Her blazing candor lighted up for me every part of her world. We
skirted abysses, but the language helped us wonderfully through. French
has worn tracks in so many fields of experience where English blunders
either boorishly or sentimentally. French is made for illumination and
clear expression; it has kept its purity and crispness and can express,
without shamefacedness or bungling, attitudes and interpretations which
the Anglo-Saxon fatuously hides.
My friend was dimly sensible of some such contrast. I think she had
as much difficulty in making me out as I had in making her out.
She was very curious as to how she compared with American girls.
She had once met one but had found her, though not a doll, yet not
_sympathique_ and little understandable. I had to tell my friend how
untranslatable she was. The Anglo-Saxon, I had to tell her, was apt to
be either a schoolchild or a middle-aged person. To the first, ideas
were strange and disturbing. To the second, they were a nuisance and
a bore. I almost assured her that in America she would be considered
a quite horrible portent. Her brimming idealism would make everybody
uncomfortable. The sensual delight which she took in thinking, the way
her ideas were all warmly felt and her feelings luminously expressed,
would adapt her badly to a world of school-children and tired business
men. I tried to go over for her the girls of her age whom I had
known. How charming they were to be sure, but, even when they had
ideas, how strangely inarticulate they sometimes were, and, if they
were articulate, how pedantic and priggish they seemed to the world
about them! And what forests of reticences and exaggerated values
there were, and curious illogicalities. How jealous they were of their
personalities, and what a suspicious and individualistic guard they
kept over their candor and sincerities! I was very gay and perhaps a
little cruel.
She listened eagerly, but I think she did not quite understand. If one
were not frankly a doll, was not life a great swirl to be grappled with
and clarified, and thought and felt about? And as for her personality,
the more she gave the more she had. She would take the high risks of
friendship.
To cross the seas and come upon my own enthusiasms and ideals vibrating
with so intense a glow seemed an amazing fortune. It was like coming
upon the same design, tinted in novel and picturesque colors of a
finer harmony. In this intellectual flirtation, carried on in _musée_
and garden and on quay throughout that cloudless April, I began to
suspect some gigantic flattery. Was her enthusiasm sincere, and her
clean-cutting ideas, or had she by some subtle intuition anticipated
me? Did she think, or was it to be expected of me, that I should fall
in love with her? But perhaps there was a touch of the too foreign
in her personality. And if I had fallen in love, I know it would not
have been with herself. It would have been with the Frenchness of her,
and perhaps was. It would have been with the eternal youth of France
that she was. For she could never have been so very glowing if France
had not been full of her. Her charm and appeal were far broader than
herself. It took in all that rare spiritual climate where one absorbs
ideas and ideals as the earth drinks in rain.
She was of that young France with its luminous understanding, its
personal verve, its light of expression, its way of feeling its ideas
and thinking its emotions, its deathless loyalty which betrays only at
the clutch of some deeper loyalty. She adored her country and all its
mystic values and aspirations. When she heard I was going to Germany,
she actually winced with pain. She could scarcely believe it. I fell
back at once to the position of a vulgar traveler, visiting even the
lands of the barbarians. They were her country’s enemies, and some day
they would attack. France awaited the onslaught fatalistically. She
did not want to be a man, but she wished that they would let women be
soldiers. If the war came, however, she would enlist at once as a Red
Cross nurse. She thrilled at the thought that perhaps there she could
serve to the uttermost.
And the war has come, hot upon her enthusiasms. She must have been long
since in the field, either at the army stations, or moving about among
the hospitals of Paris, her heart full of pride and pity for the France
which she loved and felt so well, and of whose deathless spirit she
was, for me, at least, so glowing a symbol.