Although she told Dr Park she was taking no other injections nor medicines, she was still taking her pills, the synthetic drugs she had first got in Hollywood and which called up the energy she needed to lead her arduous, passionate life. When she came home to New Canaan from the doctor, she talked for hours to Stephen, relating everything to him, what people she had met, what they had said, all with vocal effects, smirking fun, ridicule, exhortations as if to them, analysis, all that had happened to her during the day, what she had read, felt and what strange incidents occurred, the streaming, storming thousands of New York streaming towards the black hole of their destiny and fabricating inadvertently the history of the day. She was a wayward casual scandalmonger, or as she said ‘sca-mongerr’ and would relate with amused contempt and curiosity too, some family break-up.
One day she said eagerly, ‘Oh, how can a woman betray her husband, how can she break up her family? Surely if she does that she has no sense of honour, nothing woman left! I don’t see how she can look at people: and think of looking across the room at your husband—or, golly, looking at a man sitting on the other side of your own hearthrug and thinking you had—you’d blush so—there’s no word for it. And how could he look at you? The shame, his and yours, thinking what you had done, betrayed everything, your whole world. I can’t understand it. Surely everyone would know by your face; and how could you meet his eyes? I don’t really dare to think about it, it’s so unnatural. How can she ever get back to home life again? Perhaps as a result of much, much suffering—but you could never get back to that beautiful country where you were so happy. But what indignity! How could that ennoble? And then forever to have a nasty secret. Surely, somehow, the children would feel a change? Oh, I think about it and can’t understand it. Sometimes at night, those times when you wake up and worry—I shudder, I’m quite frightened and I blush. I just think of meeting those eyes—and I know it would be impossible.’
He stood looking at her, considering. Here she laughed, shaking herself all over like a young tree, ‘But the other day I met Hortense at Longchamps and I said, “What happened to you, Hortense? You’re absolutely shining, like smoke and fire, you’re radiant, you’re ringing like a Chinese porcelain bell.” And she told me she had a lover. I said to her, “Does he know?” I meant Carlo, her husband.
‘“Husbands know most things, but I don’t know about this; I don’t care,” she said. Think of Hortense so devoted to Carlo! We know she’s devoted. I only know for me it would be impossible, unthinkable. My honour, all my happiness would be lost, that feeling I have—I think—of being good bread with a golden crust—it would be burnt in the oven to ashes.’
She stretched out her arms, her legs, embracing as much of what she saw, as she could in that instant. ‘Here I know I can be happy.’
There were others there, friends from the district, she had met at the Parents’ and Teachers’ meetings, who listened without rapture; and indeed with slight grimaces of disdain, boredom, disbelief and surprise.
Emily broke out again, that she loved those people with perfect home lives; the Jews where the mother was a queen, the father a king; the Irish, happy, wasteful, hard-working, joyous, knowing how to sing and act; the Germans, such devoted family people with pious fathers, simple-hearted mothers, close to their own blood, jolly healthy children singing folksongs and going on nature tours; the French, who under the Code Napoléon, made the family a revered, honoured thing, a thing that stretched from end to end of life, like an unbroken chain; the Italians, who died on the battlefield with the words ‘Mamma mia’ on their lips and who had really invented the devout family idea, mother, father and child.
‘And what about us, the Americans?’ said Mrs Wetherall, mother of two little boys who lived across the road and who were Giles’s playmates.
Emily laughed and said lustily, ‘Oh, my mamma public! That good old respectable pie-eating Middle-Western family with papa and mamma, taking colonic irrigations and the children twice as big as anything in Europe—but the Russians maybe—the dreary, thick-skulled, fat-backed, smug, pig-eyed hog-calling Middle West. I guess I like it too, when I’m not with my family. Oh, to hell with aesthetics. I guess we’re all right, too, with our orange juice and schools and bathrooms and pie contests and baseball, as good as the rest, if not better. Yes, because civilization is built on the family. That’s how it began.’
She told them about her new book, making them laugh with the episodes she was putting in it. It was called The Life of Murphy, a family story. They had high hopes for it, thought it would sell to the movies, Broadway, serialize. It ought to pyramid, found the family fortunes, pay for a trip to Europe and for buying a better house here.
She had finished four chapters and sent them to her agent. They had been turned down, surprisingly, by two magazines which had been her surefire markets. American small-town family life, simply, touchingly, gaily treated. What could be wrong? She asked their guests and after the guests had gone—they went early in this middle-class village—she and Stephen sat discussing it. She had had a long talk with her agent, this very day, on her trip to town.
They wrung their brains and later, turned in their bed. Her humour and simple humanity, her formula, pathos, good sense and the drop of honey, were all in it. Lincoln said that the bitterest truths could be made palatable with a drop of honey. She and Stephen saw to it that there was a pot of honey in each book. Sometimes, the drop of honey was a good Catholic neighbour, a journalist of the knight-errant sort, drunk but loyal, an uncle who was the Deus ex machina; and the characters never deviated from good American family morals, nor from loyalty to the country and flag. The certainty of the cut-and-come-again sales arose in their observance of these rules.
Was it turned down because one of the characters was a freethinker and a trade-union fighter? Yes, but he was an old man, a bachelor, eccentric; surely, the town atheist was always allowed. Was it because they had made the jokes about the small-town neighbours a bit acid, a little near the bone? Because in one aside there had been a complimentary reference to a Russian scientist? Next morning at breakfast they fine-tooth-combed every line, every paragraph of the four chapters in their carbon copies, and this heart-rending, exhausting anxiety went on each day of that week, when no news came from the agent and each evening when Emily had finished her work, each night in bed.
‘My God, what will become of us if you’ve worked out your vein, if they’re tired of it, if you’ve lost the touch?’ said Stephen in an agonized voice, at the end.
Emily said harshly, ‘It isn’t that. Sales aren’t automatic. But they are stealing my market, they’re copying from me and there isn’t room for all. You know that the last two best sellers are straight steals from me. Oh, what suffering! What a struggle! Stephen, I love you and I often say to myself that I ought to kneel to you for your goodness, understanding and patience, you’re a true helpmeet, a real husband—how did I get a man like you?—and yet, Stephen, perhaps we’d be happier if you were a simple salesman, or would go and work for your family at an ordinary desk-job.’
‘I can’t do it. I’ve always worked for myself.’
‘But Stephen, I don’t write what I like! I write for the crappy, shameful money-magazines and I write an LCD type of thing. I’m not writing for myself, but for them—for you and the children.’
‘I can’t, I won’t—get another man! Throw me out, I’m not worthy of you, get another man,’ Stephen cried.
What was to be done? Only work, work, work, closing her eyes to the drudgery and calling upon her enormous strength and contempt for disaster.
When she had finished the fifth chapter and with tears, insults, shouts and, near to blows, they had both revised it, to see that all the ingredients were there and nothing to harm, nothing about atheists, Russian science, or anything ‘but family hokum, a belly-laugh or two and a shovelful of sentiment’, they sent it to the agent. At the same moment one of the first four sketches sold.
At once their sorrows di
sappeared. They began to laugh. They went to New York for an expensive lunch. In the restaurant they saw Somerset Maugham, two or three editors, a publisher. They had to sit at a table for six and with them were two young men known to Stephen; one of them, an editor who lived in New York, was named Davy and was very attractive to Emily. Stephen took Emily to buy a bracelet and they were very gay on the way home.
Emily asked, ‘What did Davy mean? He said, “There’s Bennie Tuck-away with three vgb’s.” Then the Trotskyist husband, your old friend, said “One vgb, one fgb and one ngb.” I’ve been trying to figure it out. I know it isn’t blonde.’
Stephen blushed, ‘Never mind; and the Trotskyist husband isn’t my old friend. Everyone who’s disagreeable I notice is my old friend.’
‘I saw another man there I recognized, a friend of Dr Park. His name’s Alfred Coriolis, he’s a refugee, a laboratory worker and he’s been here since the fall of Paris.’
She grinned.
Stephen said, ‘Ugh! Refugees now in my happy home. Don’t look so coy!’
She continued with excitement, ‘Stephen for shame! I meet him every Thursday in the afternoons at Dr Park’s.’
‘A rendezvous every Thursday!’
‘He’s a patient; he’s always there waiting when I am.’
‘So now he naturally comes to lunch with you and your editors.’
‘He’s a European with taste and refinement. He’s had the most amazing adventures with women,’ she said, laughing.
‘What gall!’ said Stephen.
‘He’s had these adventures because he’s innocent, he’s naive about women. He can’t go far with them because of a heart condition, at least I think that’s what he meant. He lived with, that is alongside, a rich woman for six weeks. She regarded him as a mascot. She lived in a villa at Menton and took him to the Casino at Monte Carlo every day to bring her luck. She bet a certain amount, a limited amount, and always won, every day. On the last day she played for him, she won a hundred thousand francs and she gave him ten thousand. That was a bit mean, wasn’t it?’
‘Give me the address of this bastard and his telephone number. I’ll kill him. What was he doing in the Ritz? Did he have a woman to pay?’
‘He was with a woman but he paid,’ said Emily.
‘I don’t want any mascots with heart trouble hanging around my wife.’
It passed off in fun and the Thursday patient did not occupy Stephen; but Emily’s face was bright next Thursday morning. When she returned, Stephen asked about the Mascot and was told new adventures. She spoke excitedly, brimming over, keeping nothing back. He had been a well-known scientist and society man in Germany, had foreseen the rise of Hitler and had guessed what would happen when Hitler’s party began to decline at the polls.
The Mascot said to Emily, ‘I knew the international financiers would put him in by force and, after trying unsuccessfully to persuade my colleagues to leave, I myself left and went to Paris.’
At some time before this, he had known a wealthy woman who wore emeralds, always emeralds. He met her through the laboratory, where one of the technicians had done a TB test for her. The society woman asked him to go to Switzerland with her as her personal physician—he was a qualified doctor. He had done so.
Emily said triumphantly, ‘But as a physician, that was all.’
The woman paid all expenses and his salary. It only occurred to him afterwards, when she sent him home after five months, that she had been disappointed.
‘I’d be disappointed too, paying a gigolo for five months,’ said Stephen.
Emily exclaimed hotly, ‘He’s naive, innocent. It never occurred to him that women would pay for—h’m—love, as it were—’
Stephen said irritably, ‘And he tells you all this about his innocence. You’re a foolish little girl, he found a nice American little girl. Don’t let me see you taking him off to the White Mountains to cure your bursitis.’
Emily expostulated, ‘But he is innocent. What reason could he have to deceive me?’
‘Ma mither does constantly deeve me
And bid me beware of young men;
They flatter she says to deceive me;
But wha can think sae of Tarn Glenn?’
said and sang Stephen.
‘But he knows I’m married with four children and a public character and a believing communist. I couldn’t do anything—out of the way, dishonest, could I?’
Stephen got up and kissed her, ‘At least you’re a very sweet, young, innocent fool, my own idiot wife. To hell with the Mascot. He’ll never get you. Tell him that next time you see him.’
The adventures of Dr Coriolis were unfolded week by week. Stephen became sulky and bit his finger when they were told, but nothing stopped Emily’s babbling. Breathlessly she related every detail.
‘Oh, Stephen, isn’t it fascinating? Life is different, it’s much gayer, tougher, stranger, more complex in Europe. Here it’s just dull corruption, drink, drink, fornicate, fornicate, no love, no romance, no adventures, no mascots. Once when Alfred was in jail—’
‘Oh, he was in jail, too?’
‘Yes, why not?’
‘I can’t think why not. How did he get out?’
She laughed, ‘A woman came to see him—’
‘Of course. He was guileless and couldn’t remember who it was.’
Emily laughed with delight.
‘That’s funny. Yes, he didn’t remember her name and she said, “Don’t you remember me, councillor?” He had been a town councillor, a liberal, and wanted a rent restriction on slums, or slum-clearance, I forget which-his own family owned slum properties—and he went about making speeches and the other landlords framed him. The woman said, “I’m Countess Werreli” or some such moniker. He said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I remember you.” She said, “Don’t you remember the woman in black who stood up in the gallery and threw you a bouquet of red roses when you made your last speech, when the police came in?”’
Stephen said nothing but stared at Emily. Emily continued, ‘This countess went to another man who had loved her as a girl and said, “Don’t you remember me?” He said, “Yes.”’
‘A better memory than Alfred I see.’
‘And though it was years since they had been in love, he got Alfred out of prison for her. Alfred called upon her at one of her at-homes, took tea, thanked her for the roses and the other service, bowed and never saw her again.’
‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ said Stephen.
Emily went on chattering. Stephen took to walking up and down the room. Finally, he said, ‘Emily, I’m trying to think of my Roosevelt book. I’ve done ten pages today but there are two or three I ought to revise.’
‘Oh, very well, I’m sorry,’ cried she and left the room in a huff.
After this she said no more about Coriolis. If Stephen said, ‘Did you see Coriolis?’ she would answer impertinently, ‘Yes, I did.’
Stephen was ashamed and encouraged her to talk about him. He said, ‘I do understand, Emily. You ought to have got this out of your system when you were fifteen. But you were working too hard.’
Another week he said, ‘Is Coriolis a friend of Dr Park?’
He was an old friend, from Europe.
‘Why don’t you invite Coriolis and Park down to our next barbecue? Maybe the mosquitoes will eat them both.’
Emily hemmed and hawed, brightened and said she would ask them. They accepted the invitation. Emily began running about the house like a luminous beetle, shining, flashing back light, busier than ever before. Whom would they ask? Who ought to meet these brilliant Europeans? Axel and Ruth Oates, Max Wilvermine, Edward Nonesuch the chess champion (Coriolis played chess), dear Anna, Maurice—all their best, hand-picked guests, with one or two other friends who had lived in Europe and would make Park and Coriolis feel at home. Stephen helped with the preparations, allowed the extra expense without grumbling.
‘How good you are, Stephen, to me!’
‘I�
��m not really good at all. I’m a bastard.’
‘But you’re so good to me, I know you don’t really like these two.’
‘I don’t know them.’
‘I’m a dope, I suppose,’ sighed Emily.
‘You work hard and I’d be a criminal to say no to you. And then I’ve been a husband much longer than you’ve been a wife. I ought to try to make you happy.’
Emily sat down and looked at Stephen. Stephen looked at Emily. A serious silence fell. After a moment, Emily, with a sober expression, got up and went into the kitchen. He soon heard her bustling, commanding, laughing; and the servants’ laughter and loud chatter. He sat still for a moment, thinking. Presently he got up and, going into his study, started looking gravely at the last pages of his manuscript.
The party was a success. It was a warm Saturday, slightly cloudy and damp; this the only hitch, for the damp brought out the insects. While Stephen prepared the barbecue, Emily went to the station twice, once for the foreign doctors, and Hortense and Carlo, once for Anna and Maurice.
On the way up the station ramp to the car, Emily took Hortense’s arm and said, ‘I’m so glad you came. I want to see you. I want to tell you something.’
Ahead of them were the two dark, middle-aged men. Emily’s eyes moistly lighted, ran to them and back. Hortense, a fair pensive woman, with a brusque manner, said, ‘You told Coriolis you loved him.’
‘Yes. How did you know? I wrote to him this week.’
‘I knew it.’
‘How did you know?’
‘It’s obvious.’
‘It’s obvious?’ Emily chortled.
She was very excited all through the day.
Carlo was one of Stephen’s oldest friends, a short, plump New Yorker with round head and face, who loved Europe and would have been living there then, but for the war. Emily walked the two doctors round the field, then went off with her arm through that of Coriolis.
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