Henry Roth - Mercy of a Rude Stream - The Complete Novels

So, as a consequence of all these circumstances, coincidences, connivings, conscious and unconscious, he, Ira, managed to write a novel that eventually won wide acclaim. Whether the acclaim was merited or not, it would take a few more generations to decide, just as it would take a few more generations for a firm appraisal of Joyce to be made: whether Joyce deserved to be ranked with a Milton or a Shakespeare, deserved to be enshrined among the supreme in literature. Even if the acclaim for his own novel remained firm, say as firm as the deserved esteem accorded to an Oliver Goldsmith, or somebody a lot less worthy, a Jack London, a Nathanael West, a Mike Gold, maybe Lowry, Wright, Ellison, Abe Cahn, the question Ira directed at himself was: was the achievement worth it in terms of the personal suffering, and the suffering of others, Larry’s Edith’s? Was the achievement worth it at the expense of the man too? His integrity, his character? Foolish question, futile question, it would seem at first cry. And yet the whole thing involved a moral element that could not be denied or rejected. Who could say that the impaired moral element, the moral canker inherent in the achievement, did not exercise a subtle retaliation when again he came to assay the next stage of the creative process, this second novel — whether it was not that same moral canker, metastasizing within him, that disabled him? The thought had come to him in the midst of what seemed an easy disposal of the question. That was the way it happened, the way it went was already on the monitor, when the new insight intervened — succeeded by the words Foolish question, futile question . And yet, was it? Deterioration of character was the price of a serious moral flaw, deterioration of character or of identity, and when the next stage came, when both character and unified identity were required, mature and sound, he was found woefully wanting. Over just such moral questions, Ira surmised, did old man Ezra Pound rue the day he ever set pen to paper. And what did he think of Joyce afterward, of Finnegans Wake ? Something about writing a gospel? Or Scripture? Was that it? Something disapproving.

Well, of what use were these lucubrations, even if true? And what of value could he, Ira, any more than Pound, transmit to his fellow humans, to posterity, what glimmer of enlightenment could he impart, that would help others avoid the pitfalls he had been prone to, help others, in a substantial way, to live lives more befitting human beings, with dignity, with decency, with a sense of probity — and some sense of fulfillment? Probably not much more than any preacher. Salvation, such as it was, moral improvement, character change for the better, very rarely derived from homily or from sermon. And for each one improved, changed for the better, social conditions, the environment, probably bred a hundred in need of redemption — or rehabilitation. The great changes, the mass changes for the better, required mass action, the concerted activity of the mass in converting the society to one more favorable to the promotion of decency, their decency; and that meant, in the first place, improvement in the material conditions of life, the quality of life, and in the second place, tangible incentives to improve their lot, convictions that would translate into action. And much more. One thing was a fairly safe bet: anybody, damn near, could behave virtuously in his dotage without too much difficulty.

It was predawn dark when Ira was awakened — by Larry insistently calling him from across the tent. Larry was already sitting on his cot, lacing up his shoes. Predawn darkness for the predent. Jesus, what a time to get up. Ira groaned in protest, yawned long and uncouthly, clawed at mosquito bites, hissed and swore, sat up, and dug his feet into his shoes.

“How the hell’d you wake up?”

“I’ve been lying here awake for I don’t know how long. I wanted to make sure it was near morning.”

Predawn. There it was, faintly marbling the sky on the other side of the netting. Neither knew the time. Cool, bleary, Ira got up from the cot, slipped around the tent, urinated against the nocturnal damp, huffed, puffed, broke wind, rejoined Larry in the tent. Larry had his jacket on, ready to go. Lights were on in the kitchen windows of the farmhouse. Uncle Louis was probably up. Maybe if they went in to bid goodbye, they could get a cup of coffee. But Larry urged they skip it, skip the coffee, and get out on the highway to New York. The earliest hours offered the best chances of getting a lift, he reminded Ira, who agreed, but reminded him in turn they only had a short way to go: they were close to the city, about forty or fifty miles. What was the sense — he tried making his grumpiness sound amusing — of hitchhiking by starlight. “We’ll need the Big Dipper to know which way.”

Larry’s urging prevailed. Striding along the narrow ribbon of pavement to the main highway was invigorating — and reviving. Dawn pried the night open, like an entering wedge, making room for sunrise. They reached the three-lane concrete Route 1, and both tramping New Yorkward, Larry wheeled and thumbed, aggressively wheeled and thumbed.

Soon, the countryside took on form and green, and houses along the road variety and shape; the concrete road began to glare. Larry thumbed for rides, back-walking tirelessly toward destination, exuberantly imploring the motorists. Within a half hour after sunrise, a truck slowed down, stopped on the shoulder of the road. The two sped after it for dear life. The driver was a Jewish poultry-and-egg farmer, Manhattan-bound with crates of eggs for the wholesale market. In a glorious moment, full of breathless laughter and exclamations of gratitude, they boarded the vehicle, slid into place beside the ruddy, middle-aged, thickset man at the wheel.

Identities were confirmed. Larry entertained their benefactor at once with his enthusiasm, his large gestures, and his non-Jewish appearance and Jewish charisma — and with snatches of song and story, recent acquisitions from his weeks as singing waiter at Copake. The harassing dilemmas of last night quickly disappeared. Buoyancy and self-confidence were restored. He was Larry again, receptive and congenial, as if both indecision and mourning were a thing of the past. Those few hours in the tent between the arrival of the telegram and the first light of dawn must have been spent coming to some kind of resolution. Although he said nothing about it to Ira, it was evident he still found the resolution valid, even exhilarating, in the full light of day. His alacrity this morning, the springiness of his step as they hurried to reach the main highway, his cheeriness, assurance, all seemed to indicate that a crisis within himself had passed, and a happy faith in himself had taken the place of misgiving.

Ira wondered, as the truck bowled along, with new tires alternately whining and thumping, in transit from concrete slab to slab, like a train over the gaps in rails, whether the intense discussion he and Larry had had last night had determined anything in his decisions, whether Ira’s own compulsive self-serving — was it the creating of reality, or was it self-creating? — had misled his friend. At the moment he hoped not; it weighed on his conscience. Let Larry determine his own future. It already sounded to Ira as if, from his point of view, Larry had decided to do exactly the thing Ira could secretly exult about: Larry had decided to do the wrong thing — for Larry, for his hopes as a writer, for that future that imperceptibly (to Larry) the two had begun to vie with each other.

Oh, it was crazy, it was crazy. But there it was. What was his gaiety and gladness all about? Just because he would soon see Edith, be with her? Certainly. But Larry himself had said that Edith wanted him to stay home, live at home, get his degree, and he was acting in accordance with her advice. And yet at the same time, last night he had said that it was up to him to lead the way, lead the way by doing the opposite of what she advised, convince her by an act of the depth of his sincerity, take the crucial step, the drastic step, even if it wasn’t the wisest one, that marriage to him would be feasible, that he was ready to break all other ties to marry Edith. His behavior didn’t seem to indicate that kind of indomitable resolution — if intuition had anything to say about it. Larry had somehow reconciled his love for Edith with affection for family, with his ties to his family. At least in his own mind, and he was happy with his compromise. Again, dumb hunch prevailed: Larry could avoid disruption and pain and strife that way — postpone it. Well. .