Thomas Wolfe, page 248
He, as before, staring fixedly out the window, but with growing exultation: “I believe—yes, sir, I just believe——”
She, to her Celestial Confidant: “—possibly understand what it is like—the great poetry of it, the everlasting beauty that fills me like a star—the truth—the glory—and the magic of this tremendous—this soul-consuming—this—this all-engulfing——”
He, suddenly, with soaring and triumphant conviction: “Yes, sir! By God, I know that’s what they’re going to do! I know it!” He turns and drives his clenched fist in his palm, and shouts: “I tell you that I know it! I know it just as well as I know I’m standing here!”
She: “—this mighty, sweet, and powerful——”
He, with a jubilant yell: “By God, they’re going to take it!”
She: “—this glorious and everlasting——”
And Monk, casting his head back, and laughing with savage joy and hunger: “Steak! . . . Steak! . . . Steak!”
And Esther, brooding raptly: “Love! . . . Love! . . . Love!”
And the light comes and goes, and fades and passes, the cat creeps trembling at his merciless stride across the ridges of the backyard fence, the light fades and comes again and passes—and all is, and is forever, as it always was.
[¬]
34
GLORY DEFERRED
Five weeks passed—five weeks woven of all this light and shadow, five weeks of soaring hope and bitter and dejected hopelessness, five weeks of joy and sorrow, gloom and glory, tears and laughter, love and—steak!
The most Monk could legitimately hope for was that his manuscript had fallen into the hands of an intelligent person, and was being given a careful reading. He did not know about Mr. Rawng’s feeling and smelling test. Had he known of the smelling test, he could only have hoped and prayed that all that he had written might smell sweet and wholesome to Mr. Rawng’s voluptuous nostrils. But as for the feeling test—how could a manuscript ten inches thick, and fourteen hundred pages long, feel anything but appalling to a publisher? The very sight of it was enough to make a reader tremble, an editor turn pale, and a printer recoil in horror.
And, as a matter of fact, the book had not survived this preliminary test. Its fate had been decided within an hour after its arrival at the offices of the Messrs. Rawng and Wright. Mr. Rawng, coming out of his office, had suddenly halted, clapped a pudgy hand to his forehead, and, pointing to the leviathan on the office boy’s table, had cried:
“My God! What’s this?”
He was informed it was a manuscript, and groaned. He walked around it carefully, surveying it from every angle with suspicious, unbelieving eyes. He edged closer to it cautiously, reached out and poked it with a finger—and it never budged. Finally, he got his fat hand gripped upon it, tugged and heaved and lifted—felt its weight and groaned again—and then let it drop!
“Nah!” he cried, and scowled darkly at the office boy.
“Nah!” he said again, and took two steps forward, one step back, and paused.
“Nah!” he shouted with decision, and waved his fat hand rapidly before his features in a gesture eloquent of malodorous disgust and furious dismissal.
“Nah! Nah! Nah!” he shouted. “Take it away! The whole thing stinks! Pfui!”—and, holding his nostrils with his fingers, he fled.
Thus was the matter decided.
And now the forgotten and unread manuscript was gathering dust on top of a pile of old ledgers, and the Messrs. Rawng and Wright were gulping highballs three doors down the street in Louie’s Bar.
Monk, by now, was reduced to a state of madman’s frenzy. He no longer knew whether he waked or slept, walked or sat down, ate or did not eat. The twenty-four hours of each diurnal round were lived through in nightmare chaos, tortured by mad dreams. He lived from one day to the next for the coming of the mail—for the arrival of a single fatal, dreaded, wildly longed-for letter—which was awaited hourly, and which never came.
At the end of five weeks of this, when it seemed that flesh and blood and brain and spirit could no longer endure, when he thought that he had given up hoping, yet could not bear the utter loss of hope, when nothing, no opiate of food or drink or books or words or work or writing or love for Esther could longer bring a moment’s rest, an instant of oblivion to his tormented soul—he sat down and wrote the Messrs. Rawng and Wright a letter, asking if they had read his book, and what their intentions were concerning it.
His answer came within two days, with unexpected swiftness. He ripped the letter open with numb fingers—and read it with set face. Before he had finished the first dozen words he knew the answer, and his face was white. The letter ran as follows:
“Dear Sir:
“We have read your manuscript and regret to say we cannot use it. While the writing shows an occasional trace of talent, it seems to us that the work as a whole is without sufficient merit to justify its publication, and moreover, of such enormous length that even if a publisher were found who was willing to print it, it would be extremely difficult to find readers who would be willing to read it. The book is obviously autobiographical—” (Although neither Rawng nor Wright had read the manuscript, and although neither was very sure in his mind what “autobiographical” meant, or in what way any creative work was more or less “autobiographical” than another, they felt it safe to assume that this manuscript was, since it was a young man’s first book, and all first books by all young men are, obviously, of course, “autobiographical.”) “The book is obviously autobiographical, and since we published at least a half dozen books just like this last year, and lost money on all of them, we don’t see how we could risk money on your book, particularly since the writing is so unskillful, amateurish, and repetitive as practically to annihilate what small chances of success such a book might have. It is probably true that the novel form is not adapted to such talents as you have—” (which, by this time, did not even seem microscopic to their stricken owner) “but should you ever attempt another book—” (he shuddered with convulsive horror at the thought of it!) “we can only hope you will choose material of a more objective nature, and thus avoid one of the worst pitfalls into which the novice is likely to fall. If you ever write such a book, we should, of course, be glad to see it.
“Meanwhile, with regrets that we are not able to give you a more encouraging answer, I am
Ever sincerely yours,
James N. Wright.”
And what now?—tears, curses, fights, brawls, drunkenness, imprecations, savage rage, insane despair? No, that was over; the sullen apathy of a stalled ox, the drugged eye of an opium addict, the set visage of a sleepwalker—an eye that no longer saw, an ear that no longer heard, a hand that no longer felt, a brain, a spirit, sunk—not fathoms deep in blind despair, but fathoms deeper in a kind of eyeless, tongueless, soundless, tasteless, and unfeeling ocean bed of black and bottomless oblivion.
He sat there on his rumpled cot, one leg sprawled out, mouth sullenly, stupidly ajar, with that little scrap of paper—the sentence of his execution—in his fingers. And still light came and passed and faded, the cat crept trembling, and the light, quick steps trod on his stairs at noon again. The door was opened. He stared like some brute animal that has just been slugged at the base of the brain with the butcher’s sledge, and he felt nothing.
And Esther, snatching the letter from his hand and reading like a flash, sharply, with a little cry: “Oh!—” then quietly—“When did this come?”
And Monk, mumbling thickly: “This morning.”
She: “Where’s the manuscript?”
He: “In the closet.”
She goes to the closet and opens the door. The manuscript, face down and opened, a sheaf of spreading leaves, is on the closet floor. She picks it up tenderly, smoothes the rumpled leaves, closes the binding, and presses it against her. Then she puts it down upon the table.
She: “Is that the way you treat your own manuscript—your own blood and sweat? Is that all the respect you have for it?”
He, thickly and numbly: “Don’t want to look at it! Throw it in the closet! Close the door!”
She, sharply: “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Brace up and act like a man! Have you got no more faith or self-respect for what you do than this—that you’re willing to give up the ghost without trying—the first bit of hard luck you have!”
He, dumbly: “He says I’m no good!”
She, impatiently: “Oh, stop talking bilge! Who says you’re no good?”
He: “Wright says so.”
She, contemptuously: “Oh, who gives a damn what he says! What does he know about it? You don’t know if he’s even read your manuscript!”
He: “He says he has, and that I’m no good!”
She: “Oh piffle! Who cares what he says! You ought to have more sense than to pay any attention to him!” Then sharply, after a pause: “When did your manuscript come back?”
He, dully: “It didn’t come, I went.”
She: “Went where?”
He: “Went and got it.”
She: “Did you see anyone?”
He: “Yes.”
She: “Who did you see?—” snapping her fingers impatiently—“Don’t sit there staring at me like an idiot! Speak up and tell me! Who did you see up there?”
He: “Rawng.”
She: “You didn’t see Wright?”
He: “No, I saw Rawng.”
She, exasperated: “Well, then, for heaven’s sake, tell me what he said!”
He: “He didn’t say anything.”
She, impatiently: “Oh, nonsense! He must have said something! People just don’t look at you and say nothing when you go to see them, do they?”
He, sullenly: “Yes, they do. He did!”
She, angrily: “Well, then, what did he do? He must have been doing something.”
He: “Yes, he was. He was coming out of his office.”
She: “Was someone with him?”
He: “Yes.”
She, triumphantly: “That explains it! He was with someone. He was busy.” Then angrily: “Oh, you are a fool!”
He: “I know it. I’m no good.”
She, snapping her fingers impatiently: “Well then, go on and tell me! Don’t sit there like an imbecile! You must have talked to someone.”
He: “Yes, I did.”
She: “Well, who was it?”
He: “A Jew.”
She, in an excited and warning tone of voice: “Now you’re beginning again!”
He: “I’m not beginning again. You asked me and I told you.”
She: “Well, then, what did he do? For heaven’s sake, you’ll drive me mad if you don’t speak up!”
He: “He looked at me and said, ‘Vell, vat is it?’”
She, warningly and excitedly again: “I’ve told you now! If you’re going to begin again, I’m leaving.”
He: “I’m not beginning again. You asked me what he did, and I told you.”
She, not wholly mollified: “Well, you’d better look out! That’s all I’ve got to say! If you’re going to start in on your abuse, I’m not going to stand for it!” Then abruptly and impatiently: “Well, and then what? What happened then?”
He: “Well, he said, ‘Vat is it?’—and I told him what it was.”
She, impatiently: “Oh, told him what what was! You’re talking like an idiot.”
He: “I told him what it was I wanted—my manuscript.”
She: “Well? And what happened then? What did he say when you told him?”
He: “He said, ‘Oh, you’re the guy! Jesus!’”
She: “Well, and then? What happened next?”
He: “He got the manuscript and gave it to me.”
She: “Well? And what happened next?”
He: “I blew the dust off the manuscript.”
She: “Well, go on! Go on! What happened then?”
He: “I went out.”
She: “Went out where?”
He: “Out the door!”
She, incredulously: “And nothing else happened?”
He: “Nothing else, no.”
She: “And you talked to no one else?”
He: “To no one. No.”
She: “Oh, you fool, you! And to think you’d have no more sense than to let a thing like this get you down! To think that you have no more pride or self-respect—no more faith in what you do!”
He: “I’m no good. And I want to be left alone. I wish to God you’d go away. And throw that manuscript away before you go—throw it anywhere—in the garbage pail—down the privy—into the closet—only for Christ’s sake get it out of my sight where I won’t have to look at it.” He gets up wearily—“Here, I’ll do it!”
She, snatching up the imperiled manuscript, and hugging it to her bosom: “No you won’t either! . . . This manuscript’s mine! . . . Who stood by you all these years, and stood over you, and made you do it, and had faith in you, and stuck to you? . . . If you’ve got no more faith in it now than to throw it away, I won’t let you! . . . I’ll save it! . . . It’s mine, I tell you, mine!” She cries out sharply: “George! What are you doing?”
He, wearily as before, but doggedly: “Here, give me the Goddamned thing—I’ll put it where I’ll never look at it again!”
She, panting, hugging it to her: “No! No! . . . You mustn’t! . . . George, I tell you——”
They struggle for the manuscript, they tug and wrench and wrestle; the binding rips apart in their hands, he gets one part and she another. He takes his part and hurls it at the wall, the pages fly and scatter everywhere. He opens the closet door, cursing and kicking viciously at the offending manuscript, until he has kicked it into the dark oblivion of the closet. Then he slams the door, and comes back across the room, and sits down dejectedly on his cot again.
And Esther, gasping for breath, glaring at him with tearful eyes, clutching her part of the manuscript to her breast, breathless, aghast: “Oh . . . you . . . you wicked fellow! . . . Oh! . . . What a wicked thing to do! . . . It’s like . . . like kicking your own child! . . . Oh! . . . How vile!” Tears begin to trickle down her cheeks, she scuttles around the room snatching up loose pages of manuscript, she darts into the closet and comes out clutching the other battered fragment to her breast—she hugs the whole confused mass of it to her, weeping, saying: “You had no right to do it! . . . It’s mine! . . . Mine! . . . Mine!”
And Monk, stretching out wearily on the cot, hanging his feet over the end, speaking wearily: “Please go away. Do me a slight favor, won’t you? Kindly get the hell out of here. I’m no good, and I don’t want to have you around.”
She, excitedly, with a rising note of hysteria in her voice: “Oh, so that’s it, is it? . . . That’s what you want! . . . You’re trying to get rid of me again, are you?”
He, as before: “Please go away.”
She: “It’s all my fault, I suppose! . . . Just because someone writes you a letter saying you’re no good, you blame it all on me!”
He, with profound apathy: “Yes. You’re right. You got it. It’s all your fault.”
She, tearful and indignant: “All my fault because someone says you’re no good? Is that what you mean? Is that what you’re accusing me of now—hah?”
He, with an immensely weary calm: “Yes, that’s it. You got it. You’re right. Everything’s your fault. It’s your fault that I’m no good. It’s your fault I’ve got to look at you. It’s your fault I ever met you. It’s your fault I’m alive when I ought to be dead. It’s your fault I ever kidded myself into thinking I was a writer. It’s your fault I ever thought I was any good!”
She, hysterically: “I’m going! I’m going! . . . You’ve done this to me! . . . You’ve driven me out! . . . You’re the one!”
He, turning his face to the wall, with weary quietness: “Please get the hell out of here, won’t you? I’m no good, and I’d like to die in peace—if you don’t mind.”
She: Oh, vile . . . oh, wicked fellow that you are!” Then wildly—“Good-bye! Good-bye! . . . You’ll never see me any more! . . . This time it is good-bye!”
He, dully, with face turned to the wall: “Good-bye.”
She rushes out, cheeks bright with anger, clutching the manuscript to her breast. The door slams after her, then her feet upon the stairs, and then the street door slams. He turns over on his back and listens wearily, muttering:
“I’m no good—Rawng thinks so and he’s right. No; Wright thinks so, but he can’t be wrong.” He sighs wearily: “Well, no matter which—I knew I was no good anyway. This just proves it. How can I wear time out from now on? It seems too long to wait.”
Time passes—day, night, morning—and the sparkle of bright noon again. All is as it always was. He sees, feels, hears, knows, cares for none of it—not even for the light, quick step at noon upon his stairs again.
Esther opens the door and comes over and sits down beside him on the cot. She says quietly:
“Have you had anything to eat since I was here?”
He: “Don’t know.”
She: “Have you been lying here all that time?”
He: “Don’t know.”
She: “Have you been drinking?”
He: “I don’t remember. Hope so. Yes.”
She, taking his hair in her hands and pulling it with quiet intensity: “Oh, you fool! Sometimes I feel like choking you! Sometimes I wonder why I adore you so. . . . How can so great a person be so big a fool!”
He: “I don’t know. Don’t ask me. Ask God. Ask Rawng and Wright.”
She, quietly: “Do you know I sat up half the night putting your manuscript together again——”
He: “Did you?” His hand tightens on hers a little.
She: “—after you had so wickedly attempted to destroy it.” A pause, then quietly: “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
Another pause.
He, with a trace of a grin: “Well—you know, I have two extra copies of it anyway.”
She, after a moment’s startled silence: “Oh, you villain!” Suddenly she throws back her head and shouts with laughter, a rich, full-throated, woman’s yell: “God, was there ever anyone like you! I wonder if anyone who didn’t know you would believe you were possible! . . . Well, anyway, I got it all together again, and this morning I took it to Seamus Malone. Do you know who he is?”
