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Thurber Connection
written by Gazette Publisher Tom Thomson
June 2010

Vacationing in Europe

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In the spring of 1937, the Thurbers sailed on the Île de France for a vacation in Europe. James’ cherished 1935 Ford V-8 was safely stowed in the hold of the ship. The car would not only to be their primary mode of transportation, it was Thurber’s symbol of male esprit de corps and masculine competence, the good old world of cars (then more than now), a dependable and robust province of the male ego.

He also lugged along three recently published books he hoped would guide them through France. The books included John Gunther’s Inside Europe, Alexander Werth’s Which Way France, and a volume by French socialist Léon Blum. Thurber had a hard time grasping the innuendoes and political implications of this book, so he gave it to a steward. And wouldn’t you know – like an episode out of a farcical play – the steward was a French Royalist who found the book so offensive and repulsive he refused to wait on the Thurbers for the rest of the voyage.

The big luxury liner pulled into Le Havre, France on the 25th of May. They disembarked with their luggage and the car, then promptly set out on a 10 day tour of Normandy. Thurber had been to the region previously, with Althea, but this was an entirely new experience for Helen. Next, they spent three weeks in Paris, having a ball, more often than not guided around by Janet Flanner, a correspondent for The New Yorker. Inevitably, they met up with Lillian Hellman and Dorothy Parker, Americans both. The Lillian Hellman of far-out political causes, the Dorothy Parker of Algonquin Roundtable fame and wit. After listening to the pair’s fears and lamentations about the Spanish Civil War which was then in progress, Thurber shared some rich private feelings in a letter to his great friend E. B. White.

“It came to me today . . . that the world exists only in my own consciousness (whether as a reality or as an illusion the evening papers do not say, but my guess is reality). The only possible way the world could be destroyed, it came to me, was through the destruction of my consciousness. This proves the superiority of the individual to any and all forms of collectivism.”

After this choice bit of philosophical exposition, he continued in a wry fashion: “I could enlarge on all of this, but I have what the French call ‘rheumatism of the brain,’ the common cold.”

He elaborated further in another letter to White about how futile it was to wring one’s heart and hands in commiserating over the sorry plight of the world and many of its inhabitants. White replied: “I, too, know that the individual plight is the thing . . . If you have the poetic temperament you go on groping toward something which will express all this in a burst of choir music,” and with a wink and a warning, he concluded, “and your own inarticulateness only hastens the final heart attack.”

So much for these beautifully shared thoughts and observations. Such musings have surely pulled and tugged at the minds and hearts of writers since the beginnings of the written word, and Thurber and White were no exception. Especially for Thurber, being in Paris as he was, with pro-Loyalist sentiment swirling about him, the inner conflict was doubled.

After three weeks, he and Helen left the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, and the Left Bank of Paris behind, motored to the coast, crossed the Channel and drove to London where Thurber was promptly thrown into a state of bewilderment by the big city’s traffic. You can imagine: it was bad enough driving on the wrong side of the road and constantly reminding oneself that it really was the right side of the road. All of that with one good eye, a delicate constitution and, most likely, a nonstop hangover. Helen must have had nerves of steel and an unflagging sense of humor to match!

One reason for the trip to London was to visit the Storran Gallery where a collection of Thurber’s drawings was on exhibit. He believed then, as well as in later years, that the English appreciated his drawings more than his own countrymen. And he was probably right, because his drawings sold for considerably more in London than in New York City. Sales at the Storran Gallery proved to be brisk and the drawings were selling at handsome prices.

Thurber put a humorous spin on the subject. According to him, they were greeted at their hotel by one of the gallery’s directors before going to the show. “Because he had heard of my propensity for blurting out whatever came to my mind, he whispered in my ear: ‘When you go to the show, please do not whistle or exclaim at the prices people are paying.’ I promised to take it all very nonchalantly.”

The Storran exhibit included some drawings that were not for sale including Robert Benchley’s Seal in the Bedroom cartoon and Tallulah Bankhead’s Well, I’m Disenchanted, Too. We’re All Disenchanted. In the catalog for the show, Thurber had written:

“So many awful things happened to him the day he was born, he was unable to keep anything on his stomach until he was seven years old, though he grew to be six feet, one-and-a-half inches tall and weighs 154 pounds when fully dressed for winter.”

The commentary ended with the following remark: “Quick to arouse, he is very hard to quiet, and people often just go away.

(To be continued)

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