It came to me presently that the element of creation, where writing was concerned, had little to do with thought. A tree does not search for its fruits, it grows them. To write, I concluded, was to garner the fruits of the imagination, to grow into the life of the mind like a tree putting forth leaves.
Profound or not, it was a comforting thought. At one bound I was sitting in the lap of the gods. I heard laughter all about me. No need to play God. No need to astound any one. Take the lyre and pluck a silvery note. Above all the commotion, even above the sound of laughter, there was music. Perpetual music. That was the meaning of the supreme intelligence which invested creation.
I came sliding down the ladder in a hurry. And this was the lovely, lovely thought which had me by the hair ... You there, pretending to be dead and crucified, yon there, with your terrible historia de calamitatis, why not reenact it in the spirit of play? Why not tell it over to yourself and extract a little music from it? Are they real, your wounds? Are they still alive, still fresh? Or are they so much literary nail polish? Comes the cadenza...
Kiss me, kiss me, again. We were eighteen or nineteen then, MacGregor and I, and the girl he had brought to the party was studying to become an opera singer.
She was sensitive, attractive, the best he had found so far, he ever would find, for that matter. She loved him passionately. She loved him though she knew he was frivolous and faithless. When he said in his easy, thoughtless way—I'm crazy about you!—she swooned. There was this song between them which he never tired of hearing. Sing it again, won't you? No one can sing it like you. And she would sing it, again and again. Kiss me, kiss me, again. It always gave me a pang to hear her sing it, but this night I thought my heart would break. For this night, seated in a far corner of the room, seemingly as far from me as she could get, sat the divine, the unattainable Una Gifford, a thousand times more beautiful than MacGregor's prima donna, a thousand times more mysterious, and a thousand thousand times beyond any reach of mine. Kiss me, kiss me, again! How the words pierced me! And not a soul in that boisterous, merry-making group was aware of my agony. The fiddler approaches, blithe, debonair, his cheek glued to the instrument, and drawing out each phrase on muted strings, he plays it—softly in my ear.
Kiss me ... kiss me ... a ... again. Not another note can I take. Pushing him aside, I bolt.
Down the street I run, the tears streaming down my cheeks. At the corner I come upon a horse wandering in the middle of the street. The most forlorn, broken-down nag ever a man laid eyes on. I try to speak to this lost quadruped—it's not a horse any more, not even an animal. For a moment I thought it understood. For one long moment it looked me full in the face. Then, terrified, it let out a blood-curdling neigh and took to its heels. Desolate, I made a noise like a rusty sleighbell, and slumped to the ground. Sounds of revelry filled the empty street. They fell on my ears like the din from a barracks full of drunken Soldiers. It was for me they were giving the party. And she was there, my beloved, snow-blonde, starry-eyed, forever unattainable. Queen of the Arctic. No one else regarded her thus. Only me.
A long ago wound, this one. Not too much blood connected with it. Worse to follow. Much, much worse. Isn't it funny how the faster they come, the more one expects them—yes, expects them!—to be bigger, bloodier, more painful, more devastating. And they always are.
I closed the book of memory. Yes, there was music to be extracted from those old wounds. But the time was not yet. Let them’ fester awhile in the dark. Once we reached Europe I would grow a new body and a new soul. What were the sufferings of a Brooklyn boy to the inheritors of the Black Plague, the Hundred Years War, the extermination of the Albigensians, the Crusades, the Inquisition, the slaughter of the Huguenots, the French Revolution, the never ending persecution of the Jews, the invasions of the Huns, the coming of the Turks, the rains of frogs and locusts, the unspeakable doings of the Vatican, the irruption of regicides and sex-bedeviled queens, of feeble-minded monarchs, of Robespierres and Saint Justs, of Hohenstauffens and Hohenzollerns, of rat chasers and bone crushers? What could a few soulful haemorrhoids of American vintage mean to the Raskolnikovs and Karamazovs of old Europe?
I saw myself standing on a table top, an insignificant pouter pigeon dropping his little white pellets of pigeon shit. A table top named Europe, around which the monarchs of the soul were gathered, oblivious of the aches and pains of the New World. What could I possibly say to them in this white pouter pigeon language? What could any one reared in an atmosphere of peace, abundance and security say to the sons and daughters of martyrs? True, we had the same forbears, the identical nameless ancestors who had been torn on the rack, burned at the stake driven from pillar to post, but—the memory of their fate no longer burned in us; we had turned our backs upon this harrowing past, we had grown new shoots from the charred stump of the parental tree. Nurtured by the waters of Lethe, we had become a thankless race of ingrates, devoid of an umbilical cord, slap-happy after the fashion of syntheticos.
Soon, dear men of Europe, we will be with you in the flesh. We are coming—with our handsome valises, our gilt-edged passports, our hundred dollar bills, our travelers’ insurance policies, our guide books, our humdrum opinions, our petty prejudices, our half-baked judgments, our posy spectacles which lead us to believe that all is well, that everything comes out right in the end, that God is Love and Mind is all. When you see us as we are, when you hear us chatter like magpies, you will know that you have lost nothing by remaining where you are. You will have no cause to envy our fresh new bodies, our rich red blood. Have pity on us who are so raw, so brittle, so vulnerable, so blisteringly new and untarnished! We wither fast...
20
As the time for our departure drew close, my head full of streets, battlefields, monuments, cathedrals, Spring waxing like a Dravidian moon, heart beating wilder, dreams more proliferous, every cell in my body was shouting Hosanna. Mornings when, intoxicated by the fragrance of Spring, Mrs. Skolsky threw open her windows, Sirota's piercing voice (Reizei, rezei!) was already summoning me. It was no longer the old familiar Sirota but a delirious muezzin sending forth canticles to the sun. I no longer cared about the meaning of his words, whether a curse or a lament, I made up my own. Accept our thanks, O nameless Being divine ... ! Following him like one of the devout, my lips moving mutely to the rhythm of his words, I Swayed to and fro, rocked on my heels, fluttered my eye-lashes, splattered myself with ashes, scattered gems and diadems in all directions, genuflected, and with the last eerie notes, rose on tip toe to fling them heavenward. Then, right arm raised, tip of forefinger lightly touching the crown of my head, I would slowly revolve about the axis of bliss, my lips making the sound of the Jew's harp. As from a tree shaking off its wintry slumber, the butterflies swarmed from my noggin crying Hosanna, Hosanna to the Highest! Jacob I blessed and Ezekiel, and in turn Rachel, Sarah, Ruth and Esther. Oh how warming, how truly heartening, was that music drifting through the open windows! Thank you, dear landlady, I shall remember you in my dreams! Thank you, robin red breast, for flaming past this morning! Thank you, brother darkies, your day is coming! Thank you, dear Reb, I shall pray for you in some ruined synagogue! Thank you, early morning blossoms, that you should honor me with your delicate perfume! Zov, Toft, Giml, Biml ... hear, hear, he is singing, the cantor of cantors! Praise be to the Lord! Glory to King David! And to Solomon resplendent in his wisdom! The sea opens before us, the eagles point the way. Yet another note, beloved cantor ... a high and piercing one! Let it shatter the breast-plate of the High Priest! Let it drown the screams of the damned!