the Evening Telegram : “Original wins in the fourth!” It proved to be no more stimulating than those books which are omitted from the Index Li-brorum Prohibitorum.
Chapter 05
5
BLANCHE HAS BECOME HABITUATED TO SPEAKING OF herself in the past, as if she were a piece of secondhand furniture. Her mind and spirit have become as angular as her face, which has now acquired an equine aspect. She exhales the atmosphere of a Protestant church. She is not only morbid and suspicious, she is colorless, inflexible, poor-at-heart.
It is easier for these two to quarrel than for a preacher to say Amen. Fortunately, they are seldom left alone. When Moloch does come of an evening, which is rare, he always finds visitors. Not that Blanche is responsible. She seldom sees anyone. She doesn’t believe in friends.
Riding to work mornings, Moloch frequently reflected on the sad state of affairs. His life with Blanche was so absolutely different from anything he had visualized. He almost gave a start when his mind fell back to the days of their courtship. Was this the same Blanche? This the passionate, impetuous woman whom he took to matinees, with whom, under cover of darkness, he committed nameless indiscretions?
He thought with premeditated satisfaction of his secretary, a slim, eighteen-year-old virgin whose skin had the mossy bloom of a magnolia. Each evening, as he dozed in the fetid atmosphere of the subway, he planned anew her seduction. Hers was not the platitudinous beauty of a Jewess, that excites the perverse curiosity of a drummer and arouses in her Gentile sisters the itch of envy and despair. Men thought of Marcelle rather as the frail respository of a forgotten charm, the sort of charm that one discovers in a vase at the museum.
It was a pity, he often told himself, that he could not have married the girl he loved. That was so long ago, his first love … his only love. (Do we not all speak that way of first love?) He no longer thought about it sanely.
This first love was no pale Mona Lisa, of legendary charm. Cora was a buxom, two-breasted Amazon. He never thought of her without a sharp pang at the remembrance of her firm, upstanding breasts, full as an Indian burial mound—and her breath, warm and milky.
At seventeen Cora was like an Arctic summer. She looked out at the world from cold, porcelain eyes that shimmered like blue icebergs under the play of boreal lights. In ten years Cora had paled into a fragile memory, a memory of a tight bodice and a sassafras peruke. He could never permit himself to think of Greenpoint without a vicious tug at his heart. Maujer, Con-selyea, Humboldt Streets; the streets that Cora once had trod. These streets, forlorn now, were consecrated to her. If the truth were known, he had even kissed the flagging of these very streets. Late at night, of course, and in a moment of terrible anguish.
The period we speak of was in the first decade of this century. Young men in long trousers were not ashamed then to hold parties in which they played at “Post Office” and “Kiss the Pillow.” They even formed clubs so that they might meet at one another’s homes. Nor were they abashed to call themselves “the Deep Thinkers.” Had it not been for such diversions Moloch would probably never have kissed this goddess whom he worshiped with all the pathos and chivalry of an adolescent. For months he has contented himself with taking a long walk every evening after dinner. He does this in order to kill time, because it is impossible for him to fathom how he will go on living unless Cora acknowledges her love for him. And how is she going to do this since he is afraid even to speak to her? He does not think of using the telephone, or inviting her to the theater. He would tremble too violently if he heard her voice, if she sat next to him in the dark. No, these things require a courage that is beyond him. He prefers to take a long walk so that at the end of an hour he may find himself, as
Chapter 05
5
BLANCHE HAS BECOME HABITUATED TO SPEAKING OF herself in the past, as if she were a piece of secondhand furniture. Her mind and spirit have become as angular as her face, which has now acquired an equine aspect. She exhales the atmosphere of a Protestant church. She is not only morbid and suspicious, she is colorless, inflexible, poor-at-heart.
It is easier for these two to quarrel than for a preacher to say Amen. Fortunately, they are seldom left alone. When Moloch does come of an evening, which is rare, he always finds visitors. Not that Blanche is responsible. She seldom sees anyone. She doesn’t believe in friends.
Riding to work mornings, Moloch frequently reflected on the sad state of affairs. His life with Blanche was so absolutely different from anything he had visualized. He almost gave a start when his mind fell back to the days of their courtship. Was this the same Blanche? This the passionate, impetuous woman whom he took to matinees, with whom, under cover of darkness, he committed nameless indiscretions?
He thought with premeditated satisfaction of his secretary, a slim, eighteen-year-old virgin whose skin had the mossy bloom of a magnolia. Each evening, as he dozed in the fetid atmosphere of the subway, he planned anew her seduction. Hers was not the platitudinous beauty of a Jewess, that excites the perverse curiosity of a drummer and arouses in her Gentile sisters the itch of envy and despair. Men thought of Marcelle rather as the frail respository of a forgotten charm, the sort of charm that one discovers in a vase at the museum.
It was a pity, he often told himself, that he could not have married the girl he loved. That was so long ago, his first love … his only love. (Do we not all speak that way of first love?) He no longer thought about it sanely.
This first love was no pale Mona Lisa, of legendary charm. Cora was a buxom, two-breasted Amazon. He never thought of her without a sharp pang at the remembrance of her firm, upstanding breasts, full as an Indian burial mound—and her breath, warm and milky.
At seventeen Cora was like an Arctic summer. She looked out at the world from cold, porcelain eyes that shimmered like blue icebergs under the play of boreal lights. In ten years Cora had paled into a fragile memory, a memory of a tight bodice and a sassafras peruke. He could never permit himself to think of Greenpoint without a vicious tug at his heart. Maujer, Con-selyea, Humboldt Streets; the streets that Cora once had trod. These streets, forlorn now, were consecrated to her. If the truth were known, he had even kissed the flagging of these very streets. Late at night, of course, and in a moment of terrible anguish.
The period we speak of was in the first decade of this century. Young men in long trousers were not ashamed then to hold parties in which they played at “Post Office” and “Kiss the Pillow.” They even formed clubs so that they might meet at one another’s homes. Nor were they abashed to call themselves “the Deep Thinkers.” Had it not been for such diversions Moloch would probably never have kissed this goddess whom he worshiped with all the pathos and chivalry of an adolescent. For months he has contented himself with taking a long walk every evening after dinner. He does this in order to kill time, because it is impossible for him to fathom how he will go on living unless Cora acknowledges her love for him. And how is she going to do this since he is afraid even to speak to her? He does not think of using the telephone, or inviting her to the theater. He would tremble too violently if he heard her voice, if she sat next to him in the dark. No, these things require a courage that is beyond him. He prefers to take a long walk so that at the end of an hour he may find himself, as
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