Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch

  With Moricand I entered new waters. Moricand was not only an astrologer and a scholar steeped in the hermetic philosophies, but an occultist. In appearance there was something of the mage about him. Rather tall, well built, broad shouldered, heavy and slow in his movements, he might have been taken for a descendant of the American Indian family. He liked to think, he later confided, that there was a connection between the name Moricand and Mohican. In moments of sorrow there was something slightly ludicrous about his expression, as if he were consciously identifying himself with the last of the Mohicans. It was in such moments that his square head with its high cheek bones, his stolidity and impassivity, gave him the look of anguished granite.

  Inwardly he was a disturbed being, a man of nerves, caprices and stubborn will. Accustomed to a set routine, he lived the disciplined life of a hermit or ascetic. It was difficult to tell whether he had adapted himself to this mode of life or accepted it against the grain. He never spoke of the kind of life he would have liked to lead. He behaved as one who, already buffeted and battered, had resigned himself to his fate. As one who could assimilate punishment better than good fortune. There was a strong feminine streak in him which was not without charm but which he exploited to his own detriment. He was an incurable dandy living the life of a beggar. And living wholly in the past!

  Perhaps the closest description I can give of him at the outset of our acquaintance is that of a Stoic dragging his tomb about with him. Yet he was a man of many sides, as I gradually came to discover. He had a tender skin, was extremely susceptible, particularly to disturbing emanations, and could be as fickle and emotional as a girl of sixteen. Though he was basically not fair-minded, he did his utmost to be fair, to be impartial, to be just. And to be loyal, though by nature I felt that he was essentially treacherous. In fact, it was this undefinable treachery which I was first aware of in him, though I had nothing on which to base my feelings. I remember that I deliberately banished the thought from my mind, replacing it with the vague notion that here was an intelligence which was suspect.

  What I looked like to him in those early days is a matter of conjecture on my part. He did not know my writings except for a few fragments which had appeared in translation in French revues. He, of course, knew my date of birth and had presented me with my horoscope shortly after I became acquainted with him. (If I am not mistaken, it was he who detected the error in my hour of birth which I had given as midnight instead of noon.)

  All our intercourse was in French, in which I was none too fluent. A great pity, because he was not only a born conversationalist but a man who had an ear for language, a man who spoke French like a poet. Above all, a man who loved subtleties and nuances! It was a dual pleasure I enjoyed whenever we came together—the pleasure of receiving instruction (not only in astrology) and the pleasure of listening to a musician, for he used the language much as a musician would his instrument. In addition there was the thrill of listening to personal anecdotes about celebrities whom I knew only through books.

  In brief, I was an ideal listener. And for a man who loves to talk, for a monologist especially, what greater pleasure could there be for him than in having an attentive, eager, appreciative listener?

  I also knew how to put questions. Fruitful questions.

  All in all, I must have been a strange animal in his eyes. An expatriate from Brooklyn, a francophile, a vagabond, a writer only at the beginning of his career, naive, enthusiastic, absorbent as a sponge, interested in everything and seemingly rudderless. Such is the image I retain of myself at this period. Above all, I was gregarious. (He was anything but.) And a Capricorn, though not of the same decan. In age we were but a few years apart.

  Apparently I was something of a stimulant to him. My native optimism and recklessness complemented his ingrained pessimism and cautiousness. I was frank and outspoken, he judicious and reserved. My tendency was to exfoliate in all directions; he, on the other hand, had narrowed his interests and focused on them with his whole being. He had all the reason and logic of the French, whereas I often contradicted myself and flew off at tangents.

  What we had in common was the basic nature of the Capricorn. In his Miroir d’Astrologie* he has summed up succinctly and discriminatingly these common factors to be found in the Capricorn type. Under “Analogies” he puts it thus, to give a few fragments:

  “Philosophers. Inquisitors. Sorcerers. Hermits. Gravediggers. Beggars.

  “Profundity. Solitude. Anguish.

  “Chasms. Caverns. Abandoned places.”

  Here are a few Capricorns of varying types which he gives: “Dante, Michelangelo, Dostoevsky, El Greco, Schopenhauer, Tolstoy, Cézanne, Edgar Allan Poe, Maxim Gorky….”

  Let me add a few of the more common qualities they possess, according to Moricand.

  “Grave, taciturn, closed. Love solitude, all that is mysterious, are contemplative.

  “They are sad and heavy.

  “They are born old.

  “They see the bad before the good. The weakness in everything leaps immediately to their eyes.

  “Penitence, regrets, perpetual remorse.

  “Cling to the remembrance of injuries done them.

  “Seldom or never laugh; when they do, it is a sardonic laugh.

  “Profound but heavy. Burgeon slowly and with difficulty. Obstinate and persevering. Indefatigable workers. Take advantage of everything to amass or progress.

  “Insatiable for knowledge. Undertake long-winded projects. Given to the study of complicated and abstract things.

  “Live on several levels at once. Can hold several thoughts at one and the same time.

  “They illumine only the abysses.”

  There are the three decans or divisions to each house. For the first decan—I was born the 26th of December—he gives this:

  “Very patient and tenacious. Capable of anything in order to succeed. Arrive by dint of perseverance, but step by step…. Tendency to exaggerate the importance of earthly life. Avaricious of self. Constant in their affections and in their hatreds. Have a high opinion of themselves.”

  I quote these observations for several reasons. The reader will discover, each in his own way, the importance which may or may not be attached to them.

  But to get on…. When I first met him, Moricand was living—existing would be better—in a very modest hotel called the Hotel Modial in the rue Notre Dame de Lorette. He had but recently weathered a great crisis—the loss of his fortune. Completely destitute, and with no ability or concern for practical affairs, he was leading a hand-to-mouth existence. For breakfast he had his coffee and croissants in his room, and often he had the same for dinner too, with no lunch in between.

  Anaïs was a godsend. She aided him with modest sums as best she could. But there were others, quite a few indeed, whom she likewise felt compelled to aid. What Moricand never suspected was that, in presenting him to me, Anaïs hoped to unload some of her burden. She did it gently, tactfully, discreetly, as she did all things. But she was definitely finished with him.

  Anaïs knew quite well that I was unable to support him, unless morally, but she also knew that I was ingenious and resourceful, that I had all manner of friends and acquaintances, and that if I was sufficiently interested I would probably find a way to help him, at least temporarily.

  She was not far wrong in this surmise.

  Naturally, from my standpoint, the first and most important thing was to see that the poor devil ate more regularly, and more abundantly. I hadn’t the means to guarantee him three meals a day, but I could and did throw a meal into him now and then. Sometimes I invited him out to lunch or dinner; more often I invited him to my quarters where I would cook as bountiful and delicious a meal as possible. Half-starved as he was most of the time, it was small wonder that by the end of the meal he was usually drunk. Drunk not with wine, though he drank copiously, but with food, food which his impoverished organism was unable to assimilate in such quantities. The ironic thing was—and how well I understo
od it!—that by the time he had walked home he was hungry all over again. Poor Moricand! How very, very familiar to me was this ludicrous aspect of his tribulations! Walking on an empty stomach, walking on a full stomach, walking to digest a meal, walking in search of a meal, walking because it is the only recreation one’s pocketbook permits, as Balzac discovered when he came to Paris. Walking to lay the ghost. Walking instead of weeping. Walking in the vain and desperate hope of meeting a friendly face. Walking, walking, walking…. But why go into it? Let’s dismiss it with the label—“ambulatory paranoia.”

  To be sure, Moricand’s tribulations were without number. Like Job, he was afflicted in every way. Altogether devoid of the latter’s faith, he nevertheless displayed remarkable fortitude. Perhaps all the more remarkable in that it was without foundation. He did his best to keep face. Rarely did he break down, in my presence at least. When he did, when tears got the better of him, it was more than I could bear. It left me speechless and impotent. It was a special kind of anguish he experienced, the anguish of a man who is incapable of understanding why he of all men should be singled out for punishment. He led me to believe, always indirectly, that never had he done his fellow-man an injury with intent and deliberation. On the contrary, he had always tried to be of help. He liked to believe, and I have no doubt he was sincere, that he harbored no evil thoughts, bore no one any ill will. It is true, for example, that he never spoke ill of the man who was responsible for his comedown in the world. He attributed this misfortune entirely to the fact that he was too trusting. As though it were his own fault and not the fault of the one who had taken advantage of his confidence.

  Using what little wits I possessed, for I was scarcely more capable than he in practical matters, I finally hit upon the idea of asking my friends to have Moricand do their horoscopes for a modest fee. I believe I suggested a hundred frances as a fee, but it may only have been fifty. One could then get a very decent meal for from twelve to fifteen francs. As for Moricand’s room rent, it could not have been more than three hundred francs per month, possibly less.

  All went well until I exhausted my list of friends and acquaintances. Then, not to let Moricand down, I began inventing people. That is to say, I would give him the name, sex, date, hour and place of birth of individuals who did not exist. I paid for these horoscopes out of my own pocket, naturally. According to Moricand, who had not the least suspicion of the turn things had taken, these imaginary subjects comprised an astounding variety of characters. Occasionally, faced with a most incongruous chart, he would express a desire to meet the subject, or would press me for intimate details which of course I would offer with the ease and nonchalance of one who knew whereof he spoke.

  When it came to reading personalities, Moricand impressed one as possessing certain powers of divination. His sixth sense, as he called it, served him well in interpreting a chart. But often he had no need of a chart, no need of dates, places, and so on. Never shall I forget the banquet given by the group sponsoring the revue Volontés which was directed by Georges Pelorson. Eugene Jolas and I were the only Americans in the group, the rest were all French. There must have been about twenty of us at table that evening. The food was excellent and the wine and liqueurs plentiful. Moricand sat opposite me. On one side of him sat Jolas and on the other, I believe, Raymond Queneau. Every one was in excellent spirits, the conversation running high.

  With Moricand in our midst, it was inevitable that sooner or later the subject of astrology must come up for discussion. There he was, Moricand, cool as a cucumber, and filling his breadbasket to the best of his ability. Lying in wait, as it were, for the jeers and derision which he doubtless anticipated.

  And then it came—an innocent question by an unsuspecting nobody. Immediately a sort of mild insanity pervaded the atmosphere. Questions were being hurled from all directions. It was as if a fanatic had suddenly been uncovered—or worse, a lunatic. Jolas, who was a little under the weather by now and consequently more aggressive than usual, insisted that Moricand give demonstrable proofs. He challenged Moricand to single out the various zodiacal types seated about him. Now Moricand had undoubtedly made such classification in his head during the course of his conversation with this one and that. He could not help doing so by virtue of his calling. It was everyday routine with him, when talking to an individual, to observe the person’s manner of speech, his gestures, his tics and idiosyncrasies, his mental and physical build, and so on. He was acute enough, adept enough, to distinguish and classify the more pronounced types present at the table. So, addressing himself to one after another whom he had singled out, he named them: Leo, Taurus, Libra, Virgo, Scorpio, Capricorn, and so on. Then, turning to Jolas, he quietly informed him that he believed he could tell him the year and day of his birth, perhaps the hour too. So saying, he took a good pause, raised his head slightly, as if studying the look of the heavens on the appointed day, then gave the exact date and, after a further pause, the approximate hour. He had hit it right on the nose. Jolas, who was dumbfounded, was still catching his breath as Moricand went on to relate some of the more intimate details of his past, facts which not even Jolas’ close friends were aware of. He told him what he liked and what he disliked; he told him what maladies he had suffered from and was likely to suffer from in the future; he told him all manner of things which only a mind-reader could possibly divulge. If I am not mistaken, he even told him the location of a birthmark. (A shot in the dark like this was a trump card that Moricand loved to play when he had things well in hand. It was like putting his signature to a horoscope.)

  That was one occasion when he ran true to form. There were others, some of them more eerie, more disturbing. Whenever it happened it was a good act. Far better than a spiritualistic séance.

  Thinking of these performances, my mind always reverts to the room he occupied on the top floor of his hotel. There was no elevator service, naturally. One had to climb the five or six flights to the attic. Once inside, the world outside was completely forgotten. It was an irregular shaped room, large enough to pace up and down in, and furnished entirely with what belongings Moricand had managed to salvage from the wreck. The first impression one had, on entering, was that of orderliness. Everything was in place, but exactly in place. A few millimeters this way or that in the disposal of a chair, an objet d’art, a paper knife, and the effect would have been lost—in Moricand’s mind, at least. Even the arrangement of his writing table revealed this obsession with order. Nowhere at any time was there ever any trace of dust or dirt. All was immaculate.

  He was the same about his own person. He always appeared in clean, starched linen, coat and pants pressed (he probably pressed them himself), shoes polished, cravat arranged just so and to match his shirt of course, hat, overcoat, rubbers and suchlike neatly arranged in the clothes closet. One of the most vivid remembrances he had of his experience in the First World War—he had served in the Foreign Legion—was of the filth which he had been obliged to endure. He once recounted to me at great length how he had stripped and washed himself from head to toe with wet snow (in the trenches) after a night in which one of his comrades had vomited all over him. I had the impression that he would far rather have suffered a bullet wound than an ordeal of this nature.

  What sticks in my crop about this period, when he was so desperately poor and miserable, is the air of elegance and fastidiousness which clung to him. He always seemed more like a stockbroker weathering a bad period than a man utterly without resources. The clothes he wore, all of excellent cut as well as of the best material, would obviously last another ten years, considering the care and attention he gave them. Even had they been patched, he would still have looked the well-dressed gentleman. Unlike myself, it never occurred to him to pawn or sell his clothes in order to eat. He had need of his good clothes. He had to preserve a front were he to maintain even interrupted relations with le monde. Even for ordinary correspondence he employed good stationery. Slightly perfumed too. His handwriting, which was distinctive,
was also invested with the traits I have underlined. His letters, like his manuscripts and his astrological portraits, bore the stamp of a royal emissary, of a man who weighed every word carefully and would vouch for his opinions with his life.

  One of the objects in this den he inhabited I shall never forget as long as I live. The dresser. Towards the end of an evening, usually a long one, I would edge toward this dresser, wait for a propitious moment when his glance was averted, and deftly slip a fifty- or hundred-franc note under the statuette which stood on top of the dresser. I had to repeat this performance over and over because it would have embarrassed him, to say the least, had I handed him the money or sent it to him in the mail. I always had the feeling, on leaving, that he would give me just time enough to reach the nearest Métro station, then duck out and buy himself a choucroute garnie at a nearby brasserie.

  I must also say that I had to be very careful about expressing a liking for anything he possessed, for if I did he would thrust it on me in the manner of a Spaniard. It made no difference whether I admired a cravat he was wearing or a walking stick, of which he still had a number. It was thus I inadvertently acquired a beautiful cane which Moïse Kisling had once given him. On one occasion it demanded all my powers of persuasion to prevent him from giving me his only pair of gold cuff links. Why he was still wearing starched cuffs and cuff links I never dared ask him. He would probably have answered that he had no other kind of shirts.