There was more of this; but Emily had not understood that Vittorio had said about Olivia, ‘what a delicious little woman’: she thought that Vittorio had said it about herself; and her strong inclination turned to passion. She was glad. She sat, looked out at the old gardens behind stone walls across the street and felt at peace.
She thought, ‘At last I know what love is; I’m a woman now. I’m not foolish any more. I know he’s been in love, I know men must love; and I feel such a deep, new, creative viewpoint. I understand. If I had stayed in America I should never have understood Vittorio. What shall I do? I don’t want to do anything. Only to love him. Of course, I can see he loves me; he’s fallen for me; it’s my energy and strangeness. I bring him something; and the money, the luxury doesn’t hurt. Men are weak. They like success. But oh, what am I saying? What a beautiful nature he has, what a deep soul always in motion, full of pity, humane understanding. And think what is required of him! Oh, Stephen is good to me but I have always felt deprived; some kind of block—and I always knew that love ought to be the crown of life. Now I have the crown, flowers, leaves, laurels, golden apples—I am covered with garlands—beloved, Vittorio, beautiful, rich, loving Vittorio!’
She lay down on her couch, put her arms over her face and fell into a waking dream, ecstatic and tender. Perhaps Vittorio too had waited for a woman like her, for her, to deliver him from the far past, the recent past, his nervous affairs with unsuitable women. She was sure he loved her. Stephen, unfortunately, seemed ordinary and bloodless compared with Vittorio. She said to herself, ‘Just like me. Emily Wilkes, in Double or Nothing.’
Emily had an open secret, her journal, Journal of Days under the Sun she called it. It went everywhere with her. It had now reached its twelfth volume. She had the irresistible duty imposed by her nature, her verbal excess and her genius, to record all her life in her great diary. In this she first wrote all that had happened to her; she recorded not only the flattering letters she had written to the rich, to kind and complimentary reviewers, the loving and generous letters to friends, sarcastic revelatory letters, tender and tough letters to editors and agents; she not only wrote all this in her journal but at times she made extracts from it and sent them to persons appropriate or not with a good deal of recklessness, devil-may-care or innocent freedom; her views of this and that; and the outcries of her passion, disappointments, their anticipations, follies and venalities.
Stephen feared this journal as nothing else. He was not allowed into her study when she was working, so he could not control her. He never knew whether his golden goose was laying golden eggs or merely reading to catch up with the children or to please Vittorio, sporting with her journal, writing letters to a hundred different people, old and new, or reading novels voraciously.
The morning mail the next day was unusually rich. All the letters produced some disturbance. Maurice wrote to say that Anna had something very special to say to them; he wanted to warn them. Another letter said that Billy and Grace Haydon, radical friends, whose paper had been closed down, were coming over at the same time as Anna and hoped to stay with them. They were two of their closest friends. They could not turn them down. Hollywood had refused one of Emily’s stories. She had been a radical and it was time she made a plain statement about her change of heart; she ought to say, to reassure editors and public, that she was finished with the reds and was ready to laugh at them, that is, in her popular writings. Another popular magazine which had paid her a lot of money at various times, refused a ‘surefire’ story. It had dug up from its files a nasty, heady letter Emily had once written to them; and regurgitated it for her to read. Letters from friends in Washington assured them that their names were on the black list with the leftists because they had deserted the Party. They would end up as ‘the fools of time’.
They had just time before Anna’s arrival to start off on the first of their European expeditions. They went to Brussels, leaving the children in charge of Suzanne and the servants.
They were always happy when travelling, spending money freely, living in the best hotels, eating in the best restaurants, eased of the many cares of established living. Not only was the Wauters couple in Brussels at that moment to guide them about, but Stephen had observed Emily’s excited interest in Vittorio: he thought she had been too confined. And yes, yes, it was true, she said: she too, just like any other woman was housebound. In Brussels the Wauters took them to a small, good place that few knew, they said, near the Grand Place where there was a special dish of mussels.
It was a small white-walled restaurant with marble tabletops and the menu written on a slate over the counter. A man dressed like a waggoner took the orders, and his wife, striped apron, straggling hair, brought the food, which was good enough. During the meal, Mernie carelessly brushing his sleeve across the dish, while spilling wine on the table, dropped mussels on his lap. Madame Wauters cried out distressfully that Mernie would catch cold; and Mernie was greatly embarrassed at the state of his clothing. They decided to take a taxi home at once. The Howards stayed after them, paid the bill and, half sick from the cheap meal, the disorder, took a taxi to an expensive brasserie near the station where they spent some time eating, drinking and sneering at their friends the Wauters.
‘Oh, well-named the Low Countries,’ cried Emily: ‘and we have got into low company. First mussels in his pants and water in his sleeve and then skipping not to pay the bill: or do you think that scene was prearranged by Madame? They have rich relatives here and business acquaintances; and who ever heard of asking people out, without taking them to a cafe first and the theatre afterwards? Oh, L’esprit Beige, I guess. Let it be a lesson to us.’
They ate with the Wauters family the next day, and again in a small restaurant which Mernie said had excellent cooking, ‘You must be careful in Brussels,’ he told them. And again there was trouble; and the bill was low. Mernie paid this time, but the price was too low and the Howards felt cheated. The third time, they themselves invited Fleur and Mernie, and to show them real entertainment, they took them to the Place Louise where was one of the most expensive restaurants in the town; and only then were they satisfied. Emily wore a new, expensive dress in water-blue, Stephen had a silk shirt and a flamboyant tie, they were in the highest spirits and were delighted to see how depressed Fleur and Mernie were. Emily had insisted upon sitting next to Mernie and at the first opportunity upset a whole glass of wine over him; when she began exclaiming in distress, oh-ing and ah-ing, and saying, ‘Oh, poor Mernie will catch cold’, calling the waiters and the maîtred’ hôtel, sending him to the washroom and sending Stephen after him, bringing him back, arranging a napkin on his lap and calling attention to his misery as uproariously as it came to her. When they thought they had better go, she commanded them to remain seated, ordered fresh dishes for them, more wine, coffee and brandy and kept looking down into Mernie’s lap and asking how he was, if he was still wet there. Fleur and Mernie were exhausted by this scene, allowed Emily to call a taxi for them (though they never took taxis, but buses) and went off in silence, with stricken faces. Emily and Stephen stood waving till they were out of sight, when Emily turned suddenly to Stephen and exclaimed, ‘Pshaw and faugh! What wretched little fleabites of people, what sweepings, what muck’ and she kicked them away and turned up the street with disgust; crying, ‘Brussels, with these worm-eaten second fiddles. We made a mistake. Stephen, from now on, we’ll accept no invitations till we find out how people spend. Oh, how vile, shabby, scrubby! I wish it had been Vittorio!’
‘Vittorio?’
‘He comes to Brussels! He’s never squalid. He’s precious, crime de la crime, rare, rare.’
‘I don’t want to go to his place and eat off thick, white, fish-restaurant plates either.’
She sobered, ‘No, we won’t do that either. Oh, how overweening we are, Stephen, unblushing, towards Vittorio, a man like that. We should be glad to wash his thick, white, fish-restaurant plates for him.’
‘Hang it,’ sa
id Stephen.
She was tapping along on her high-heels. They took a taxi to their hotel. In the taxi, she exclaimed, ‘Stephen, couldn’t we give him a decent service, for a present. We know him well enough. A fairly cheap but good dinner-service. So that you could be happy too. I’m happy just looking at Vittorio.’
‘Let’s ask Anna,’ said Stephen.
This week, when they returned, they posted off the first finished draft of Emily’s book, for which the publishers and agent were asking. To celebrate this and Christy’s birthday and to greet just once their poor friends, the Haydons, Billy and Grace, journalists who had lost their little weekly paper in New York, and Axel Oates, then in Paris, and to suit dear Anna, tired from her trip, they changed their evening party to an afternoon reception for Stephen’s mother. To this, Emily, with extensive telephoning to Brussels, invited Mernie and Fleur Wauters. Mernie was an old friend of Anna, good company, a sensible man. Mernie was fond of them, and not reluctant to combine a business trip to Paris with a visit to them; but Fleur, who was often ill, said she was not well enough to go along. Emily was elated; she had captured Mernie, eliminated Fleur, found a companion for Anna. They also invited Suzanne without whom they could now do nothing, and Christy’s new Latin tutor, Monsieur Jean-Claude, who had become very friendly and wanted to arrange a Swiss tour for them. Monsieur Jean-Claude had been told, with great vivacity, by Emily, about Uncle Maurice and his friend William, who had edited a book on Cicero; and he now understood that Christy was obliged to become a Latin scholar, especially in connection with Cicero; and that one of these days, Christy had to dazzle Uncle Maurice. Therefore, Christy (and Emily too) had now begun on selected works of Marcus Tullius. Emily often sat in on the lessons; and Monsieur Jean-Claude had been so far amused and then stupefied by Emily’s interest in and insistence upon the strength of character and uprightness of the great orator. ‘He was high-minded, resisting tyranny’—and such things she would declaim; ‘He hated totalitarian rule, his heart was free, he loved freedom,’ she said. Monsieur Jean-Claude, whatever his private opinions, was employed by this wealthy woman and he was obliged to accommodate his views to hers. So the house rang now with her appraisal of Cicero; and the tragic end of a brave and brilliant man’s life.
To the party were invited a few other English-speaking people, including the Trefougars, British Embassy people they had met at a reception, with Anna, at the Crillon. The Howards had been fascinated by the easy manners of the Trefougars, had since visited one of their parties and had them over one evening. They always behaved delightfully and with diplomatic discretion, even though Trefougar was occasionally a heavy drinker, said Stephen. Vittorio was in Paris after an absence, but too busy that afternoon to come, although Emily bombarded him with letters, telephone calls. She even sent him long telegrams to Party headquarters, saying he must come, oh, he must come, why they would either make it an evening party to suit him—or, no, they would give another party especially for him to meet dear Anna Howard, Stephen’s mother, and they invited him to an intimate family lunch, to be given by them to Anna, Uncle Maurice and William, and a few others at the Pré Catalan in the Bois-de-Boulogne, in a short time.
Stephen was annoyed at this eagerness; but Emily said Mamma could not fail to recognize his charm and breeding.
Stephen hesitated and said that Vittorio did not hesitate to laugh about western society to society dames. But that was his charm in part, said Emily; he could do anything he liked, say anything he liked, he always won their hearts. Stephen said, ‘Well, I don’t want to see Anna carried off by love or hate either for Vittorio.’
Emily was struck, ‘Love for? That would be a denouement! In a way I’d have to cheer. You mean Vittorio could charm dear Anna into giving money to the poor? Yes, he could.’
‘I am very much afraid of Vittorio,’ said Stephen smiling.
Stephen and Emily, with Christy, met Anna Howard at the airport, brought her to the Ritz, told her to rest; and that Stephen and Christy would call for her in time for the afternoon party. Anna, when she came, seemed pleased by the house, the servants, the quarter, the party and the guests. She was a tall, slight, gracefully formed woman with French-dressed grey hair, large, dark eyes and a diamond brooch on a neat grey dress. All paid court to her. She had been brought up in Paris and spoke good French. She was sixty-six and showed no intention of retiring from active life. She had now financed an archaeological expedition to North Africa for one of her cousins. The family thought her eccentric, Stephen called her crazy. He needed money so badly and she threw a ‘young fortune’ into cracks in the earth in Africa.
‘Neither the Pharaohs nor God will thank her, but the income tax will be less.’
To his mother he said, ‘Mother, you live better than I do, Christy and Olivia live better; even Giles in a sense does, because he lives on my back. And you see I’ve done what you wanted, I’ve got out of that New York-Connecticut radical set. Here I am, Anna, a dutiful son, ensconced in Paris like Maurice, like all the finest of the Howards and Tanners, except dear sister, that recognised red, who sells atom bomb secrets to the Russians and whom you like so much.’
His mother said, ‘You’re very smart, no doubt and Florence is very misguided, but remember that that money she gives to causes yearly, comes off her income tax: it’s allowed as charity.’
‘I wish I was in line for that charity, Mother. As it is I just received $1250 unexpected taxes for New York State; and they can whistle for it till I return, and am in the money. Unless you want to consider it a charity.’
His mother listened without interest.
Stephen continued cantankerously, ‘I’m as good as Florence, you should take an interest in me too. I made the headlines, when I lost that despatch case in the New York subway, containing a cheque from the League Against Racial Discrimination, the said cheque addressed to the Collector of Internal Revenue and in the sum of $8,540. That really frightened the complacent, to think the reds, for of course anyone who even thinks there is racial discrimination is not only a red but is a sour, blue cheapskate and a foreign agent, to think that people who protect Negroes, Mexes, Japs and—hush, Jews—and even possibly at some later date, Irish, English and Rhinelanders when they get lined up for fingerprints—could have $8,540 to hand out in income tax. My God! Preserve us from the rich red within our gates, the plump Russian rouble. Because it’s self-evident, no real American would protect Negroes, Mexicans, Swedes and Irish: it must be a foreigner. This is the country which is now trying to charge us some $5,000 each, without counting Christy, Olivia and so on. Even abroad we are working for the dear old USA, and its way of life. Just like Florence.’
Mrs Howard looked angrily at her son,
‘I don’t admire either Florence or you. I don’t know what’s the matter with either of you. I can’t understand why you have not my ideas nor your aunt’s ideas, not your grandfather’s ideas, but your father’s idea, about equality. In our family there is equality between us. If you shared it out with others there would be none at all, there wouldn’t be a cent apiece.’
Stephen said, ‘In a better world I might have been born a good son to you. But it’s a worse world.’
‘I want to talk to you seriously later on, Stephen. Tomorrow morning. Come to the hotel about ten,’ said his mother, turning from him impatiently.
She was soon talking agreeably to Uncle Maurice, who was getting on well with Fleur (who had come after all) and Mernie Wauters and the Trefougars couple.
The party had a good tone, Anna seemed happy. It was a success. Mrs Trefougar came up and asked a question about Mernie Wauters; Anna Howard was taken with him, ‘an interesting man’ she said.
Emily said to Suzanne, ‘Suzanne, isn’t Mernie Wauters a kind of quick worker with the women? I don’t know if he means it.’
‘I am sure he means it. I’ve known him for years. He knows it.’ I must be a real farwest hayseed,’ said Emily.
‘You surprise me. It’s so obvious.’
<
br /> Emily stuttered, ‘But—but—Oh, well, he’s not an American type. Yeah, well, those great big eyes. Of course, I like him, but not that. But look at Mrs Trefougar! She’s crazy about her husband, she told me; and look now. She’d be afraid to dance with him! She’d probably swoon.’
Suzanne said drily, ‘Oh, they swoon and they recover. I think one of the reasons Fleur doesn’t come out very often is not only that she’s in ill-health, but she’s tired of seeing the old comedy being played out. For it all comes to nothing.’
‘Nothing at all!’
‘No. It’s to make Fleur take an interest in him. She’s the one who is really of interest. He’s jealous of her.’
Emily was staggered, ‘Oh, poor Mrs Trefougar. I’m shocked at a woman who deceives her husband—but still—to be betrayed into a passion—a cheated love—I don’t know. Tell me about him.’
‘He fascinated women during the Resistance and it was both useful and dangerous. Now the accounts are cast up, I can’t say he did any harm. I know most there is to know about Mernie. And about his wife.’
‘Do you like him or don’t you?’ Emily enquired, astonished, looking at the cool and wise woman.
‘Naturally, I admire and respect him more than almost anyone except the Party chiefs.’
Emily longed to ask her if she loved Mernie herself, but she did not dare. She said, ‘I suppose it is not really wrong to get women to admire and love you. But I feel it’s wrong. I see nothing and know nothing. The most obvious things go on under my nose. But if a woman is in love with her husband—and happy—how can it be?—oh, I’m talking in circles. It’s a mystery. Let’s leave it at that.’
Suzanne laughed. Emily touched her arm and took her over to get her a drink.
‘Suzanne, how good you and Mernie are to us. We’re very lonely and as you know my dear Stephen likes good society. But with you we have the feeling that living is easy, we feel one with you. It isn’t true. We know nothing of your lives, but it seems so. I wish I could do something that would bring me nearer to you and Mernie. You tell me about your life. How can I shape mine? It’s difficult for a writer. I’m active all the time, but all the time I’m sitting between glass walls. Life is outside those glass walls. Strange fish poke their mouths at me, I see seaweeds floating without wind or current. I see it, but it’s a mystery. I must do something!’
I'm Dying Laughing Page 38
