Imaginary Friends
Page 7
MARY: I could never do that. And not that it matters, but they wouldn’t understand. Not in my world.
MARY stands and walks over to a table. We see a witness stand and a table on the other side of it.
We had two arguments to make in court. One was that Lillian Hellman was a public figure. If you’re a public figure, you’re expected to take more criticism than if you’re a housewife.
She sits down at the table. LILLIAN enters and walks over to the other table.
LILLIAN: A public figure, according to my lawyer, is a person who assumes roles of special influence in the affairs of society. I don’t try to influence anyone but my friends—
MARY: And the second argument was that you cannot treat hyperbolic language as if it’s intended to be taken literally. But, of course, I did mean for it to be taken literally.
LILLIAN: Exactly. Which is why I sued you.
MARY: Here’s what I don’t understand—didn’t you know she was going to turn up?
LILLIAN: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
MARY and LILLIAN sit down at the tables on either side of the witness stand. And now we hear a gavel pounding.
ANNOUNCER: The case of Lillian Hellman, plaintiff, against Mary McCarthy, defendant.
MARY: I call Muriel Gardiner to the witness stand.
ANNOUNCER: Do you swear to tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?
The spotlight hits MURIEL GARDINER in the witness stand.
MURIEL GARDINER: I do.
MARY’S LAWYER: State your name, please.
MURIEL GARDINER: Muriel Morris Gardiner. Dr. Muriel Morris Gardiner—
MARY’S LAWYER: You are a doctor of—
MURIEL GARDINER: I’m a psychoanalyst.
MARY’S LAWYER: Could you tell us a little about yourself?
MURIEL GARDINER: I was born in Chicago in 1901. I was the heiress to the Armour meatpacking fortune. I was graduated from Wellesley College and studied at Oxford. I then went to Vienna to study psychiatry at the Freud Institute. This was in 1934. My first marriage had just ended, and my daughter came with me to Austria.
MARY’S LAWYER: Can you tell us what happened to you as war approached?
MURIEL GARDINER: I was a socialist, and I became increasingly concerned as the Nazis came to power. And I was in a unique position—I had both American and British passports, and considerable wealth. So I joined the anti-fascist underground, and I was able to help a number of people escape from Austria. I fell in love with a man who was a leader of the resistance, and we were married and returned to America just before World War II.
MARY: Have you ever met Lillian Hellman?
MURIEL GARDINER: No.
MARY’S LAWYER: When did you first hear of her?
MURIEL GARDINER: Soon after I came back to America. She was a well-known playwright. And for a while we had the same lawyer.
MARY’S LAWYER: In 1941 Lillian Hellman wrote a play called Watch on the Rhine. Did you see it?
MURIEL GARDINER: No, I didn’t.
MARY’S LAWYER: Did you know that the main characters in it were an Austrian resistance leader and his American heiress wife?
MURIEL GARDINER: Really? I didn’t know that.
MARY’S LAWYER: When did you hear about Lillian Hellman again?
MURIEL GARDINER: It must have been about 1972 or 1973. A friend called me on the telephone and said had I read a book by Lillian Hellman called Pentimento? I said I hadn’t. And she said did I know Lillian Hellman? I said we’d never met. And the friend said, “You must read this book, Muriel. She has stolen your life.” It was all very dramatic. So I went out and bought a copy of the book, and I read the chapter in it that was the one she was apparently referring to—
MARY’S LAWYER: The chapter called “Julia”?
MURIEL GARDINER: Yes.
MARY’S LAWYER: Could you tell us about that chapter, in your own words?
MURIEL GARDINER: Well, it’s about a woman Lillian Hellman was friends with, a woman named Julia—
MARY: Was Julia her real name?
MURIEL GARDINER: No, according to the book, Lillian Hellman changed her name. Julia was a rich young American woman who’d gone to live in Austria to study with Freud—
MARY: At the exact same time you did—
MURIEL GARDINER: Yes. She began working in the anti-fascist underground—
MARY: At the exact same time you did—
MURIEL GARDINER: Yes—
MARY: And she, too, had a daughter—
MURIEL GARDINER: Yes, she did, a daughter named Lilly—
MARY: After Lillian Hellman. Presumably the daughter’s name was not changed.
MARY’S LAWYER: Please continue—
MURIEL GARDINER: At a certain point in the story, Julia asks Lillian Hellman to bring some money into Germany that’s to be used to smuggle people out of the country. Which she does. In a fur hat. And she meets Julia at a restaurant, and they have some caviar, and Lillian gets back on the train and goes on to Moscow, I believe.
MARY’S LAWYER: According to the story, what happened to Julia?
MURIEL GARDINER: She was killed by the Nazis.
MARY’S LAWYER: And what happened to Julia’s daughter, Lilly?
MURIEL GARDINER: Killed by the Nazis.
MARY’S LAWYER: After you read “Julia,” what did you do?
MURIEL GARDINER: Well, first I thought, “Who knows? Perhaps …” So, on my next trip to Austria, I asked my friends if by any chance they knew of any other American woman involved in the anti-fascist underground.
MARY: And did they?
MURIEL GARDINER: No. So, when I came home, I wrote Lillian Hellman a letter.
MARY: And did it say, “You’ve stolen my life”?
MURIEL GARDINER: No, no, heavens no, not at all. And I didn’t write her the letter right away. But it kept happening. People kept coming up to me and saying, “Have you read this story? It’s your story.” “You must be Julia.” And so forth. So I wrote Lillian Hellman to say that I was struck by the many similarities between Julia’s life and my own and couldn’t help being curious because I had never met her Julia. It was very polite, I assure you.
MARY’S LAWYER: Did you receive a reply to your letter?
MURIEL GARDINER: No, I didn’t.
MARY’S LAWYER: Did you ever hear from Miss Hellman?
MURIEL GARDINER: Yes. Several years later. She telephoned. Out of the blue. Well, not quite out of the blue. First her psychoanalyst called.
MARY: Her psychoanalyst?
MURIEL GARDINER: Yes. I didn’t know he was her analyst. He was a doctor I knew slightly. He said he was calling on Lillian Hellman’s behalf to ask me to deny that I was Julia. By then my memoirs were about to be published, and there had been some publicity—
MARY: Some articles saying that you seemed to be the basis for Julia—
MURIEL GARDINER: Yes.
MARY: And how did you respond to this doctor?
MURIEL GARDINER: I said I would have to disappoint Lillian Hellman, because I had never claimed to be Julia, so I could hardly claim not to be. A few days later the telephone rang again, and a voice said, “This is Lillian Hellman.” She said she wanted to meet me, perhaps we could have lunch. I said that I was sick in bed, which was true. She said that perhaps she would come to New Jersey to see me, and she said, “I would like to bring with me a very charming young man I am sure you would enjoy meeting.” Well, I assumed—perhaps incorrectly—that he was a lawyer, so I said that if she was bringing a friend, I might have a friend there, too. I’m afraid it got a little silly. A few days later she called again. By then I had pneumonia, and I told her I would have to postpone the meeting. And she said, “I wanted to explain to you why I never answered your letter.”
MARY: What was her explanation?
MURIEL GARDINER: I don’t know. You see, she had trouble hearing me, and I had trouble hearing her, so she said she’d call me back and hung up.
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br /> MARY: When did she call you back?
MURIEL GARDINER: I don’t think she ever called me back.
MARY: I have just a few more questions, Dr. Gardiner. When you lived in Vienna, did you ever smuggle cash into the country for use in your activities?
MURIEL GARDINER: It wasn’t necessary. In that period, it was very simple to do bank transfers.
MARY: And what happened to your daughter?
MURIEL GARDINER: She lives in Colorado.
MARY: Thank you. [To LILLIAN .] Your witness.
LILLIAN: My witness? She’s your witness. And you’re welcome to her. Look what you’ve done—a courtroom scene, you had the audience on the edge of their seats. You could hear a pin drop. And then your witness takes the stand—“I wrote her a letter,” “I couldn’t really hear her,” “I’m afraid it got a little silly,” and how does it end? It just dribbles away in a gigantic anticlimax.
MARY: But what about what she said? What about her story?
LILLIAN: It’s an amazing story. It’s remarkably similar to mine, but I told mine so much better, don’t you think? Someone had to tell her story.
MARY: Are you admitting you told her story?
LILLIAN: Of course not. But what if I did? Muriel Gardiner had thirty-some-odd years to tell her story. And did she? No. She just sat out there in New Jersey letting a perfectly good story go to waste. And then my book came out, and she finally told her story. Thanks to me. She got a book contract, thanks to me. And she finally wrote her book, and guess what? It’s boring. The woman can’t tell her own story.
MARY: She doesn’t need to tell her own story—or to be famous, or celebrated, or lionized. She is, forgive me, a good person.
LILLIAN: But she’s not a writer. [To MURIEL GARDINER.] You are not a writer. Sorry.
MURIEL GARDINER: I suppose that’s true. I’m not a writer. [Stands.] I’m a psychoanalyst. And our time is up for today. But may I say something to you both. [To MARY.] Look at you, Mary. Someone once told you a lie, a terrible lie, so you made a religion out of the truth. And it turned out to be your blind spot, because you never understood how subjective and elusive and abstract truth is—you simply thought that if you could prove someone was telling a lie, you’d won. [To LILLIAN.] You, on the other hand, witnessed a traumatic version of the primal scene, and then you were persuaded to lie about it. So you spent your life telling lies and expecting to be applauded for it. [To them both.] It all seems quite hopeless. If only there were a door to slam. Good-bye.
She walks offstage. The two women watch her go. A beat.
LILLIAN: Is she gone?
MARY: I think so.
LILLIAN: A perfect example of the limits of Freudian analysis.
MARY: I couldn’t agree more.
LILLIAN: Of course, there was no trial.
MARY: None at all.
LILLIAN: I died before there could be one.
MARY: And that was the end of that. The case never went to court. But by the time you died, Muriel Gardiner’s book had been published, and everyone knew you’d made the whole thing up. And not just anything. You stopped Hitler. You, Lillian Hellman, stopped Hitler and saved the Jews with your little fur hat.
LILLIAN: But you didn’t win.
MARY: I destroyed you.
LILLIAN: And yet the only reason you’re here is because of me.
MARY: That’s not true.
LILLIAN: What if it is? What if that light on your face—[She points to the spotlight.]—is shining only because you’re up here with me? Who are you, anyway? You’re what’s-her-name who made the mistake of picking Lillian Hellman for an enemy. You’re that writer I sued because you were so mean—
MARY: That’s not why you sued me. You sued me for the fun of it—
LILLIAN: I do like a good time—
MARY: You sued me to bankrupt me—
LILLIAN: How could I have known you’d saved so little money?
MARY: You sued me to give yourself something to live for—
LILLIAN: All of the above. I was old and sick and blind and looking for a reason to go on getting out of bed every day, and you were as good a reason as any. I sued you so you would be awake at three in the morning, like me. I sued you so that when you looked in the mirror and saw another line on your face, you would blame me for it. I sued you so that when you went to the doctor with the next awful thing wrong with you, you would see me smiling through the X rays. I sued you to shorten your life. Did I shorten your life?
MARY: Yes. You did.
LILLIAN: Good. I’m glad.
MARY: And I’m glad I outlived you. Although I didn’t want you to die. I was very disappointed there was no trial. I wanted you to lose in court.
LILLIAN: You said that at the time, and even your friends were horrified.
MARY: There’s no satisfaction in having an enemy die.
LILLIAN: I brought out the worst in you.
MARY: I was your undoing—
LILLIAN: You were nothing more than an irritation—
MARY: I was your nemesis—
LILLIAN: You rarely crossed my mind—
MARY: You wanted to be me—
LILLIAN: You wanted what was mine—
MARY: I had a charmed life—
LILLIAN: I had a third act—
MARY: I ruined your third act—
LILLIAN: I was your third act—
MARY: Liar!
LILLIAN: Bitch!
They look at each other, hatred burning. They grab each other. And then they kiss.
MARY: I hate you.
LILLIAN: I wish you were dead.
MARY: I am.
LILLIAN: Even so.
A beat.
MARY: I’m leaving.
LILLIAN: So am I.
MARY: I don’t have to take this.
LILLIAN: Enough is enough.
MARY: Where do you think you’re going?
LILLIAN: Anywhere but here.
MARY: Anywhere? But here we are.
LILLIAN: You and I.
There’s nowhere to go.
Stuck—
MARY: Together—
LILLIAN: Forever.
MARY: What did we do to deserve each other?
LILLIAN: Everything, apparently.
A long beat.
MARY: Where did Goethe write “Choose your enemies well”?
LILLIAN: He didn’t. I just made it up.
A moment between them.
MARY: You never did say who Julia was. All you ever said was—
LILLIAN: Miss Hellman will reveal who Julia was at the right time.
MARY: Well, tell us now. We’re here. We’re listening. [When LILLIAN doesn’t answer.] She was you. She was the person you might have been if you hadn’t been the person you were.
LILLIAN: Who would you have been? If they hadn’t lied to you. For instance.
MARY: Hard to know. A better novelist, perhaps. [Re: Julia.] She was just a story.
LILLIAN: I’m just a story. So are you. The question is, who gets to tell it?
A beat.
Was there ever a moment we could have been friends?
MARY: Hard to imagine.
And what happened to the U-boats?
LILLIAN: To the U-boats? What do you think happened?
MARY: They collided.
LILLIAN: Absolutely. They collided.
MARY: And one of them was destroyed.
LILLIAN: Possibly.
MARY: Both of them were destroyed.
LILLIAN: Possibly.
MARY: Both of them were damaged—
LILLIAN: And both of them survived.
LILLIAN AND MARY: [Together.] Possibly.
MARY: But which one was it? In real life? And don’t tell me there’s no such thing. Don’t tell me there’s no such thing as the truth. I don’t believe that.
LILLIAN: I know you don’t.
MARY: I believe in the truth.
LILLIAN: I believe in the story.
The light
s go down onstage, and LILLIAN and MARY stand there.
Behind them, on the scrim, we see two lists.
On LILLIAN’S side: “Works by Lillian Hellman,” and a list of her twelve plays and four memoirs.
On MARY’S side: “Works by Mary McCarthy,” and a list of her twenty-six books.
BLACKOUT.
TIMELINE
LILLIAN HELLMAN MARY MCCARTHY
1905
Lillian Florence Hellman, the only child of Max and Julia Newhouse Hellman, is born in New Orleans on June 20. “I was the sweetest-smelling baby in New Orleans,” she says years later.
1911
The Hellmans move to New York, but Lillian and her mother spend six months a year living with her two aunts in their New Orleans boardinghouse.
1912
Mary McCarthy is born in Seattle on June 21, the eldest of Roy and Therese (Tess) Preston McCarthy’s four children.
1918
The McCarthy family goes to Minneapolis to visit Roy McCarthy’s parents. Roy and Tess McCarthy die of influenza within a few days of their arrival. Mary and her three brothers are taken to live with their great-aunt Margaret and her new husband, Myers Shriver.
1923
Mary moves back to Seattle to live with her Preston grandparents.
1925
After two years at NYU, Hellman drops out and goes to work for publisher Horace Liveright as a reader. On New Year’s Eve she marries Arthur Kober, a theatrical press agent.
1929-33
McCarthy attends Vassar College. A few days after graduating, she marries Harold Johnsrud, an actor. Years later she recalled her wedding night: “As we climbed into the big bed, I knew, too late, that I had done the wrong thing. To marry a man without loving him, which was what I had done, not really perceiving it, was a wicked action.”
1930-31
After moving to Hollywood, Kober becomes a screenwriter, and Hellman a reader at MGM. One night during a party at Musso and Frank’s on Hollywood Boulevard, she meets Dashiell Hammett, a former detective and author of The Dain Curse and The Maltese Falcon. They spend the night together, sitting in a car in the restaurant parking lot, talking about books. “A short time later,” Hellman wrote, “Arthur and I separated without ill feeling and I went back to New York.”