Verily, the universe swims in. light. Everything is alive and alight. Man too is the recipient of inexhaustible radiant energy. Strange, only in the mind of man is there darkness and paralysis.
A little too much light, a little too much energy (here on earth), and one is rendered unfit for human society. The reward of the visionary is the mad-house or the cross. A gray, neutral world is our natural habitat, it would seem. It has been so for a long time now. But that world, that condition of things, is passing. Like it or not, with blinkers-and-blinders or without, we stand on the threshold of a new world. We shall be forced to understand and accept—because the great luminaries whom we cast out of our midst have convulsed our vision. We shall be witness to splendors and horrors, alternately and simultaneously. We shall see with a thousand eyes, likes the goddess Indra. The stars are moving in on us, even the most distant ones.
With our instruments we now detect worlds of whose existence ancient man had not the slightest inkling. We are able to plot realms of worlds beyond our present ken, because our minds are already receptive to the light which emanates from them. At the same time we are also able to visualize our own wholesale destruction. But are we frozen in our tracks? No. Our faith is greater than were dare admit. We sense the magnificence of that life eternal which is man’s and which we have ever denied. Despite all our pride and vanity, we behave as if we knew nothing of our true heritage. We protest that we are only human, all-too-human. But if we were truly human we would be capable of all things, ready for all exigencies, know all conditions of being. We ought to remind ourselves daily, repeat it like a litany, that in our being lies concealed the whole gamut of existence. We should cease worshiping and inspire worship. Above all, we should cease postponing the act of becoming what in fact and essence we are.
I prefer, wrote Van Gogh, to paint men’s eyes than to paint cathedrals, because there is something in men’s eyes which is not in cathedrals, however majestic and imposing the latter may be…
3
It is only for a few brief months that this heavenly period lasts. Soon it will be nothing but trouble, nothing but want, nothing but frustration. Until I get to Paris only three short scripts will ever be published—the first in a magazine dedicated to the advancement of the colored people, the second in a magazine sponsored by a friend and which has but one issue, and the third in a magazine revived by good old Frank Harris.
Thereafter everything I submit for publication will bear my wife’s signature. (Only one freakish exception, of which more later.) It is agreed that I can do nothing on my own. I am simply to write and leave the rest to Mona. Her job at the theatre has already petered out. The rent has been long overdue. My visits to Maude have become less and less regular and the alimony is paid only now and then, when we make a haul. Soon Mona’s wardrobe gives out, and I, like a dolt, make vain efforts to beg a dress or a suit of my old sweethearts. When it gets bitter cold she wears my overcoat.
Mona is for taking a job in a cabaret, but I refuse to hear of it. With each mail I look forward to a letter of acceptance accompanied by a check. I must have between twenty and thirty manuscripts floating about; they come and go like trained carrier pigeons.
It is getting to be a problem to raise the money for the postage. Everything is becoming a problem.
In the midst of this first set-back we are rescued for a brief spell by the arrival of my old friend O’Mara who, after quitting the Cosmodemonic Telegraph Company, had gone on a long cruise with some fishermen in the Caribbean. The adventure had earned him some money.
We had hardly embraced one another when, in characteristic fashion, O’Mara emptied his. pockets, placing the money in a heap on the table. The kitty, he called it. It was to be for our common use. A few hundred dollars in all, enough either to pay our debts or to live on for a month or two.
Have you anything to drink around here? No? Let me run out and get something.
He came back with a few bottles and a bag full of food. Where’s the kitchen here? I don’t seem to see it.
There is no kitchen; we’re not supposed to cook.
What? he yelled. No kitchen? What do you pay for this joint?
When we told him he said we were crazy, plumb crazy. Mona didn’t relish that in the least.
How the hell do you manage, then? he asked, scratching his head.
To be frank, I said, we don’t.
Mona was almost in tears now.
Neither of you working? he continued.
Val’s working, was Mona’s prompt reply.
You mean writing, I suppose, said O’Mara, implying that that was just a pastime.
Certainly, said Mona with asperity, what would you want him to do?
I? I don’t want him to do anything. I was just wondering how you lived … you know, where you got the dough?
He was silent a moment, then he said: By the way, that chap who let me in, was he the landlord? Looked like a swell guy.
He is, too, I said. He’s a Virginian. Never pesters us for the rent. A real gentleman, I’ll say.
You ought to treat him right, said O’Mara. Listen, why don’t we let him have something on account?
No, said Mona quickly, don’t do that, please. He won’t mind waiting a little longer. Besides, I expect to have some money soon.
You do? said I, ever suspicious of these rash statements.
Well, the hell with that, said O’Mara, pouring out the Sherry. Let’s sit down and have a drink. I brought some ham and eggs, and some good cheese. Too bad we have to throw it away.
What do you mean, throw it away? said Mona. We have a little two-burner gas stove in the bathroom.
Is that where you cook? Christ!
No, we just keep it there, out of sight.
But they must smell the cooking upstairs, don’t they? By they O’Mara meant the landlord and his wife.
Of course they do, I said, but they’re discreet. They pretend that they smell nothing.
Wonderful people, said O’Mara. He meant by this that only Southerners could display such tact.
The next moment he was suggesting that we look for a cheaper place, with conveniences. That money’s going to vanish in no time the way you people live. I’ll look around for a job, of course, but you know me. Anyway, I’d like to take it easy for a while.
I smiled. Don’t worry, I said, everything will be hunky dory. Just having you around will make things easier.
But where will he sleep? asked Mona, not too pleased with this idea.
We can buy a cot, can’t we? I pointed to the money lying on the table. But the landlord?
We won’t tell him right away. Besides, we’re privileged to have a guest, aren’t we? He doesn’t need to know that Ted is a boarder.
I can sleep just as well on the floor, said O’Mara.
I wouldn’t dream of it! We’ll go out after lunch and get a second-hand cot. We’ll sneak it in after dark, eh?
I saw that it was time to say something to Mona. She hadn’t taken so well to O’Mara, that was obvious. He was a little too blunt and forthright.
Listen, Mona, I began, you’re going to like Ted when you get to know him. We’ve known each other since we were kids, isn’t that right, Ted?
But I have nothing against him, said Mona. I don’t want him telling us what we should do, that’s all.
She’s right, Ted, I said, you are a bit forward, you know that. A lot of things have happened since I last saw you. We’re in a different world now. It’s been wonderful until just recently. All due to Mona. Listen, if you two don’t get to like one another it’s going to be too bad.
I’ll clear out any time you give the sign, said O’Mara.
I’m sorry, said Mona, if I gave the wrong impression. If Val says you’re a friend there must be something to you…
What’s this Val business? said O’Mara, interrupting her.
Oh, she prefers Val to Henry,
