. One of those people of whom one says—He wouldn’t hurt a fly.

It was indeed fortunate for us that we had met up with him. Aside from the ten dollars he had handed us we had just about four dollars between us. Ned had most of the money and he had forgotten to divvy up. Well, we went to the Post Office, as agreed upon. Sure enough, there was Ned. Had been there some two hours or more. The man who picked him up in Charlotte had driven him straight through, and what’s stranger still, he had also paid for his meals and put him up in the same room with him.

All in all we hadn’t done so bad. The next thing was to get the feel of the land.

It didn’t take us long to find out what the situation was. Jacksonville was filled to overflowing with poor dopes like ourselves, all returning from the boom country below. If we had had any sense we would have turned about immediately and trekked homeward, but pride made us determined to stick it out for a while. There must be something we can do, we kept telling one another. But there was not only nothing to do, there wasn’t even a place to sleep. In the daytime we bun? around at the Y.M.C.A., which had come to resemble a Salvation Army shelter. No one seemed to be making any effort to find work. Everyone was waiting for a letter or a telegram from the folks back home. Waiting for a train ticket, a money order, or just a plain dollar bill. It went on like that for days. We slept in the park (until the cops caught up with us), or on the floor of the jail, in the company of a hundred or more filthy bodies wrapped in newspapers, some vomiting, some shitting in their pants. Now and then in an effort to create work, we would wander off to a neighboring village and try to invent a job which would at least keep us in food. On one of these forays, not having eaten for thirty-six hours and having walked eight miles to the mythical job, we had to walk back again on empty bellies, our legs creaking, our guts rumbling, so dog-tired, so utterly weary and dejected that, like Indians, we walked single file, one behind the other, heads down, tongues hanging out. That night we tried of storm the Salvation Army. Useless. One had to have a quarter to be allowed to sleep on the floor. In the toilet there my guts began to fall out. The pain was so great I keeled over. Ned and O’Mara had to carry me out of the place. We inched our way to the railroad yards where the freight trains were loaded with rotting fruit for the North. There we ran into a sheriff who drove us away with a gun in our backs. He wouldn’t even permit us to gather a few rotten oranges which were lying on the ground. Get back where you belong! Always the same cry.

By great luck the next day Ned ran into a weird old chap named Fletcher whom he had known in the advertising business in New York. The man was a commercial artist, had a studio, as he called it, and, though utterly broke, promised to make us a meal that evening. It seems he was celebrating his silver anniversary. For the occasion he had managed to get his wife released from the insane asylum.

It won’t be very merry, he informed Ned, but we’ll make it as cheerful as we can. She’s a sweet creature, perfectly harmless. She’s been this way for the last fifteen years.

It was one of the longest days I ever put in, waiting for that promised meal. I lolled about the Y.M.C.A. the whole day, trying to conserve my energies. Most of the fellows passed the time playing cards or checkers—dice was forbidden. I read the newspapers, the Christian Sciences magazines, and all the other trash that was lying about. If a revolution had broken out in New York it wouldn’t have excited me in the least. I had only one thought—food!

The moment I set eyes on poor Fletcher I felt an immense sympathy for him. He was a man approaching seventy, with watery blue eyes and a big moustache.

He looked for all the world like Buffalo Bill. On the walls were examples of his work—from the old days—when he had been handsomely paid to do ponies and cowboys for the magazine covers. A small pension helped him to eke out a bare existence. He lived in hopes of getting a fat commission some day. Between times he painted little signs for tradespeople, anything that would bring in a few pennies. He was thankful to be living in the South where the days at least were warm.

To our surprise he brought out two bottles, one half-filled with gin, the other containing about a fingerful of rye. With the help of a lemon, some orange peels and a generous quantity of water, we managed to make his stock go a few rounds. His wife meanwhile was reposing in the next room. Fletcher said he would bring her out when it came time to eat. It makes no difference to her, he said. She has her own world and her own rhythm. She doesn’t remember me any more, so don’t be surprised at what she says. She’s usually very quiet—and fairly cheerful, as you’ll see.

He then set about preparing the table. The dishes were broken and chipped, nothing matched of course, and the cutlery was of tin. He laid the convert on the bare table, and in the center of the table he. placed an immense bowl of flowers. It’ll only be a cold snack, he said apologetically, but it may help to quiet the wolf. He put out a bowl of potato salad, some rat cheese, some bologna and liverwurst, together with a loaf of white bread and some margarine. There were a few apples and nuts, for dessert. Not an orange in sight. After he had set a glass of water at each place he put a pot of coffee up to boil.

I guess we’re about ready now, he said, looking towards the other room. Just a minute and I’ll bring Laura in.

The three of us stood in silence as we waited for the two of them to issue from the next room. We could hear him rousing her from her slumber; he was speaking to her softly, gently, as he helped her to her feet.

Well, he said, smiling desperately through his tears, as he led her to the table, here we are at last. Laura, these are my friends—your friends too. They’re going to eat with us—isn’t that lovely?

We approached in turn, shook hands first with her, then with him. We were all in tears as we raised the water glasses and drank to their twenty-fifth anniversary.

Well, this is almost like old times, said Fletcher, looking first at his poor demented wife, then at us. Do you remember, Laura, that funny old studio I had in the Village years ago? We weren’t very rich then either, were we? He turned to us. I won’t say grace, though tonight I would like to. I’ve lost the habit. But I want to tell you how grateful I am that you are sharing this little celebration with us. It might have been very sad, just the two of us alone. He turned to his wife.

Laura, you’re still beautiful, do you know it? He chucked her under the chin. Laura looked up wistfully and gave the flicker of a smile. You see? he exclaimed. Ah yes, Laura was the belle of New York once. Weren’t you, Laura?

It didn’t take us long to plough through the victuals, including the apples and nuts and a few stale cookies which Fletcher had dug up by chance while searching for the canned milk. Over a second cup of Java Ned got out the ukulele and we took to singing, Laura too. We sang homely ditties, such as O Susanna,

A bull-frog sat on a railroad track,

Annie Laurie,

Old Black Joe … Suddenly Fletcher rose and said he would sing Dixie, which he did with gusto, ending up with the blood-curdling Rebel yell. Laura, highly pleased with the performance, demanded that he sing another tune. He got up again and sang The Arkansas Traveler, topping it off with a little jig. My, but we were merry. It was pathetic.

After a time I got hungry again. I asked if there wasn’t any stale bread around. We might make French pancakes, I said.

We searched high and low but there wasn’t even a crust to be found. We did find some moldy zwieback though and, dipping this in the coffee, we got a new lease of energy.

If it weren’t for the vacant look in her eyes one wouldn’t have thought Laura to be insane. She sang heartily, responded to our quips and jokes, and ate her food with relish. After a while, however, she dozed off, just like a child. We carried her into the bedroom and put her back to bed. Fletcher leaned over her and kissed her brow.

If you boys will wait a few minutes, he said, I think I may be able to dig up a wee bit more gin. I’m going to see my next-door neighbor.

In a few minutes he was back with a half bottle of bourbon. He also had a little bag of cakes in his hand. We put up another pot of coffee, poured the bourbon, and began to chat. Now and then we threw a short log into the old pot-bellied stove. It was the first comfortable, cheery evening we were spending in Jacksonville.

I was in the same fix when I came here, said Fletcher. It takes time to get acquainted … Ned, why don’t you go down to the newspaper office. I’ve got a friend there, he’s one of the editors. Maybe he can dig up something for you.

But I’m not a writer, said Ned.

Hell, Henry will write your stuff for you, said O’Mara.

Why don’t you both go? said Fletcher.

We were so elated with the prospect of getting a job that we all did a jig in the middle of he room.

Let’s have that one about looking for a friendly face, begged Fletcher. We took to humming and singing again, not too loud because of Laura.

You mustn’t worry about her, said Fletcher, she sleeps like an angel. In fact, she is an angel. I honestly think that’s why she’s—you know. She didn’t fit in our world. Sometimes I think it’s a blessing she’s the way she is.

He showed us some of his work which he had stored away in big trunks. It wasn’t too bad. At least he was a good draughtsman. He had been all over Europe in his youth—Paris, Munich, Rome, Prague, Budapest, Berlin. He had even won a few prizes.

If I had my life to live all over again, he said, I’d do nothing at all. I’d keep tramping around the world. Why don’t you fellows go west? There’s still lots of room in that part of the world.

That night we slept on the floor of Fletcher’s studio. Next morning Ned and I went to see the newspaper man. After a few words I was voted out. But Ned was given a chance to write a series of articles. Naturally, I would do the dirty work.

All we had to do now was to pull our belts in until pay-day. Pay-day was only two weeks off.

That same day O’Mara led me round to the home of an Irish priest whose address someone had given him. We immediately got the cold shoulder from the Sister who opened the door. Descending the stoop we noticed the good Father easing his Packard out of the garage. O’Mara tried to plead with him. For encouragement he got a puff of heavy smoke from the Father’s Havana cigar. Be off with yer and don’t be disturbin’ the peace! That was all Father Hoolihan deigned to say.

That evening I wandered off by my lonesome. Passing a big synagogue I heard the choir singing. It was a Hebrew prayer and it sounded enchanting. I stepped inside and took a seat far back. As soon as the service was over I went up front and collared the rabbi. Reb, I wanted to say, I’m in a bad way … But he was a solemn looking cuss, utterly devoid of bonhomie. I told him my story in a few words, winding up with an appeal for food, or meal tickets, and a place to flop, if possible. I didn’t dare mention that we were three. But you’re not a Jew, are you? said the Reb. He squinted as if he couldn’t make me out clearly.

No, but I’m hungry. What difference does it make what I am?

Why don’t you try the Christian churches?

I have, I replied. Besides, I’m not a Christian either. I’m just a Gentile.

Grudgingly he wrote a few words on a slip of paper, saying that I was to present the message to the man at the Salvation Army. I went there immediately, only to be told that they had no room.

Can you give me something to eat? I begged. I was informed that the dining room had been closed hours ago.

I’ll eat anything, I said, clinging to the man at the desk. Haven’t you got a rotten orange or a rotten banana?

He looked at me strangely. He was unmoved. Can you give me a dime—just a dime? I begged.

Disgustedly he fished into his pocket and flung me the dime.

Now clear out of here! he said. You loafers belong up North where you came from.

I turned on my heel and walked away without a word. On the main street I saw a pleasant looking fellow selling newspapers. Something about his looks encouraged me to address him.

Hullo, I said, how goes it?

Not too bad, buddy. Where are you from—New York?

Yeah, and you?

Jersey City.

Shake!

A few moments later I was hawking the few papers he had given me. It took me about an hour to get rid of them. But I had earned a few pennies. I hurried back to the Y and found O’Mara dozing behind a newspaper in a big arm-chair.

Let’s go and eat, I said, shaking him vigorously.

Yeah, he responded derisively, let’s go to Delmonico’s.

No, seriously, I said, I just made a few cents, enough for coffee and doughnuts. Come on.

At once he was on his feet. As we hurried along I told him briefly what had happened.

Let’s find that guy, he said, he sounds like a friend. From Jersey City, eh? Swell!

Mooney was the name of the newsie. He knocked off to have a bite with us.

You can sleep in my room, said Mooney. I’ve got an extra couch. It’s better than sleeping in the jail.

The next day, towards noon, we followed his advice and went to the rear of the newspaper office to get a bundle of papers. Our friend Mooney of course had lent us the money to buy the papers. There were about fifty kids milling around, all trying to get their bundles first. I had to bend over a window-sill and haul them out through the iron bars. Suddenly I felt someone crawling up my back. It was a little darkie, trying to reach over my head for his bundle. I got him off my back and he crawled between my legs. The kids were all laughing and jeering. I had to laugh myself. Anyway, we were soon loaded and marching up the main street. It was the hardest thing in the world for me to open my mouth and yell. I tried shoving the papers at the passers-by. That didn’t work at all.

I was standing there, looking rather foolish, I suppose, when Mooney came along. That’s no way to sell papers, he said. Here, watch me! And with this he whirls around, flashing the paper and yelling Extra! Extra! All about the big broo … siiis … I wondered what the great news was, unable to catch the important word at the end of his phrase. I looked at the front page to see what the headline was. There was no headline. There didn’t seem to be any news at all, in fact.

Yell anything, said Mooney, but yell it at the top of your lungs! And don’t stand in one spot. Keep moving! You’ve got to hustle if you want to get rid of them before the next edition is out.

I did my best. I hustled up and down the main street, then ducked into the side streets. Soon I found myself in the park. I had sold only three or four papers. I put the bundle on the ground and sat down on a bench to watch the ducks swimming in the pond. All the invalids, recuperationists and valetudinarians were out sunning themselves. The park seemed more like the recreation grounds of an Old Soldiers’ Home. An old codger beside me asked to borrow a paper to see what the weather report was like. I waited drowsily and blissfully while he read the paper from front to back. When he handed it back to me I tried to fold it neatly so that it wouldn’t look shopworn.

On my way out of the park a cop stopped me to buy a paper. That almost unnerved me.

By the time the next edition was due on the streets I had sold exactly seven papers. I hunted up O’Mara. He had done a little better, but nothing to brag about.

Mooney’s going to be disappointed, he said.

I know it. I guess we’re not cut out to peddle papers. It’s a job for kids—or for a hustler like Mooney.

You said it, Henry.

We had coffee and doughnuts again. Better than nothing. It was food and food was what we needed. All that walking up and down, and with a heavy bundle, gave one a furious appetite. I wondered just how long I would be able to stick it out.

Later in the day we ran into Mooney again. We apologized for our inability to do better.

Forget about it, he said. I understand. Listen, let me lend you five bucks. Scout around for something better. You’re not cut out for this kind of thing. I’ll see you tonight at the lunch counter. O.K.? He hustled off, waving his hand cheerily.

That’s what you call a swell guy, said O’Mara. Now, b’Jesus, we’ve really got to land something. Come on, let’s strike out!

We set off straight ahead, neither of us having the faintest notion what we were looking for or how to find it. A few blocks farther on we met up with a cheerful looking guy who tried to hit us up for a dime.

He was a coal miner from Pennsylvania. Trapped, like us. Over a coffee and doughnut we got to exchanging ideas.

Tell you what, he said, let’s go down to the redlight district tonight. You’re always welcome if you can buy a drink. You don’t have to go upstairs with the gal. Anyway, it’s cosy and comfortable—and you can hear some music. Damned sight better than sitting around in the morgue. (Meaning the Y).

That evening, over a few drinks, he asked us whether we had ever been converted.

Converted? We wondered what he was driving at.

He explained. Seems there were always a few guys hanging around the morgue who were eager to win converts to the church. Even the Mormons had their scouts out. The thing was, he explained, to listen innocently and appear interested. If the fool thinks he’s hooking you, you can worm a meal out of him easy as pie. Try it sometime. They’re on to me—I can’t work it any more.

We stayed in the whorehouse as long as we possibly could. Every so often a new girl showed up, made a few passes at us, and gave up.

It’s not exactly Paradise for them, said our friend. A dollar a crack, and the house gets the best part of it. Still, some of them don’t look so bad, do they?

We looked them over appraisingly. A pathetic bunch, even more pathetic looking than the Salvation Army lassies. All of them chewing gum, humming, whistling, trying to look appealing. One or two, I noticed, were yawning, rubbing their bleary eyes.

At least they eat regularly. This from O’Mara.

Yeah, there’s something to that, said our friend. I’d rather go hungry, myself.

I don’t know, said I. If I had to choose … if I were a woman … I’m not sure but what I’d take a crack at it. At least till I got fattened up a bit.

You think so, said our friend, but you’re mistaken. You don’t get fat on this job, let me tell you that.

How about that one? said O’Mara, pointing out a ton of lard.

She was born fat, anyone can see that. Besides, she’s a booze artist.

That night, on the way back to nowhere, I got to wondering about Mona. Only one little note from her since our arrival. True, she wasn’t much of a letter writer. Nor was she ever very explicit about anything. All I had gleaned from her note was that she was going to be dispossessed any day. And then what? I wondered.

The next day I hung around the Y most of the day, hoping, or praying rather,’ that someone would start working on me. I was ready and willing to be converted to anything, even to Mormonism. But no one gave me a tumble. Towards evening I got a bright idea. It was so simple a stunt that I wondered why it hadn’t occurred to me sooner. However, one has to get truly desperate before one thinks of such simple solutions.

What was the bright idea? To go from shop to shop asking only for foodstuffs which they were ready to throw out: stale bread, spoiled fruit, sour milk … I never realized at the time how similar was my plan to the begging tactics of St. Francis. He too had demanded only what was unfit to eat. The difference was, of course, that he had a mission to perform. I was merely trying to keep afloat. A grand difference!

Nevertheless, it worked like a charm. O’Mara took one side of the street, I the other. By the time we met at the end of the block our arms were full. We rushed over to Fletcher’s place, got hold of Ned, and prepared for a feast.

To be truthful, the scraps and the waste which we had gathered was far from being repugnant. We had all eaten tainted meat before, though not intentionally; the vegetables needed only to be trimmed; the stale bread made excellent toast; the sour milk gave the overripe fruit a delicious quality. A Chinese coolie would have regarded our repast as a luxurious one. All that lacked was a bit of wine to wash down the stale rat cheese. However, there was coffee on hand and a bit of condensed milk. We were elated. We ate like wolves.

Too bad we didn’t think of inviting Mooney, said O’Mara.

Who’s Mooney? asked Ned.

We explained. Ned listened with mouth open.

Jesus, Henry, he said, I can’t get over it. And me sitting upstairs in the front office all the while. Selling your stuff under my name—and you guys peddling papers! I’ll have to tell Ulric about it … By the way, have you seen the stuff you wrote? They think it’s pretty good, did I tell you?

I had forgotten all about the articles. Perhaps I read them, during those comas at the Y, and never realized that it was I who wrote them.

Henry, said Fletcher, you ought to get back to New York. It’s all right for these lads to waste their time, but not you. I have a hunch you’re cut out for something big.

I blushed and tried to pass it off.

Come, said Fletcher, don’t be so modest. You’ve got qualities, anyone can see that. I don’t know what you’re going to become—saint, poet, or philosopher. But you’re an artist, that’s definite. And what’s more, you’re unspoiled. You have a way of forgetting yourself that tells me a lot about you.

Ned, who was still feeling guilty, applauded Fletcher warmly. As soon as I get my check, Henry, he said, I’ll give you the train fare back home. That’s the least I can do. O’Mara and I will stick it out. Eh, Ted? You’re a veteran: you’ve been on the bum since you were ten years old.

O’Mara grinned. Now that he had found a way to get food his spirits rose.

Besides, there was Mooney, to whom he had taken quite a fancy. He was certain that between them they could cook up something.

But who’ll write the articles for the paper?

I’ve already taken care of that, said Ned. They’re making me lay-out man next week. That’s right up my alley. The chances are I’ll be making real dough soon.

Maybe you’ll be able to throw something my way, said Fletcher.

I’ve thought of that too, said Ned. If Ted here will take care of the food problem I’ll answer for the rest. It’s only a few days now till pay day.

Again we slept at Fletcher’s place. I passed a sleepless night, not because the floor was hard but because of Mona. Now that there was a chance to return I couldn’t get back quickly enough. The whole night long I racked my brain to find a quick way out. Towards dawn it occurred to me that possibly the old man would send me part of the fare at least. If only I got as far as Richmond it would help.

Bright and early I went to the telegraph office to wire the old man. By nightfall the money had arrived—for a full trip. I borrowed an extra five bucks from Mooney, so as to eat, and that same evening I was off.

The moment I boarded the train I felt like a new man. Before half an hour had passed I had completely forgotten Jacksonville. What luxury to doze off in an upholstered seat! The strange thing was that I found myself writing again—in my head. Yes, I was positively itching to get to the machine. It seemed like a century ago that I had written., the last line … I wondered vaguely, dreamily, where I would find Mona, what we would do next, where we would live, and so on. Nothing was of too great consequence. It was so damned good to be sitting in that comfortable coach—with a five dollar bill in my pocket … Maybe a guardian angel was looking after me! I thought of Fletcher’s parting words. Was I really an artist? Of course I was. But I had yet to prove it … Finally I congratulated myself on having had such a bitter experience. Experience is golden, I kept repeating to myself. It sounded a bit silly, but it lulled me into a peaceful slumber.

13

Back to the old homestead, or to put it another way—back to the street of early sorrows. Mona lives with her family, I with mine. The only way—pro tem—to solve the economic problem. As soon as I’ve sold a few stories we’ll find a place of our own again.

From the time the old man leaves for the tailor shop until he returns for dinner I’m hard at it—every day. Every day we talk to each other, Mona and I, over the phone; sometimes we meet at noon to have a bite together in some cheap restaurant. Not often enough, however, to please Mona. She’s going mad with fear, doubts, jealousy. Simply can’t believe that I’m writing day in and day out from morn to dusk.

Now and then, of course, I knock off to do research work. I have a hundred different ideas to exploit, all of them demanding investigation and documentation. I’m running on all eight cylinders now: when I sit down to the machine it just flows off my fingers.

At the moment I’m putting the finishing touches to a self-portrait which I’m calling The Failure. (I haven’t the remotest suspicion that a man named Papini, a man living in Italy, will soon produce a book by this very title.)

I wouldn’t say it was an ideal place to work—my parents’ home. I sit at the front window, hidden by the lace curtains, one eye open for callers. The rule of the house is—if you see a visitor coming, duck! And that’s exactly what I do each time—duck into the clothes closet, with typewriter, books, papers and everything. Fantastic! (I call myself the family skeleton.) Sometimes I get brilliant ideas hidden away in the dark folds of the clothes closet—induced no doubt by the acrid smell of camphor balls. My thoughts come so fast that it is almost unbearable to wait until the visitor leaves. In utter darkness I make illegible notes on odd bits of paper. (Just key words and phrases.) As for breathing, no trouble at all. I can hold my breath for three hours, if necessary.

Coming out of the hole my mother is sure to exclaim: You shouldn’t smoke so much! The smoke has to be explained, you see. Her line is: Henry was just here. Hearing her give this feeble explanation to a caller I sometimes stuff my mouth with a coat sleeve for fear of breaking loose with a chortle.

Now and then she hands me this: Can’t you make your stories shorter? Her thought—poor soul!—is that the sooner I finish them the quicker I will be paid. She doesn’t want to hear about rejection slips. Acts almost as though she didn’t believe in them.

What are you writing about now? she asks one morning.

Numismatics, I tell her.

What’s that?

I explain in a few words.

Do you think people really want to read such things?

I wonder to myself what she would say if I were to tell her the truth, tell her about The Failure.

The old man is more amenable. I sense that he doesn’t expect anything to come of all this nonsense, but he’s curious and at least pretends to be interested in what I’m doing. He doesn’t quite know what to make of the fact that he has a son twice married, and the father of a child, who sits in the dining room day after day tapping away on a typewriter. At bottom he has confidence in me. He knows I’ll get somewhere some day somehow. He’s not uneasy in his soul.

Around the corner, where I trot each morning to get the paper and a pack of cigarettes, is a little store run by a newcomer—a Mr. Cohen. He’s the only person, this Mister Cohen, who seems at all interested in my doings. He thinks it remarkable that he has a writer, even if only an embryonic one, for a customer. All the other tradespeople, be it said, know me of old; not one of them suspects that I’ve grown a new soul. To them I am still the little boy with the corn-colored hair and the innocent smile.

Mister Cohen, however, is of another world, another epoch. He doesn’t belong any more than I. In fact, being a Yid, he’s still suspect. Especially to the old-timers. One bright and lovely morning the dear Mister Cohen confesses to me that he too once had ambitions to be a writer. With genuine feeling he informs me how much our little conversations mean to him. It is a privilege, he says, to know someone who is on the bias. (Of the same stripe, I suppose he meant.) Lowering his voice, he confides with huge disgust his low opinion of the neighboring shop-keepers. Ah, dear Mister Cohen, darling Mister Cohen, come forth, come forth, wherever you are, and let me kiss your waxen brow! What was it, now, we had in common? A few dead authors, fear and hatred of the police, scorn for the Gentiles and a passion for the aroma of a good cigar. You were no virtuoso, and neither was I. But your words came to me as if they were played on the celesta. Step forth, pale sprite, step forth from the divine telesma and let me embrace you once again!

My mother, of course, is not only surprised but shocked to discover that I have become friends with that little Jew. What on earth do we talk about? Books? Does he read? Yes, mother dear, he reads in five languages. Her head swings back and: unbelievingly, and again back and forth disapprovingly. Anyway. Hebrew and Yiddish, which are one and the same to her, don’t count: only Jews understand such gibberish. (Ech! Ech!) Nothing of importance, says she, could possibly be written in such outlandish tongues. And the Bible, mother dear? She shrugs her shoulders. She meant books, not the Bible. (Sic.)

What a world! Not one of my old pals left. I used to wonder if I wouldn’t run into Tony Marella some day. His father still sat by the window mending shoes. Every time I passed the shop I greeted him. But I never had the courage to inquire about Tony. One day, however, reading the local newspaper—The Chat—I discovered that my old friend was running for alderman in another district, where he now lived. Maybe he would become President of the United States one day! That would be something, what!—a President out of our obscure little neighborhood. Already we could boast of a colonel and a rear-admiral. The Grogan brothers, no less. They had lived only a few doors away from us. Grand boys! as the neighbors all said. (A little later and, by God! one of them actually becomes a general; as for the other, the rear-admiral, blast me if he isn’t sent to Moscow on a special mission—and by none other than the President of our Holy Roller Empire. Not so bad for our little insignificant Van Voorhees Street!)

And now, thinks I to myself (de la part des voisins), we have little Henry with us. Who knows? Maybe he’ll become another O’Henry. If Tony Marella is slated to be a President one day, surely Henry, our little Henry, can become a famous writer. Dixit.

Just the same—a slightly different key now—it was too bad we hadn’t produced at least one good prizefighter. The Laski brothers had faded out. Lacked the stuff that champs are made of. No, it wasn’t the neighborhood to breed John L. Sullivans or James J. Corbetts. The old 14th Ward, to be sure, had turned out a dozen good pugilists, not to speak of politicians, bankers, and good old con men. I had the feeling that, were I back in the old neighborhood, I would be writing more vividly. If only I could say hello to chaps like Lester Reardon, Eddie Carney, Johnny Paul, I’d feel like a new man.

Shit! I said to myself, rapping my bare knuckles against the iron spike of a fence, I’m not done for yet. Not by a long shot…

And so one morning I woke up full of piss and vinegar. Decided to bust out into the world and make my presence felt. No set plan or project in mind. Tucking a sheaf of manuscripts under my arm, I made a dash for the street.

Playing a hunch, I make my way into the inner sanctum of an editorial office where I find myself face to face with one of the editors of a five cent magazine. My thought is to ask for an editorial position.

The curious thing is that the man is one of the Miller tribe. Gerald Miller, no less. A good omen!

I don’t have to exercise my charms because he’s already predisposed in my favor. No doubt about it, says he, you’re a born writer. In front of him is a slew of manuscripts; he’s glanced here and there, enough to convince himself that I have the goods.

So you would like a job on the magazine? Well, it’s just possible I can make room for you. One of the editors is leaving in a week or so; I’ll speak to the boss and see what can be done. I’m certain you could fill the bill, even if you’ve had no training for it. Follows this up with a few discerning compliments.

Then, apropos of nothing, he suddenly says: Why don’t you write something for us meanwhile? We pay well, you know. I imagine you could use a check for $250.00, couldn’t you?

Without waiting for a reply, be continues: Why don’t you write about words? I don’t have to read very far to see that you’re in love with words…

I wasn’t sure I understood what exactly he wished me to say on this subject, especially to a five cent audience.

I don’t quite know myself, he said. Use your imagination. Don’t make it too long, either. Say five thousand words. And remember, our readers are not all college professors!

We sat there a while, chinning, and then he escorted me to the elevator. See me in about a week, he said. Then, diving into his pocket, he fished out a bill and stuffed it in my fist. You might need that to hold you over. He smiled. It was a twenty dollar bill, as I discovered when I hit the street. I felt like running back and thanking him again, but then I thought no, perhaps they’re used to treating their writers that way.

The snow was softly falling all over Ireland … The words were running like a refrain through my head as I skipped lightly over the cobble-stones homeward bound. Then came another line—why, I had no idea: In my Father’s house are many mansions … They blended perfectly, the snow falling gently, softly, steadily (all over Ireland), and the jewelled mansions of bliss, of which the Father kept an infinite number. It was St. Patrick’s day for me, and no snakes in sight. For some weird reason I felt Irish to the core. A bit of Joyce, a bit of the Blarney Stone, a few shenanigans—and Erin Go Bragh; (Every time the teacher’s back was turned one of us would steal to the blackboard and scrawl out in flaming chalk: Erin Go Bragh!) It’s Brooklyn I’m walking through and the snow is softly falling. I must ask Ulric to recite the passage for me again. He’s got just the voice for it, has he. It’s a beautiful melodious voice. And that he has, Ulric!

The snow was softly falling all over Ireland…

Nimble as a goat, thin as air, wistful as a faun, I wend my way over the lovely bubbly cobble-stones.

If only I knew what to write! Two hundred and fifty dollars was not to be sneezed at. And an editorial position to boot! My, but I had risen suddenly! Mister Cohen must hear of this. (Sholem Aleichem!) Five thousand words. A cinch. Once I knew what to say I could write it at one sitting. Words, words…

Believe it or not, I can’t put a damned word to paper. My favorite subject and here I am, tongue-tied. Curious. Worse than that—depressing.

Maybe I ought to do a little research work first. After all, what do I know about the English language? Almost nothing. To use it is one thing; to write about it intelligently quite another.

I have it! Why not go straight to the source? Why not call on the editor-in-chief of the famous unabridged dictionary? Which one? Funk & Wagnall’s. (The only one I ever used.)

Next morning bright and early I’m sitting in the ante-room, waiting for Dr. Vizetelly himself to appear. (It’s like asking Jesus Christ to help you, think I to myself.) However, the cards are on the table. All I pray for is not to make a damned fool of myself, as I did years ago when I called on a famous writer and asked straight out: How does one begin to write? (The answer is: By writing. That’s exactly what he said, and that was end of the interview.)

Dr. Vizetelly is standing before me. A live, genial man, full of sparkle and verve. Puts me at ease immediately. Urges me to unburden myself. Draws up a comfortable chair for himself, listens attentively, then begins…

For a full hour or more this kind, gracious soul, to whom I shall always feel indebted, delivers himself of all that he thinks may serve me. He speaks so rapidly and fulsomely that I haven’t the chance to make a single note. My head is spinning. How will I remember even a fraction of all this exciting information? It’s as though I had put my head under a fountain.

Dr. Vizetelly, conscious of my dilemma, comes to the rescue. He orders a page to bring me folders and pamphlets. Urges me to look them over at my leisure. I’m certain you’ll write an excellent article, he says, beaming at me like a godfather. Then he asks if I will be good enough to show him what I’ve written before submitting it to the magazine.

Without warning he now puts me a few direct questions about myself: how long have I been writing? what else have I done? what books do I read? what languages do I know? One after another—tic, tac, toe. I feel like less than nobody, or as they say in Hebrew—efes efasim. What indeed have I done? What indeed do I know? Smoked out at last, what is there to do but humbly confess my sins and omissions. I do so, exactly as I would to a priest, were I a Catholic and not the miserable spawn of Calvin and Luther.

What a virile, magnetic individual, this man! Who would ever dream, meeting him in the street, that he was the editor of a dictionary? The first erudite to inspire me with confidence and admiration. This is a man. I say it over and over to myself. A man with a pair of balls as well as a think-tank. Not a mere fount of wisdom but a living, rushing, roaring cataract. Every particle of his being vibrates with an electric ardor. He not only knows every word in the English language (including those in cold storage, as he put it) but he knows wines, horses, women, food, birds, trees; he knows how to wear clothes, knows how to breathe, knows how to relax. And he also knows enough to take a drink once in a while. Knowing all, he loves all.

Now we touch him! A man, rushing forward—on all fours, I almost said—to greet life. A man with a song on his lips. Thank you, Dr. Vizetelly! Thank you for being alive!

In parting he said to me—how can I ever forget his words?—Son, you have all the makings of a writer, I’m sure of it. Go along now and do what you can. Call on me if you need me. He placed one hand on my shoulder affectionately and with the other gave me a warm hand-clasp. It was the benediction. Amen!

No longer falls the soft white snow. It is raining, raining deep inside me. Down my face the tears stream—tears of joy and gratitude. I have beheld at last the face of my true father. I know now what it means—the Paraclete. Good-bye, Father Vizetelly, for I shall never see you again. May thy name be hallowed forever more!

The rain ceases. Just a thin drizzle now—down there under the heart—as if a cess-pool were being strained through fine gauze. The whole thoracic region is saturated with the finest particles of this substance called H2O which, when it falls on the tongue, tastes salty. Microscopic tears, more precious than fat pearls. Sifting slowly into the great cavity ruled over by the tear ducts. Dry eyes, dry palms. The face absolutely relaxed, open as the great plains, and ripening with joy.

(Is it snowing again, Mr. Conroy?) It’s wonderful to speak one’s own idiom, to have it rebound in your face, become again the universal language. Of the 450,000 words locked up in the unabridged dictionary, Dr. Vizetelly had assured me I must know at least 50,000. Even the shit-pumper has a vocabulary of at least 5,000 words. To prove it, all one had to do was to go home, sit down, and look around. Door, knob, chair, handle, wood, iron, curtain, window, sill, button, legs, bowl … In any room there were hundreds of things with names, not to mention the adjectives, the adverbs, the prepositions, the verbs and participles that accompanied them. And Shakespeare had a vocabulary hardly bigger than a moron’s of today!

So what does it add up to? What will we do with more words?

(And haven’t you your own language to keep in touch with?)

Aye, the own language! Langue d’oc. Or—huic, huic, huic. In Hebrew one says How are you? in at least ten different ways, according to whether one is addressing a man, a woman, men, women, or men and women, and so on. To a cow or a goat nobody in his right senses says How are you?

Wending homeward, toward the street of early sorrows. Brooklyn, city of the dead. Return of the native…

(And haven’t you your own land to visit?) Aye, dismal Brooklyn I have, and the neighboring terrain—the swamps, the dumps, the stinking canals, the ever vacant lots, the cemeteries … Native heath.

And I am neither fish nor fowl … The drizzle ceases. The innards are lined with wet lard. The cold drifts down from the north. Ah, but it’s snowing again!

And now it comes to me, fresh from the grave, that passage which Ulric could recite like a born Dubliner … It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

In this snowy realm, with language chanting its own sweet litany, I sped homeward, ever homeward. Between the covers of the giant lexicon, amid ablatives and gerundives, I curled up and fell fast asleep. Between Adam and Eve I lay, surrounded by a thousand reindeer. My warm breath, cooled by living waters, enveloped me in a refulgent mist. In la belle langue d’oc, I was out to the world. The caul was about my neck, strangling me, but ever so gently. And the name of the caul was Nemesh…

It took me a solid month or more to write the article for my namesake, Gerald Miller. When I finished I found that I had written fifteen thousand words instead of five. I squeezed out half and brought it to the editorial offices. A week later I had my check. The article, by the way, was never published. Too good, was the verdict. Nor did the editorial job ever materialize. I never found out why. Probably because I was too good.

However, with the two hundred and fifty we were able to resume life together once more. We picked ourselves a furnished room on Hancock Street, Brooklyn, city of the dead, the near dead, and the deader than the dead. A quiet, respectable street: row after row of the same nondescript frame houses, all adorned with high stoops, awnings, grass plots and iron railings. The rent was modest; we were permitted to cook over gas-burners tucked away in an alcove next to an old-fashioned sink. Mrs. Henniker, the landlady, occupied the ground floor; the rest of the house was let out to roomers.

Mrs. Henniker was a widow whose husband had grown rich in the saloon business. She had a mixture of Dutch, Swiss, German, Norwegian and Danish blood. Full of vitality, idle curiosity, suspicion, greed and malice. Could pass for a whore-house keeper. Always telling risque stories and giggling over them like a school-girl. Very strict with her roomers. No monkey-business! No noise! No beer parties! No visitors! Pay on the dot or you go!

It took this old geezer some time to get used to the idea that I was a writer. What stupefied her was the way the keys clicked. She had never believed anyone could write at such speed. But above all she was worried, worried for fear that, being a writer, I would forget to pay the rent after a few weeks. To allay her fears we decided to give her a few weeks’ rent in advance. Incredible how a little move like that can solidify one’s position!

At frequent intervals she would knock at the door, offer some flimsy excuse for interrupting me, then stand at the threshold for an hour or more pumping me. Obviously it excited her to think that anyone could pass the whole day at the machine, writing, writing, writing. What could I be writing? Stories? What kind of stories? Would I permit her to read one some day? Would I this and would I that? It was inconceivable the questions the woman could ask.

After a time she began dropping in on me in order, as she said, to give me ideas for my stories: fragments out of her life in Hamburg, Dresden, Bremen, Darmstadt. Innocent little doings which to her were daring, shocking, so much so that sometimes her voice dropped to a whisper. If I were to make use of these incidents I was to be sure to change the locale. And of course give her a different name. I led her on for a while, glad to receive her little offerings—cheese cake, sausage meat, a left-over stew, a bag of nuts. I wheedled her into making us cinnamon cake, streusel kuchen, apple cake—all in approved German style. She was ready to do most anything if only she might have the pleasure of reading about herself some day in a magazine.

One day she asked me point blank if my stories really sold. Apparently she had been reading all the current magazines she could lay hands on and had not found my name in one of them. I patiently explained to her that sometimes one had to wait several months before a story was accepted, and after that another few months before one got paid. I at once added that we were now living on the proceeds of several stories which I had sold the year before—at a handsome figure. Whereupon, as though my words had no effect whatever upon her, she said flatly: If you get hungry you can always eat with me. I get lonely sometimes. Then, heaving a deep sigh: It’s no fun to be a writer, is it?

It sure wasn’t. Whether she suspected it or not, we were always hungry as wolves. No matter how much money came in, it always melted like snow. We were always trotting about, looking up old friends with whom we could eat, borrow carfare, or persuade to take us to a show. At night we rigged up a wash line which we stretched across the bed.

Mrs. Henniker, always over-fed, could sense that we were in a perpetual state of hunger. Every so often she repeated her invitation to dine with her—if you’re ever hungry. She never said: Won’t you have dinner with me this evening, I have a lovely rabbit stew which I made expressly for you. No, she took a perverse pleasure in trying to force us to admit that we were ravenous. We never did admit it of course. For one thing, to give in meant that I would have to write the sort of stories Mrs. Henniker wanted. Besides, even a hack, writer has to keep up a front.

Somehow we always managed to borrow the rent money in time. Dr. Kronski sometimes came to the rescue, and so did Curley. But it was a tussle. When we were really desperate we would walk to my parent’s house—a good hour’s walk—and stay until we had filled our bellies. Often Mona fell asleep on the couch immediately after dinner. I would do my utmost to keep up a running conversation, praying to God that Mona wouldn’t go on sleeping until the last horn.

These post-prandial conversations were sheer agony. I tried desperately to talk of everything but my work. Inevitably, however, there would come the moment when either my father or my mother would ask—How is the writing going? Have you sold anything more since we saw you last? And I would lie shamefacedly: Why yes, I sold two more recently. It’s going fine, really. Then would come a look of joy and astonishment and they would ask simultaneously: To which magazines did you sell them? And I would give the names at random. We’ll be watching for them, Henry. When do you think they will appear? (Nine months later they would remind me that they were still on the look-out for those stories I said I had sold to this and that magazine.)

Towards the end of the evening, my mother, as if to say Let’s get down to earth! would ask me solemnly if I didn’t think it would be wiser to drop the writing and look for a job. That was such a wonderful position you had with … How could you ever have given it up? It takes years to become a good writer—and maybe you will never succeed at it. And so on and so forth. I used to weep for her. The old man, on the other hand, always pretended to believe that I would come through with flying colors. He fervently hoped so, that I was certain of. ‘.Give him time, give him time! he would say. To which my mother would reply—But how will they live in the meantime? Then it was my cue. Don’t worry, mother, I know how to get along. I’ve got brains, you know that. You don’t think we’re going to starve, do you? Just the same, my mother thought, and she would repeat it over and over, as if to herself, that it would really be wiser to take a job and do the writing on the side. Well, they don’t look as though they were starving, do they? This was the old man’s way of telling me that, if we really were starving, all I had to do was to call on him at the tailor shop and he’d lend me what he could. I understood and he understood. I would thank him silently and he would acknowledge my thanks silently. Of course I never called on him. Not for money. Now and then, out of a clear sky, I would drop in on him just to cheer him up. Even when he knew I was lying—I told him outrageous cock-and-bull stories—he never let on. Glad to hear it, son, he’d say. Great! You’ll be a best seller yet, I’m sure of it. Sometimes, on leaving him, I would be in tears. I wanted so much to help him. There he sat in the back of the shop, a sort of collapsed wreck, his business shot to hell, no hopes whatever, and still acting cheerful, still talking optimistically. Perhaps he hadn’t seen a customer for several months, but still a boss tailor. The frightful irony of it! Yes, I would say to myself, walking down the street, the first story I sell I’m going to hand him a few greenbacks. Whereupon I myself would wax optimistic, persuaded by some crazy logic that some editor would take a fancy to me and write out a check, in advance, for five hundred or a thousand dollars. By the time I reached home, however, I’d be willing to settle for a five-spot. I’d settle for anything, in fact, that meant another meal, or more postage stamps, or just shoe laces.

Any mail today? That was always my cry on entering. If there were fat envelopes waiting for me I knew it was my manuscripts coming home to roost. If they were thin envelopes it meant rejection slips, with a request to forward postage for the return of the scripts. Or else it was bills. Or a letter from the lawyer, addressed to some ancient address and forwarded to me in miraculous fashion.

The back alimony was piling up. I would never be able to foot the bill, never. It looked more than ever certain that I would end my days in Raymond Street jail.

Something will turn up, you’ll see. Whenever anything did turn up it was always by her contrivance. It was Mona who ran into the editor of Scurrilous Stories, and got a commission to write a half-dozen stories for them. Just like that. I wrote two, under her name, with great effort, with heroic effort really; then I got the bright idea to look up their old files, take their own published stories, change the names of the characters, the beginnings and endings, and serve them up rehashed. It not only worked—they were enthusiastic about these forgeries. Naturally, since they had already savoured the stew. But I soon grew weary of making potpourris. Just so much time wasted, it seemed to me. Tell them to go to hell, I said one day. She did. But the kick-back was wholly unanticipated. From being our editor, his nibs now became a heavy lover. We got fives times the money we used to get for the damned stories. What he got I don’t know. To believe Mona, all he demanded was a half hour of her time in a public place, usually a tea room. Fantastic! More fantastic still was this—he confessed one day that he was still a virgin. (At the age of 49!) What he omitted to say was that he was also a pervert. The subscribers to the bloody magazine, we learned, included a respectable number of perverted souls—ministers, rabbis, doctors, lawyers, teachers, reformers, congressmen, all sorts of people whom one would never suspect of being interested in such trash. The vice crusaders were undoubtedly the most avid of their readers.

As a reaction to this phoney slush I wrote a story about a killer. I wrote it as if I had known the man intimately, but the truth is I had gleaned all the facts from little Curley who had spent a night in Central Park with this Butch or whatever he was called. The night Curley told me the story I had one of those bad dreams in which you are pursued endlessly and relentlessly, escaping certain death only by coming awake.

What interested me about this Butch was the discipline he imposed on himself in plotting his holdups. To plot a job accurately required the combined powers of a mathematician and a yogin.

There he was, right in Central Park, and the whole nation searching high and low for him. Telling his story, like a fool, to a young lad like Curley. Even divulging a few sensational aspects of the job he was then plotting.

He might as well have stood on the corner of Times Square as prowl about Central Park late at night.

A reward of fifty thousand dollars was coming to the man who got him, dead or alive.

According to Curley, the man had locked himself in his room for weeks; he had spent hours upon hours lying on the bed with a bandage over his eyes, rehearsing in detail every step, every move that was to be made. Everything had been thought out thoroughly, even the most trifling details. But, like an author or a composer, he would not undertake the execution of his plans until they were perfect. He not only took into account all possibilities of error and accident, but like an engineer, he allowed a margin of safety to meet unexpected stress and strain. He might be dead certain himself, he might have tested the ability and the loyalty of his confederates, but in the end he could count only on himself, on his own brains, his own foresight. He was alone against thousands. Not only was every copper in the country on the alert, but so were the civilians throughout the land. One careless little move and the jig was up. Of course he never intended to let himself be caught alive. He would shoot it out. But there were his pals—he couldn’t let them down.

Perhaps, when he strolled out to get a breath of air that evening, he was so chock full of ideas, so certain that nothing could go amiss, that he simply couldn’t contain himself any longer. He would collar the first comer and spill the beans, trusting to the fact that his victim would be reduced to such a state of terror that he would be paralyzed. Perhaps he enjoyed the thought of brushing elbows with the guardians of the law, asking them for a light, maybe, or for directions, looking them straight in the eye, touching them, thanking them, and they none the wiser. Maybe he needed such a thrill to steady himself, to get the cold feel of things—because it’s one thing to think it out intensely all by yourself, securely locked in a room, and quite another thing to start moving about outdoors, with every pair of eyes examining you, with every man’s hand raised against you. Athletes have to warm up first. Criminals probably have to do something similar … Butch was the sort who enjoyed courting danger. He was an A-l criminal, a guy who might have made a great general, or a wily corporation lawyer. Like so many of his kind, he had assured Curley not once but several times, that he had always given his man a fair chance. He was not a coward, neither was he a sneak, and certainly not a traitor. He was against Society, that was all. Playing a lone hand, he had reason to be proud of his success. Like a movie star, he was vain about his following. Fans? He had millions of them. Now and then he had done something off the record, just to let them know his calibre. Playing to the gallery. Sure. Why not? One had to get a little fun out of it too. He didn’t particularly relish the killings, though he didn’t have a bad conscience about them either. What he liked more than anything was to put it over on the soft shoe blokes.

They always thought themselves so god-damned smart!

Curley was still trembling with excitement, fear, anguish, admiration and God knows what. He could talk of nothing else. He urged us to watch the papers. It would be a sensational affair. Even to us he refused to reveal the nature of it. He was still frightened, still hypnotized. His eyes! he exclaimed over and over. I felt as if I were turning to stone.

But you met in the dark.

Doesn’t matter. They glowed like coals. They gave off sparks!

Don’t you think maybe you imagined it, knowing he was a killer?

Not me! I’ll never forget those eyes. They’ll haunt me to my dying day. He shuddered.

Do you really think, Curley, asked Mona, that a criminal’s eyes are different from other people’s?

Why not? said Curley. Everything else about them is different. Why not their eyes? Don’t you think eyes change when the personality changes? They all have ‘other’ personalities. I mean, they’re not themselves. They’re something plus—or less, I don’t know which. They’re another breed, that’s all I can say. Even before he told me who he was I felt it. It was like getting a vibration from another world. His voice was unlike any human voice I know. When he shook hands with me I thought I had hold of an electric current. I got a shock, I can tell you—I mean a physical shock. I would have run away from him, then and there, but those eyes kept me rooted to the spot. I couldn’t budge, couldn’t lift a finger … I begin to understand now what people mean when they talk of the Devil. There was a strange smell about him—did I mention that? Not sulphur and brimstone. More like some concentrated acid. Maybe he had been working with chemicals. But I don’t think it was that.

It was something in his blood…

Do you think you would recognize him if you saw him again?

Here Curley paused, to my surprise. He seemed baffled.

Frankly, he answered, and with great hesitation, I don’t think I would. Strong as his personality was, it also had the power to erase itself from one’s consciousness. Does that sound fishy? Let me put it another way. (Here I was genuinely astounded. Curley had indeed made strides.) Supposing St. Francis appeared before you tonight in this very room. Supposing he spoke to you. Would you remember what he looked like tomorrow or the day after? Wouldn’t his presence be so overwhelming as to wipe out all remembrance of his features? Maybe you’ve never thought of such an eventuality. I have because I know someone once who had visions. I was only a kid at the time but I can remember the look on the person’s face when she told me of her experiences. I know that she saw more than the physical being. When someone comes to you from above he brings something of heaven with him—and that’s blinding. Anyway, that’s how it seems to me … Butch gave me a similar feeling, only I knew he didn’t come from above. Wherever he came from, it was all about him. You could sense it. And it was terrifying. He paused again, his face brightened. Listen, you’re the one who urged me to read Dostoievsky. You know what it is, then, to be dragged into a world of unmitigated evil. Some of his characters talk and act as if they inhabited a world absolutely unknown to us. I wouldn’t call it Hell. Something worse. Something more complex, more subtle than Hell. Nothing physical can describe it. You sense it from their reactions. They have an unpredictable approach to everything. Until he wrote about them, we’d never known people who thought as his characters do. And that reminds me—with him the criminal, the idiot, the saint are not so very far apart, are they? How do you figure that out? Did Dostoievsky mean that we’re all of one substance? What is evil, and what divine? Maybe you know … I don’t.

Curley, you really surprise me, said I. I mean it.

You think I’m so very different now?

Different? No, not so very, but certainly more mature.

What the hell, you don’t remain a kid all your life.

True … Tell me honestly, Curley, if you could get away with it, would you be tempted to lead the life of a criminal?

Possibly, he answered, lowering his head ever so little.

You like danger, don’t you?

He nodded.

And you don’t have many scruples either, when the other fellow gets in your way?

I guess not. He smiled. A rather twisted smile.

And you still hate your step-father?

Without waiting for a reply I added: Enough to kill him, it you could get away with it?

Right! said Curley. I’d kill him like a dog.

Why? Do you know why? Now think, don’t answer me straight off.

I don’t have to think, he barked. I know. I’d kill him because he stole my mother’s love. It’s as simple as that.

Doesn’t that sound slightly ridiculous to you?

I don’t give a damn if it does. It’s the truth. I can’t forget it and, what’s more, I’ll never forgive him. There’s a criminal for you, if you want to know.

Maybe you’re right, Curley, but the law doesn’t recognize him as one.

Who cares about the law? Anyway, there are other laws—and more important too. We don’t live by legal codes.

Right you are!

I’d be doing the world a service, he continued heatedly. His death would purify the atmosphere. He’s of no use to anyone. Never was. I ought to be honored for doing away with him and his kind. If we had an intelligent society, I would be. In literature men who commit such crimes are regarded as heroes. Books are as much a part of life as anything else. If authors can think such thoughts, why not me or the other fellows? My grievances are real, not imaginary…

Are you so sure, of that, Curley? It was Mona who spoke.

Dead sure, said he.

But if you were the central character in a book, said she, the important thing would be what happened to you, not your step-father. A man who kills his father—in a book—doesn’t become a hero just on that account. It’s the way he behaves that counts, the way he faces the problem—and resolves it. Anyone can commit a crime, but some crimes are of such stupendous import that the doer becomes something more than a criminal. Do you see what I’m getting at?

I follow you all right, said Curley, but I don’t give a damn about all those subtleties and complexities. That’s literature! I’m telling you honestly that I still hate his guts, that I’d kill him without compunction, if I could get away with it.

I see one big difference already … Mona began.

What do you mean? he snapped.

Between you and the hero of a book.

I don’t want to be a hero!

I know, said Mona gently, but you do want to remain a human being, don’t you? If you go on thinking this way, who knows, some day you may get your wish. Then what?

Then I’d be happy. No, not happy exactly, but relieved.

Because he was out of the way, you mean?

No! Because I had done away with him. There’s a difference there.

Here I felt impelled to break in. Look, Curley, Mona got off the track. I think I know what she meant to say. It’s this—the difference between a criminal who commits a crime and the hero of a book who commits the same crime is that the latter doesn’t care whether he will get away with it or not. He’s not concerned about what happens to him afterwards. He must accomplish his purpose, that’s all…

Which only proves, said Curley, that I’ll never make a hero.

Nobody’s asking you to become a hero. But if you see the distinction between the two then you’ll realize that you’re hardly much better than the man you hate and despise so much.

Even if that’s true I don’t give a damn!

Let’s forget it then. The probabilities are that he’ll die a peaceful death and that you’ll end up on a ranch in sunny California.

Maybe it’ll be the griffs and the grinds—how do you know?

Maybe. And maybe not.

Before he left that night Curley imparted a piece of information which gave us quite a shock. Tony Maurer, he told us, had committed suicide. He had hanged himself in the bathroom during the course of a party he was giving his friends. They had found him with a sardonic smile on his lips and a pipe hanging from his mouth. No one, apparently, knew why he had done it. He was never in lack of money and he was deeply in love with the woman he lived with, a beautiful Javanese girl. Some said he had done it out of sheer boredom. If so, it was in keeping with his character.

The news affected me strangely. I kept thinking what a pity it was that I had not gotten to know Tony Maurer more intimately. He was the sort of man I would have been proud to call a friend. But I was too bashful to make advances, and he was too surfeited to recognize my need. I always felt a little uncomfortable in his presence. Like a school-boy, to be precise. Everything I wanted to do he had done already … Perhaps there was something else which had drawn me to him all unconsciously: his German blood. For once in my life I had had the pleasure of knowing a German who did not remind me of all the other Germans I knew. The truth is, he wasn’t really a German—he was a cosmopolite. The perfect example of that late-city man whom Spengler has so well described. His roots were not in German soil, German blood, German tradition, but in those end periods which distinguished the late-city man of Egypt, Greece, Rome, China, India. He was rootless and at home everywhere—that is, where there was culture and civilization. He might just as well have fought on the Italian, French, Hungarian or Rumanian side as ours. He had a sense of loyalty without being patriotic. No wonder he had spent six months (by accident) in a French prison camp—and enjoyed it. He liked the French even more than the Germans—or the Americans. He liked good conversation, that was it.

All these aspects of the man, plus the fact that he was debonair, adroit, thoroughly sophisticated, utterly tolerant and forgiving, had endeared him to me. Not one of my friends possessed these qualities. They had better and worse traits, traits all too familiar to me. They were too much like myself au fond, my friends. All my life I had wanted, and still crave, as a matter of fact, friends whom I could look upon as being utterly different from myself. Whenever I succeeded in finding one I also discovered that the attraction necessary to maintain a vital relationship was lacking. None of these individuals ever became more than potential friends. Anyway, that night I dreamed. An interminable dream, as I said before, and full of hair-raising escapades. In the dream Butch and Tony Maurer had exchanged personalities. In some mysterious way I was in league with them, or him, for sometimes this mysterious, baffling confederate of mine would split into two distinct personalities, never however being clearly Tony Maurer or clearly Butch, but always a composite of the two, even when split. This sort of double play was sufficient in itself to cause me extreme anguish, to say nothing of the fact that I was never certain whether he or they were with me or against me.

The theme of this disturbing dream centered about a job we were pulling off in some strange city which I had never visited, a remote place like Sioux Falls, Tonopah or Ludlow. I played the role of stooge, a most uncomfortable role, since I was always exposed, always left in the lurch. Over and over again it was impressed on me that one false move, one little mistake, and I would be so much horse meat The instructions were always garbled, always given in a code which it took me hours to decipher. Of course the job was never pulled off. Instead we were on the run continuously, driven from pillar to post, badgered like wild game. When we were obliged to hide away—in caves, cellars, swamps, mineshafts—we played cards or rolled dice. The stakes were always for grand sums. We paid one another off in I.O.U’s, or else in Confederate money which we had seized in rifling a bank. This Butch-Maurer wore a monocle, wore it even in public, despite all my entreaties. His language was a mixture of thieves’ argot and Oxford slang. Even when explaining the devious complexities of a perilous undertaking he had a bad habit of wandering off the track, of telling stories which were long-winded and pointless. It was excruciating to follow him. Eventually the three of us were cornered, or pocketed rather, in a narrow defile (in the Far West, it seemed) by a band of vigilantes. We were all killed outright, shot down like wild boars. I only realized that I was still alive when I came awake. Even then I could scarcely believe it. I was already sprouting wings.

Such was the gist of the dream. I tried to condense this raw material into a tale of pursuit, with a strict plot and a definite locale. The manhunt part of it I captured quite well, I thought, but the choppy, fantastic, episodic dream substance of flight and incident refused to be converted into intelligible narrative. I fell between two stools. Still, it was a brave attempt, and it gave me the courage to tackle more imaginative stories. Perhaps I might have succeeded, in this latter vein, had we not received a telegram from O’Mara urging us to join him in North Carolina, the seat of another big real estate boom. As usual, he intimated that he was holding down a big job: they had need of me on the publicity end.

I wired back immediately to send us the train fare and advise what my salary would be. The answer I received read as follows: Don’t worry everything jake borrow the fare.

Mona immediately suspected the worst. It was just like him, she thought, to be vague, non-committal and utterly unreliable. It was nothing more than loneliness that had made him wire us.

Defending him instinctively, I worked myself up to such a pitch of enthusiasm that, despite the fact that I had a sinking feeling about the whole business, I could no longer back out.

Well, she said, and where will we get the fare?

I was stumped. For a minute only. Suddenly I had a bright thought. The money? Why, from that little Lesbian you met the other day in the department store, remember? The Tansy perfume girl. That’s where.

Preposterous! That was her first reaction.

Come, come, I said, she’ll probably bless you for asking her.

She continued to assert that it was out of the question, but it was obvious that she was revolving the suggestion in her mind. By the morrow I was certain she’d display a different attitude.

I tell you what, said I, as if to dismiss the subject, let’s go to a show tonight, what do you say? Let’s see something funny.

She thought it an excellent idea. We ate out, picked a good show—at the Palace—and came home laughing our heads off. We laughed so much in fact that it took us hours to fall asleep.

The next morning, as I had anticipated, she was off to see her little Lesbian friend. No trouble at all borrowing fifty smackers. Her difficulty had been to shake the girl off.

I suggested that we hitch-hike instead of taking the train. That would leave something over on arriving. You never know about O’Mara. It may be all a smoke dream.

You talked differently yesterday, said Mona.

I know, but now it’s today. I’d rather play safe.

She acquiesced readily enough. Agreed that we would probably see more of the country by hitch-hiking. Besides, with a woman by one’s side it was always easier to get a lift.

The landlady was a bit put out by the suddenness of our decision but when I explained that I had been commissioned to do a book she took it with seeming good nature and wished us well.

What sort of book? she asked, clutching my hand in farewell.

About the Cherokee Indians, I said, quickly closing the door behind us.

We got lifts easily enough but to my amazement Mona registered nothing but disappointment. By the time we reached Harper’s Ferry she was plainly disgusted—with the landscape, the towns, the people we met, the meals and everything.

It was late afternoon when we reached Harper’s Ferry. We sat high up on a rock overlooking three States. Below us the Shenandoah and the Potomac. A hallowed spot, if for no other reason than the fact that here John Brown, the great Liberator, met his fate. Mona, however, wasn’t at all interested in the historic aspects of the place.

As for the splendor of the vista, that she couldn’t repudiate. But it filled her with desolation. To tell the truth, I felt much the same, but for different reasons. It was impossible to pull myself away. Too much had happened here to permit the obtrusion of one’s private worries. I read with moist eyes what Thomas Jefferson had said of this particular spot: the words were carved on a tablet fastened to the rock. There was sublimity in Jefferson’s words. But there was even more sublimity in the actions of John Brown and his faithful followers. No man in America, said Thoreau, has ever stood up so persistently for the dignity of human nature, knowing himself for man and equal of any and all governments. A fanatic? Possibly. Who else but a just man could plan to overthrow the stable, conservative government of these United States with a mere handful of men? Glory to John Brown! Glory on high! I believe in the Golden Rule, sir, and the Declaration of Independence. I think they both mean the same thing. Better that a whole generation should pass off the face of the earth—men, women and children—by a violent death, than that one jot of either should fall in this country. (The words of John Brown in the year 1857.) Let us not forget that the number of Liberators who took possession of the town of Harper’s Ferry was only twenty-two, of whom seventeen were whites. A few men in the right, and knowing they are, can overturn a king, said John Brown. With twenty men in the Alleghenies he was certain he could smash Slavery in two years. Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow. There you have John Brown in a nut-shell. A fanatic? More than likely. The sort who said: A man dies when his time comes, and a man who fears is born out of time. If he was indeed a fanatic, he was a unique one. Is this the language of a fanatic?—Do not allow anyone to say that I acted from revenge. I claim no man has a right to revenge himself. It is a feeling that does not enter into my heart. What I do, I do for the cause of human liberty, and because I regard it as necessary. Compromise was not in his nature. Nor palliation. He was a man of vision. And it was a great, great vision which inspired his mad behavior. Had John Brown taken over the helm the slaves would really be free today—not only the black slaves but the white slaves and the slaves of the slaves, which is to say, the slaves of the machine.

The ironic thing is that the great Liberator came to a disastrous end because of his overwhelming sense of consideration for the enemy. (That was where his real madness lay!) After forty days in chains, after a mock trial during which he lay on the floor of the court-room in his blood-soaked, sabre-torn clothes, he went to the gallows, with head erect, standing there on the trap blindfolded, waiting, waiting, (though his one and only request had been to get done with it quickly) while the gallant military men of Virginia performed their interminable and asinine parade manoeuvres.

To those who had written him towards the end, asking how they might aid him, John Brown had replied: Please send fifty cents a year to my wife in North Elba, New York. As he made his way to the gallows he shook hands in turn with each of his comrades, handing them each a quarter with his blessing. That’s how the great Liberator went to meet his Maker…

The gateway to the South is Harper’s Ferry. You enter the South by way of the Old Dominion. John Brown had entered the Old Dominion to pass into life eternal. I acknowledge no master in human form, he said. Glory! Glory be!

One of his contemporaries, almost as famous in his own way, said of John Brown: He could not have been tried by his peers, for his peers did not exist. Amen! Alleluia! And may his soul go marching on!

14

I’m now going to sing of The Seven Great Joys. This is the refrain:

Come all ye out of the wilderness

And glory be,

Father, Son and the Holy Ghost

Through all eternity.

We will sing it often as we writhe like snakes in the sultry bosom of the South…

Asheville. Thomas Wolfe, who was born here, was probably composing Look Homeward, Angel! at the time of our entry. I had not even heard of Thomas Wolfe. A pity, because I might have looked at Asheville with different eyes. No matter what anyone says of Asheville, the setting is magnificent. In the very heart of the Great Smokies. Ancient Cherokee land. To the Cherokees it must have been Paradise. It is still a Paradise, if you can view it with a clear conscience.

O’Mara was there to usher us into Heaven. But once again we were too late. Things had taken a bad turn. The real estate boom was over. There was no publicity job awaiting me. No job of any sort. To tell the truth, I felt relieved. Learning that O’Mara had put a little money aside, enough to tide us over a few weeks, I decided that it was as good a place as any to stay a while and write. The only drawback was Mona. The South was not to her liking. I had hopes however, that she would adjust herself. After all, she had rarely set foot outside New York.

According to O’Mara, there was a ranger’s cabin which we could make use of indefinitely, rent free, if we liked the place. An ideal spot, he thought, for me to write in. Only a short distance out of town it was, up in the hills. He seemed eager to see us move in immediately.

It was nightfall when we got to the foot of the hill, where we were to obtain the keys for the cabin. With the aid of an over-grown idiot we rode up on mule-back, in pitch darkness. Just Mona and myself, that is. As we slowly and laboriously ascended we listened to the roar of the mountain torrent rushing beside us. It was that dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of you. It took us almost an hour to get to the clearing where the cabin stood. Hardly had we dismounted when we were assailed by swarms of flies and mosquitoes. The idiot, a gangling, gawky lad who never opened his mouth, pushed the door in and hung the lantern on a cord dangling from a rafter. Obviously the place hadn’t been inhabited for years. It was not only filthy, it was infested with rats, spiders and all manner of vermin.

We stretched out on the two cots side by side; the idiot lay on the floor at our feet. I was aware of the unpleasant sound of bats swooping about over our heads. The flies and mosquitoes, disturbed by our intrusion, attacked us mercilessly.

Despite everything, however, we succeeded in falling asleep.

It seemed to me I had hardly closed my eyes when I felt Mona clutching my arm.

What is it? I muttered.

She leaned over and whispered in my ear.

Nonsense, I said, you were probably dreaming.

I tried to fall back to sleep. In an instant I felt her clutching me again.

It’s him, she whispered, I’m sure of it. He’s feeling my leg.

I got up, struck a match, and took a good look at the idiot. He was lying on his side, his eyes closed, still as a stick.

You’re imagining things, I said, he’s sound asleep.

Just the same I thought it better to be on the alert. A dumb gawk like that had the strength of a brute. I struck another match and took a quick look about to see what I might use as a weapon should he really get out of hand.

At daybreak we were all wide awake and scratching like mad. The heat was already stifling. We sent the boy to fetch a pail of water, dressed hurriedly, and decided without delay to clear out. While waiting for the goon to pack we inspected the spot more closely. The cabin was literally smothered by trees and brush. No view whatever. Just the sound of running water and the insane twittering of birds. I recalled O’Mara’s parting words when we started up the goat path—Just the place for you … an ideal retreat!

Descending, again on mule-back, we observed with a shudder what a narrow escape we had had. One little slip and we would have been done for. Before we had gone very far we dismounted and followed on foot. Even thus it was a ticklish feat to keep from slipping.

At the bottom we were presented to all the members of the family. There were over a dozen kids running about, most of them half-naked. We inquired if we might have breakfast with them. We were told to wait, they’d call us when ready. We sat down on the steps of the porch and waited glumly. By now—it was not yet seven—the heat was almost intolerable.

When they called us in we found the whole family congregated about the table. For a moment I could scarcely believe my eyes: all those black spots that peppered the food, were they really flies? At each end of the table stood two youngsters busily engaged in brushing away the flies with dirty towels. We sat down, all together, and the flies settled in our ears, eyes, nose, hair and teeth. We sat in silence for a moment while the venerable patriarch said grace.

The very first blessing that Mary had

Hit was the blessing of one,

To think her little Jesus

Was God’s only Son,

Was God’s only Son.

The repast was a bounteous one—grits, bacon and eggs, corn bread, coffee, ham, flapjacks, stewed pears. All for twenty-five cents per head. No extra charge for the flies.

O’Mara was a bit put out to see us back so quick. No guts, he said glumly.

Yon know I hate flies, was all I could say.

As luck would have it, we went to a restaurant that evening which had just opened. In West Asheville. The owner, Mr. Rawlins, had been a school teacher. For some reason he took a fancy to us instantly. On leaving he gave us a letter of introduction to a man and wife who had a comfortable room to let and at a very small sum. We paid a week’s rent in advance and the next day turned over to Mr. Rawlins sufficient to pay for a week’s supply of meals.

From this point on we saw almost nothing of O’Mara. No quarrel. Going different ways, that’s all.

I borrowed a typewriter from Mr. Rawlins, who displayed a touching eagerness to be of service to a man of letters. To be sure, I had handed him quite a line regarding the books I had written, as well as about the magnum opus which was in progress. We ate well in his cosy little restaurant. There were all sorts of side dishes which he thrust upon us gratis, in further recognition, no doubt, of the man of letters. Now and then he put a good cigar in my breast pocket or insisted that we accept a pint of ice cream, to eat when we got home.

It turned out that Rawlins had been a professor of English at the local High School. Which explains the royal sessions we held over the Elizabethan writers. But what endeared me to him most, I do believe, was my love of the Irish writers. The fact that I had read Yeats, Synge, Lord Dunsany, Lady Gregory, O’Casey, Joyce, led him to accept me as a boon companion. He was dying to read my work, but I had sense enough to keep it out of sight. Besides, there was really nothing to show him.

At the rooming house we struck up an acquaintance with a lumber man from West Virginia, Matthews was his name. He was a Scot through and through, but a gallant one. It gave him the utmost pleasure, a sincere pleasure, to drive us about the country in his beautiful car on his off days. He had a liking for good food and good wines, and he knew where they were to be found. It was at Chimney Rock one day that he blew us to a meal of which I can truthfully say that only twice since have I enjoyed anything like it. I must say this of Matthews, that from the very beginning he divined our true situation; from the very beginning of our relationship he made it clear that, whenever we were:; with him, we were never to put our hands into our pockets.

To say only this about him would be to give a false impression of the man. He was not a wealthy man, nor was he what we call a sucker. He was a sensitive, highly intelligent individual who knew almost nothing about books, music or painting. But he knew life—and of nature, animals particularly, he was extremely fond. I said that he was not wealthy. Had he wished to, he could have become a millionaire in no time. But he had no desire to become rich. He was one of those rare Americans who is content with his lot. To be in his company was like being with your own brother. Often, in the evening, we sat on the front porch and talked for five and six hours at a stretch. Easy talk. Restful talk … But the writing … Somehow it wouldn’t come. To finish a simple story, a bad one at that, took me several weeks. The heat had something to do with it. (In the South the heat explains almost everything, except lynching.) Before I could get two lines written my clothes would be drenched with perspiration. I’d sit at the window and stare at the chain gang—all Negroes—working away with pick and shovel, chanting as they worked, the sweat rolling down their backs in rivulets. The harder they worked the less effort I was able to make. The singing got into’ my blood. But what disturbed me even more was the looks of the guards; just to glance into the faces of these human bloodhounds sent the shivers up my spine.

To vary the monotony Mona and I would make an excursion on our own occasionally, selecting some distant spot, any old spot, which we would get to by hitch-hiking. We made these excursions merely to kill time. (In the South time flies like lead.) Sometimes we took the first car that came along, not caring which direction it was taking. Like that, observing one day that we were headed for South Carolina, I suddenly recollected the name of an old school chum who, from last reports, was teaching music in a little college in South Carolina. I decided that we would pay him a visit. It was a long ride and, as usual, we had not a cent in our pockets. I was sure, however, that we could count on having a good lunch with my old friend.

It was a good twenty years since I had last seen this good old chum. He had left school ahead of us in order to study music in Germany. He became a concert pianist, traveled all over Europe, and then returned to America to accept an insignificant post in this little Southern town., I had had a few cards from him—and then silence. As I mused I began to wonder if he could have forgotten who I was. Twenty years is a long time.

Every day, on our way home from school, I would stop at his home to listen to him play. He played all the compositions I was later to hear in concert halls, and he played them (to my youthful mind) as well as the maestros. He had the size and the reach to command attention. On his forehead was a budding growth which, when he grew inspired, looked almost like a short horn. He towered over me by a good foot. He looked like a foreigner and he spoke like a European of the upper class who had learned English with his mother tongue. Add to this that he usually wore striped trousers and a soft black coat. It was in the German class that we struck up a friendship. He had taken German, which he knew perfectly, in order to have that much less to study. The teacher, a delightful, flirtatious young woman with a keen sense of humor, was really taken by him. She pretended, however, to be annoyed with him. Every now and then she gave him a sly dig. One day, incensed by the perfect translation he had just delivered aloud, and without preparation, she asked him why he hadn’t chosen to learn some other language. Hadn’t he any desire to learn something new? And so on. Putting on a malicious smile, he replied that he had better things to do with his time.

Oh you have, have you? Like what, may. I ask?

I have my music.

So! You’re a musician? A pianist—or perhaps a composer?

Both, he said.

And what have you composed thus far?

Sonatas, concertos, symphonies and operas … plus a few quartets.

The class burst into an uproar.

You’re even more of a genius than I thought you were, said she, after the hubbub had died down.

Before the lesson was over he handed me a note which he had hastily scribbled and folded up. I had no more than read it when I was ordered up front. I handed it to her face open. She read the message, blushed crimson, and threw it into the waste basket. All it said was: Sic ist wie eine Blume.

I thought of other things in connection with this genius. How he despised everything American, for example, how he detested our literature, how he mimicked the professors, how he loathed any form of exercise. But above all, I remembered the freedom he enjoyed in his own home and the respect shown him by his parents and brothers. There wasn’t another chap like him in the whole school. How delighted I was when I got my first letter from him, dated Heidelberg. He was thoroughly at home, he wrote, even more of a German than the Germans. Why was I staying in America? Why didn’t I join him and become a good German poet?

I was just thinking how odd it would be if he should say—I don’t remember you—when I realized that we had entered the town. It took less than no time to learn that my old friend had left the day before to tour the East. What luck! We were famished, it being long after noon. In desperation I held on to the Dean, a brittle, querulous old lady, trying to impress upon her the fact that we had made a tremendous detour, on our way to Mexico—our car having broken down some miles away—expressly for the purpose of greeting my dear boyhood friend of long ago. By dint of holding on, chewing her ear off, I managed to get across to her (telepathically) that we were in need of refreshment. With bad grace she eventually ordered up tea and scones for us.

We walked to the edge of the town, to stretch our legs. There we caught a lift homeward in a battered Ford. The driver, a veteran and somewhat cracked, also a bit spifflicated—in the South everyone drinks like a fish—said he would be passing through Asheville. He didn’t seem to know very definitely where he was going, except northward. The conversation which we carried on during the long ride back to Asheville was absolutely crazy. The poor devil had not only been banged up in the war, had not only lost his wife to his best friend, but had been in several bad accidents since. To make it worse, he was a dunce and a bigot, one of those ornery cusses who become even more ornery when they happen to be Southerners. We flitted from subject to subject like grasshoppers, nothing apparently being of interest to him except his own woes and miseries. As we neared Asheville he became more cantankerous than ever. He made it plain that he thoroughly and heartily disliked everything about us. including our manner of speech. When he finally deposited us on the sidewalk in Asheville he was fuming.

We stuck out our hands to thank him for the lift and, without wasting words, said—Good-bye!

Good-bye? he cried. Aren’t you going to pay me?

Pay? I was dumbfounded. Whoever heard of paying for a ride?

You didn’t expect to ride for nothing, did you? he shouted. What about the gas and oil I bought? He leaned out of the car belligerently.

I had to do some tall explaining, and fast. He looked at us incredulously, then shook, his head and mumbled: I thought as much when I set eyes on you. As an afterthought: I’ve a good mind to run you in. Then something I would never have expected happened: he burst into tears. I leaned forward to say a comforting word, my heart completely melted. Go way from me! he yelled. Go way! We left him sitting huddled up over the steering wheel, his head in his arms, weeping to break his heart.

What in Christ’s name do you make of that? I said, somewhat shaken.

You were lucky he didn’t pull a knife on you, said Mona. The experience confirmed the conviction she had always held about Southerners—that they were absolutely unpredictable. It was time we thought of returning home, she thought.

The next day, as I sat at the machine with a vacant stare, I began to wonder how much longer we could carry on in sunny Carolina. Several weeks had passed since we last paid a cent towards our room. What we owed the good Mr. Rawlins for meals I didn’t dare think.

The following day, however, to our utter astonishment we received a telegram from Kronski informing us that he and his wife were on their way, would see us that very evening. A wind-fall!

Sure enough, just a little before dinner time they blew in.

Come all ye out of the wilderness

And glory be, the

Father, Son and Holy Ghost

Through all eternity.

Almost the first thing we asked, disgraceful as it sounds, was whether they had any money to spare.

Is that all that’s eating yez? Kronski was fairly beaming. That’s easy. How much would you like? Will fifty do?

We hugged one another for joy. Money he said—why didn’t you wire me? And in the next breath—Do you really like it here? Kinda scares me, to tell you the truth. This ain’t no country for niggers—nor for Jews. Makes me creepy…

Over the meal he wanted to know what I had written, whether I had sold anything, and so on. He had suspected, so he said, that things weren’t going well with us. That’s why we hopped down sort of sudden like. I’ve got thirty-six hours to spend with you. He said this with a smile which meant—you won’t have to put up with me a minute longer.

Mona was all for going back with them, but for some perverse reason I insisted that we stick it out a little longer. We argued about this rather heatedly but got nowhere.

The hell with that question, said Kronski. Now that we’re here, what can you show us before we leave?

Promptly I replied: Lake Junaleska. I didn’t know why I said it, it just popped out of my mouth. But then suddenly I did know. It was because I wanted to see Waynesville again.

Every time I get near this place—Waynesville—I feel as though I would like to settle down. I don’t know what it is about the place, but it gets me.

You’ll never settle down in the South, said Kronski. You’re a born New Yorker. Listen, why don’t you stop roaming through the hinterland and go abroad? The place for you is France, don’t you know that?

Mona agreed most enthusiastically. You’re the only one who talks sense to him, said she.

If it were me, said Kronski, I’d pick Russia. But I don’t have the wanderlust. I don’t find New York so bad, would you believe that? Then, in characteristic fashion, he added: Once I set up practice I’ll stake you two to a trip to Europe. I’m serious about it. I’ve had the thought many a time. You’re getting stale here. You don’t belong in this country, neither of you. It’s too small, too petty … it’s too god-damned prosaic, that’s what. As for. you, Mister Miller, quit writing those damned things for the magazines, do you hear me? You’re not meant to write that stuff. You’re cut out to write books. Write a book, why don’t you? You can do it…

The next day we went to Waynesville and to Lake Junaleska. Neither place made the least impression on any of them.

Funny, said I, as we were riding back, you can’t picture a guy like me spending the rest of his days in a spot like that—like Waynesville, I mean. Why? Why does it seem so fantastic?

You don’t belong, that’s all.

I don’t, eh? Where do I belong, I asked myself. France? Maybe. Maybe not. Forty million Frenchmen was a lot to swallow in one dose. If anything, I preferred Spain. I took instinctively to Spaniards, as I did to Russians.

Somehow the conversation had got me to pondering the economic question again. That was always a nightmare. In a weak moment I found myself wondering if we hadn’t better return to New York after all.

The next day, however, I was of a different mind. We accompanied Kronski and his wife to the edge of the town where they quickly got a lift. We stood there a moment waving good-bye, then I turned to Mona and mumbled thickly: He’s a good egg, that Kronski.

The best friend you’ve got, said she quick as a flash.

With the fifty from Kronski we paid something on our debts, and, trusting that Kronski would send us a little more when he got back to New York, we made another stab at it. By sheer force of will I succeeded in finishing another story. I tried to begin another, but it was hopeless: I hadn’t an idea in my bean. So instead I wrote letters to all and sundry, including that kind editor who had once offered to give me a job as his assistant. I also looked up O’Mara, but found him in such a despondent mood that I didn’t have the heart to mention money.

There was no doubt about it, the South was getting us down. The landlord and his wife did everything to make us comfortable; Mr. Rawlins, too, did his best to encourage us. Never a word from any of them about the money we still owed them. As for Matthews, his trips to West Virginia were becoming more frequent and more protracted. Besides, we simply couldn’t bring ourselves to borrow from him.

The heat, as I have already said, had a great deal to do with our lowered morale. There is a heat which warms and vitalizes, and there’s another kind which enervates one, saps one’s strength, one’s courage, even one’s desire to live. Our blood was too thick, I suppose. The general apathy of the natives only added to our own apathy. It was like somnolescing in a vacuum. Never did one hear the word art: it was absent from the vocabulary of these people. I had the feeling that the Cherokees had produced more art than these poor devils ever would. One missed the presence of the Indian whose land, after all, it was. One felt the overpowering presence of the Negro. A heavy, disturbing presence. The tar heel, as the native is called, is certainly no nigger lover. He’s not much of anything, in fact. As I say, it was a vacuum, a hot, smouldering vacuum, if one can imagine such a thing.

It made me itchy at times to walk up and down the desolate streets. Walking the road was no fun either. On every side a gorgeous setting presented itself to the eye, yet inwardly one felt nothing but despair and desolation. The beauty of the surroundings only served to ravage one. God had certainly meant for man to lead a different life here. The Indian had been much closer to God. As for the Negro, he would have thrived here had the white man given him a chance. I used to wonder, and I wonder still, whether eventually the Indian and the Negro will not get together, drive the white man out, and reestablish Paradise in this land of milk and honey. Ah well—

The very next blessing that Mary had

Hit was the blessing of two

To think her little Jesus

Could read the Bible through

Read the Bible through.

A few contributions dribbled in—pin money, no more!—as a result of the letters I had sent out to all and sundry. Not a word from Kronski, though.

We held out a few more weeks, then totally discouraged, we decided one night to get up at the crack of dawn and sneak away. We had only two little grips to lug. After a sleepless night we rose with the first streak of light and, carrying our shoes in one hand and a grip in the other, we eased out as noiseless as mice. We walked several miles before a car came along. It was noon by the time we reached Winston-Salem, where I decided to send my father a collect message asking for a few dollars. I suggested he wire the money to Durham, where we planned to spend the night.

Towards evening we entered Durham. A telegram was waiting for me, sure enough. It read: Sorry son but I haven’t a cent in the bank. I felt like weeping, not over our own plight but because of the humiliation it must have caused the old man to send a message like that.

Thanks to a stranger, we had had a sandwich and coffee around noon. We were now famished, more famished than ordinarily, of course, because of the impossible distance still to go on an empty stomach. There was nothing to do but take to the road again, which we did—like automatons.

As we were standing on the highway, too tired and defeated to trudge another step, as we stood there blankly watching the sun go down like a burst tomato, all of a sudden a rather snazzy car pulled up and a cheery voice called out—Want a lift? It was a couple headed for some little town about two hours distant. The man was from Alabama, and spoke with the accent of a man of the deep South, the woman was from Arkansas. They were cheerful, lively individuals who seemed not to have a care in the world.

On the way we had car trouble, one little thing after another. Instead of making it in two hours it took almost five. By the time we reached our destination, thanks to the delays, we had become firm friends. We had told them the truth about ourselves, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and it had gone straight to their hearts. I shall never, never forget the way that good woman, immediately we entered the house, rushed to the bathroom, filled the tub with hot water, laid out the soap and towels, and begged us to relax while she scared up a meal. When we reappeared, clothed in their bathrobes, the table was set; we sat down at once to an excellent meal of hash and friend eggs with hot muffins, coffee, preserves, fruit and pie. It was about three in the morning when we turned in. At their request we slept in their bed, never realizing until we awoke that our kind hosts had improvised a bed for themselves by removing the seats from the car.

When we got up, around noon, we had a hearty breakfast, after which the man showed me around his huge backyard where the remains of cars were strewn about. Wrecks were his livelihood. He was certainly a happy-go-lucky sort of fellow, and his wife even more so. Our unexpected visit seemed to make them slap-happy. Why we didn’t stay with them a few days, as they begged us to do, I don’t know.

As we made ready to leave, the woman took Mona to one side and furtively pressed a few bills in her hand, while the husband shoved a carton of cigarettes under my arm. They insisted on driving us out of town a little distance so that we might get a lift more easily. When we finally parted they had tears in their eyes.

It was getting on and we were bent on making Washington that day. We would have made it too, were it not for the fact that we got nothing but short hauls. By the time we sailed into Richmond it was nightfall.

And again we were broke. The few dollars the woman had given us had disappeared—the purse with it. Had someone robbed us of those miserable few dollars? If so, it was a grim joke. However, we felt too good, tool near our goal, to be depressed over the loss of our little fortune.

Time to eat again…

With a calculating eye we scanned the various I restaurants and finally decided on a Creek one. would eat first, then explain our predicament. We put away a good meal, with extra helpings of dessert, and! then gently broke the news to the proprietor. Our story made no impression on him whatever, or rather, it made the wrong impression. All he could think of—hardly solution!—was to call the police. In a few minutes motorcycle cop appeared. After the usual grilling he asked us point blank what we intended to do about the situation. I said that if he would pay for the wire would send a message to New York, that undoubtedly the money would be forthcoming in the morning. He thought this a reasonable idea and volunteered to put us up in a hotel nearby. He then turned to the Greek and informed him that he would be responsible for us. All of which struck me as damned decent.

I dispatched a message to Ulric, not without misgivings. The cop escorted us to our room and said he would be round to see us early the next morning. Despite the fact that we were from New York, he showed us uncommon consideration. A New York cop, I couldn’t help but reflect, was a horse of another color.

During the night I got up to make sure the proprietor hadn’t locked us in. I found it impossible to close my eyes. As the night wore on I felt more and more certain that there would be no answer to our telegram.

To slip out without the night clerk spying us was impossible. I got up, went to the window, and looked out. It was a drop of about six feet to the ground. That settled it: we’d leave by the window at dawn.

As the sun came up we were again standing on the highway a mile or two outside the town. We still had our two little grips. Instead of making a bee-line for Washington we headed for Tappahannock—just in case the cop might be on our trail. As luck would have it we got a lift in jig time. No breakfast, of course, and no lunch. En route we ate a few green apples, which gave us the colic.

A little distance out of Tappahannock a lawyer en route to Washington picked us up. A charming fellow, well read, easy to talk to. We gave him an earful in the time allotted us. It must have taken effect because, as we were saying good-bye to him in Washington, he insisted on lending us twenty dollars. He said he was lending it, but what he meant very plainly was that we were to spend it and forget about it. As he toyed with the brake he mumbled over his shoulder:

I once tried to be a writer myself.

We were so elated we couldn’t get home fast enough. Around midnight we landed in the big city. The first thing we did was to phone Kronski. Could he put us up for the night? Certainly. We dove into the subway and made for the Bronx where he was again living.

The subway was a doleful sight to our eyes. We had forgotten how pale and worn the people looked, we had forgotten what a stench the city gave off. The treadmill. Trapped again.

Well, at least we were on familiar ground. Maybe someone would be glad to see us after the lapse of a few months. Maybe I’d look for a job in real earnest.

The sixth joy goes like this—how appropriate!

The very next joy Mary had

It was the joy of six

To see her little Jesus

On the crucifix.

And here is Dr. Kronski…

Well well! Back again! I told you so. But don’t think you can camp out on us. No sir! You can stay the night, but that’s all. Have you eaten? I’ve got to get up early. There are no clean towels, don’t ask for any. You’ll have to sleep in the raw. And don’t expect your breakfast served in bed. Good night! All in one breath.

We cleared the cots of medical books and scraps of food, pulled back the gray sheets, noticed the blood stains but said nothing, and crawled in.

O COME ALL YE OUT OF THE WILDERNESS AND GLORY BE!

15

In a Buddhist magazine not long ago I read something like this: If we could only get what we want when we think we need it life would present no problem, no mystery, and no meaning. I was a trifle indisposed the morning I read this. I had decided to spend the day in bed. Reading these words, however, I began to howl with laughter. In less than no time I was up and out of bed, chirping away as merrily as usual.

If I had come across this piece of wisdom in the period I am writing of I doubt if it would have had any effect upon me. It was just impossible for me to take a detached view of things. The day was full of problems, full of complications. There was mystery in everything, irritating mystery. The mystery surrounding the universe—that was sheer intellectual luxury. The whole meaning of life was wrapped up in the solution of how to keep afloat. It sounds simple, but we knew how to complicate even such a simple problem.

Disgusted with our haphazard way of life, I made up my mind to take a job. No more gold-digging, No more chasing rainbows. I was determined to earn sufficient for the daily necessities, come what may. I knew it would be a blow to Mona. The very thought of taking a job was anathema to her. Worse than that, it was sheer black treachery.

Her response, when I broached my resolution, was characteristic. You’re undermining everything I’ve done!

I don’t care, I answered, I’ve got to do it.

Then I’ll take a job too, said she. And that very day she hired herself out as a waitress at The Iron Cauldron.

You’re going to regret this, she informed me. By this she meant that it was fatal ever to leave one another’s side.

I had to promise her that while looking for work I would have my meals at The Iron Cauldron twice a day. I went once, for lunch, but the sight of her waiting on tables discouraged me so that I couldn’t go back again.

To get regular employment in an office was out of the question. In the first place there was nothing I could really do well, and in the second place I knew I would never be able to stand the routine. I had to find something which would give me the semblance of freedom and independence. There was only one job I could think of which filled the bill—and that was the book racket. Though it wouldn’t offer me a regular salary my time would be my own, and that meant a great deal to me. To get up every morning on the dot and punch a clock was out of the question.

I couldn’t go back to work for the Encyclopaedia Britannica again—my record was too shady. I’d have to find another encyclopaedia to handle. It didn’t take long to discover the loose leaf encyclopaedia. The sales manager, to whom I had applied for a job, didn’t have much difficulty convincing me that it was the best encyclopaedia on the market. He seemed to think I had excellent possibilities. As a favor he gave me some of his own personal leads to start with. They were pushovers, he assured me. I left the office with a brief case filled with specimen pages, various types of binding, and the usual paraphernalia which the book salesman always carries about with him. I was to go home and study all this crap and then start out. I was never to take No for an answer.

Soit.

I made two sales the first day, netting me quite a handsome commission since I had managed to sell my customers the most expensively bound sets. One of my victims was a Jewish physician, a charming, considerate individual who not only insisted on my staying to dinner with the family but who gave me the names of several good friends of his whom he was certain I could sell. The next day I sold three sets, thanks to this kind Jew. The sales manager was secretly elated but pretended that I had the usual beginner’s luck. He warned me not to let this quick success go to my head.

Don’t be satisfied because you sell two or three a day. Try to sell five or six. We have men who sell as many as twelve sets a day.

You’re full of shit, I thought to myself. A man who can sell twelve sets of encyclopaedias a day wouldn’t be selling encyclopaedias, he’d be selling the Brooklyn Bridge.

Nevertheless I went about my work conscientiously … I followed up every lead religiously, even though it meant journeying to such outlandish towns as Passaic, Hoboken, Canarsie and Maspeth. I had sold three of those personal leads the sales manager had given me. He thought I should have sold the entire seven, the idiot. Each time we met he became more friendly, more conciliatory. The publishers were going to have a big show at the Garden soon, he informed me one day. If I kept on my toes he might arrange to have me work with him in the booth which the firm was renting. He implied that there, at the Garden, the sales fell into your lap like ripe plums. It would be a clean-up. He added that he had been studying me; he liked the way I spoke. Stick with me, he added, and we may give you a big piece of territory to handle—out West, perhaps. You’ll have a car and a crew of men under you. How does that appeal to you?

Marvelous! I said, though the mere thought of it terrified me. I didn’t want to be that successful. I was quite content to sell one a day—if I could.

Anyone who tries to sell books soon learns that there is one type of individual who takes the wind out of your sails. This is the fellow who seems so pliant and yielding that you almost feel sorry for him when first you sink your hooks into him. You feel certain that he’ll not only buy a set for himself but that he’ll bring you signed orders from his friends in a day or two. He agrees with everything you say, and goes you one better. He marvels that every intelligent person in the land is not already in possession of the books. He has innumerable questions to ask, and the answers always incite him to greater enthusiasm. When it comes to the last touch—the bindings—he fingers them lovingly, dwelling with exasperating elaboration on the relative advantages of each. He even shows you the niche in the wall where he believes the set will show up to best advantage. A dozen times you make ready to hand him the pen in order to sign on the dotted line. Sometimes you rouse these birds to such a pitch that nothing will do but call up a neighbor and have him look at the books too. If the friend comes, as he usually does, you rehearse the program all over again. The day wears on and you find yourself still talking, still expounding, still marveling over the wonders contained in this beautiful and practicable set of books. Finally you make a desperate effort to pull in the line. And then you get something like this: Oh, but I can’t buy the books now—I’m out of work at the moment. I sure would love to own a set, though … Even at this point you feel so certain the guy is sincere that you offer to stake him to the first installment. You can pay me later, when you get a job. Just sign here! But even here the type I speak of will manage to squirm out. Any bare-faced excuse serves him. Only at this point do you realize that he never had the least intention of buying the books, it was just a way of passing the time. He may even tell you blandly, as you take leave, that he never enjoyed anything so much as hearing the way you talked…

The French have an expression which sums it up neatly: il n’est pas serieux.

It’s a great business, the book racket. You learn something about human nature if nothing else. It’s almost worth the time wasted, the sore feet, the heartaches. One of the striking features about the game, though, is this—once you’re in it you can think of nothing else. You talk encyclopaedias—if that happens to be the line—from morn to midnight; you talk it every chance you get, and when there is no one else to talk to you talk to yourself. Many’s the time I sold myself a set in an off moment. It sounds preposterous, if you’re not in the grind, but actually you get to believe that every one on God’s earth must possess the precious boon you have been given to dispense. Everyone, you tell yourself, has need of more knowledge. You look at people with just one thought in your mind—is he a prospect or not? You don’t give a damn whether the person will ever make use of the damned set: you think only of how you can convince him that what you have to offer is a, sine qua. non. As for other commodities—shoes, socks, shirts, etc.—what fun would there be in selling a man something he has to have? No sir, you want your victim to have a sporting chance. You’d almost prefer him to turn his back on you—then you could really put on your song and dance with gusto. A good salesman doesn’t enjoy taking money from a push-over. He wants to earn his money. He wants to delude himself that, if he were really put to it, he could sell books to an illiterate—or to a blind man!

It’s a game, moreover, which throws interesting characters across your path, some of them having tastes similar to your own, some being more alien than the heathen Chinese, some admitting that they had never owned a book, and so on. Sometimes I came home so elated, so hilarious, that I couldn’t sleep a wink. Often we lay awake the whole night talking about these truly droll characters whom I had encountered.

The ordinary salesman, I observed, had sense enough to clear out quick when he saw that there was little prospect of making a sale. Not me. I had a hundred different reasons for clinging to my man. Any crackpot could hold me till the wee hours of the morning, recounting the history of his life, spinning out his crazy dreams, explaining his mad projects and inventions. Many of these witless ones reminded me strongly of my Cosmococcic messenger boys; some, I discovered, had actually been in the service. We understood one another perfectly. Often, in parting from them, they would make me little gifts, absurd trifles which I usually threw away before reaching home.

Naturally I was bringing in less and less orders. The sales manager was at a loss to understand; according to him, I had all the requisites for making an A-l salesman. He even offered to take a day off and make the rounds with me, to prove how simple it was to get orders. But I always managed to dodge the issue. Occasionally I hooked a professor, a priest or a prominent lawyer. These strikes tickled him pink. That’s the sort of clientele we’re after, he would say. Get more like them!

I complained that he rarely gave me a decent lead. Most of the time he was handing me children or imbeciles to call on. He pretended it didn’t matter much what the intelligence or station in life of the prospect might be—the important thing, the only thing, was to get inside the house and stick. If it was a child who had fallen for the ad, then I was to talk to the parents, convince them that it was for the child’s good. If it was at nit-wit who had written in for information, so much the better—a moron had no resistance. And so on. He had an answer for everything, that guy. His idea of a good salesman was one who could sell books to inanimate objects. I began to loathe him with all my heart.

Anyway, the whole damned business was nothing more than an excuse to keep active, a means of bolstering the pretense that I was struggling to make a living. Why I bothered to pretend I don’t know, unless it was guilt which prompted me. Mona was earning more than enough to keep the two of us. In addition she was constantly bringing home gifts, either of money or of objects which could be converted into cash. The same old game. People couldn’t resist thrusting things on her. They were all admirers, of course. She preferred to call them admirers rather than lovers. I wondered very often what it was they admired in her, particularly since she handed out nothing but rebuffs. To listen to her carry on about these dopes and saps you would think that she never even smiled at them. Often she kept me awake nights telling me about this new swarm of hangers-on. An odd lot, I must say. Always a millionaire or two among them, always a pugilist or wrestler, always a nut, usually of dubious sex. What these queer ones saw in her, or hoped to get out of her, I could never fathom. There were to be plenty of them, as time went on. Right now it was Claude. (Although, to be truthful, she never referred to Claude as an admirer.) Anyway, Claude. Claude what? Just Claude. When I inquired what this Claude did for a living she became almost hysterical. He was only a boy! Not a day over sixteen. Of course he looked much older. I must meet him some day. She was certain I would adore him.

I tried to register indifference, but she paid no heed. Claude was unique, she insisted. He had roamed all over the world—on nothing. You should hear him talk, she babbled on. You’ll open your eyes. He’s wiser than most men of forty. He’s almost a Christ … I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing. I had (to laugh in her face.

All right, laugh! But wait till you meet him, you’ll sing a different tune.

It was from Claude, I learned, that she had received the beautiful Navajo rings, bracelets and other adornments. Claude had spent a whole summer with the Navajos. He had even learned to talk their language. Had he wished it, she said, he could have lived the rest of his life with the Navajos.

I wanted to know where he came from originally, this Claude. She didn’t know for sure herself. From the Bronx, she thought. (Which only made him all the more unique.)

Then he’s Jewish? I said.

Again she wasn’t sure. One couldn’t tell a thing about him from his looks. He didn’t look anything. (A strange way to put it, I thought.) He might pass for an Indian—or for a pure Aryan. He was like the chameleon—depended when and where you met him, the mood he was in, the people surrounding him, and so on.

He was probably born in Russia, I said, taking a wide swing.

To my surprise she said: He speaks Russian fluently, if that means anything. But then he speaks other languages too—Arabic, Turkish, Armenian, German, Portuguese, Hungarian…

Not Hungarian! I cried. Russian, O. K. Armenian, O. K. Turkish ditto, though that’s a bit hard to swallow. But when you say Hungarian, I balk. No, by crickey, I’ll have to hear him talk Hungarian before I believe that one.

All right, she said, come down some night and see for yourself. Anyway, how could you tell—you don’t know Hungarian.

Righto! But I know this much—anyone who can talk Hungarian is a wizard. It’s the toughest language in the world—except for the Hungarians, of course. Your Claude may be a bright boy, but don’t tell me he speaks Hungarian! No, you don’t ram that one down my throat.

My words hadn’t made a dent in her, obviously, because the next thing out of her mouth was—I forgot to tell you that he also knows Sanskrit, Hebrew, and…

Listen, I exclaimed, he’s not almost a Christ, he is the Christ. Nobody but Christ Almighty could master all those tongues at his age. It’s a wonder to me he hasn’t invented the universal tongue. I’ll be down there mighty soon, don’t fret. I want to see this phenomenon with my own eyes. I want him to talk six languages at once. Nothing less will impress me.

She looked at me as if to say—You poor doubting Thomas!

The steadiness of her smile finally nettled me. I said: Why do you smile like that?

She hesitated a full minute. Because, Val … because I was wondering what you’d say if I were to tell you that he also had the power to heal.

For some queer reason this sounded more plausible and consonant with his character than anything she had told me about him. But I had to maintain my attitude of doubt and mockery.

How do you know this? I said. Have you seen him heal anyone?

She refused to answer the question squarely. She insisted, however, that she could vouch for the truth of her statement.

To taunt her I said: What did he cure—a sick headache?

Again she took her time in responding. Then, rather solemnly, almost too solemnly, she replied: He’s cured cancer, if that means anything.

This made me furious. For Christ’s sake, I yelled, don’t stand there and tell me a thing like that! are you a gullible idiot? You might just as well tell me he’s raised the dead.

The flicker of a smile passed over her countenance. In a voice no longer solemn, but grave, she said: Well, Val, believe it or not, he’s done that too. Among the Navajos. That’s why they love him so…

O.K. girlie, that’s enough for tonight. Let’s change the subject. If you tell me any more I’ll think you’ve got a screw loose.

Her next words took me completely by surprise. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Claude says he has a rendezvous with you. He knows all about you … knows you inside out, in fact. And don’t go thinking I told him, because I didn’t! Do you want to hear more? She went right on. You have a tremendous career ahead of you: you’ll be a world figure one day. According to Claude, you’re playing blind man’s bluff now. You’re spiritually blind, as well as dumb and deaf…

Claude said that? I was thoroughly sober now. All right, tell him I’ll keep the rendezvous. Tomorrow night, how’s that? But not at that damned joint of yours!

She was overjoyed by my complete surrender. Leave it to me, she said, I’ll choose a quiet spot where the two of you can be alone.

Of course I couldn’t resist inquiring how much he had told her about me. You’ll learn all that tomorrow, she kept repeating. I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.

I fell asleep with difficulty. Claude kept reappearing, like a vision, each time in a different aspect. Though he always had the figure of a boy, his voice sounded like the voice of the ancient one. No matter what language he spoke I was able to follow him. I wasn’t the least amazed, curiously enough, to hear myself talking Hungarian. Nor was I amazed to find myself riding a horse, riding bareback with bare feet. Often we carried on our discussions in foreign lands, in remote places such as Judea, the Nubian desert, Turkestan, Sumatra, Patagonia. We made use of no vehicles; we were always there where our thoughts roamed, without effort, without the use of the will. Aside from certain sexual dreams I don’t believe I had ever had such a pleasant dream. It was more than pleasant—it was instructive in the highest sense. This Claude was more like an alter ego, even though at times he did strikingly resemble the Christ. He brought me great peace. He gave me direction. More than that—he gave me reason for being. I was at last something in my own right and no need to prove it to anyone. I was securely in the world yet not a victim. I was participating in a wholly new way, as only a man can who is free from conflict. Strangely, the world had grown much smaller than I thought it to be. More intimate, more understandable. It was no longer something against which I was pitted; it was like a ripe fruit which I was inside of, which nourished me, and which was inexhaustible. I was one with it, one with everything—that’s the only way I can put it.

As luck would have it, I failed to meet Claude the next night. It so happened that I was in Newark or some such place when evening came on, talking to a prospect whom I found fascinating. He was a black man who was working his way through law school as a stevedore. He had been out of work for several weeks and was in a receptive mood to listen to me expound the advantages of the loose-leaf encyclopaedia. Just as he was on the verge of signing his demi-quivers for a set his aged mother poked her head through the doorway and begged me to stay for dinner. She apologized for intruding on us, explaining that they were going to a meeting after dinner and that she had to remind her son to change his clothes. The latter dropped the pen which he had been holding and escaped to the bathroom.

Waiting for him to reappear my eye fell upon an announcement. It was to the effect that the great Negro leader, W. E. Burghardt Dubois, was to speak in the town-hall that very evening. I could hardly wait for the lad to return. I paced up and down the room in a fever. Well I knew this Dubois. Years ago, when I was keen about attending lectures, I had heard Dubois speak on the great heritage of the black race. It was in some little hall on the lower East Side; the audience, oddly enough, was mostly Jewish. I had never forgotten the man. He was handsome, thoroughly Aryan in features, and of an imposing figure; he wore a goatee then, if I remember rightly. I learned later that he had been born in New England; his ancestors were of mixed blood, French, Dutch and other strains. What I remembered best about him was his impeccable diction and his vast erudition. He had a challenging, straightforward way of speaking which won me over to him immediately. He struck me at once as a superior being. And was it not he, I thought to myself, who had accepted and published the first article of mine ever to appear in print?

At the dinner table I met the other members of the family. The sister, a young woman of about twenty-five, was strikingly beautiful. She had decided to go to the lecture too. That settled it for me—Claude could wait. When I made known to them that I had heard Dubois before and that I had an unbounded admiration for him, they insisted that I come along as their guest. The young man now suddenly recalled that he had not signed his name on the dotted line; he begged me to let him do so before he forgot a second time. I felt embarrassed, as though I had tricked him.

Think it over first, I said. If you really want the books you can mail me the slip later.

No, no! cried his mother and sister at once. He’ll sign up right now, ‘cause if he don’t he never will. You know how we folks are.

Now the sister was becoming interested in the subject. I had to explain the whole business to her hurriedly.

Sounds wonderful, she said. Leave me some blanks, I think I can get you a few orders.