Thomas Wolfe, page 235
Occasionally when she spoke of this side of the city’s life, describing it in quick and casual phrases, she evoked a picture that was stupendous in its wealth and power, and rather sinister. She would refer, for example, to a friend of her husband’s, a millionaire named Bergerman whose wealth was “simply fabulous.” Then she would tell of the evening in Paris when he had taken her and Roberta Heilprinn out to dinner, and later to a gambling club where first a boxing bout had been arranged for the delectation of the clients. “You would have thought you were in a drawing room! Everyone was dressed in evening clothes, and the women wore ropes of pearls, and there was a great, thick carpet on the floor, and you sat in the most delicate gold-leaf chairs with flowered satin seats. Even the ropes around the ring had velvet coverings! It was thrilling—and, somehow, a little terrible. It was all so strange, and when they turned the lights out you could see nothing but the two men in the ring—one of them a negro—their bodies were magnificent, the action of the black against the white so quick and swift, like a kind of dance.” Later on, she told him, after the fight was over, the guests had scattered around the gaming tables, and Bergerman had lost a million francs at roulette in less than twenty minutes, or, at the rate of exchange that then existed, almost thirty thousand dollars. “And it meant absolutely nothing to him!” said Mrs. Jack, looking at the young man with a flushed and very earnest face. “Can you imagine it? Isn’t it incredible?” And for a moment more she continued to look at him with a surprised and questioning kind of face, as if he, perhaps, might be able to supply the answer.
She had other stories of this kind—stories of men who won or lost fortunes at gambling every evening and who were not troubled, either with their losses or their gains; stories of women and young girls who came into Mr. Rosen’s shop and within fifteen minutes spent more money for clothing than most people hoped to possess in a whole lifetime; of a famous courtesan who walked in with her elderly lover and bought a Chinchilla coat “right off the rack,” paying for it in spot cash, taking from her purse a wad of thousand-dollar bills, “big enough,” said Mrs. Jack, “to choke a horse,” and tossing sixty of them out across the counter.
The effect of these stories was to evoke a picture of a world of wealth that was at first fabulous and fascinating in its Bagdadlike enchantments, but that quickly took on a more sinister hue as Monk read the meaning of its social implications. It shone there, written on the face of night, like a lurid and corrupted sneer. It was a world that seemed to have gone insane with its own excess, a world of criminal privilege that flouted itself with an inhuman arrogance in the very face of a great city where half the population lived in filth and squalor, and where two-thirds were still so bitterly uncertain of their daily living that they had to thrust, to snarl, to curse, to cheat, contrive, and get the better of their fellows like a race of mongrel dogs.
The obscene wink, so written there against the visage of the night, was intolerable in its damnable injustice. The knowledge of it choked him, turned his veins into a poison of cold fury, a murderous desire to smash and trample it to ruin. He wondered how men who drew the breath of life and did the work of day could let their enemy feed upon their blood, how they could allow themselves to forget the insecurity of their lives by gazing raptly at the mirage of “prosperity” towards which all seemed to think that they were turning, and which most of them were sure they already shared. Like those lost creatures in the Country of the Blind who thought the single man among them who had eyes was diseased with cancer of the brain, they were sure that heaven started just a little out of reach above their heads, and that presently they would scale a ten-foot ladder and be there. Meanwhile, these blind men lived in filth and went through a daily struggle just to get the barest means of life, and they swallowed down obediently all the vicious nonsense that any politician told them about the “high standard” of their living which, these wretches were solemnly assured, made them “the envy of the world.”
And yet, although they were blind, surely they could smell. But they were so infatuated that they reveled in the general all-pervasive stink of rottenness. The blind men knew that government was rotten, that almost every branch of authority, from high office down to the lowest constable that patrolled the beat, was riddled through and through, like a putrescent honeycomb, with dishonesty and graft. And yet the most obscure of all the land, the smallest cipher in the subway’s depths, could assure you that this was the way things ought to be, the way that things had always been, the way they would continue to the end of time. The blind were wise—with a wisdom celebrated in the city streets. Were politicians rogues? Were officials in the city’s government grafters, thieves? Every man, the blind could tell you as they struggled through the subway door while there was still room for one more visionless sardine, was “getting his.” And if one protested at the process over much, it was a sign the man was “sore”—“You’d do the same thing if you were in his place—sure you would!”
One’s virtue, therefore, was only another name for one’s envious chagrin. And if one was virtuous, did one think because he was that there would be no more cakes and ale—or, for that matter, chickens in the pot, or two cars in garages, or, to step it up a peg or two, Chinchilla coats from Mr. Rosen’s, or roulette wheels for Mr. Bergerman, or many other splendid things like this—the blind assured each other as they struggled through the stiles—that had made them all “the envy of the world”?
The knowledge that she was a part of this life, too, went through him like a flash, and he would feel again the baffling torture of that doubt which in the years to come was to torment and trouble him so often—the enigma of this flower face. How could she be a part of it? This creature seemed to him so full of health and happiness, so full of work, of hope, of morning, and of high integrity. And yet, indubitably, she was a part of this thing, too—of this Midas world of night, of this reptilian wink, its criminal corruption and inhuman privilege, the impregnable arrogance of its living sneer.
And here, too, at night, she could blossom like a flower, a flower that had the look at night, even as it had by day, of innocence and morning; and that could live here, breathe here, blossom in the foul contagion of this air just as she blossomed in the day, and be a part of it, that never lost an atom of her freshness and her beauty—a flower that blossomed from a hill of dung.
He could not fathom it, it whipped his spirit to a frenzy, it made him turn on her at times and rend her, bitterly accuse her with unjust and cruel words—and leave him baffled and infuriated at the end, no nearer to the truth than he had ever been.
And the truth was simply that she was a woman, and that her way, like everyone’s, had been a vexed and most uncertain one, and that, like everyone in that great honeycomb, she, too, was caught up in a web, and had come to these concessions in the end. The truth was also that the better part of her was loyal to the better part of life, but her loyalties, like everyone’s, were mixed, and in this twin allegiance was the wrong. On one side was the worldly society and the duty it imposed, the responsibility it demanded, the obligations it entailed. And on the other side there was the world of work, and of creating, the world of friendship, aspirations, and the heart’s true faith. And this side was the deeper, truer part of Mrs. Jack.
It was as worker and as doer that this woman was supreme. The true religion of her soul, the thing that saved her and restored her from the degradation of the wasteful idleness, the insane excess of self-adornment, the vanity of self-love, and the empty ruin of hollowness that most women of her class had come to know, was the religion of her work. It saved her, took her out of herself, united her life to a nobler image, which was external to her and superior to the vanities of self. There was no labor too great, no expenditure of time and care and patient effort too arduous and too exacting, if, through it, she could only achieve “a good piece of work.”
And of all the things she hated most, the first one was a shoddy piece of work. To her this was original sin. She could overlook the faults and errors of a human personality, excuse its weaknesses, tolerate its vices, and the flaws it could not help. But she could not, would not, stand for shoddy work, for there was no excuse for it. An ill-cooked meal, an ill-kept room, an ill-made dress, an ill-painted piece of scenery, meant something more to her than haste or carelessness, something more than mere forgetfulness. They meant a lack of faith, a lack of truth, a lack of honesty, a lack of all integrity—a lack of everything “without which,” as she said, “your life is nothing.”
And that is what saved her in the end. She held steadfast to the faith of honest work. This was her real religion, and from it all the good things in her life and person came.
[¬]
26
PENELOPE’S WEB
The woman had become a world for him—a kind of new America—and now he lived in it, explored it all the time. It was not merely love that accounted for this immolation. Or rather, with him, love had so much hunger in it. Perhaps, although he did not know it, there was destruction in him, too, for what he loved and got his hands upon he squeezed dry, and it could not be otherwise with him. It was something that came from nature, from memory, from inheritance, from the blazing energies of youth, from something outside of him and external to him, yet within him, that drove him forever, and that he could not help.
Seated beside him at the theatre one night, in the interval between the acts, Mrs. Jack looked suddenly at his knotted hands and said, “What have you got there?”
“What?” he looked at her bewildered.
“Oh, look!” She took it from him and shook her head. “Your program! See what you have done to it!”
He had rolled the thick and heavy pages of the program into a cylinder, and, during the first act, had twisted it in two. She smoothed the torn pages out and surveyed them with a rueful little smile.
“Why do you always do that?” she said. “I’ve noticed that you always do.”
“Oh—I don’t know. It’s nervousness, I guess. I don’t know why I do it but I tear up everything I get my hands on.”
The incident was symbolic. The truth was, once a thing had touched his interest he fastened to it like a hound, his hunger for it insatiable, voracious, devouring, and consuming, and it drove him on until he reached the end. It had always been that way with him.
As a child, hearing Aunt Maw speak about the Civil War, and of the day the men came marching back, suddenly for the first time in his life he saw the war, heard the voices of the men again, and he fell upon her like a beast of prey. What kind of day was it, at what time did it occur? Who were the men she saw, and how were they dressed, were they ragged, did all of them have shoes? Who were the people waiting there beside the road, what did the women say, and did they cry?
He would go for her with ceaseless questions until she was bewildered and worn out; then he would come pounding back at her again. What did they live on now that their money was all gone? Where did they get their clothes? They grew them. Who made them? The women spun them. How did women spin, and had she used a spinning wheel herself? What colors were the clothes, or did they have a color? Yes, they dyed them, and they made the dyes themselves. How did they make the dyes? What were they made of? From walnut hulls, from elderberries, and from sassafras which they gathered in the woods. What colors did they get from these, by what process were they got?—and so on, back and forth, making the old woman strain her memory until he had pumped her dry.
So, now, he was after Mrs. Jack like this. She would say:
“My father used to go to Mock’s. . . .”
“Where was it? Never heard of it.”
“It was a kind of restaurant—he used to go there almost every night.”
“Where was this restaurant? Were you ever there yourself?”
“No, I was just a child, but I would hear him speak of it, and the name would fascinate me.”
“Ah, that would fascinate. What kind of a place was Mock’s?”
“Oh—I don’t know. I was never there myself, but when he came in late at night I would hear him talking to my mother.”
“How could you hear him? Why weren’t you in bed?”
“Well, I was. But my room was just above the dining room, and there was a furnace ventilator in the wall. And when I turned this on I could sit there in the darkness and hear everything they said. They thought that I was sound asleep, but I would sit there listening to them like some invisible spirit, and I found this thrilled me and excited me. I would hear them talking down below, and often they would talk of Mock’s. Sometimes my father would bring other actors, friends of his, with him; and I would hear my mother say, ‘Where on earth have you all been?’ And I would hear my father and the other actors laugh, and he would say, ‘Why, we’ve been to Mock’s.’ ‘Well, what have you been doing all this time at Mock’s?’ ‘Well, we had a glass a beer,’ father said. ‘Yes, I can see that,’ I would hear my mother say. ‘It’s pretty plain that all of you have had a glass of beer,’ she said. And I would hear the voices and the talking, and the actors laughing, and all of it sounded so jolly, until it seemed to me that I was sitting there with them except they didn’t know it because I was invisible—and I would hear them talking, telling that they had been to Mock’s.”
“And that’s all you know—all you found out? You never found out where it was, nor what it looked like?”
“No, but I imagine it was more a place for men, with a bar and oysters—and sawdust on the floor.”
“And the name of it was Mock’s?”
“The name of it was Mock’s.”
In that way he kept after her, prying, probing, questioning about everything she told him, until at last he got from her the picture of her lost and vanished years.
“Long, long into the night I lay——”
(One!)
“Long, long into the night I lay awake——”
(Two!)
“Long, long into the night I lay awake, thinking how I should tell my story.”
Oh how lovely those words are! They make a music in me just like bells.
(One, Two, Three, Four! One, Two, Three, Four!)
Oh there are bells, and that is time! What time is that? That was the half hour that the bells were striking. And that was time, time, time.
And that was time, dark time. Yes, that was time, dark time, that hangs above our heads in lovely bells.
Time. You hang time up in great bells in a tower, you keep time ticking in a delicate pulse upon your wrist, you imprison time within the small, coiled wafer of a watch, and each man has his own, a separate time.
And once upon a time there was a tiny little girl, and she was a mighty pretty, sweet little girl, too, and she was awfully smart, she learned to write before she was six years old, and she used to write her dear uncles John and Bob letters, and they were great, fat fellows—God, how those fellows could eat!—and they simply adored her, and she used to call them her Dere Uncle Honeys: We have a new Dog named Roy and he is swete but Bella says he is also messy Sister is lerning to talk and she can now say everything and I am taking french lessons and the tetcher says I can now talk it good I am awfely smart and good and I think of my dere Uncle Honeys all the time wel that is all Sister sends luv and we know our dere Uncle Honeys will not forget us and will bring something luvly yore darling litel Esther.
Oh, but that must have been much later, after we came back from England. Yes, I think it must have been a year or two later because all I can remember before is a big boat that went up and down and Mama got awfully sick—God, she was white! I got so frightened and began to cry, and Daddy was so lovely. He brought her champagne, I heard him say, “Here, drink this, you’ll feel better,” and she said, “Oh, I can’t, I can’t!” But she did. Everyone always did what he wanted them to do.
And I had a nurse called Miss Crampton—isn’t that a funny name to have?—and at first we lived behind the Museum in Gower Street, then later we were in Tavistock Square. And the milkman had a little cart that he pushed before him, and he made a funny noise in his throat, and every morning when he came by they let me go out and sit upon the curb and wait for him, and the sun was like old gold and murky-looking, and I gave the man some money, two or three pennies, and he said in a loud voice, “There you are, Miss, fresh as a dyesy,” and he gave me a tiny little bottle of cream, and I drank it all right there before him, and gave him back the bottle. God, I was proud! I think I was about three or four years old. And then when I asked Daddy why cream cost so much more than milk, he said, “Because it’s so hard for the cow to sit down on those little bottles.” And oh! I thought that was so wonderful I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and Mama told him he ought to be ashamed of himself talking to a child like that, but there was something so wonderful about him, I believed everything he said.
Then, later, Daddy was away on a tour with Mansfield, and Mama went with him, and they left me with Auntie May. She had a house in Portman Square. God! What a lovely house that was! She was a writer. She wrote a book about a kid who grew up in the East End of London, it was damned good; the whole thing was done with the most enormous skill, it was trash, but it was awfully good trash.
Auntie May was awfully nice. She always let us have tea with her, I used to love that, all sorts of people came to see her, she knew a great many people; and one day when I came down to tea there was an old man there with a long white beard, and I was wearing my little apron, I must have been awfully sweet. And Auntie said, “Come here, my dear,” and she took me and stood me between her knees, and turned my face towards the old man—and God! I was frightened, there was something so strange about it! And Auntie said, “I want you to look at this gentleman and remember his name, for some day you will know more about him and remember meeting him.” Then Auntie said that the old man’s name was Mister Wilkie Collins, and that he was a writer, and I thought that was an awfully funny name for anyone to have, and I wondered what an old man like that could write.
