The Wisdom of the Heart by Henry Miller

Author:Henry Miller [Miller, Henry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9780811222365
Publisher: New Directions
Published: 2013-04-04T04:00:00+00:00

MADEMOISELLE CLAUDE

PREVIOUSLY, WHEN I began to write this tale, I set out by saying that Mlle. Claude was a whore. She is a whore, of course, and I’m not trying to deny it, but what I say now is—if Mlle. Claude is a whore then what name shall I find for the other women I know? Somehow the word whore isn’t big enough. Mlle. Claude is more than a whore. I don’t know what to call her. Maybe just Mlle. Claude. Soit.

There was the aunt who waited up for her every night. Frankly, I couldn’t swallow that story. Aunt hell! More likely it was her maquereau. But then that was nobody’s business but her own. . . . Nevertheless, it used to gall me—that pimp waiting up for her, getting ready perhaps to clout her if she didn’t come across. And no matter how loving she was (I mean that Claude really knew how to love) there was always in the back of my head the image of that blood-sucking, low-browed bastard who was getting all the gravy. No use kidding yourself about a whore—even when they’re most generous and yielding, even if you’ve slipped them a thousand francs (who would, of course?)—there’s always a guy waiting somewhere and what you’ve had is only a taste. He gets the gravy, be sure of that!

But then, all this, as I afterwards discovered, was just so much wasted emotion. There was no maquereau—not in Claude’s case. I’m the first maquereau Claude has ever had. And I don’t call myself a maquereau either. Pimp’s the word. I’m her pimp now. O. K.

I remember distinctly the first time I brought her to my room,—what an ass I made of myself. Where women are concerned I always make an ass of myself. The trouble is I worship them and women don’t want to be worshiped. They want . . . well, anyway, about that first night, believe it or not, I behaved just as if I had never slept with a woman before. I don’t understand to this day why it should have been so. But that’s how it was.

Before she even attempted to remove her things, I remember, she stood beside the bed looking up at me, waiting for me to do something, I suppose. I was trembling. I had been trembling ever since we left the café. I gave her a peck—on the lips, I think. I don’t know—maybe I kissed her brow—I’m just the guy to do that sort of thing . . . with a woman I don’t know. Somehow I had the feeling that she was doing me a tremendous favor. Even a whore can make a guy feel that way sometimes. But then, Claude isn’t just a whore, as I said.

Before she had even removed her hat she went to the window, closed it, and drew the curtains to. Then she gave me a sort of sidelong look, smiled, and murmured something about getting undressed. While she fooled around with the bidet I went through the business of stripping down.

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