I'm Dying Laughing: The Humourist

by Christina Stead

  He was very glad to hear it. She said she felt free, now; she had never felt better. It was true, with the way all these people wrote to her, she had been under a cloud. Now the sky was clear,

  ‘We are free. And never let us get into such a mess again. The record is wiped clean, Stephen. We’re OK.’

  ‘It must be Anna’s doing,’ said Stephen. But he was very glad. But their year was full of ups and downs; their festivals prepared by Emily were scrappy, strange and made them unhappy. Emily spent much time in her cellar workroom and was beginning to look like an old woman, though she was not yet forty, and still had her great strength.

  At the beginning of April, 1950, Stephen received a message from the Embassy. They wanted to see him at his convenience. He went without misgivings, because of the good treatment Emily had received. He spent all day there and for the next two days went to them and was very well treated, very politely and with good taste, just as Emily had said.

  He returned home on the third day calm, gay and boyish, reposed.

  ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘Very well. They were very pleased with me. I did my duty to my country. I am a patriot, a good citizen; I am not a man without a country. They have written into my record: good citizen.’

  ‘That’s swell, absolutely marvellous. I knew there was nothing for you to fear.’

  ‘You knew? You thought! And I know why you thought so!’

  ‘Why?’ she said truculently.

  ‘They wanted my co-operation and I gave it—just as you did. In the same way but better.’

  He was smiling, debonair.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Yes, I talked. I sang. I talked and sang for three whole days. I gave them names, all the names I ever heard of, boys I knew at school and at college, librarians, doctors, nurses; it was astounding what names came to my memory, as I began my new and original system of total recall. Of course, I gave names of Party people that they know very well and my friends; they know they are my friends—and Vittorio, a great contribution—and Jacques Duclos and Earl Browder; and Godfrey and Jay, who are already in jail, in fact, mostly I gave names of those in jail. I did a good job. There is nobody I ever knew I did not name; and I don’t think they can make anything out of that biographical dictionary!’

  ‘Why are you so pleased?’

  ‘I am pleased because there is no more ambiguity. I know what my future is; I know what has to be done. What is to be done? I know. What a relief. Yes. I suppose it is.’

  ‘I am astonished, Stephen! I never thought you would do that.’

  ‘You see, they told me that you had already done it, so I thought I’d make the record perfect. The renegade husband and wife: the perfect American couple, loyal to each other and to the country.’

  ‘Why are you so cynical? Now we are free. No more questions. They can ask no more of us.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m not cynical. I am satisfied.’

  Stephen was very busy during the month, not only working at the Gaudeamus Press, but spending some of his evenings with Christy. Emily was annoyed with him for neglecting her and in rebellion spent much of her time in her basement workroom, working fitfully and passing long silent hours there. Because of her lonely restlessness and partly to defy Stephen, she bought whisky and vodka and took them down there, where she would sit drinking with herself and her phantasms, sometimes talking aloud to them, or uttering defiant or miserable exclamations. But Stephen remained calm and tender, helping to bring her to herself when he was at home. Stephen saw the Trefougars at their home and visited others; but he would have no one at the house. In the middle of the month Axel and Ruth Oates were in Paris and invited them to dinner. Stephen made an excuse, Emily burst out in ribald laughter at their ideas of entertainment, but was anxious to have them as guests. She was very tired of being alone. But Stephen said he had no time then for entertainment: after May 1 she could have guests. He was tied up until then. He went also to see Uncle Maurice, ate with him and spent a whole evening with him.

  Uncle Maurice had a large apartment on the avenue Président-Wilson, near the museum of orientalia, the Musée Guimet. He himself had a small, costly collection, which he intended one day to donate to the museum, to be the Howard Gift. Uncle Maurice’s apartment had two large rooms on the square, kitchen quarters, bathroom, bedroom and large but cosy sitting-room where he entertained his intimate friends. He was very fond of Stephen. They did not understand each other, but were friends. The staff of two, man and wife, took a small round table into one of the front rooms, and the two men ate there. The meal was not meagre nor scanty but prudent. Maurice always dieted and Stephen, since his operation, was infirm and dyspeptic. They had anchovies in flaky pastry, an omelette, chicory au gratin and apple compote with meringue on top, wine, coffee, brandy, a little of each. Uncle Maurice was about fifty, with a Rhineland face, short nose, receding forehead, bright blue eyes and a slash across his cheek and jaw on the left side, which, fortunately, made his face interesting. He had the mild manner of an alert, kind boy who knows the world is cruel but is prepared to laugh at it; he was charming, gentle, humane. As soon as the coffee and brandy were in and the door shut, he began to complain to Stephen about his servant Hortense who had been with him, as everyone knew, ever since he returned to Paris from New York. At first she had been very good to him. She still looked after him and cooked well; but her picking and stealing had at last become exorbitant. He laughed helplessly. She now had her husband in the kitchen all the time. True, he helped. But instead of going home for meals—they had a little room, with conveniences, in a workers’ hotel—he came early and stayed late, eating all his meals there. Maurice produced some figures he had noted in his diary. The diary was the sort that had at the side of each day’s notes, a place for noting the expenses; Received, Disbursed. Maurice had not noted anything of the kind, but he had noted in the back, 220ft. a day on the average.

  He said, ‘Tonight we had a sort of gala meal. I eat more frugally; because that is my way. Even when William dines with me, we eat frugally. He likes that. When we want a little more, we usually go out to Chez Francis, not to burden Hortense. But she charges me 220 francs a day for food. Don’t you think that excessive? Of course, she is good to me. She brings me flowers from their little cottage in the suburbs. They have recently bought a little cottage which has plenty of ground and he is a good gardener. She brings me flowers every Monday. Of course, they don’t work for me Saturday or Sunday, so I have to cook eggs for myself; and William and I go out.’

  With some pleasure he showed Stephen a few flowers in two small vases, some drooping: it was Thursday.

  ‘I don’t like to speak to her; but I do think she is charging me excessively. Dale was here and he liked her cooking, but he said he felt sure they were robbing me. But how can I say, “You’re robbing me?” And what other way is there to deal with it? I ask you, Stephen, because you live in Paris and you have several servants; you know what to do.’

  Stephen was not very helpful. They talked about Maurice’s problem a few minutes and were interrupted by Hortense, who sailed in with nervous belligerence and took away the things.

  ‘Anything more, sir?’

  ‘Oh, no, thank you, Hortense: we can manage for ourselves.’

  ‘Then we will go in a few minutes, sir.’

  ‘Very well, Hortense.’

  ‘Have you any orders for tomorrow, sir?’

  ‘Well, Monsieur William is coming and we might have coquilles St-Jacques, he likes them and it is Friday.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Anything else?’

  ‘What do you say? Fromage a la crème. You know, Hortense.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Well, goodnight.’

  After they heard the serving couple depart, close the front door, Stephen said, ‘I wanted to ask you a favour, Maurice.’

  ‘Anything I can do.’

  ‘Maurice, it’s about Emily. I’m not happy any more and I’ve decided to leave her. But I can’t tell her directly. I
have bought a small car today and I am going to tell her I have to make a business trip to Switzerland. I’ve done it before; she won’t think it strange. I’m dropping everything, because everything binds me to her, the business, the house, the children. I am sorry about Christy and Giles, but I can’t do more than I have done. I haven’t the strength. I have spent a lot of time with Christy this month. I’ve always felt he was like a son to me because he is like me. I am sorry he is. I had a long talk with him, Maurice, about Fairfield and Mother, not disrespectful, I assure you. I find that he is quite decided on his own account, not to marry Fairfield. He told me the astounding news that he has a girl in mind to marry, a young French girl, an artist who sings folk songs in a cabaret manner. I’ve been with Christy to hear her. She is really good, Angele—she’s at the Lune Rousse now, I think. I forget. I’ve met her. She’s genuine, a nice girl, not a gold-digger. He certainly won’t marry Fairfield if he’s in love with this girl. You’ll like her, Maurice: so will William. I know you appreciate genuine artists. I don’t say he’ll marry her. They’ve fixed it for him to go to England in the fall and study for one of the English universities. They’ve decided his French will never be good enough. Though it was good enough for Angele. Never mind. I’ve asked Christy to be good to Emily. He loves her, I’m sure, though he’s afraid of her—a volcano like that is not for a small boy. And Christy will be a small boy for some time to come. Then he may marry a volcano. There is Fate standing ahead of him, like a giant woman. Fate seems friendly, even maternal. And like all mothers, you never know what turn she is going to give to the play … So I have spent most of my time with Christy. He has promised to be good to his mother, Emily that is, and to his brother; by that he means Giles. Olivia is in safe hands.’

  Maurice was silent for a while. He sipped his brandy. He said, ‘Did you meet a woman you like better?’

  ‘You may take it that there never was and never will be another woman for me. Anyone who has known Emily as a husband has had everything a woman, any woman, any woman past or present, can give. And suffered all that a woman can make you suffer. You cannot be a husband to Emily and think of other women. There are no other women, when she is there. Are there other winds about when a tornado is in progress? And afterwards when someone says, of a wild wind, “Quite a breeze!” you think, what ignorance of natural forces!’

  Maurice nodded. ‘And what will you do then?’

  ‘I am leaving her. But I don’t want her to suffer in any way. She can’t help what she is or what has happened. She has caused me disappointment and misery, I can’t say how much; too much to talk about. I’ve been always horribly unhappy. Yet I know if I were young again and she came along again, I would take her. This must be fate, Maurice. Otherwise what is it? And I suppose, with me, not the perfect husband for her, she has been horribly unhappy; and what she has become is partly my fault. But I can’t have the wife she is now. She is so outrageous—Maurice, lying there in the basement, drunk and dirty, living on drugs, rushing out shouting, insulting me—I won’t go on with it. I know I have a duty to her. Unluckily, I have deserted higher duties; I am getting quite used to being a bastard. I don’t want to get too used to it. It’s better for me to go. I just want to ask you if you’ll go over there and help her when she finds out I have left her. I’ll leave you a couple of letters, one for her, one for Christy, and I want you to give them to him when they find out. I’ll see they find out very soon. I hope you’ll do it for me, Maurice. I won’t ask anything more than that. I know you like and appreciate Emily. Many people do. But the trouble is they’re afraid of her too. They don’t understand her. I do. I have. I would have made a good captain. I rode out the typhoon. But too many typhoons wear a man down. That is all.’

  ‘May I ask what decided you, Stephen?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Then you will?’

  ‘Of course. I will be good to Emily.’

  Stephen got up, went across and kissed Uncle Maurice on both cheeks.

  ‘A French salute. Thank you, Maurice.’

  After a few words, Stephen said to Maurice, ‘There will be no money troubles involved. I’ve settled on Emily the $3,000 I get every quarter from Anna. That is my money and I can give it to her. I’ve arranged for her to get any profits that arise from my participation in the Gaudeamus Press. She won’t starve, even if her writings don’t sell. She has great hopes for The Monster, as she calls it. I’m not sure. Marie-Antoinette—she’s identified herself now with that heroine—seems to me a bit out of date for Hollywood. Now we have our own wars and social problems. She may be bitterly disappointed; but she will never starve. Nor will my son.’

  ‘But where will you be, then?’

  ‘Yes, well, Maurice, I decided to make a clean break. I had better take off for South America or the South Sea Islands or anywhere, where she can’t find me; for she is very determined, very tenacious and I can’t resist her. Even in the state she is now, in the hands of doctors, of a doctor, one of the few bad ones, of bad friends, of—what has happened to her, she would find me—I could never get away. So I am taking a run-out powder. I am not proud of myself: it is not brave. But then my whole history shows that I am not brave.’

  ‘But you’ll let me hear from you?’

  Stephen smiled very gaily, ‘Oh, I’ll try to.’

  Stephen, towards the end of April, told Emily that he had made sure that Christy would walk in the huge Paris May Day procession—some Americans were doing it; and he too, Stephen, intended to do it.

  ‘Stephen! My God! And the Embassy!’

  ‘They didn’t make me give my hand and seal on May Day processions. They never thought of it. I just want to make sure Christy feels we are with him.’

  ‘But we aren’t!’

  ‘We’ll see. You never know with children. It is better to believe in them to the end.’

  As to Ruth and Axel Oates, he refused to let Emily see them or to have them at the house or to eat with them; but early one morning, just after breakfast, he went to see them. He had learned that they wanted to go again to China; a first-hand report on China as it was at that time, would help Axel’s magazine. He had learned too that they could not do it because of the expense. He went to see them and took with him his own cheque for $1,000, which he gave them for their trip to China. He said, ‘You don’t know: you may not come back. You may forget us. I am sure you will. This is not to make you remember. It is just a cheque. There are millions of cheques. This is one. You owe me nothing. On the contrary I owe you something.’

  As he was going, he bent to kiss Ruth’s cheek, then with a tender look, he refrained, stood up straight and looked sweetly at her.

  When he went home he told Emily all about it. Emily was shocked.

  ‘You gave them a thousand dollars! We need it, Stephen. Well, heigh-ho. OK. They’re decent people: they’re friends. To hell with expenses. I don’t see why I couldn’t see them and say hello. I haven’t had friends here for a month. We could have given them a good dinner, something they don’t often get.’

  ‘Do you remember the dinner at the Escargot de Bourgogne, if that’s the name?’

  ‘I couldn’t forget it.’ She laughed insolently.

  ‘Do you remember how we wondered how Daniels could eat with us, after he’d stabbed us in the back or so we’d heard, denouncing us as Trotskyists, renegades?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said sulkily.

  ‘I don’t feel like eating at the same table as Ruth and Axel, when we’ve both given their names to their enemy.’

  She smiled, coaxed, ‘We had to do it, Stephen. They’ll be all right; they know how to get by. It doesn’t mean anything. You know they knew their names, they knew them long ago.’

  ‘Just the same, I can’t eat with such people. You know the story Vittorio told us, the time he was in concentration camp. The children were waiting to go to the gas chamber; but something was held up, so the young Nazi soldiers got the order, Play with
them, amuse them. And they did, with a good heart, with the best spirit, glad I suppose to be kind for once. They played with them, tossed the ball to them for forty minutes, though everyone was shivering with cold; and then the fault was fixed. They stopped playing and the children went to the gas chamber. And Vittorio, who told so much—for once his voice faltered.’

  ‘Well, what about it?’

  ‘I prefer not to be out there playing ball.’

  24 THE MONSTER

  ON MAY DAY, THOUGH Emily was dubious, Stephen marched with Christy from the place de la Nation to the Bastille. The two Howards waited on a café terrasse till the great flood of Algerians, wearing the green of Islam, poured into the square, not in fours or eights or twelves, but as a flood; and right behind them, the Howards fell in, though the workers coming after were French metallurgists. Stephen said to Christy, ‘Christy, this is the happiest moment of my life: the best; also the most foolish.’

  At the end of the march, the Howards separated. Christy had friends to meet. Stephen went home, kissed Emily and Giles, shook hands with the servants and said he had an appointment out in the country, not far away.

  Passers-by notified local people and also the local police that there was a car in a distant field, burning fiercely, so bright that although it was clear daylight, no details could be seen. The police found that the car had burned totally and that there had been a man inside; and the man must have been drenched in gasoline to burn like that. But at last they identified the car and so the man. It was Marie-Jo who answered the telephone. She telephoned Suzanne, who spoke to the porter; and in a short time Suzanne, and Christy with her, were over at the house in the rue de Varenne.

  Evening came. Emily now knew all that was known. She sat in an armchair in the sitting-room on the first floor, flushed, crying and gay and excited by all the attention being paid to her. To everyone who entered, she hospitably offered a drink. On a console table near the door stood two bottles of gin, one of vodka, two of scotch whisky and bottles of other drinks, with an ice-bucket and other fixings. She obviously was uneasy when anyone stood or sat without a glass in his hand. Suzanne was there, Maurice, the Trefougars, all sitting down and drinking, when Douglas Dolittle and his wife and Desmond Canby, summoned by Emily by telegram, came through the door. Emily greeted them all with smiles and tears, waved them to the bottles; Christy, on his feet, stood by the telephone. It rang—a Paris acquaintance was summarizing politely her shock and her sympathy.