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

Sol sat down, then crouched to retrieve his loose-leaf notebook; but it had been kicked from neighbor to neighbor, and into the aisle. “Bastards,” he hissed, and when no one heeded his urgent gestures to return his possession, he stood up again and stepped on foot after foot in his journey to recover it.

“Dumb cluck. Bullshit artist,” they baited him under their breath. “Ouch! Rivington Street shyster.” Through it all, and for the next ten minutes afterward, Professor Mott in level tones summarized the twelve books, dwelling now and then on some special point. “There is probably nothing so poignant in all of Milton,” Professor Mott turned pages, “as his invocation to Light at the beginning of Book III. And here his invocation has added relevancy because the poet has escaped, as he says, the Stygian Pool. Nevertheless, being blind, he has only the light of his imagination to irradiate his mind. He beholds Jehovah sitting on his throne, who Himself spies Satan flying toward the newly created Eden. Here we have the assertion of Divine Justice, and the role of the Son of God offering Himself as a ransom. . ”

No, he wouldn’t call Stella today. It would be smarter if he called her tomorrow, Tuesday: the seventh day, lucky seventh. If not, he was a goner. Be no use hoping anymore. Call Edith to make an appointment for Wednesday. And meet Stella in front of the business school on 14th Street. Take a cab. Right? Oh, Jesus. Come seven, come eleven. Seven, Tuesday, eight, Wednesday, or was it nine? He was beginning to forget. Hang on one more day: Tuesday.

“No doubt it hasn’t escaped your notice,” Professor Mott commented as he looked up at the tiers of students, “that in Book VI, during the gigantic battle between the forces of good and evil, the account of which the Angel Raphael reports to Adam, it is the forces of evil who introduce artillery. It is the invention of Satan himself.” Professor Mott locked a delicate hand on his white beard as he sought the appropriate quotation. “Yes. An infernal device, naturally.” He read from the open page: “‘Shall yield us, pregnant with infernal flame, which into Hollow Engines, long and round thick rammed—’” Ira smirked drearily. “Parenthetically, the innovation was already censured even before Milton by Shakespeare, who speaks of firearms as a coward’s way of felling many a tall lad. Still, not even these engines of destruction are of any avail before the infinite power with which God has clothed His Son. Satan and his cohorts are cast down into Hell. And Raphael, having told Adam all this, warns him to beware of Satan’s designs.” Professor Mott pointed a pink finger at the ceiling: “‘Listen not to his temptations,’” he recited from memory. “‘Warn thy weaker. Thy weaker—’”

Professor Mott drew out his watch. “I’m going to have to stop here. You have a little more than a half hour left. Please try to write as legibly and as concisely as you can, and with pen and ink. Name or describe at least six events in Paradise Lost which will prove to be the most crucial to Man’s future existence. And why. Please don’t forget to write your name and seat number on the front of the blue book.” Professor Mott bent sideways, and with decorous mien reached down behind his desk — manifestly toward his shin. “Yes, I’ll repeat the question,” he answered the tacit inquiry of a few raised hands. Six events.

Ira unscrewed his fountain-pen cap. All about him fountain pens already scratching. Hell, there was only one event, the one that had occurred to him last night: the creation of a coequal only son, later to be incarnated as Jesus H. Christ. What in hell did He need Him for? Ira recalled somewhere, sometime reading that the Son had been coeternal with the Father. That made more sense than appointing a straw boss late in the game before whom to genuflect twice, or something to that effect.

He’d better get it down on paper, and fast. Quit dawdling. He applied gold penpoint to paper. And giving the key to Hellgate to Sin. Let’s go. What the hell did God expect the old broad to do? Keep her word? Christ, and then the door wouldn’t close afterward. Was that an event? No. The holy disposes, oh, yeah. But giving the key way before was already two: she opened the gate. Then there was Pride. Why the hell did Lucifer get a dose of Pride, anyway? Didn’t the Almighty know what that would cause? Was that an event? Pride, pride, pride — and then that burning in the mind that made old Nick giddy, old Nick sick. Was he himself familiar with that one: Jesus Christ, his thoughts reverted, madness, geometry planes, will you cut it out? Whew. Damn near added that one. Wouldn’t old man Mott’s snowy locks stand right up on end when he read adolescent rosebuds opening before the suppliant? Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Oh, no, sap: the apple, the apple. A key event. Let’s see, what was he supposed to do? He was supposed to call Stella — tomorrow, tomorrow, not today. Tomorrow and tomorrow steps in this petty pace — so the guy started screwing his own daughter. Hey, there was an event: an archangel screwing — Jesus, what bullshit. So get it down on paper. How? Copulating. No. Coitus, no. Too impolite. Venery. Intercourse. How the hell did Milton say it? Took a fancy to her. No. Such favor found. Event, come on. He impregnated her with Satanic semen vile. Write something — Ira’s suppressed snicker brought a sidelong look from his neighbor. So she bore him an heir: Death — who immediately raped his own mother. Some heir. Hey, wait a minute: that’s an event. Is that four? So if Sin is Satan’s daughter, and Death is Satan’s son, they’re brother and sister. There you go: father and daughter, son and mother, brother and sister.

What a bunch. But that’s not an event, you halfwit. Get away from it and forage, will you: the defeat of Satan by the Son of God. Artillery. That was an event. Mott gave the class that one on a platter just now. That was five, or was it? What the hell did the rest of these Jews think? They didn’t think about screwing their sisters, or knocking up their cousins, did they? He was living the real thing and they only thought it was a course, that was all. If there was a hell, where you’d be. Where would they all be? They’re Jews.

Oh, wait a minute, wait a minute, before the bell rang: Jesus offered Himself as a sacrifice to redeem man for having sinned against God Almighty. And what a selfish prig He was, offering himself as a sacrifice for no one. But that was an event. Damn right. He said six, a half-dozen.

What else? Ira squinted at his scrawl on the lined pages, looked away. Below him, hoary and tranquil, Professor Mott sat with fingers clasped on his already fastened briefcase, old scholar musing on. . what? Musing on getting ready to leave. Did he believe that stuff? He couldn’t; how could any intelligent, learned man believe it? And yet, you never knew with these goyim . Poppycock, Edith would have said. Still, what pleasure Ira’s love of Milton’s wonderful, orotund lines gave her— The gong sounded. Period’s end.

“Please stop writing,” Professor Mott directed. “Deposit your blue books on the desk as you go out. Mr. K, would you mind collecting them, please.”

“Certainly not, Professor.”

Seymour eagerly jumped up amid the bustle and scrape and clatter of the class in motion— One more event for good measure: Ira scribbled frantically: Chaos gives Satan directions to Eden.

XV

Ira joined the throng of classmates flocking noisily toward the stairs. There was a good chance Larry would be in the ’28 alcove. Both had free periods next. Time and change, time and change, never ending, never resting. However much they seemed to shift and dance, the two variables were like the solid earth, whose motion the pendulum, with the feather at its end, marked in the sand the spin of the sphere. The two variables, the only constants, carved into the instable sand, and left nothing untouched. Once, in another time, he would have looked forward eagerly to meeting Larry, meeting him, exchanging the latest, the latest Jewish joke or the latest about Edith or — or just the opportunity to shoot the breeze. But that seemed ages ago. . like so much else, like so much else. Besides, Larry had made so many new friends since transferring to CCNY, especially Iven H, blond, husky, and outstanding physics major, who seemed as unworldly as Larry was worldly. They had taken to hobnobbing together — for which Ira was thankful, since their friendship relieved him of the responsibility to provide vitality to an intimacy no longer viable. He descended to the dingy ground floor of the alcoves. Perhaps he ought to duck out of the building, just as he was, trot the short distance to the library, skulk — never mind the overcoat in the locker — he had too damned much on his mind for trivialities, for glossing over crisis. But then what would happen? Anxiety would grab hold, and he’d be in the phone booth trying to reach Stella — but that wasn’t the plan. He could only allow himself one or two more tries at the most, with that Bert Lytell trick of masking speech with handkerchief over the phone. No, he’d better head for the alcove. Iven might be there, or Iz S, with news about a new play at the Provincetown Theater — and a possible bit part for Larry, now interested in the stage, having abandoned poetry, sculpture, and all other creative outlets Edith might indulge. His latest stage, Ira smirked. Trouble with Iz was he was so damn studious; he might be in the library himself — and Iven in a physics lab.