Questions and Answers

Sixty three years ago today Gertrude Stein died at the age of  72.  Alice would live alone for another twenty one years.

Several years ago I wrote a short piece called “Alice: A Reverie, July 27, 1946.”  On this anniversary of Gertrude’s death, I include it here.

Alice: A Reverie, July 27, 1946

“Then the whole afternoon was troubled, confused and very uncertain, and later in the afternoon they took her away on a wheeled stretcher to the operating room and I never saw her again.” – the final sentence of  Alice’s 1963 memoir, WHAT IS REMEMBERED

Who was at fault? Who was at fault? Who was at fault?

We were in the country with Joe Barry.  Gertrude Stein did not feel well – her stomach, just a bit of indigestion.  And now where was she? Gertrude Stein was dead, somewhere in the American Hospital.

I sat in the waiting room.  The doctor came and told me Gertrude Stein had died.  He asked if there was anything he could do. I said no, not now.

After some time, I asked the nurse at the reception to call for a taxi from the hospital to rue Christine.  We drove through Paris, but I did not see Paris. We stopped once so that I could send several telegrams to tell people about Gertrude.

Basket was waiting with Madeleine.

Where is Miss Stein, Mademoiselles Toklas?

Miss Gertrude Stein is dead, somewhere in the American Hospital.

Madeleine cried and asked if it was all right for her to go home.  I said yes.  Come back on Monday, I said, but not too early.

Basket begged for some food.  I removed my hat.  I lit a cigarette and went to the kitchen.  Basket ate as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.  I gave him some more food.

What should we cook? I said.

He looked up for a moment and then licked the empty bowl.

It was a Saturday.  So for tomorrow I will cook and cook and cook, I said.  Later, I will write a few letters.

I cooked all night.  Basket slept on the floor in the kitchen.

I moved to my desk in the front hall just as the morning light streamed through the cracks in the shutters.  I put out the envelopes and paper to write the letters.  I could not write.  Writing would come later.

I took Basket for a short walk in the still, Sunday morning.

When we came back, I made a cup of tea, which still stood on the sideboard when I woke up a few hours later.   The church bells had awakened me that Sunday and I thought, Gertrude Stein is somewhere in the American Hospital.  Sunday’s supper was ready waiting in the kitchen and Gertrude Stein was waiting in the American Hospital.

Who was at fault?

Questions. No answers.

COPYRIGHT HANS GALLAS ©2009