Emily made up her mind to study the French Revolution and the Commune too. Now that she had shaken off the curse of the narrow, prejudiced, and corrupt American radical ideas and the hate of former friends, she would start all over again. ‘I am like a pioneer and I’ve come to the young countries. The USA is getting old.’
She fell asleep in a gentle daze of white, soft light, slept with the angels all night, told Stephen on waking that for once she had had sweet dreams but could remember nothing.
‘I was happy, all day, all night, all the week, think of that! There are people in our lives who have strange meaning for us—Mernie Wauters and Suzanne and Vittorio do that for me. And perhaps for you too?’
Stephen said drily, ‘I am not so romantic. I haven’t a rich nature like yours, full of hope and finding themes everywhere. Only for God’s sake, remember we have to eat while you’re wandering in the Paradise Gardens of socialist beauties. We have to eat and there isn’t one word in all those books Vittorio and Suzanne gave you, which will be of any use in a book intended to sell in America. Wait till your book’s finished. For I know you, it will creep in, they’ll smell the fish and it won’t even sell to your favourite publisher, let alone the magazines. They can smell socialists, enemies of their dear police state miles off. Read your socialist romances later.’
But that day Suzanne brought a copy of L’Enfermi and they began to read it paragraph by paragraph. Stephen had written several biographies and was at first interested, though it irritated him to read a book so slowly. In a few days it was impossible to conceal from him that Emily spent almost all her time on the book. She was many pages ahead of Stephen and had already formed a plan for dramatizing the book.
She declared, ‘I’ll do a libretto for grand opera. I’m surprised it hasn’t been done.’ Hastily, she told them, in her stumbling, strange French, her plans of scenes. The boy’s naked bedroom in winter, the open window with snow drifting through, to begin with: the marriage, romantic and unhappy; the plodding son of the great revolutionist; Blanqui, little figure, standing unmoved in the fiercest battle scenes; the lonely man, denied everything, pacing the platform under the stars at Mont St-Michel and inventing for want of better things, a new theory of the universe—
In those stars must be loves like ours and their life flows along by ours, like a sister sun.
Blanqui had only a manual of algebra and from this he built up a new solar system. Dragged step by step down the stone stairs, his head bumping on the flags, tortured and tied in a low, filthy hole with rats about, in one position for days on end and coming back to life, a man so frail and living so long—for what? To go from one prison to another.
‘Look at the splendour of the prison scenes; his lifelong love for his unworthy wife, a mere bourgeoise!’
Stephen after an hour of this, unable to take part, left the room and from then on took part only erratically. He was furiously angry now. He saw that Emily had done no work for over a week. Her latest ‘obsessions, her socialist jag’ had drunk up all her energy. He went up to her room and found some books, recommended by Vittorio. He came down and heard her shouting joyfully, inexhaustibly, and declaring in English, her French having vanished, that their next book would be that wonderful, superb, gorgeous book; and she called out to Stephen to come in, while breathlessly she described a book Suzanne had brought her. It was the autobiography of Jules Valles, a small but famous three-volume story: The Schoolboy, The Graduate. The Communard.
Bubbling over with laughter, she held Stephen by the sleeve, ‘Only listen to this! You’ll die laughing.’
‘Jules Valles had shut the mayor in the closet and even the guard pleaded for him, saying there would be a lot of trouble in the closet if he was not allowed to go to the—shh!—so Jules Valles let him out and told him, run along.’
Emily shouted, ‘A big mistake! A big mistake. And typical of the gentle revolutionaries they were. They didn’t take over the Banque de France, a primordial error. They wanted to prove revolutionists didn’t grab. Prove to whom, pray? And no one ever thanked them for it. And it ended up at the Mur des Fédérés. Oh, what a story! Stephen I am going for once in my life to become a specialist on something—on the Commune! Lenin learned about revolution from it.’
She waved her arms, got up, walked about the room, excitably called for coffee, glasses of water, and for over an hour she described her future studies.
‘I am going to study all the children study and more. More, because I should know more. They’ll absorb it naturally, just by living here. Am I going to sit round with my mouth open, yessing and noing? Dumb Madame Howard, a typical American; knows nothing! Eh? No!’
She hit the table. ‘Stephen, it’s all very well for you. You’re learned. You went to Princeton. But I came from Arkansas. They don’t ever teach anything in America, Madame Suzanne. They’re afraid you might question the eternal values, like ice-cream soda. They’re tripping over themselves racing farther and farther backwards into the Ostrogoth age, determined that whatever happens to the world, the Chinese people, the Kashmiri, the Kirghiz shall all know more than the average American.’
She raved on like this for some time to Stephen’s annoyance. He was proud of his country, regarded himself as a representative American, a sample American abroad: he would analyse the country but never deride and belittle.
After chocolate and bread with the children, Madame Suzanne went on to Christy’s Latin lesson. Emily sat in on this. She had worked over the lessons in order to keep up with Christy. Stephen had forgotten his Latin. He growled, ‘Go ahead. I’ll be the dumb American cluck reading the comic strips while you three talk monkey-Latin to each other.’
‘You don’t study and you’re not learning French, Stephen. Madame Suzanne says I am improving. Allez-vous coucher, Monsieur. Je vous park comme á un chien, because, that is parce que, you are a chien. That is, vous etes un chien.’
‘Nice,’ said Stephen.
‘That’s what I heard in the street today. And listen, that old iron man says O! Du lapin-mo-ort; du lapin—qu’il est mort!’ Mad with hilarity, she took Olivia in her arms, kissed her soft, warm hair and sang:
‘Fais dodo, ma poulette, dors ma mignonette! Quand tu auras vingt ans passés, tu vas te marier, Avec un homme sage, qui fera ton ménage, Avec un homme de Paris, qui fera ton petit lit.’
‘That’s frank isn’t it? Marie-Jo sings that and with such hysterical fury. It’s dreadful to have people in the house who aren’t married, who haven’t children, who can’t share our joys and have to take out their miseries in stealing sugar and having murderous friends around and talking about whether God thinks they’re dutiful if they wash the stone floor of the basement on Sundays. Ai-ai-ai. Why must our happiness, joy, wonderful fulfilment be built on the sorrows of others? What are we to do? Oh, life is cruel, cruel.’
In the evening Madame Suzanne was still with them. After a few such evenings, and with ‘Madame Suzanne always underfoot and exercise books even in the toilet’ Stephen declared he was fed up. He was going to invite some lousy reactionaries to get a breath of stale air. He couldn’t stand the new hope and light blazing all round the joint. ‘It’s too sweet and good here, pure thought and love of humanity. I’ll scream if I hear one more story of the Resistance and if Christy begins one more time on the tragedy of man under capitalism. Let man die under capitalism or any other way. I want to meet some funny people, some witty, lousy people who backbite and whom I can sneer at and hate.’
Emily called out, ‘Oh, good, a real party. The Wauters couple are depressing, I agree. Who’ll we ask? Not that boat crowd! Let’s ask Suzanne.’
Stephen said, ‘Oh, God, never!’ but in the end they did and Madame Suzanne coolly agreed to introduce them to other friends; ‘neither teachers, benefactors, child-study psychologists, nor librarians’ Stephen specified, smiling engagingly to Suzanne.
Emily enquired, ‘Well heavens, we have enough introductions around the American and British Embassies, not
to say half literary Paris, and even people at the Louvre—won’t they do?’
The three of them sat down to work out a list of interesting people who would not talk about the food situation, nor had suffered in the Resistance. They were all laughing, Stephen insisted gaily, ‘And not a single poor person, not a single honest person, no one who is suffering because he is honest or dumb. When I’m with the lousy corrupt subsidized rich and other such depraved humans, I feel safer, they’re not criticizing me and I can think, I’m better than you, or at least, not worse.’
‘Stephen, Stephen! You’re loyal and pure. You know that.’
‘Oh, to hell with that. You and Suzanne work out a list of lively, likely, lousy coots in your French lesson and I’ll go and do some work. And remember that Uncle Maurice and Mamma will probably be in on this party. So do some modest high-stepping, too.’
In his room, Stephen began the calculations, which he did daily, weekly, monthly, yearly: what Emily had earned, his allowances and advance, and all the rest. He also consulted his expectations: tickets in the French lottery, the French sweepstake, a ticket in the Belgian lottery got for him regularly by Monsieur Wauters, and the Swiss lottery, a full ticket of five Swiss francs got from Monsieur Savany. He bought a full ticket in each lottery and when there were special lotteries as at Easter, in France, he bought the expensive or double ticket. His own money was in family property, respectable industrials and a few warbonds. He also ran the accounts and investments for the two rich children living with him. He was appalled at the amounts they had already spent, were now spending.
15 ANNA’S VISIT
PREPARING FOR HIS MOTHER’S arrival, Stephen spent the whole afternoon and evening casting up their accounts, and several times was on the point of calling off their ‘Evening in Cold War Society’ which he himself had proposed. Yet he thought that his mother would like this company, that he had better get a job in Europe, say correspondent; and for this he had better move in the best circles. When he came down after the children were in bed and Christy was upstairs studying his Latin and ancient history, Suzanne was just leaving and Emily was full of beans.
The list for the reception now lay on the table. She had something to tell him about Christy. She was bubbling for a reason he did not yet know. She had asked Suzanne many questions about Vittorio. They had both agreed that it would be safe to ask such a polished, keen man to meet Anna Howard. Needless to say, by now, Suzanne knew all their affairs.
Emily said, ‘At least you can write to dear Anna about this lot. These are the crème de la crème of cold war society and she will see you are living like the very parfitt bourgeois gentilhomme?’
‘Don’t you know he was absurd, the bourgeois gentilhomme?’
‘Oh, what does it matter? We’re absurd.’
Stephen saw Suzanne across the courtyard and came back to have coffee with Emily. He was sulky because of the accounts, because of the bourgeois gentilhomme, and he pushed the list of guests aside crossly.
‘What I want to know is not their names, but what is the cost; and what profit any damn one of them is going to give us. What do we expect to get out of it?’
However, in the inevitable way of their parties, the lists were checked and rechecked, invitations were telephoned and written. As well as Wauters and Vittorio, they had asked the Communist Party chiefs, whom they did not know but for whom they had been angling. Emily had not spoken to Vittorio about it, but expected them. Stephen counted upon the ‘Resistance types’ as refusers.
Stephen said irritably to Suzanne the next day, ‘But how can Wauters himself meet the “Enemies of the People Union?”
Suzanne smiled, ‘Well, aren’t you meeting them? You will be surprised at the number of “Resistance types” you will meet at parties. You didn’t have to wear a torn shirt to be in the Resistance.’
‘Of course,’ thought Stephen, looking at Emily hastily. Of course, Emily had already told everything to Suzanne; for instance that he called them ‘Resistance types’. He groaned.
‘You will be surprised,’ said Suzanne sardonically.
She had gradually, and now suddenly, acquired power over them. For instance, Emily had in principle agreed, yesterday, to the following: Madame Suzanne was to move from her mean room and take an apartment, in which apartment she would accommodate Christy, who was to have study, bedroom, bath of his own. Suzanne was to have her own living-room, bedroom and bath as well as kitchen; and if he could not have separate bath, Christy would use the one bathroom. Suzanne would supervise him, feed him, teach him, see that he led the life of a French youth of his age, not too free, not too circumscribed. Christy himself, now that he was reaching eighteen, would pay for all this. It was a fine arrangement for Suzanne. She promised that she would find the necessary accommodation within a week. It could be unfurnished; Christy would buy his own furniture, the Howards would advance her the money for hers. Stephen, anxious to have Christy settled when his mother arrived, accepted this entire arrangement with little cavilling. It suited Christy very well too. Stephen had a talk with his foster-son about his responsibilities now that he was about to come into his first inheritance. Christy, never exorbitant, was rejoiced to hear that as a rich youth he had duties to society and to his family and his own fortune and at once said that he would keep accounts and save money. In fact, he showed a small savings account which he had started as soon as he came to France. His question was only, whether it was better to walk and save bus-fares; or ride and save shoe-leather. Stephen said privately to Emily, ‘My God, Emily: he’s the dead spit and image of his grandfather John Tanner. The same ways. He’ll starve to death at eighty-five.’
‘Goody, dear Anna will like that. Let’s get him settled in with Suzanne as soon as ever we can,’ said Emily.
Stephen said, ‘You’re looking very well!’
‘Oh, the weather’s wonderful and I feel I can work. The work’s going well.’
‘Have you done any work for a week? Haven’t you been spending your time on the books Vittorio told you to read and working up that damned L’Enfermé? There’s not a cent in it.’
‘Oh, Stephen! It makes me so happy. I feel simply rosy.’
‘We have children. We can’t afford to be rosy. Do you know how much we have made since we got here? The money for your last book was spent coming over here; and we didn’t pay over two thousand dollars in outstanding debts over there, on the grounds, our credit is good. Since we came here, another two thousand dollars, say, in unpaid debts, our credit still being good; thank God for the Howards’ reputation; and your book has run into another edition but we won’t collect for six months—well maybe we can, but spent is spent and when it’s spent, we’re bone dry, unless they take it for Broadway. Of course, we’ve got old Doc Hack working on it. Besides this, there’s the promise of five hundred dollars for one story for The Gothamite, but you’re obliged to take out anything about your uncle Henry since he was a Henry George addict and who knows what that is? And just leave in the hens and the neighbours’ cats; and maybe a thousand dollars for two articles on Paris 1948 for American Summer; no promises and they’ve taken just one so far.’
Emily said huskily, turning a cheerful, red face, ‘It’s very promising. When you think we’re exiles and our name stinks, it’s wonderful. That’s a wonderful in, the American Summer series about Europe. We’ll make them an offer. We’ll travel around, do Europe, go to Belgium, I’m longing to go to Belgium to taste those 107 ways of doing mussels and everything Mernie Wauters tells me is good to eat. Ledane and everyone says the food is superb. And who knows? It’s a revelation. Little Belgium. Fancy! Then there’s Switzerland, they’ve never even seen the war, the food must be good and there are the mountains and the ski-slopes. Then Italy—they’re claiming they want Americans; and I’m sure they do—h’m. Well, anyhow five or six countries, taking in England. It won’t pay for the hotels and car-fare and minding the children but it’s a beginning. Why not The Howards Abroad and turn out a sort
of Baedeker for Americans, all they want to know, not the old three-star stuff. Call us the Wilkeses. H’m, not good enough. Anyway, I feel it in my bones. I’m on the right track. And you will either get a good job in the Louvre or with the Party or write that wonderful novel about your early struggles or about our family—it’s so charming and wonderful when you tell it and who ever did? A scion in the USA. In Europe they still think we’re cowpunchers: they’ll be fascinated; or you’ll become a famous European correspondent, or someone will take you as private secretary, a diplomat or deputy—’
Stephen declared, ‘Never! I’ve had a secretary myself and nothing doing.’
Bubbling still, Emily went up to her room. Stephen called after her, ‘Work, goddamn it, work! Don’t write letters, your journal, ideas for new books or thumbnail sketches. Write what your agent’s waiting for.’
‘OK! OK!’ she laughed.
Emily went into her room and sat down in a pleasant day-dream. She had fallen in love with Vittorio, who thought her magnificent and who was the toast of society women. While Stephen was upstairs with the accounts, she had nagged, amiably pestered, buffeted Suzanne about the ears with questions about Vittorio. Suzanne had only consented to answer if the conversation was held in French. Thus Emily had heard, but as through a swarm of bluebottles, stories of Vittorio’s love affairs, all with unexplained, unexpected women, not at all as you might think with ‘haughty, gorgeous, society belles’ as Emily said. No. Since early days he had had an affair with the beautiful daughter of a Brussels financier. She had had many lovers since, married twice, it was not only men she loved—‘Then who? Then who?’ said Emily puzzled—but she often went to see Vittorio even now, though he was so changed and so poor. ‘Women can’t forget him,’ said Suzanne, in a fault-finding tone. Now Vittorio was in love with a girl twenty years younger than himself, ‘Not at all suitable,’ said Suzanne. ‘Did he say anything about us here?’ ‘Ah, he admired you as we all do; and then he said, about the child, “Oh, what a delicious little woman.”’
I'm Dying Laughing: The Humourist Page 37
