On and on she ran… the kind of gloves she liked, the way to place the voice, how the Indians walked, the value of Yoga exercises, the way to train the memory, the perfume that suited her mood, the superstitiousness of theatrical people, their generosity, their intrigues, their amours, their pride, their conceit. How it felt to rehearse in an empty house, the jokes and pranks that occurred in the wings, the attitude of the stage hands, the peculiar aroma of the dressing rooms. And the jealousy! Every one jealous of every one else. Fever, commotion, distraction, grandeur. A world within a world. One became intoxicated, drugged, hallucinated.
And the discussions! A mere trifle could bring about a raging controversy, ending sometimes in a brawl, a hair-pulling match. Some of them seemed to have the very devil in them, especially the women. There was only one decent one, and she was quite young and inexperienced. The others were veritable maenads, furies, harpies. They swore like troopers. By comparison the girls at the dance hall were angelic.
A long pause.
Then, a propos of nothing, she asked when the divorce trial was taking place.
«This week,» I said, surprised at the sudden turn of her mind.
«We’ll get married right away,» she said.
«Of course,» I responded.
She didn’t like the way I said «of course». «You don’t have to marry me, if you don’t want,» she said.
«But I do want to,» I said. «And then we’ll get out of this place… find a place of our own.»
«Do you mean that?» she exclaimed. «I’m so glad. I’ve been waiting to hear you say that. I want to start a new life with you. Let’s get away from all these people! And I want you to quit that awful job. I’ll find a place where you can write. You won’t need to earn any money. I’ll soon be making lots of money. You can have anything you want. I’ll get you all the books you want to read…. Maybe you’ll write a play—and I’ll act in it! That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?»
I wondered what Rebecca would have said of this speech, had she been listening. Would she have heard only the actress, or would she have detected the germ of a new being expressing itself? Perhaps that mysterious quality of Mona’s lay not in obscuration but in germination. True enough, the contours of her personality were not sharply defined, but that was no reason to accuse her of falsity. She was mimetic, chameleonesque, and not outwardly, but inwardly. Outwardly everything about her was pronounced and definite; she stamped her impress upon you immediately. Inwardly she was like a column of smoke; the slightest pressure of her will altered the configuration of her personality instantly. She was sensitive to pressures, not the pressure of others’ wills but of their desires. The histrionic role with her was not something to be put on and off—it was her way of meeting reality. What she thought she believed; what she believed was real; what was real she acted upon. Nothing was unreal to her, except that which she was not thinking about. But the moment her attention was brought to bear, no matter how monstrous, fantastic or incredible, the thing became real. In her the frontiers were never closed. People who credited her with having a strong will were utterly mistaken. She had a will, yes, but it was not the will which swept her headlong into new and startling situations—it was her ever-present readiness, her alertness, to act out her ideas. She could change with devastating swiftness from role to role; she changed before your eyes, with that incredible and elusive prestidigitation of the vaudeville star who impersonates the most diverse types. What she had been doing all her life unconsciously the theatre was now teaching her to do deliberately. They were only making an actress of her in the sense that they were revealing to her the boundaries of art; they were indicating the limitations which surround creation. They could make a failure of her only by giving her free rein.
18
The day of the trial I presented myself at court in a bright and supercilious mood. Everything had been agreed upon beforehand. I had only to raise my hand, swear a silly oath, admit my guilt and take the punishment. The judge looked like a scarecrow fitted with a pair of lunar binoculars; his black wings flapped lugubriously in the hushed silence of the room. He seemed to be slightly annoyed by my serene complacency; it did not bolster the illusion of his importance, which was absolutely nil. I could make no distinction between him and the brass rail, between him and the cuspidor. The brass rail, the Bible, the cuspidor, the American flag, the blotter on his desk, the thugs in uniform who preserved order and decorum, the knowledge that was tucked away in his brain cells, the musty books in his study, the philosophy that underlay the whole structure of the law, the eye-glasses he wore, his B. V. D’s, his person and his personality, the whole ensemble was a senseless collaboration in the name of a blind machine about which I didn’t give a fuck in the dark. All I wanted was to know that I was definitely free to put my head in the noose again.
It was all going like tic-tac-to, one thing cancelling another, and at the end of course the law squashing you down as if you were a fat, juicy bedbug, when suddenly I realized that he was asking me if I were willing to pay such and such an amount of alimony regularly for the rest of my days.
«W hat’s that?» I demanded. The prospect of at last encountering some opposition caused him to brighten appreciably. He reeled off some gibberish about solemnly agreeing to pay the sum of something or other.
«I agree to no such thing,» I said emphatically. «I intend to pay» — and here I mentioned a sum that was double the amount he had named.
It was his turn to say «What’s that?»
I repeated myself. He looked at me as though I had lost my senses, then, swiftly, as though he were trapping me, he snapped out: «Very good! We’ll make it as you wish. It’s you funeral.»
It’s my pleasure and privilege,» I retorted.
«Sir!»
I repeated myself. He gave me a withering look, beckoned to the lawyer to approach, leaned over and whispered something in his ear. I had the distinct impression that he was asking the lawyer if I were in my sound senses. Apparently assured that I was, he looked up and, fixing a stony gaze upon me, he said: «Young man, do you know what the penalty is for failure to meet your obligations?»
«No sir,» I said, «nor do I care to hear it. Are we through now? I’ve got to get back to my job.»
It was a beautiful day outdoors. I started walking aimlessly. Soon I was at the Brooklyn Bridge. I started walking over the Bridge, but after a few minutes I lost heart, turned round and dove into the subway. I had no intention of going back to the office; I had been given a day off and I intended to make the most of it.
At Times Square I got off and walked instinctively towards the French-Italian restaurant over near Third Avenue. It was cool and dark in the back of the grocery store where they served the food. At lunch time there never were many customers. Soon there was only myself and a big, sprawling Irish girl who had already made herself quite drunk. We fell into a strange conversation about the Catholic Church during the course of which she repeated like a refrain: «The Pope’s all right, but I refuse to kiss his ass.»
Finally she pushed her chair back, struggled to her feet, and tried to walk towards the lavatory. (The lavatory was used by men and women alike and was in the hall. I saw that she would never make it alone. I got up and held her by the arm. She was thoroughly potted and lurching like a storm-tossed ship.
As we got to the door of the lavatory she begged me to help her on to the seat. I stood her by the seat so that all she had to do was to sit down. She hitched up her skirt and tried to pull her panties down, but the effort was too much. «Pull ’em down for me, will you,» she begged with a sleepy grin. I did as she asked, patted her cunt affectionately, and sat her down on the seat. Then I turned to go.
«Don’t go!» she whined, clutching my hand, and with that she began emptying her tank. I held on while she finished the job, Nos. I and 2, with stink bombs and everything. Throughout the operation she repeated over and over: «No, I won’t kiss the Pope’s ass!» She looked so absolutely helpless that I thought perhaps
