[Illustration]
The American background is America. If there is to be a new world Europe
must not invade us. It is not a matter of changing the y to i as in
Chile. They are bound.
The background of America is not Europe but America.
_Eh bien mon vieux coco_, this stuff that you have been writing today,
do you mean that you are attempting to set down the American background?
You will go mad. Why? Because you are trying to do nothing at all. The
American background? It is Europe. It can be nothing else. Your very
method proves what I say. You have no notion what you are going to write
from one word to the other. It is madness. You call this the background
of American life? Madness?
As far as I have gone it is accurate.
It is painting the wind.
Ah, that would be something.
_Mais ça_, are you a plain imbecile? That is a game for children. Why
do you not do as so many of your good writers do? Your Edgar Lee
Masters, your Winesburg, Ohio. Have you not seen the photographs of men
and women on your walls? They are a type, as distinct as a Frenchman or
a German. Study these men, know their lives. You have a real work to do,
you have the talent, the opportunity even. This is your work in life.
You Americans, you are wasteful, mad--
Our background.
You would paint the wind. Well, it has been tried--many times, and do
you know where that leads?
I know where it has led.
But do you know? Have you seen, felt, heard what they have seen, felt,
heard, our Villons--
Apollo was out of breath but the nymph was more tired than he. The chase
must soon have ended when she falling to her knees half from the will to
be there half from fatigue besought her mistress Diana to save her from
the God's desire. And she was changed into a laurel bush.
All about the hills where they stood the hard waxen leaves of the laurel
glistened above the dead leaves of the hardwood trees, the beech, the
maple, the oak.
You imagine I am French because I attack you from the continental
viewpoint. You are wrong. I am from the country of your friends
Mussorgsky, Dostoevsky, Chekov. At least if you will not yield me the
point that America cannot be new, cannot do anything unless she takes
the great heritage which men of all nations and ages have left to the
human race.
You mean that I should not be an American but--Turgenev, enjoy you more
if, well, if you were more comprehensible, a little more particular,
_vous comprenez_? You sweep out your arms, you--I see no faces, no
details of the life, no new shape--
The druggist's boy cannot be distinguished from his master when he says,
Hello, over the phone--Is that what you mean?
Well, you are very much children, you Americans.
It is not to be avoided as far as I can see.
Let us have now a beginning of composition. We have had enough of your
improvisations.
I am consumed by my lusts. No American can imagine the hunger I have.
It is the itch, monsieur. It is neurasthenia. Desire is not a thing to
speak of as if it were a matter of filling the stomach. It is wind, gas.
You are empty my friend. Eat. Then and then only.
Like all men save perhaps the Chinese you are most transparent when you
imagine yourself most protected.
Her bosom reached almost to her knees. That morning in the October
garden she had picked a violet for him and placed it in his coat.
Watching the feet of men and women as they touched the pavement a strong
odor of violets crossed his path.
He turned and saw the massive Jewess waddling by. It had been good
perfume too.
These Polocks. Their heads have no occiput. They are flat behind. It is
why when they put on their American hats the things slip down about
their ears. The nigger's head isn't that way. You know how the bump goes
out behind in so many of them. The club sandwich on her plate kept
sliding apart, the top slice of bread would slip. Then she took the
pieces in her fingers and poked the lettuce in under the sheet. On her
breast was a black pin. It formed a circle. She looked up with her mouth
full of food and resting both elbows on the table chewed America
thoughtfully while she held the state of Maryland in her firm fingers.
The ends of each finger were stubby, the nails cut short and as clean as
well manicured nails could well be. Clatter, clatter, clatter. He could
see himself in the plate glass behind her. He was conscious of his hat
which he had not removed. He was at this table with these five
women--one of them young, ready--and he had not removed his hat. There
was in fact no place to put it.
I am begging, frankly. Ten cents a ticket. I have to raise fifty dollars
by the end of next week. We want to fit up a room in our hall where the
colored working girls can come and rest. On Thursdays we serve tea. Then
they go back to the office. When the impact is over the man must think.
I tell you I do not contemplate with relish seeing my children bred out
of all these girls. Is it wrong? Well, I thought you said you had an
appetite. Impregnate eighty of them, right and left as you see them here
in this room. It would not be impossible. I cannot think of my children
running about in the environment in which these have to live. My dear
sir, you are a fool. You are lying to yourself--As to the girls, I
frankly desire them. I desire many, many, many.
There she sat on the bench of the subway car looking idly about, being
rushed under the river at great speed to the kitchen of her mother's
flat. Malodorous mother. Or wrinkled hard-put-to-it mother. Savior of
the movies. After the impact his great heart had expanded so as to
include the whole city, every woman young and old there he having
impregnated with sons and daughters. For everyone loved him. And he knew
how to look into their eyes with both passion and understanding. Each
had taken him to her soul of souls where the walls were papered with
editorials from the Journal and there he had made himself father to her
future child. As they went upstairs he saw how her heels were worn--Who
will understand the hugeness of my passion?
But he had understood. The truth lay under the surface. Why then not--No
two can remain together without training. Who better than that one who
is practiced. The faithful husband of the clothing store madam is used
to her. They functionate well together. He puts his hat in the right
place. His money in the right bank. His arm fitted in just the posture
best suited to their mutual height and width. All their practices were
mated.
But he was an outsider. He was new to all. Her shoes are stitched up the
back.
Card-index minds, the judges have. Socialism, immorality and lunacy are
about synonyms to the judge. Property is sacred and human liberty is
bitter, bitter, bitter to their tongues.
Walk up the stairs there little girl. But she is naked! These are all
doctors. So the little tot struggled up the very high clinic steps,
naked as she was, and all the doctors looked at her. She had some spots
on her body that had been there a year. Had I been her father I would
know why I am a fool.
Naked and free, free to be damned in to hell by a chance vagrant to whom
she had taken a fancy. Her father did not know her. Did not even know
that she existed. Cared less. We will look after her said the head
doctor.