Moloch: Or, This Gentile World by Henry Miller Page B

it vacantly. There was printing on it:
    SHRINE CHURCH OF OUR LADY OF SOLACE CONEY ISLAND, NEW YORK
    It was about the annual novena to our Lady of Solace in preparation for the feast of her annunciation “Dear Friend: During this solemn nine days’ prayer, Our Lady of Solace, who is never invoked in vain, will be petitioned for favors including spiritual needs, the sick and infirm, prosperity, positions, success in undertakings, happy marriages, the welfare of expectant mothers, vocations, and whatever else may be desired by those who seek Our Blessed Mother’s help.”
    He flung the letter aside without finishing it. “Somebody’s playing a prank,” he thought. Now he noticed another envelope, much smaller than the others, with four rows of dotted lines:
    KINDLY BURN A VIGIL LIGHT! For a Novena................................................$1.00
    “Bah! The dirty rascals!” he muttered. “I wouldn’t give them a nickel, not even if they promised to get me out of Purgatory.”
    No one paid any attention to his mutterings. Blanche tried to
    make herself inconspicuous by busying herself with the cooking. Hari was rummaging through the books which were heaped on the china closet.
    Moloch collapsed in the easy chair which had been dragged into the kitchen. Anything he had any use for he kept in the kitchen. It was the only room in the house he cared to live in.
    His thoughts returned to Ronald Burns out in North Dakota. Why the devil was Burns so silent? He missed those huge bundles of mail which used to pass between them. Ten pages of enthusiasm for Dreiser, an essay on The Bomb , reams about Dostoevsky … almost a little book on The Idiot alone.... What was the matter? Had Blanche come between them? Had she been writing Burns about him … spreading calumnies?
    One can bear so many things if only there is one in the world to call a friend.
    He thought of that line in the Egyptian’s letter: “There must be a humanitarian soul in which to deposit your pains and sufferings. …” God, that was a scream when he read it. But it was no joke! Ronald Burns had brought him the one friendship that he cared about. And now that was dissolving, apparently.
    Ronald Burns was a musician and a litterateur. For three months he had shared the glories of existence with Dion Moloch and his wife. His return to North Dakota left those two individuals where he had found them—stranded on the mudflats of matrimony. For a time they had bobbed blissfully in the deep swift tide of companionship; then the tide had ebbed and they were left in the mud, stuck like scows.
    Was Blanche in love with Burns? Moloch was ready to believe so. Was Burns in love with Blanche? That was more important. It made no difference to him what happened between the two so long as their friendship was not destroyed. If Burns wanted his wife— excellent! Come and get her! He could think of no happier solution of his difficulties. But if Burns wanted her, why then had he returned to North Dakota? Was he afraid to face the truth? Was it fear of hurting him ? Had they no eyes, these two? Couldn’t they see he had stepped out of the way to give them free room?
    The marginal notations, and the long list of words piled up in the back of each book which Hari Das discovered in browsing among Moloch’s slender collection, brought forth a series of critical appreciations that dissipated Moloch’s retrospections.
    Of a sudden Hari Das gave a loud exclamation of joy and astonishment. With reverent fingers he clasped a worn volume and pushed it under Moloch’s nose.
    “Now,” he cried, “now I know you cannot be an utter scoundrel!”
    “So he had already accepted me as a scoundrel?” thought Moloch, somewhat cooled by the other’s effusiveness.
    Hari thumbed the book eagerly, examined Moloch’s penciled notations, smiled, applauded silently. He skimmed through it with such feverishness as to make one believe he expected to find a treasure at the end.
    “You do