I'm Dying Laughing (33 page)

‘Where is she?’ enquired Emily.

‘Oh, she’s staying with her relatives, squires who ride to hounds, and all that, in a very unfashionable part, I assure you; oh, but Manthea doesn’t care, she likes dogs and horses in any part, and she was brought up that way. There’s an old castle somewhere, all falling down; old retainers falling to pieces, rattling their gold teeth, starving to death; ghosts rattling their false teeth, but where the ghosts hung out, it’s fallen down; nowhere to haunt, poor devils. They have rooms to live in and they don’t bother to repair anything. And it’s not good enough to become a national monument. Wonderful girl, Manthea. You must meet her.’

The Howards picked up his bags from the midtown hotel and took him home with them, rejoicing.

‘We’re grateful to you, Des. I thought the aftertaste of that banquet with the harpies’ shit all over it would stay with me for a full week,’ said Stephen.

Desmond laughed, ‘Think nothing of it. That’s just social talk. They’re simpler over here, that’s all. It’s
la bouchotte.’

‘What’s
la bouchotte
?’

‘An American noticed a French friend taking a little spray of hair out of his pocket and smelling it. “What’s that?” “Zat eez ze pubic air from mes amies. Eet smell so sweet and eet ees so fine. Eet remind me of many lovely zings.” The American is very much impressed. Next time he meets his French friend he hauls out of his pocket a bouquet tied with rope and the size of a bunch of leeks. “You see! I did like you.” “What ees zees
bouchotte
?” “Well, friend, I did like you. But yours was too small. I like something I can appreciate.”

Des had many stories, but he did not tell them in a string. He placed them. And the Howards began to call things American
la bouchotte.

They told him their friends Axel and Ruth would be over.

‘We’re glad of it. We’ve so many things to decide. And the Oateses, like you, are outside, but inside, inside-outside, and that’s the only way you can help us.’

The next morning they told him all their troubles.

He murmured, ‘I know, I’ve heard.’

‘Where did you hear?’

‘In London somewhere.’

‘Oh, of course, we’re already internationally infamous,’ cried Emily. ‘In that case we can go right ahead. So what do we do? The Oateses want us to go to Europe as soon as we reasonably can, remembering we have a family of very refained children to bring with us,’ said Emily.

The Oateses had come over. It was a hot, sunny day. They sat inside in the large airy living-room, decorated with broad flowered cretonne, light curtains and Cézannes, had long drinks in front of them, and Stephen displayed again his fears; that he would not be happy in a foreign country, that he might feel like a traitor, that it was not right to desert the country, the cause, the friends he had, in trouble.

Emily pooh-poohed all this, ‘We’re not traitors and we can have friends everywhere. Communists have friends everywhere.’

But Stephen did not want to fight, to join anything. He wanted to rest: to be a communicant, but to rest. But he wanted it to be known to everyone that he was not quitting.

‘I don’t want to be thought of as a traitor. Do you know that when I was a boy I wanted to be President of the United States? I thought it was the noblest thing any man could be. To be thought of as a quitter, as leaving the United States—and the cause, too—that would be the end. Nothing—my wife and children, success, family, money—nothing of that would mean anything to me. That’s my honour. That’s my soul. It is. There would be no future. It would be the black day:
dies irae
.’

‘Why worry about it? We’re not going to be traitors,’ said Emily.

Des Canby, who seemed embarrassed, though perhaps, Emily thought, by their candour and simplicity, cleared his throat and said gaily, ‘Well, you’ve had so many chances to step out and you didn’t, why think about it now? You just want to step out for a while. Good idea. Have a holiday.’

Emily said, ‘Oh, yes, indeed. We’re still on that all-stations train. That omnibus. How many stops has that train got, that started at the Finland station in March 1917? At every whistle-stop people got off. Not us.’

Stephen said, ‘Romantics and mystics and people like ourselves looking for new energy, a new aim from the revolution. All there with a personal aim. Well, we’re still on the train that started from the Finland station.’

Des seemed bored. He emptied his glass and looked at the drinks table. Emily got him another drink. He drank it thirstily and turned to them,

‘Ah, the omnibus! The crimes of the Soviet Union! I know the full calendar. The ones that dropped off at each station as you put it, throng like all the dead of the world. I think about the dead. The dust we walk on and breathe must be the dust of dead men since the beginning of the world, mustn’t it? Well, that’s how it is with the tribes of the awakened. Those who woke up one day and found the Soviet Union had betrayed them. Do you know how often the Soviet Union has betrayed?’

The Howards were embarrassed now; but the Oateses began to laugh. Axel said, ‘Well, I know. March 1917, Lenin went through Germany in a sealed car; hence he betrayed the Allies and democracy.’

Des said, ‘Right! And February, 1918, the Treaty of Brest Litovsk, Russia abandoned her allies and became the servant of kaiserist imperialism!’

Oates laughed; he said, ‘And March 1918, Lenin dissolved the Constituent Assembly and in mock democratic elections was revealed as the new dictator. May 1918, Lenin in public said he regretted the assassination of the German Ambassador von Mirback, which proved Russia was lickspittling kaiserist imperialism.’

They all began to shout and crow and to throw dates and events at each other.

Said Stephen, ‘And 1918
passim.
For example, Lenin’s book,
State and Revolution
demanded the dictatorship of the proletariat, dictatorship, you see, not liberty—’

‘I waited months to get that book: it was the title,’ said Emily.

Said Stephen, ‘The betrayal of everything sacred in socialist democracy. Kautsky cried for war. And what happened in 1919? Russia failed to invade Germany, a clear case. She abandoned the world proletariat. 1924, Lenin is murdered, Stalin takes over the party machine, the State does not fall to pieces as all are hoping; and we have a great weeping and wailing for the betrayal of the greatest revolutionist, Trotsky. All the capitalist states weeping because the only true revolutionist does not get into power. A fine scene.’

Des said, ‘1923, the party purge—’

Oates said, ‘And 1926 the Soviet constitution, a fresh betrayal, for it gave more votes to the industrial workers in the cities than to peasants; this betrayal of democracy was too much for the liberals.’

Emily said, ‘And 1927, Trotskyists expelled from the Central Committee; crucifixion of the old Bolsheviks, they cried. The revolution was betrayed definitely this time. 1928, Trotsky was expelled from Russia, Stalin became a grisly murderer, though no one was shot. And then, and then—in the USA and elsewhere began the legend, the real legend. Emma Goldman, old trouper, leading anarchist, could not bear the Russian tyranny and started violent propaganda against Russia and she suddenly was adored by the middle classes; and after living miserably and precariously as an outlaw, she sold her books. And Spiridovna and Matushka, the mother of revolution, a social revolutionist belonging to the
narodniki,
all the old fighters, the romantic revolutionists who had shed so much of their own blood, didn’t recognize the revolution once it was organized as a state. Yes, they got off the train in shoals at every station, giving the ticket-collector their paid-up tickets to the real revolution; and settled down—bought little houses in the suburbs, on the way. At each whistle-stop they found the social truth.’

‘I shall go on with that train to the end, the bitter end,’ said Stephen.

‘Where will the end be?’ asked Emily.

Ruth Oates was drinking her drinks, laughing often, but saying no word. Emily said in an aside to her, ‘I didn’t think of giving up my ticket, but it was, a shock to me when the Soviets stopped legal abortion. The mother, not the State, should be the one to decide that.’

‘Oh, I agree with that,’ said Ruth Oates.

The three men were still laughing heartily, throwing dates and historic events, long famous, to each other. Emily listened to them a moment; said, ‘And 1934, I remember that. It worried me at first. It was the era of the artists-in-uniform cry—people crying their eyes out over artists!—as if anyone ever cared for artists in or out of uniform! But the crocodile tears!’

‘And in 1936, in 1937—
milk e tre, milk e tre
,’ sang Des Canby.

The men went on talking, Ruth listening; but Emily had sunk into reflection.

Towards the end she listened to them again.

‘In the Pacific war, she failed to declare war on Japan, leaving us to bear the brunt of the war. She won the war, she could not have done so, but for large American lendlease aid and she is showing total ingratitude to the only country who saved her from extinction, the USA.’

Axel said, ‘And what about the twenty-five million to forty million slave labourers—figures varied with passions—exterminated or worked to death in prison camps, the biggest slave system known in human history, not excluding the Romans and the Nazis?’

Emily said slowly, ‘Well, honestly there have been moments when my heart failed. By golly, what a canticle you have made! We talk about the crimes of the USA, but, well, with that list, put that way, we’ve got a shining morning face compared with them—at least you can’t blame readers of the morning papers for thinking so. And to think we’re losing our shirts and our face, standing up for such a nation, such betrayers of all that’s dear to the romantic hearts of the parlour pinks. It’s quite a record, isn’t it? It wouldn’t look good set down in black and white and pasted on the walls of the town. But we all have a terrible record, looked at that way. Think of the British. Well—heigh-ho! History doesn’t bear scrutiny!’

They sat a long time over lunch, discussing the family problems of Emily and Stephen; and in the afternoon, while Emily was working, and Stephen out with the children in the car, the Oateses had a talk with Des Canby out in the garden, as they walked up and down from the riverbank to the orchard, or sat in the garden seats. The weeds were high and ripe, the autumn leaves falling. They were old friends, they talked about a lot of things. The Oateses were going to Antwerp as soon as they could get passage on cargo boats. There were few people going to Europe at that time. Desmond Canby was returning to England the following week, for the marriage of ‘an old girlfriend’.

‘If I’m not there, I’m not sure they’ll marry. I have to go. I’m best man.’

The Oateses expected to sail about the end of the year. They begged Des to talk to the Howards and make Europe attractive to them, press them to go soon. Desmond asked why. Axel and Ruth were both quite frank.

‘The last few months their names keep coming up. They’re going to be called before the Investigating Committee very soon. We know this. They can’t stand up to it. You see the way they live? The American dilemma is tearing them apart and will tear each one to pieces, if they stay here. Something very bad will happen. How do you think they will stand up to days of hostile pestering? One of them will break, if not both. It would not only ruin them with their friends but smash them. For what? Let them go. Insist on their going, Des. You can do it. Say you’ll look out for them. We will, but then we’re poor and without name or fame. You’ll have more influence, son of lords and ministers!’

The keen, dark, jaded face of Des Canby smiled. He chattered in his most Oxford manner; but he promised, ‘I agree, I agree. I see your point. I’ll talk to them.’

The Howards listened to them all; were tempted and then enthralled. It was what they had had in mind and it was such an easy way out.

‘People in Europe have seen so much history, no nation has ever been always in the saddle, they understand failure and terror, they aren’t like the Americans, who can only win and, if they don’t, wring their hands in bleak despair. You’ll be all right there. No one will question you or your motives. You can live out your lives happily and return home when the trouble is past.’

This was the theme of their conversations for the next week and when Des left for England, they went to the boat to see him off. They gave him a bottle of brandy, some other presents, were giddy and gay and called out, ‘See you soon.’

They meant it.

They discussed Emily’s pregnancy too. Stephen said, ‘If we are going to Europe soon we simply can’t have the baby.’

There were long discussions. Emily cried. But after Des Danby left for England, she had an abortion and she convinced herself that it was right, for she had read a book or spoken to someone who said, ‘All foetuses that come to nothing, the abortions, are defectives. They would not abort otherwise. It proves that there is a defect.’

And when this operation was over, she and Stephen had a discussion about the inconveniences and embarrassment of her being a woman. She refused to have a hysterectomy, quite a fashionable operation then. She said, ‘Without my sex and womb, I’m not a woman, my character would change, I’d be nothing and I wouldn’t want to live. I’m a woman all ways. I like it; and I won’t have that.’

Stephen found her a surgeon who ridiculed her ideas, ‘That’s superstition, that’s an old wives’ tale, that your character changes.’

She felt she knew better. ‘I know where my feelings spring from, not only the brain, but from everywhere, I am myself everywhere.’

But they found another way, another operation in which the fallopian tubes were twisted so that no more ova would pass into the womb and she would no more become a mother. This she endured. Because of this perhaps, after this, she suffered many pains; another operation. She said, ‘The doctors have got their hands on me: I’ll never be free of them. Doctors have never been a good thing for me.’

She was still in bed from an operation, this time an appendectomy, when the Oateses sailed for Europe, travelling on a cargo boat, a rocking toy of shallow draught, built hastily for war purposes only and soon to be laid up forever in some weedy harbour. The tall bare masts rocked against the dim stars over a stormy Atlantic and the master was without storm warnings, weather services having ceased during the war and not yet been restored. But the Oateses, Axel a reporter, for his own business, Ruth for him, and a few Europeans, long stranded in the USA, were pleased to return to the bleak, hungry countries, where coal was scarce, milk blue, baths rusty and houses cold; and where some of the quays, docks, streets, city squares, looked still as they had the day the Nazis left them. The Oateses took with them a few valises and a trunk; and in Ruth’s purse was a memorandum from the Howards.