I'm Dying Laughing: The Humourist

by Christina Stead

  ‘I know I am not clever, but you say that to cheer me up and it does help,’ said Christy.

  He was now a well-grown stripling, pliant, somewhat secretive, with fine, dark eyes. He was wearing Thai-silk pyjamas, a blue flannel dressing-gown and blue leather slippers.

  He said to her, ‘Perhaps it would help if I went back to America? Then you would have only Olivia to bother about?’

  She flew to him, embraced him, tears still in her eyes from her compliments,

  ‘My darling boy, my son, my dear one. What would life be without you? You don’t know what you mean to me. Life would be empty without you. There would be a pain here always.’

  She pointed to her heart, under her rosy breast. The nipple stood up at him through the thin, silky material. She looked at it and smiled at him with capricious coquetry.

  ‘I am a woman, Christy, my precious, you know; and this is what makes a woman, this heart, this breast, this skin, this mouth, this loving mouth that I am pressing to your dear cheek; to your dear—’

  She kissed him eagerly on cheek and mouth, holding her mouth to his and pressing his lips, drinking thirstily. He let her manage him and drew back when she released him, with moist, large eyes. He seized her hand and kissed it.

  ‘I love you, mother, I do really love you,’ said he.

  She jubilated.

  ‘And now, my darling, I am going to take you up to bed and tuck you up. Your eyes are tired, you’re thinner. You are too young to be wakeful all night. Come, I won’t give you an aspirin, I’ll sit by you, my darling son, until you go to sleep. Tomorrow is another day. We’ll study then. Do you feel you study better with me? Or with Suzanne?’

  ‘I study better with Suzanne; she doesn’t distract me. You do,’ he said smiling. She hugged him and pulled him away, towards the staircase.

  They came out to find Giles on the stairs. He looked at them sleepily and said, ‘I’m afraid. I’m alone up there, Mamma!’

  ‘Oh, remorse, remorse! Naughty Mamma! Run to bed Giles darling, and Mamma will be in in a moment, but she must see that poor Christy gets to sleep first. Christy does not sleep at all any more, because of thoughts and dreams and—yearnings; Christy is a man and is disturbed and upset as a man is.’

  She got Giles to his bedroom, keeping Christy by her and then, herself, she saw Christy to his bedroom, took his dressing-gown from him and his slippers, held the covers for him and settled them round him. Then she bent over him, kissed him a while, with her round perfumed bosom hanging over his face and neck. Christy for one moment embraced her, holding her shoulders and hiding his face in her neck, and then blushed. She pulled her clothes round her and said, ‘Oh, Christy! Not too close. Remember, darling, you are my guardian while your father is away. But, oh Christy, there is no real harm. Nothing to lose sleep over. You love me and I love you and we are a sweet united family, and all love one another. There is no harm in love. Go to sleep my darling, and think no more of it. I know you won’t leave me when I need you. I know my darling boy. Remember always that Mamma loves you and most dearly, needs you more than anyone. So sleep now, my Christy, sleep as if Mother were here beside you all night.’

  She left him with his eyes wide open, following her to the door. At the door she blew a kiss. She went away smiling—as if Christy would leave her now!—and went to her own room. She sat down smiling. Of course he was thinking of her, intoxicated with her, a likely adolescent with no girls. The millions were safe. Not only that, she was really lonely. There was something hideous in her mind; Stephen’s betrayal. Writing all over America, writing to all their friends! It was the boy she loved truly, for this truth and innocence, his loyal heart.

  ‘It is Christy I love, my real son!’

  She heard a sound. She went inside. Giles was awake and crying, ‘Where is Daddy? Why doesn’t he come home?’

  She calmed him, but formally, and went to bed without giving him a thought. But still she could not sleep. She rolled and tossed.

  ‘Oh, Christy, oh, me, oh, my! This difference of the generations is cruel. And you are so young, so young as to be useless. Never mind! I won’t let you go. You must stay by me, Christy, stay, stay and be mine. You must help out. I can manage you. You must help. Oh, Christy,’ and she smothered the pillow with kisses.

  She was putting on weight and very often wore dressing-gowns all day long. Stephen would not have cared for that; but at present she did as she pleased and so she lived with and near Christy, in exquisite house-gowns and boudoir wraps, of silk, chiffon and lace, bathed, powdered and perfumed, doing his studies with him, eating with him, sitting by his bed at night, and kissing him, kissing him, till the air of the house was to him the odours of her flesh, cosmetics, delicate underclothes and perfumes; till she would see him almost fainting from the odour, worn with sleep, desire, study, all the needs of his cloistered years.

  She waited for him, dressed in a close-folding house-gown, on a short seat with a brocaded satin cover, in the hall outside his room when he came up from his work. He walked quite well now and it was time for him to go to Suzanne’s. Suzanne had a three-room apartment, with corridor, kitchen and bath, the small bedroom near the kitchen for herself, then a large sitting room for Christy’s lessons and visitors and a large sunny bedroom with plateglass windows looking over a public square, and with tables, chairs and shelves, for Christy himself and his young friends. In this room was a single iron bedstead, and room for Christy’s records, record-player and other possessions. At present Suzanne lived there alone waiting for him; but she had taken on one or two day-pupils.

  After his work in the evening after dinner with Monsieur Jean-Claude Christy would go upstairs with his books to continue his studies in this room. At that moment, at Emily’s insistence, they were working very hard on Cicero. Emily wanted Uncle Maurice and his friend William to be taken with Christy’s Latinism, when they came to visit at Christmas; and she herself, caught up with her own enthusiasm, had become a frantic student of Cicero. William, Uncle Maurice’s close friend, had published a defence of Cicero. This was the first intimation Emily had that Cicero had attackers, had defenders. Wishing to defend him, she began avidly to read his writings in translations; and she attempted to follow Christy in his Latin, too. Gay and eager, bursting with opinion, she waited for Christy when he trudged upstairs, about ten o’clock in the evening. He knew she was waiting. With her large, brilliant eyes she saw him as he came up the stairs, her long lips smiled, her teeth shone; she laughed quietly. He glanced at the Medusa, though he expected her, as if with stupefaction, baffled and giddy, like a half-innocent college boy stealing along under the high walls of the frowning college alleys, he came along the hall, holding to the wall, his eyes fixed on her. She could see what she was to him. She smiled, ‘Christy, oh my Christy, Mother’s Christy.’ He stared at her, standing at the door of his room. She smiled, ‘Oh, Christy, don’t you know Mamma? You tease, you flirt. Flirtatious lad! I’m only your Mamma, your friend. Are you creeping in there, you little toad, you little frog,—ugh! And not even blowing me a kiss?’

  He smiled a little and blew her a kiss. He went in and started to close his door. She got up and went to the door.

  ‘Don’t shut the door, Christy. I’m coming to work with you. You know you do much more work with me. Let in Mamma.’

  He let her in and she bent down, folding him in her arms, kissed him eagerly, wrapped her arms round his waist, kissed the top of his head, said, ‘Ah, Christy! Mother adores you. Mother wants everything good for you. I dream about you, Christy.’

  She took his books from him, went to the desk and put on the lamp, opening the books at once.

  ‘Now, tell me about Cicero!’

  He stood at the partly closed door looking at her. Then he closed the door, came and stood by her,

  ‘Emily!’

  ‘Mother,’ she said, looking up at him with a fetching, bright, sarcastic smile.

  ‘You are not my mother. You are my father’s wife. But not my
mother.’

  She continued to glance up at him, smiling with a curled lip.

  ‘All right, I am Emily. Sit down and work with Emily, who is crazy about you darling and wants everything good for you. Emily who adores you.’

  ‘Emily, let me kiss you.’

  She laughed, put her arms round him and kissed him, on the cheek, jawbone, ear, neck, the roots of the hair. His hair turned to fire. He drew back, quickly, put her at arms’ length, and stared at her with the selfsame stare as in the corridor. Then he quickly sat down at the side of the desk, away from her.

  ‘Let’s work; I have so much to get through I ought to work.’

  She smiled, but went on at once, ‘What was his name? Where was he born? In what year? When did he die? Go on.’

  He recited his lesson.

  ‘How did he get the name Father of his Country?’

  The youth answered.

  ‘Why is he considered best of all Latin prose-writers? What are his best political speeches?’

  She continued, pressed him, forced him, told him what he forgot; and continued, ‘And Cicero was against tyranny. Tell me how you know that. He had a high moral standard, the highest; tell me how you know that.’

  The young man, knowing her demands, blundered on.

  ‘He fought for truth and liberty, he opposed the dictatorship of Sulla and Caesar. Tell me the dates and tell me how you know this.’

  It was a week later than Monsieur Jean-Claude, for the sake of scholarship, brought Christy a book which described Marcus Tullius as a greedy depraved man, who never paid his debts, stole where he could, lived in inordinate luxury, was faithful to no one, was a frantic spendthrift, and whose letters to his family, wife and daughter, covered with fine writing a total lack of concern.

  Going one evening into his room when he had gone to the movies, she began with an inquisitive sparkle looking through the drawers of his desk and found in the middle drawer a note from Frances Wilson, the American seventeen-year-old girl he had met on the boat and who like him, had been a young communist. Frances Wilson was on the way back home to college and promised to see him as she went through Paris with her brother Mike.

  Rue Chomel, Paris. VIIe

  ‘Christy darling,

  Well, I made it out of bed and took a bath. Brother Mike finally got up about nine and then we had a cup of coffee for breakfast. After breakfast we went out for a walk and feeling rather sleepy sat down in a cafe and had a small shot of crèmede menthe. My darling Christy, we did not get drunk, you need not worry, I am not a complete alcoholic. I am OK though not five-star favourite for the swimming finals, as you think. I showed Mike the card you sent me and he laughed his head off. Well, back to school soon and I haven’t done a thing. I guess there are going to be a lot of little remarks handed out in school when I get there, the great travelled woman who cannot get fifty per cent in French, etc., and such things. I don’t mind it. Some of them are funny as hell. Mother started off yesterday asking how you were and how your tutor was coming along, so I guess you’re all right with them. I was out only with Mike (my only boyfriend, my darling, nothing to worry about, you see). Well, see you soon; as soon as you get ensconced in Madame Suzanne’s when you will have some time to think of your own life, as you say. Life hasn’t been bad here. Thank God for Mike. He is one hell of a guy. Will pass by your chateau before I leave to say hell-o to your parents. But first of all to see you and have a laugh and take a walk, go to some cafe terrasse, have a cigarette (which we are not allowed) I expect I will have the energy for that. Have not had it since I saw you. Mike is now pouring a drink. Don’t worry, my love: we are not getting potted. How is Madame Suzanne? Is she strict or a good friend to poor ‘monstery boys’ as you say? (Do you mean with monks or with monsters?) I still did not find my little red bear. Are you sure you didn’t take it? If you do find him in your luggage bring him to me when you see me this week. I need that little guy, he is pretty damn lucky. So am I. So are you. Or not? Love, Frankie,’

  And to this was a reply, half-written:

  ‘My darling Frankie,

  First of all, my love, I want to tell you how sorry I am about the letter I wrote you the other day. I was in one hell of a morbid mood. All I remember about it was that I was very worried about something personal and I missed you more than I ever have; and that doesn’t mean I don’t miss you as much now, for I sure as hell do. We said that the person who left didn’t get affected as much as the other one; well, I think that I have proved to myself to my satisfaction that law to be false. I sure hope you didn’t feel as bad as I did, because if you did then all I can say is God help us, because we sure have it bad.

  Father has been away for a few weeks and Mother is all right, but nothing to brag about. I am afraid I am not very interesting in the house, because I am wishing you were here, but that is just tough for them, I mean Mother, Madame Suzanne and Monsieur Jean-Claude. Giles has turned into a little monster; his voice, with trying to speak French, is changing, and what surprises me is he now sounds sometimes like a sixty-year-old man. He several times said something to me in a foreign language, he means it to be French and I haven’t even answered because I have been thinking subconsciously, ‘Who is that? I don’t know who it is.’ I hope you’re not getting confused because I am trying to get this finished—but I don’t think I’ll make it into the mail tonight. But you’ll get it in time and telephone me at Madame Suzanne’s. I’ll make her let me see you and I can arrange everything for I have a certain influence—if you know what that means? If you don’t, think it over …’

  Emily put the papers back and went downstairs to think this over. Where had Christy received his letters from this girl? She questioned the servants. At last the porter said that the young man had given him money to receive letters for him. ‘I saw no harm. He is a young man of eighteen.’

  When Emily went back upstairs, the dressmaker had come to make her a new dressing-gown; Emily had become so portly that she felt uncomfortable in anything but loose gowns. ‘I’m always at home; I’m a housebound wife, why should I have town suits and evening-gowns made? When I’ve finished my present book and can reduce I’ll get out and buy something, or you, Jacqueline, can make me one. I don’t know what I will weigh a month from now, so why waste money on a dress.’

  Then, as she was being fitted, she told Jacqueline the story of the secret correspondence, the underhand behaviour of the lad. Jacqueline said, it’s natural, it’s a phase, Madame: don’t frighten him. Ask the girl to the house. Those aren’t real love letters. It is nothing but youthful loneliness. They are playing at love. This dear darling means nothing. But the boy is lonely. I strongly recommend you to have the girl at the house, even to stay.’

  This idea at first did not appeal to Emily, but later she saw advantages in it. When the boy returned from the movies, she accosted him at once.

  ‘Christy darling, Christy my love, let’s have one of your friends here to stay. Don’t you want some girl you can go out with? You could go to the movies with a girl. Don’t you know some nice American girl who’s fun, you could go to the cafe with, smoke cigarettes with–one doesn’t hurt. I want you to be natural, be your age, Mother wants you to have fun, darling, not to live in a monstery.’

  She burst out laughing, shouted laughter, lay down on the sofa panting, cried, ‘Oh, Christy, it’s such a marvellous sensation to have a good laugh. I’m tingling all over, it’s like sunbathing, listen darling, I mean it, Christy. Now who would you like?’

  He said, ‘Emily, I see you read the letters in my drawer.’ She lay quiet for a while, but presently recovered and got up to say soberly, ‘Well, Christy, I did. Where’s the harm? You’re just a couple of kids. Let her come here to stay. Send her a letter. Father’s away for a couple of weeks yet; and we can all go out together, see everything. Why you poor boy, you work so hard, you haven’t even seen Paris. What will Uncle Maurice say? Yes, you and Frankie and I will tour Paris. I’ll get Madame Jacqueline to make me
a suit after all.’

  This was all done. Frances Wilson left her brother in the hotel in the rue Chomel and came to stay with the Howards in the rue de Varenne. Emily wanted to arrange a room for her on the same floor as Christy but Madame Suzanne strongly objected, in spite of Emily’s comical remarks and dancing eyes; and she was given a room next to Olivia. Then with Madame Suzanne, Emily organized sight-seeing tours of Paris for herself with the two youngsters, leaving Suzanne at home to attend to Olivia, Giles and the servants.

  Stephen, who had gone away originally for a week with Johnny Trefougar, had stayed away four weeks and hinted that he might stay longer. Trefougar had leave of absence for ill-health and was visiting doctors in Switzerland. Evidently they were travelling about a good deal, and had even returned to France to border-towns several times. Emily and the boy had had postcards and letters from Annemasse, Vallorbe, Porrentruy (near Berne) La Chaux de Fonds, and St-Louis (Haut-Rhin over the border from Basle). Emily could not understand what he was doing, was discomfited and angry with him for the news about him she had received from Americans passing through on the way home. She was more than disturbed, though she said nothing about it, by the news brought that Jay Moffat Byrd and Godfrey Bowles, who had baited them in Hollywood, had both gone to jail in the loyalty investigations, convicted under the Smith Act for refusing to give names of leftists working in the studios and among their friends, and for contempt of court.