Orpheus Emerged
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foolish artist turns on his age and attacks it
indiscriminately. And listen to this:
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‘Beauty, now
dead, we have
enshrined on
public squares;
and twice
daily, queues
of dark-shawled
women come to
weep at the
tombstone of
joy.’
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My, my, such sadness! ‘There is a child I
hear weeping in the steel tunnel beneath
the street; and on the street above, a crowd
is congregated beholding mutilation, as it
rains.’ That is rather strange, isn’t it, Leo? —
I like it, but as they say, I can see all this a lit-
tle too crystal-clear. For instance, this: ‘Life
is an unpleasant sensation—’ like a
toothache, ha ha!” Paul inserted wildly.
“And then it says, ‘knowledge is the
enchantress of sorrow, and the mood of
death.’ That’s rather nice. ‘For the sun has
gone out,’ he goes on to say, ‘and small fires
rage on rooftops: and in the north, sieged
cities leave their dead on the frozen boule-
vards. Gardens are brown and bare, and
birds are gone forever south: the wounded
sparrow peers out of ferret eyes from his
nest of corpse hairs in the eave of the Public
Library..’ ”
Paul lowered the sheets. “Oh, what terri-
ble stuff!” he cried. “But as I say, I under-
stand it all too well. And maybe, maybe it
moves me.”
“I’ve seen other things that Michael has
written,” Leo put in at this point, “which are
perhaps better than this. Didn’t you read his
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poem on the impulse of God?”
“I may have it here, but I’ll have to read it
before I listen to anyone praise it. Michael is
a failure, I tell you!”
“Why do you keep insisting that?” Leo
demanded.
Paul didn’t answer. Now he was holding
up another sheet and reading it. “Here it is,”
he said, “I think this one here is the poem
that you were just talking about. Hmm, let’s
see…he entitles it ‘Notes Gleaned From a
Voyage to Morphina’… Morphina,
Morphina? Where’s that?”
“Well,” Leo said, “it should be clear to
you. It’s a mythical land, the land you go to
when you take morphine. De Quincey and
his opium, he went there, and all the others
like him. It’s the paradis artificiel of
Baudelaire…”
“And so Michael has been taking to
drugs?” Paul asked innocently.
“He’s not an addict,” Leo assured him.
“Under the influence, you see, of drugs, he’s
managed to discover a new poetic idea—if
such one can call it. Here, let me have that
paper…I’ll read you the poem. I’ve read it
before.”
Leo took the paper from Paul’s hand.
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Paul reached into his pocket and pulled out
a handful of peanuts, which he threw at the
pigeons surrounding their bench.
“Here’s the way it goes,” Leo said, begin-
ning to read. “ ‘Contemplate the universe—
close your eyes—and, like God, begin to
sense, without words or image, sound or
shape, the impulse of all creation. This is the
pure moment of God’s imagination before
the epileptic fit of fault and history begins..’ ”
“That,” interrupted Paul, “that is rather
strange, and I don’t understand it.”
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“Wait. Now… ‘A white rhythm under-
lines the impulse that is soon to issue
Logos— The impulse of creation is the key
to the sign of the Macrocosm: it is the
silence of the Golden Age, the stasis of the
soul in repose. I am about to go up in a con-
suming flame—I am an old saint—and soon
I will disappear!’ ”
“What?” cried Paul incredulously. “Does
he say that in all seriousness? Oh, the folly of
all this…”
“Never mind,” Leo warned him, and con-
tinued to read. “ ‘I feel everything, I sense
God, and I exist with Eternity. I have lost my
human self: I am one with Paramatma!
Listen!—silence rings its immortal chord…’ ”
But Paul had jumped up on his feet and
was pacing nervously back and forth in
front of the bench.
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“ ‘In the middle
of creation, in
an attitude of
silence and cun-
ning, with my
hands over my
eyes and ears, I
think, I feel, I
pray to the mute
darkness of my
soul, I wait, I
hold my breath,
and now, slowly,
softly, all
meaning marches
to me, and God
is on the
threshold of my
being, and is
soon to enter
me, and become
One with me!
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Then!…I open my eyes, uncover my ears,
and breathe, and there is the sky on the pool
atremble, here is the birdsong and the mur-
mur, the morning-moist grass—clean as the
rain on dark tree-trunks—and an odor from
the meadow beyond where the cows stand
mute, and a crow caws and the forest roof
reverberates. I know what the flower is, just
after the break of sun! I know with God!…’ ”
Paul came back and sat down on the
bench beside Leo.
“He can’t!” he was mumbling. “He
should realize that—”
“Look!” cried Leo, who had been reading
another part of the sheet. “This is strange!
Can it be?… look what he wrote here. ‘This
is an age that has created sick men like
me—’ ”
“The age again!” Paul scoffed impatient-
ly. “Age! Age! Completely absolved of all
responsibility to himself, isn’t he!…”
“ ‘What we need is a journey to new
lands. I shall embark soon on one of these.
I shall sleep on the grass and eat fruit for
breakfast.’ Now, isn’t that what you just told
me a while ago, isn’t that what you did? How
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can he have— But I know, when you knew
each other in the past, it was a stock phrase
between the two of you, isn’t that it?”
“Nothing of the sort!” cried Paul, almost
angrily.
“But of course! Unless it’s a famous line
from some other poet. No? How can it be?
You said that very same thing just a few
minutes ago, you told me you had slept on
the grass and eaten fruit for breakfast, don’t
you remember? Maybe it’s that…yes, you’ve
obviously read this poem before, and you
were quoting his lines…”
“No,” said Paul gravely, “no, not at all.”
“But that’s impossible!” Leo cried.
“Oh, is it?” Paul replied, again getting up
nervously from the bench. “No, Leo, I
assure you: the same phrase happened to
enter his mind.”
“Nonsense.”
“And why shouldn’t it be possible? Who
are you to deny it! It’s very simple…”
“It’s not so simple,” Leo answered firmly.
“It is!” Paul fairly screamed. “You don’t know
the facts… Oh shut up!” And with this, Paul had
started to walk away; then he came back and
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wrenched the papers from Leo, who was grin-
ning at the angry Paul. At this point Arthur hove
into sight around the walk.
“Well, Paul,” he greeted. “You’re back…”
“Where are you going?” Leo inquired of
Arthur.
“I’m on my way to Michael’s. I just saw
Julius, and he told me that Michael was
back from his trip.”
“He’s not home. We just went there.”
“He’s home now. Here comes Julius
now, he’ll tell you.” And with this, Arthur
hurried on to Michael’s house. Julius was
coming up the walk in his slow leisurely
gait.
“Hello Paul!” he called. Paul, with the
papers in his pockets, was walking away
from Leo. “Wait a minute!” called Julius,
hurrying his pace.
“Well?” said Paul defiantly. “What do you
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want, Julius?”
Julius stopped and began smiling at Paul.
“I have a little news for you,” he said.
“About Michael’s so-called trip…”
“What of it?”
“Yes,” pressed Leo, “tell us.”
“You might as well know,” Julius began,
“since it’s all beginning to come out. This
past week, Michael, on his so-called trip,
has really been living in the Bohemian
Quarter with Anthony’s wife, Marie…”
“What?” Paul gasped.
“Yes. And they say that Anthony is all out
of sorts, because Marie had just left him a
note, and didn’t explain where she was
going or why. The truth was, she went on a
little holiday with our Michael, they’ve been
having an affair down in the Quarter…”
“And you say that Anthony is…?” Paul
stammered.
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“He’s ill, I heard. From the shock, they
say; but I happen to know that it’s mostly
from drink. With Marie gone, he just let
himself go and drank and drank, and the
reason why no one’s seen him all this past
week is because he’s been staying in his
room drinking and starving himself. Both
Michael and Marie just came back a half an
hour ago. I just saw Michael on X Street,
and he told me that Marie had gone to her
place to tend to the derelict husband…”
“You seem to be happy about it all!” Paul
accused, for Julius was saying all this in a
tone of great relish.
Julius held up his hands, as though to say,
‘What do I care? These are the tribulations
of others—and they amuse me.’
“Well!” Leo said at length, and fell into a
daze of reflection.
“I was the first to know all about this
affair,” Julius went on, with a faint smile on
his face. “You see, I was down in the
Quarter about five days ago, and I saw
Michael and Marie walking across the
Quarter Park. I kept everything to myself, of
course, but I knew, after I’d seen them down
there, what was going on. Michael had
stopped to talk to some little children who
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were playing in the park, and I managed to
duck into a doorway and watch to see
where they were going. They went into a
small apartment house.”
“All right, all right!” cried Paul impatiently.
“You seem to resent this news!” Julius
said, surprised.
“It’s only your attitude,” Paul muttered,
“although I can understand that, too.” And
with this, Paul walked away without any
further say.
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“Where are you going?” Leo called.
“To Anthony’s,” Paul flung back, and he
hurried on. Leo nodded briefly to Julius
and started out after Paul.
“Paul,” he cried, “I have to go to my class
this afternoon. I wish I could go with you!”
Paul was in too much of a hurry to answer,
so that Leo stopped, gazed rather ruefully
after the other, and then turned dutifully
around and went to his class.
Paul had reached Marie’s apartment
house and was climbing the steps when he
met her coming down. “Marie!” he said.
“I’ve just heard…”
“Yes, yes,” she muttered impatiently, push-
ing him out of the way to pass. Paul persist-
ed and followed her down to the landing.
“But Marie, what’s it all about? How’s
Anthony?”
Marie stopped and glared at Paul. “Will
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you shut up? It’s none of your business. If
you insist on being little Jesus Christ, go on
up and watch Anthony while I’m out.”
“Well, where are you going now?”
“I’m going to see Maureen and I’m going
to get some medicine. Is that all you want to
know?”
“But this is all so crazy!” Paul cried, hold-
ing out his hands. “I don’t understand what
you’ve done…and Michael: I mean, why?”
“And you’re the craziest of the lot,” Marie
told him. “Shut up and play your part.” And
with this, Marie walked out on the street.
Paul stood for at least a whole minute,
after that, and staring after the vanished
Marie. Then he shrugged his shoulders and
went upstairs to Marie’s apartment.
There, in the bedroom, he found poor Anthony
asleep; Marie had obviously put him to bed.
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The room
smelled terri-
bly of liquor
and of fever.
There were at
least five
quart bottles
of whiskey,
all of them
empty, strewn
around the
floor;
and dirty clothes abounded on all the
chairs. Anthony had obviously been living
; in this room ever since Marie’s departure—
in the room, significantly enough, where
they slept together as man and wife—and it
was evident from the general wreckage
around that at first he had flown into a
destructive rages and broken furniture and
flower pots; and later, when that had died
down, he had bought a week’s store of
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liquor and proceeded to annihilate his mis-
ery. Paul knew, as he stood there looking
down at Anthony, that the wretch had
planned his game well; that he knew, when
Marie returned, that she would find him
there in their marital chamber, a complete
wreck. And this, it must be remarked, was
Anthony’s revenge on Marie: she would find
him in this state, and thus feel guilty about
her escapade. It was a perfect martyr-
technique.
Paul went back into the front room and
sat down by the window. It was growing
darker outside with the thickening clouds,
and there was the smell of rain in the air.
Marie finally came back, with packages
under her arm. Without saying a word to
Paul, who, for his part, was also silent, she
went to work on her husband. Ice bags, pills,
hot soup—everything was marshaled into
the devotional labor, and Paul could hear,
from his seat in the other room, the cooing
sounds of Anthony’s revival. “Marie, Marie,”
he was mumbling. “Why did you do it?”
And Marie only answered, “Shut up!” and
marched out of the bedroom with the empty
whiskey bottles and threw them in the
dumb-waiter.
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V
ARTHUR PUSHED
OPEN
the door of Michael’s bedroom and
looked in. Michael was sitting in the
easy chair by the window, smoking a
cigarette and staring gloomily outside
at the gray rooftops.
“Michael!” greeted Arthur. “Just got
back?”
Michael looked up. “Yes,” he said.
“How are you, Arthur? Have you seen
Maureen?”
Arthur smiled. “Yes, I just saw her
down by the markets. She’s out shopping,
I guess. I don’t suppose she knows—”
“Knows what?”
“Well,” Arthur began with a half-
mocking, half-bashful smile. “I know all