Steven Millhauser - Edwin Mullhouse - The Life and Death of an American Writer 1943-1954

This rose is black

And full of gloom.

Yet I too love.

Do you know whom?

I cursed myself for my grammatical blunder; for a moment I wondered whether she was making fun of me. And yet, all things considered, I was pleased to have wrung from so elusive a soul so promising a response. At the 3:10 bell, when we all filed into the coatroom, I shattered Margaret Riley with a glance, reduced Anna DellaDonna to delirium with a smile, and shut up jabbering May Flowers with a wild flutter of my lashes. But each time I looked at little Rose Black, I saw only the serious brown back of her head. As I made my way down the front steps I watched that head in the line beside me; and as her line turned left toward the shady side-street, suddenly she flung at me a sharp, questioning gaze.

Dr. Blumenthal had prescribed small blue vitamin pills, and as I made my way upstairs bearing a pill and a glass of orange juice I reflected uneasily upon the next step of my campaign. Once I had persuaded Edwin that I was unalterably in love with all four girls, all of whom were unutterably in love with me, I felt certain that I should be able to extract from him a solemn vow. And it was this vow which would prevent him from pursuing her, whoever she was. Unfanned by the wind of public attention, unnourished by the fuel of gifts and glances, the flame that was consuming him would quickly die. It would not be pleasant to see the look in his eyes as I boasted to him of my quadruple conquest. Yet wasn’t I right to risk a moment’s pain for the sake of sparing him six months of anguish? At the top of the stairs I had a sudden vision of Rose Dorn, leaning from her tower with her long hair streaming; and as I pushed open the door of the dusky room I was not at all surprised to see Edwin seated crosslegged on his bed, dressed in his purple bathrobe and looking up guiltily from a piece of paper that he quickly whisked out of sight behind him. I said: “Your mother told me to bring up this stupid orange juice.”

“Orange juice isn’t stupid,” said Edwin, eyeing me darkly. It was going to be a difficult visit. I handed him the glass and the small blue vitamin pill and sat down on the bed beneath the map of the United States. Edwin placed the pill in his pocket and drank down the juice with smacking and gulping sounds. After a while I began as follows:

“Something important happened to me today, Edwin. Something very important. In fact, today is the most important day of my whole life. Are you listening? Gee, I don’t really know how to say this” (here my voice became hushed, hesitant, palpitant) “but, well, Margaret — you remember that day — and Anna Maria — and May — and Rose — you see I–I don’t know how to — you see they — they love me, Edwin.” I paused. Edwin lowered his eyes but said nothing. I continued eagerly. “And gosh, I was secretly in love with all four of them. But I never hoped, I never dreamed …” My voice trailed away in dreamy hope. “And you know, they even sent me love letters, Edwin. And you know, I have this strange, feverish feeling. But you know, one thing bothers me, Edwin. One thing bothers me. If I thought anybody else loved Margaret — or Anna Maria — or May — or Rose” (leaning forward I tried to discern his expression but he kept his face cunningly lowered) “or if I thought anybody was writing secret letters to Anna Maria — or Margaret — or Ray — or Mose” (not a motion, not a sound) “I don’t know what I’d do, Edwin. I don’t know what I’d do. I guess I’d — I guess I’d — I guess I’d just” (my voice fell to a whisper) “kill myself.” I allowed the syllables to expand in the dusky silence until they filled the entire room. Edwin did not look up but sat with his eyes rigidly cast down; in the dim light of the drawn blinds he was the very picture, the very photograph, of grief. A faint tremor seemed to pass over him; I felt like a scoundrel. For a moment my resolve weakened, and I almost burst into apology. But recalling my purpose I hardened at once, and said with quiet firmness: “Well, I’m glad I told you my secret, Edwin. Please don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. But I want you to promise me something, Edwin. Are you listening? I want you to promise me something very important. I want you to promise me in the holy name of friendship that you will never ever try to take away my Anna Maria — or my Margaret — or my May — or my Rose. Will you promise me that, Edwin? Will you? Edwin?” He sat with lowered eyes, trembling perceptibly in the cold breeze of my words. I rose and began to step toward his bed. Let him burst into tears, let him howl in agony: I wanted him to destroy that letter, I wanted him to swear that he would never look at those poisonous girls again. “Edwin,” I urged, standing before him; but he sat with bowed head, unheeding. “Edwin!” I said harshly. Slowly he raised his dark, shiny eyes to my stomach, my chest, my chin; his lips were quivering. “Look at me!” I commanded, and as his eyes met mine his forehead wrinkled, his lips stretched open, and gripping the bedspread tightly with both hands he burst suddenly, helplessly, horribly into screams of laughter.

THUS, UNWITTING, was I witness to the feverish origins of Edwin’s masterpiece. The whisked-off paper, I mean to say, was no love letter but the first page of the fiery work that had consumed his imagination for the past several weeks. Lest the reader chide me for exhibiting my mistake at such length, let him consider well my design in so doing. For was I really mistaken, after all? True, Edwin happened not to be in love with Margaret Riley, or Anna Maria DellaDonna, or May Flowers, or Rose Black. But if I had mistaken the object of his love, surely I had not mistaken that love itself. If outward signs mean anything at all, Edwin was as much in love with that book of his as ever he’d been with little Rose Dorn — indeed more so: for she had bewitched him for barely six months, while the book held him in its spell for a year and a half, teasing and tormenting him without mercy; though unlike Rose Dorn, this fleeing vision was captured in the end.

After Edwin’s shattering laugh I found myself in a rather awkward position vis-à-vis my four girls. Fortunately it has been my policy in this work to huddle modestly in the background except when my presence is absolutely necessary for the illumination of some facet of Edwin’s life. Suffice it to say that Margaret Riley, Anna Maria DellaDonna, and May Flowers proved conveniently fickle, though faithful Rose Black haunted me horribly with her sharp, questioning gaze. Finally I had to write her another note. As for Edwin, he recovered from his collapse though not from his consuming fever, so that Mrs. Mullhouse continued to feed him a steady dose of small blue vitamin pills supplemented by occasional big brown capsules — just, as she put it, to be on the safe side.

And now, reader, this radiant history is obliged to enter one of its less luminous eras. For although I saw Edwin daily during the difficult months of the making of Cartoons, and so in a sense followed the slow creation from moment to moment, in another and more important sense I did not see him at all. I don’t mean simply that he hurried home from school each day and shut himself up in his room with no thought whatever of his abandoned friend; nor do I mean to stress my misery when I add that those sad days taught me many a grim lesson concerning the perhaps necessary selfishness of the creative temperament. Rather, I mean that even his presence was a form of absence. It was as if he had once inhabited himself completely, but now had moved to some small part of himself where I could not find him. It is true enough that Edwin’s absence from himself allowed me a certain freedom of observation, even if it was only an observation of abandoned rooms. Thus I soon became expert at distinguishing among shades of pallor and nuances of irritability. Thus too I quickly noticed the new red cracks in his eyes, the new squint, the new habit, while he read, of propping a weary eyelid by pushing up with a forefinger the skin beneath the eyebrow — and no wonder. For one troubled night when I was unable to sleep, and emerging from bed at 2:45 proceeded to creep into the chilly kitchen for a graham cracker and a glass of milk, lo! through the kitchen window, over the Mullhouse garage, I saw the bright yellow rectangle of Edwin’s window, glowing like some unnatural sun.