I had never realized till then what a fine, poetic, metaphoric soul Patrick possessed.
25
The Sun Also Sets
IT WAS ONLY NATURAL that with my absence from Paris and from the daily confabulations that had been an integral part of my Merlin life for the better part of a year, my relationship both to the magazine and to Jane and Trocchi had changed. Alex too had greatly changed. Deeper into drugs, he became more and more remote, as if communing with other mortals and other worlds that were not mine. Further, he, who was much more a writer than an editor, had found a niche, perhaps a calling, with Maurice, and most of his time and energy was devoted to churning out manuscripts for Olympia. No question, he was the star workhorse of the green-garbed Girodias stable. Of all the Traveller’s Companions, Trocchi’s work was a clear cut above the simple DB. Still, it was hackwork, no literature there about which he had talked so much and himself written till then. Some of his early short stories were superb, and Young Adam was at least as good as most novels being published on either side of the Atlantic these days. One had only to read a paragraph or two of his latest work to see the talent. I had no quarrel with the dirt, you take it or leave it, but I did regret his abandoning the battle of quality. “You are wasting your time,” Christopher deplored, “diverting your energies.” Alex smiled, ever the charmer. “Nonsense. I can handle both. I have energy to spare, and the quality of my prose does not suffer. You’ll see.”
By the spring of 1954 the upcoming issue—volume 2, number 3 (we had long ago given up even any pretense of appearing quarterly)—in which at long last my (our) translation of “La fin” was to appear, still bore vestiges of my involvement, but the magazine had a whole new look, not to mention orientation. My contribution, in addition to the Beckett translation, was the appearance of the second writer I had mentioned to Trocchi the first day we met, Eugène Ionesco, two of whose plays I had seen and greatly admired that year. Daniel Mauroc was the intermediary, providing the playwright’s address. Ionesco responded to my invitation immediately. We met at the café on the southwest corner of boulevards St. Germain and St. Michel. I invited Alex to go along. By the time Trocchi and I arrived, a small owlish man, already balding, with a cherubic face and slightly bulging, naive eyes—yes, the term is used advisedly, for we quickly learned he had an almost childlike view of the world, which seemed to make little or no sense to him, that carried over into his plays—was already there sipping a glass of wine. Mauroc, in describing his theater, had used the word “absurd,” as far as I know for the first time, and it was an epithet that stuck in the years to come not only for Ionesco but also for a number of other dramatists who in the 1950s and 1960s labeled their work “anti-theater.”
We had brought along earlier issues of the magazine, at which Ionesco only cast a glance, for he had no English and Mauroc’s word was good enough for him. His two one-act plays La leçon and La cantatrice chauve were currently being performed at the Théâtre de la Huchette right around the corner—he gestured over his shoulder roughly toward the Seine—and like Godot had, after a mostly negative critical reception and correspondingly meager attendance, slowly gained both reputation and audience. “Mauroc thought La cantatrice chauve might be right for your magazine,” he said. As he pushed the manuscript across the table, the noise in the street suddenly increased by ten or twenty decibels, and a number of police vans pulled up at the intersection. Blue-caped flics—riot police—poured forth with nightsticks twirling, almost balletic if they had not been so menacing. Barricades were quickly erected at all four corners—east, south, north, west, not necessarily in that order—blocking off the streets for no apparent reason. Ionesco was paying little heed to the growing hullabaloo outside, speaking of his play as if nothing were happening, nothing in any event to disturb his inner life. He talked, expounding its virtues and at the same time expressing doubts it would ever be published in France, saying how pleased he was it might come out in English. We were, however, distracted during our meeting by the growing clamor in the streets, where the flics had now been joined—or, more properly, confronted—by banner-carrying young men and women, their numbers in the thousands by the look of it, shoulder to shoulder, probably students from the nearby Sorbonne only a block or two away, marching down the boul’ Mich singing the “Marseillaise” at the top of their lungs (Rouget de Lisle would have been proud), followed in close succession by the resounding “Internationale,” protesting what, we couldn’t tell. It took little these days to send the students from their classrooms down into the streets. Trocchi and I watched with growing alarm as the two sides girded for battle, the flics with their truncheons and, now, metal shields raised before them, an almost medieval scene, forming a seemingly impregnable wall of steel. Those customers who had been sipping or eating at the outdoor café tables had now sought refuge inside, and the waiters, casting worried glances at the vulnerable windows, which fronted on both boulevards, had barred the doors, fearing the worst. Meanwhile, Ionesco was saying that if La cantatrice chauve was too long for publication, he had a shorter play, Le nouveau locataire, or The New Tenant, that might just fill the bill.
“I think you’ll find Le nouveau locataire to your liking,” Ionesco was saying, taking another sip of the red wine before him, still apparently oblivious to the mayhem a few yards away.
“Excuse us, Monsieur Ionesco,” I said, “but we’re slightly distracted by what’s happening outside.”
He looked up, peered, and sighed. “Ah, yes, the students. They are always mécontents.” Discontented. “They should learn to know how lucky they are.”
Nonplussed by what had struck us as Ionesco’s callous disregard of the violence outside, we nonetheless agreed that the shorter play would be a nice fit, asked if we could look at it, thanked him for his time, and took our leave.
* * *
On June 22 and 23, 1954, Jeannette and some thirty other finalist violinists of the Paris Conservatory performed and presented their final programs on the stage of the Salle Gaveau concert hall, all vying for a First Prize, of which only two would be awarded. Jeannette was scheduled for the afternoon of the second day. Dressed in a pretty, demure pale green gown, she sailed through her demanding program. The audience had been warned to hold its applause. When Jeannette finished her last piece with a flourish, however, the entire audience burst into applause, several rows rising to their feet. I looked over at her mother, who was stone-faced, and Paul, who was wearing a broad smile. Our concern was, would the jury use this blatant violation of the no-applause rule against her? Jeannette quickly made her exit, as if to minimize the potential damage. Throughout the hall, the tension was palpable, both in the audience and among the young performers. At six the jury, which had retired shortly after five, reappeared to announce the results. The first First Prize is awarded to … Jeannette Medina, with highest honors. Now the applause was even louder, as the audience rose to its feet. Jeannette bowed, then blew a kiss, which I assumed was meant for me.
The next morning, it was my turn: I was to defend my long-delayed thesis entitled The Interior Monologue at the amphitheater of the Sorbonne in front of a jury and an audience. I was struck by the interesting confluence of our lives, as though these two consecutive days marked a turning point for both of us.
At precisely 9:56 on a gloriously sunny, though brisk, Paris morning, buoyed by the previous day’s triumph, I entered the grand amphitheater of the Sorbonne, which can hold several hundred scholars, and took my place behind a table beneath the imposing stage above, where sat the eminent Charles Dédéyan and two other notable sorbonnards, professors all, to test my wits and determine whether my literary reasoning was sound or fragile.
I was nervous as I walked onto the big amphitheater stage, decked out in my dark blue wedding suit, worn for about the tenth time of my six-year stay, replete with tie, a copy of my three-hundred-page thesis before me, as well as the manuscript of my secondary thesis, an analysis of one of my favorite French works, Benjamin Co
nstant’s brief but remarkable novel, Adolphe. In contrast to the several hundred at the Salle Gaveau the previous two days, this morning there were roughly the number who had attended the early performances of Godot, perhaps twenty in all, if you count the three or four clochards in the rear who had sidled in and were there not to be edified, I was sure, but to seek refuge from the morning chill. Also present were several of our friends and both Jeannette’s parents. I presented my case, only glancing now and then at my three-by-five cards on which salient points had been penned, and went on for about forty-five minutes. It seemed like hours. Then the questioning began. I had come well prepared and was surprisingly eloquent, having been grilled by Frank the week before. My thoughts on Joyce were honorably set forth, noting especially the importance of France for him and his work, and his debt to a now virtually forgotten French novelist, Édouard Dujardin, whose use of the interior monologue had inspired Joyce to use it to such great effect in Ulysses, all of which was not meant to flatter or remind the august triumvirate above me that France had long been, and doubtless still was, the mecca for so many artists and writers from around the world, who found here in Paris the intellectual climate and freedom to hone their art. After my formal presentation, it was clear from the jury’s tentative probes that Joyce was too recent an academic specimen for them to voice strong opinions, and though a fair amount of his work had been translated into French, including Ulysses, he was, though generally admired, still pretty much an enigma to these learned gentlemen. In any event, having acquitted myself reasonably well on the Irishman, I turned to Benjamin Constant, the jury curious that an American had chosen a subject so deeply French, and pleased to see that I knew both man and work, and that my admiration for both was sincere.
Virtually at the stroke of noon they declared the session over, my doctoral degree granted, with the mention très honorable—“with honors.” I had not hoped for as much. What I felt as I rose from my chair to shake hands with the members of the jury was less a feeling of pleasure than of relief. For if I had completed this doctorate, it was largely out of a sense of obligation to those who had helped fund my stay in Paris, both Senator Fulbright and the AFS. No, I could not have lived with myself if I had jettisoned Joyce. And if I had not been so familiar with his work, would I have reacted so strongly to the Beckett volumes that had beckoned to me in the window of 7, rue Bernard Palissy? Such were my ambivalent thoughts as I turned to greet the faithful few who had endured the morning session. In the back, the rest of the patient crowd congratulated me on both my fond and my forme, not to mention my syntax. We emerged onto the rue St. Jacques, tranquil and unusually warm, yet in all fairness we were just two—or was it three?—days past the summer solstice, the thirteenth-century stones of the university gleaming in the midday light. Jeannette’s parents had invited us that night to one of their favorite restaurants, Chez Allard, for a dual celebratory dinner. As I feasted on one of the best meals of my life, I kept wondering: Had these past six years been an interim or a fulfillment?
* * *
Exactly six days later, we were off to Cherbourg with Jeannette’s parents, a good six or seven hours away. By noon we had reached Caen, definitely on the mend but still showing in all too many places the painful scars of the war. Suddenly recognizing the street along which we were walking, the rue de Geôle, Prison Street, hard by the château, I realized that this was one of the stops on my Normandy journey six years before. Memories of the autobus ivre flashed before me, and I could not refrain from laughing out loud at the memory, which I was quick to explain. Could it really have been six years?
Chitchatting, we were reliving our respective triumphs as we were enjoying our meal at La Bourride, in the Old Quarter. Each of us, however, was valiantly masking the emotions of the impending departure. For Paul and Roszi, I knew, despite their reassuring smiles and good humor, the thought of seeing their only child leave was wrenching. For Jeannette, only days after our arrival, I was headed into the navy, and she would be much on her own in an unknown land. As for me, I was devastated at the thought of leaving my beloved so soon after we had started life together. A situation fraught with danger. Would we survive it? It would have been one thing to confront New York, and America, together. Was it fair to leave her to face it alone? In addition to the real sadness I felt at leaving France, which now was home, I was invaded by a sense of guilt as great as I had ever experienced. I was tearing her away from her home, family, and the beginning of her French musical career. Still, anyone who had seen us that afternoon would have sworn we were the happiest foursome alive.
Suddenly I felt a presence behind me, turned, and saw a beaming Jeannette.
“This is going to be great fun,” she said. And all my concerns vanished into the late-afternoon sunlight.
“Of course it is,” I said, smiling back, and gave her a long kiss.
Left to right: Richard Seaver; Nat Sobel, Richard Seaver, Barney Rosset, and Morrie Goldfischer
Part Two
New York, 1960s
Left to right: Richard Seaver and Samuel Beckett; Allen Ginsberg, Richard Seaver, Jeannette Seaver, Jean Genet, and William Burroughs
26
America the Beautiful
FIVE DAYS LATER, at rosy-fingered dawn, our ship pulled within sight of New York harbor. Up early, my French bride rushed on deck, where I found her overwhelmed at the sight of the skyline. Her impressions of America were based largely on American movies, and now, the skyscrapers growing larger as we approached, the reality of that new American life ahead left her numb. Flanked by tiny tugboats, we edged our way up the Hudson, our slow passage offering glimpses of deteriorating and half-empty docks, for the days of the luxury liners were already numbered, and, below the elevated West Side Highway, a scattering of tawdry buildings that, I knew, would soon dispel Jeannette’s Hollywood image of New York. But all she registered at that moment were the soaring peaks of the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building thrusting their spires defiantly into the pale blue sky.
My parents had driven down from northern Connecticut to meet us. On the dock far below I saw them waving, eager to meet my new soul mate.
I had not seen either of my parents for almost three years. Father was unchanged, but Mother seemed older, her prim hair grayer, her face paler than I remembered. But they were all smiles, hugs, and kisses, and I could see from the glances they exchanged that they heartily approved of my life choice. Jeannette had been studying English, enough to make the formal greetings and to respond to their questions with brief but often poetic replies, delivered with a wonderful Gallic accent. Father was obviously smitten. Mother, innately warm but by nature reserved, was a trifle slower to accept her new daughter-in-law, but once she did, the two bonded deeply forever.
We loaded our baggage into Father’s boatlike Cadillac, a 1953. “Mon Dieu,” Jeannette whispered as she climbed into the backseat, “c’est aussi grand que notre studio à Paris!” Good Lord, it’s as big as our Paris studio!
We set off along the West Side Highway, the towers of New York to our right, the broad Hudson to our left, the lights of the George Washington Bridge before us, and headed toward Connecticut. Mesmerized, Jeannette was moving her head from left to right. Father, usually reticent, was babbling on, identifying each landmark, reminiscing about Paris, even lapsing into a few words and phrases of French. I sensed he was excited and pleased.
When her steak was served at the Red Coach Grill, Jeannette exclaimed: “Mais c’est un rosbif entier!” her eyes bulging—it’s a whole roast beef! By her postwar European optic, that portion was more than enough to feed an entire French family. Father told her not to worry, the rest would be wrapped in tinfoil and taken along in what was called a doggie bag. I translated literally. “Lucky American dogs. You mean you feed such meat to them? Mon Dieu!” “No, no!” Father assured her, it was merely a term; the leftovers were meant for us, for next-day sandwiches usually.
Thompson, the picture-postcard bucolic village where m
y parents’ home was, with its stately white wooden houses bordered by stone walls or white picket fences dating mostly from the mid- to late nineteenth century, ours an early Victorian proudly dated 1845 by the local historical society, fronting the Village Green, made a deep impression on Jeannette. In sharp contrast to our hectic Parisian life, Thompson was both beautiful and reassuring to her. The time had come for me to buy my navy outfits, khaki for general wear, white for summer, and dress blues for winter, their shoulder boards sporting their single gold stripe indicating ensign, the lowliest officer rank. I still had great trouble adjusting, both to the uniform and to the idea.
Next: New York, searching for an apartment. We were in luck; thanks to friends who lived in the Village on Jones Street, we found a studio apartment directly below theirs that had just gone on the market. By ten o’clock the next morning we had signed the lease.
27
Join the Navy and See the World
I REPORTED TO BOSTON and learned my ship would be the USS Columbus, CA-74, a heavy cruiser newly refurbished, the shakedown cruise to take us to Guantánamo Bay, Cuba. After I had filled out the necessary papers, the executive officer, an Annapolis graduate, slight and humorless, called me in to his cabin.
“Seaver?” he said. “Yes, sir,” saluting stiffly. “At ease. I gather you spent several years in France.” “Yes, sir.” “Military attaché?” “No, sir.” “Ah, intelligence, I presume. I won’t probe further.” He looked down at his desk. “What are you doing with those ensign stripes? It says here you’re lieutenant j.g.” “I wasn’t told, sir.” “Well, get your goddamn stripes changed by tomorrow. You’ve had seven-plus years in the reserve. Don’t you think that counts for something? Time served means promotion. Says here, too, that after six months on board you’ll be promoted again, to lieutenant senior grade.” I was fast learning the logic of military advancement, for the commander seated before me assumed that during those seven-plus years I had been serving my country, which maybe I had. In my own way. He went on: “Seaver, I have a rather delicate question to pose…” “Yes, sir.” “Two officers to a stateroom,” he said. “Yes, sir.” “We have a slightly awkward situation … A new officer is reporting on board tomorrow, graduate of the Merchant Marine Academy. Would you mind rooming with him?” “Of course not, sir.” “But”—he hesitated, as if not quite knowing how to proceed—“you see, he’s a … a Negro. Does that pose a problem for you?”
The Tender Hour of Twilight Page 28
