A letter to a mother

The book

Street View version of the hospital, chapel far right

Wikipedia version

Continuing my delving into Simenon’s life, I have now read his letter to his mother (reference 3), which takes the form of a sort of monologue to his mother on her death bed, written and published getting on for four years after the event. A short book of just over 100 pages. A nicely produced, paperback book which comes with some family photographs and a handy chronology of a busy four years in Simenon’s life: death of his mother, suicide of his daughter, the last Maigret (one notice of which to be found at reference 4) and then switching from writing novels to writing autobiography.

Curiously, I have not been able to find out anything about the publisher of this book. Searching for 'carnets omnibus' - with either Bing or Google - does not produce anything of interest. Apart from Amazon describing it as a mass market paperback, which does it, to my mind, scant justice. But what about the hat? What an extraordinary creation to be marching the streets of your town in. Presumably just the thing at the time, well over a hundred years ago now.

A book brought to me by a company called Momox, in east Berlin, rather boxed in by railways but just a few hundred yards north of the Spree, seemingly operating out of either a flat or what looks like a repurposed factory. Haven’t quite taken the time to sort it all out on Street View. Schreiberhauer Strasse 30, 10317 Berlin for the curious. A company which sports two managing directors, one of whom is designated the speaker. Haven’t quite taken the time to sort that one out either. Via ebay.

It seems that Simenon, accompanied by Theresa, the companion of his later years, went to Liège when his mother was on her deathbed, visiting her twice a day for the duration, that is to say a week or so. In very the same hospital, as it happens, at which Simenon had served as an altar boy when young. A hospital run by nuns in his time, and including a chapel. Heritage bits aside, now up for demolition. With the Hôpital de Bavière of Liège presumably having been a slightly more modest version of the Hôpital universitaire la Pitié-Salpêtrière which we visited in Paris back in 2007. See the snaps above, also references 5 and 6.

He tells us that as an altar boy he got two francs a month, part of his duties being carrying the cross and ringing the bell at extreme unctions, a duty he did not care for. On the other hand he got 50 centimes for each absoute, 50 centimes which came from a different budget and which made a welcome supplement to basic pay. As far as I can make out, an absoute, literally absolution, is a short form of the Catholic Office for the Dead. And by way of comparison, pocket money from his grandfather was 10 centimes a week.

Having had what seems like a difficult relationship with his mother, on this evidence he makes his peace, if not with her, with her memory. He comes to accept that her chosen destiny was to break free from her impoverished childhood – her father ruining himself with drink and by countersigning the cheques of a drinking friend (an error one comes across quite frequently in the novels of Trollope) – and to end up with property, pension and respect. And she got there, by dint of going short, of hard work, by taking lodgers and by taking a chap with a Belgian Railway pension for her second husband. A pension which reverted to her on his death, after what sounded like a very unhappy marriage. The sort of marriage in which the parties write messages to each other rather than talk. But then we only have Simenon’s account – and he was rather put out that his father, albeit dead, had been displaced. Another part of all this was her refusal to spend the various monies which Simenon gave her over the years. Her refusal to dress up, to dress decent at least, for her visits to his various mansions.

We learn that his mother's father was from Prussia and her mother was from the Netherlands - so neither of them Belgian by birth. Which gave Simenon's mother something of a language handicap when she went about her business in Liège and which before that might have resulted in teasing as a child, teasing which perhaps had an impact on her development. A heritage which might account for what has struck me in the past as Simenon's rather relaxed attitude to German occupation and occupiers: on the whole, just ordinary people doing their job, not monsters. While the cynic might say that the Germans continuing to pay royalties on translations might have more to do with it. But on that point I have no information.

Along the way, a nicely drawn portrait of a death bed in a Catholic hospital of fifty years ago. One is reminded that Simenon knows his trade, a trade which he had had struck off his passport after he gave up writing stories in 1972.

An interesting read. Even if one is troubled from time to time by the thought that Simenon is being economical with the truth.

PS: searching for ‘Salpêtrière’ reminds me that different search tools take a different line with accents. Care needed!

References

Reference 1: Je me souviens – Simenon – 1945.

Reference 2: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2020/06/memories.html. 

Reference 3 : Lettre à ma mère – Simenon – 1974.

Reference 4 : https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2019/07/the-end-of-beginning.html. 

Reference 5: https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/H%C3%B4pital_de_Bavi%C3%A8re. A right pain having to retro-fit all one’s accents onto an Anglo-Saxon alphabet.

Reference 6: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/2007/10/paris-15e-continued.html.