Desparate Letter from Dumped Drunkard Man in Malcolm Lowry's "Under the Volcano"

           This is from Malcolm Lowry’s Under The Volcano. Malcolm wrote the story about a drunkard man Geaoffrey Fermin an English  Consul who left by his wife Yvonne a year ago, and the following event on the book is happened one day after her back. She sent him a divorce letter and gone to U.S. but latter Yvonne come back to him expecting some clearance. This is his desperate amazingly written letter for her expecting  a come back after he receive the divorce letter. The letter found by M Larruele, he and Hugh Fermin (Consul Brother) had an affair with Yvonne.

... Night: and once again, the

nightly grapple with death, the

room shaking with daemonic

Cut is the branch that might have

grown full straight, And burnèd is

Apollo’s laurel bough

That sometime grew within this

learnèd man,

Faustus is gone: regard his

hellish fall.*

or ch e s t r a s, the snat ches of

fearful sleep, the voices outside

the window, my name being

continually repeated with scorn

by imaginary parties arriving, the

dark’s spin- nets. As if there

were not enough real noises in

these nights the colour of grey

hair. Not like the rending tumult

of American cities, the noise of

the unbandaging of great giants

in agony. But the howling pariah

dogs, the cocks that herald dawn

all night, the drumming, the

moaning that will be found later

white plumage huddled on

telegraph wires in back gardens or

fowl roosting in apple trees, the

eternal sorrow that never sleeps

of great Mexico. For myself I like

to take my sor row into the

shadow of old monasteries, my

guilt into cloisters and under

tapestries, and into the

misericordes of unimaginable

c a n t i n a s w h e r e s a d - f a c e d

p o t t e r s and legl e s s b eg ga r s

d r i n k a t dawn, whose cold

jonquil beauty one rediscovers

in death. So that when you left,

Yvonne, I went to Oaxaca.

There is no sadder word. Shall

I t e l l yo u , Yvonne, o f t h e

ter rible jouney there through

t h e d e s e r t ove r t h e n a r row

gauge railway on the rack of a

third-class carriage bench, the

child whose life its mother and

I saved by rub b i n g i t s b e l l y

with tequila out of my bottle,

or of how, when I went to my

room in the hotel where we

once were happy, the noise of

s l a u g h t e r i n g b e l o w i n t h e

kitchen drove me out into the

glare of the street, and later,

that night, there was a vulture

s i t t i n g i n t h e wa s h b a s i n ?

Horrors portioned to a giant nerve!

No, my secrets are of the grave and

must be kept. And this is how I

sometimes think [41] of myself, as

a g re a t ex p l o rer who has

discovered some extraordinar y

land from which he can never

return to give his knowledge to

the world: but the name of this

land is hell.

It is not Mexico of course but

in the heart. And today I was in

Quauhnahuac as usual when I

received from my lawyers news

of our divorce. This was as I

invited it. I received other news

too: England is breaking off

diplomatic relations with Mexico

and all her Consuls – those, that

is, who are English – are being

called home. These are kindly

and good men, for the most part,

whose name I suppose I demean.

I shall not go home with them. I

shall perhaps go home but not

to England, not to that home.

So, at midnight, I drove in the

Plymouth to Tomalín to see my

Tlaxcaltecan friend Cervantes

the cockfighter at the Salón

Ofélia. And thence I came to the

Farolito in Parián where I sit now

in a little room off the bar at

f o u r- t h i r t y i n t h e m o r n i n g

drinking ochas and then mescal

and writing this on some Bella

Vista notepaper I filched the

other night, perhaps because

t h e w r i t i n g p a p e r a t t h e

Consulate, which is a tomb,

hur ts me to look at. I think I

know a good deal about physical

suffering. But this is worst

of all, to feel your soul dying. I

wonder if it is because tonight

my soul has really died that I

feel at the moment something

like peace.-

Or is it because right through

hell there is a path, as- Blake

well knew, and though I may

not take it, sometimes lately in

dreams I have been able to see

it? And here is one strange

effect my lawyer’s news has had

upon me. I seem to see now,

between mescals, this path, and

beyond it strange vistas, like

visions of a new life together we

might somewhere lead. I seem

to see us living in some northern

country, of mountains and hills

and blue water; our house is

b u i l t on an i n l e t a n d o n e

evening we are standing, happy

in one another, on the balcony

of this house, looking over the

water. There are sawmills half

hidden by t rees beyond and

under the hills on the other side

of the inlet, what looks like an

oil refinery, only softened and

rendered beautiful by distance.

It is a light blue moonless

summer evening , but late,

perhaps ten o’clock, with Venus

burning hard in daylight, so we

are cer tainly somewhere f a r

nor th, and standing on this

balcony, when from beyond

along the coast comes the

g athering thunder of a long

many-engined freight train,

thunder because though we are

separated by this wide strip of

water from it, the train is rolling

eastwa rd a n d t h e ch a n g i n g

wind veers for the moment

from an easterly quarter, and

we face east, like Swedenborg’s

angels, under a sky clear save

where far to the north-east over

distant mountains whose [42]

purple has faded, lies a mass of

almost pure white clouds,

sud denly, as by l i g h t i n a n

alabaster lamp, illumined from

within by gold lightning , yet

you can hear no thunder, only

the roar of the great train with

its engines and its wide shunting

echoes as it advances from the

hills into the mountains: and

then all at once a fishing-boat

with tall gear comes running

round the point like a white

giraffe, very swift and stately,

l e av i n g d i r e c t l y b e h i n d i t a

l o n g s i l ver scalloped rim of

wake, not visibl y moving

inshor e, but now stealing

ponderously beachward towards

us, this scrolled silver rim of

wash striking the shore first in

the distance, then spreading all

along the curve of beach, its

g rowing thunder and

commotion now joined to the

diminishing thunder of the

train, and now breaking reboant

on our beach, while the floats,

f or ther e are timber diving

f l o a t s, are swayed tog ether,

e ve r ything jostled and

beautifully ruffled and stirred

and tor mented in this rolling

sleeked silver, then little by little

calm ag a i n , and you see the

reflection of the remote white

thunder clouds in the water,

and now the lightning within

the white clouds in deep water,

as the fishing-boat itself with

a golden scroll of travelling

light in its silver wake beside it

r ef lected from the cabin

vanishes round the headland,

silence, and then again, within

the white white distant alabaster

thunderclouds beyond the

mountains, the thunderless gold

lightning in the blue evening,

unearthly...

And as we stand looking all

a t once comes the wash of

another unseen ship, like a great

wheel, the vast spokes of the

wheel whirling across the bay –

(Several mescals later.) Since

December 1937, and you went, and

it is now I hear the spring of 1938,

I have been deliberately struggling

against my love for you. I dared

not submit to it. I have grasped at

every root and branch which would

help me across this abyss in my life

by myself but I can deceive myself

no longer. If I am to survive I need

your help. Otherwise, sooner or

later, I shall fall. Ah, if only you

had given me something in

memory to hate you for so finally

no kind thought of you would ever

touch me in this terrible place

where I am! But instead you sent

me those letters. Why did you send

the first ones to Wells Fargo in

Mexico City, by the way? Can

it be you didn’t realize I was

still here? – Or – if in Oaxaca

– that Quauhnahuac was still

Thy base. That is very peculiar.

It would have been so easy to

f ind out too. A n d i f yo u ’d

onl y w r i t t e n m e r i g h t a wa y

a l s o , i t m i g h t h a v e b e e n

d i f f e r e n t – sent me a

p o s t c a r d e ve n , o u t o f t h e

c o m m o n a n g u i s h o f o u r

s e p a r a t i o n , ap p e a l i n g

simpl y t o u s , i n s p i t e o f a l l ,

t o e n d t h e a b s u r d i t y [ 4 3 ]

imme d i a t e l y – somehow,

anyhow – and saying we loved

each other, something, or a

t e l eg ram, s i m p l e . But you

waited too long – or so it seems

now, t i l l a f t e r C h r i s t m a s –

Christmas! – and the New Year,

and then wh a t y o u s e n t I

c o u l d n’ t r e a d . N o : I h ave

scarcely been once free enough

from tor ment or sufficiently

sober to apprehend more than

the governing design of any of

these letters. But I could, can

feel them. I think I have some

of ‘them on me. But they are too

painful to read, they seem too

l o n g d i g e s t e d . I s h a l l n o t

attempt it now. I cannot read

them. They break my heart .

And they came too late anyway.

And now I suppose there will

be no more.

Alas, but why have I not

pretended at least that I had read

them, accepted some meed of

retraction in the fact that they

were sent? And why did I not

send a telegram or some word

immediately? Ah, why not, why

not, why not? For I suppose you

would have come back in due

course if I had asked you? But

this is what it is to live in hell. I

could not, cannot ask you. I could

not, cannot send a telegram. I

have stood here, and in Mexico

City, in the Compaííía Telegráfica

Mexicana, and in Oaxaca, trembling

and sweltering in the post office and

writing telegrams all afternoon,

when I had drunk enough to

steady. my hand, without having

sent one. And I once had some

number of yours and actually

called you long distance to Los

Angeles though without success.

And another time the telephone

broke down. Then why do I not

come to America myself ? I am

too ill to ar rang e about the

tickets, to suffer the. shaking

delirium of the endless wear y

cactus plains. And why go to

A m e r i c a t o d i e ? Pe r h a p s I

would not mind being buried

i n t h e U n i t e d S t at e s. B u t I

think I would pref er to die in

Mexico. .

Meantime do you see me as

still working on the book, still

trying to answer such questions

as: Is there any ultimate reality,

external, conscious, and everpresent,

etc. etc., that can be

realized by any such means that

may be acceptable to all creeds

and religions and suitable to all

climes and countries? Or do you

find me between Mercy and

Understanding, between Chesed

and Binah (but still at Chesed) –

my equilibrium, and equilibrium

is all, precarious – balancing,

teetering over the awful

unbridgeable void, the all-butunretraceable

path of God’s

lightning back to God? as if I

ever were in Chesed! More like

the Qliphoth. When I should

have been producing obscure

volumes of verse entitled the

Triumph of Humpty Dumpty or

the Nose with the Luminous

Dong! Or at best, like Clare,

‘weaving fearful vision’ . . . A

fr ustrated poet in every man.

Though it is perhaps a good idea

under the circumstances to

pretend at least to be

proceeding with one’s g r eat

work [44] on ‘ S e c re t

Knowledg e ’ , then one can

always say when it never comes

out that the title explains this

deficiency.

– But alas for the Knight of

Sorry Aspect! For oh, Yvonne,

I am so haunted continuously by

the thought of your songs, of

your warmth and merriment, of

your simplicity and

comradeship, of your abilities in

a hundred ways, your

fundamental sanity, your untidiness,

your equally excessive

neatness – the sweet beginnings

of our marr i age. Do you

remember the Strauss song we

used to sing? Once a year the

dead live for one day. Oh come

to me again as once in May. The

Generalife Gardens and the

Alhambra Gardens. And shadows

of our fate at our meeting in

Spain. The Hollywood bar in

Granada. Why Hollywood? And

the nunner y there : why Los

Angeles? And in Malaga, the

Pensión México. And yet nothing

can ever take the place of

the unity we once knew and

which Christ alone knows must

s t i l l exist somewhere. Knew

even in Paris —before Hugh

came. Is this an illusion too? I

am being completely maudlin

certainly. But no one can take

your place; I ought to know by

now, I laugh as I write this,

whether I love you or not...

Sometimes I am possessed by a

most powerful feeling, a despairing

bewildered jealousy which,

when deepened by drink, turns

into a desire to destroy myself by

my own imagination – not at least

to be the prey of – ghosts –

(Several mescalitos later and

dawn in the Farolito)... Time is

a fake healer anyhow. How can

anyone pr e s u m e t o t e l l m e

about you? You cannot know

the sadness of my l i fe.

Endlessly haunted waking and

sleeping by the thought that

you may need my help, which I

cannot give, as I need yours,

which you cannot, seeing you in

visions and in every shadow, I

have been compelled to write

this, which I shall never send,

to ask you what we can do. Is

not that extraordinar y? And yet

– do we not owe it ourselves,

to that self we created, apar t

f rom us, t o t r y again? Alas,

what has happened to the love

and understanding we once

had! What is going to happen

to it – what is going to happen

to our hearts? Love is the only

thing which gives meaning to

our poor ways on earth: not

pr e c i s e l y a d i s c over y, I a m

afraid. You will think I am mad,

but this is how I drink too, as

i f I wer e t a k i n g a n e t e r n a l

sacrament. Oh Yvonne, we

cannot allow what we created

to sink down to oblivion in this

ding y fashion –

Lift up your eyes unto the

hills, I seem to hear a voice

saying. Sometimes, when I see

the little red mail plane fly in

from Acapulco at seven in the

morning over the strange hills,

or more probably hear, l ying

trembling, shaking, and dying

in bed (when I am in [45] bed

at that time) — just a tiny roar

and g one — as I reach out

b a b b l i n g f o r t h e g l a s s o f

mescal, the drink that I can never

believe even in raising to my lips

i s r e a l , t h at I have had the

mar ve l l o u s foresight to put

within easy r each the night

before, I think that you will be

o n i t , on that plane eve r y

morning as it goes by, and will

have come to save me. Then the

morning goes by and you have

not come. But oh, I pray for this

now, that you will come. On

second thoughts I do not see

why from Acapulco. But for

God’s sake, Yvonne, hear me, my

defences are down, at the

moment they are down — and

there goes the plane, I heard it

in the distance then, just for an

instant, beyond Tomalín — come

ba ck, come back.. I will stop

drinking, anything. I am dying

without you. For Christ Jesus’ sake

Yvonne come back to me, hear me,

it is a cry, come back to me, Yvonne,

if only for a day...

            Latter on chapter 6 shown the letter from Yvonne to Consul that hugh realize its writen just after the time she left. Yvonne’s scrawl ran:

Darling, why did I leave? Why did you let me? Expect to arrive in the U.S. tomorrow, California two days later. Hope to find a word from you there waiting. Bove Y.