A Story of Neutrality in Our Square ONE of the notable sporting events
of Our Square is the nightly chess duel at Thomsen's Elite Restaurant.
Many a beer, not a few dinners, and once even a bottle of real champagne
won and lost, have marked the enthusiasm and partisanship of the
backers. Personally I prefer David's cavalry dash as exemplified in
long-range handling of doubled rooks, but there are plenty who swear and
bet by the sapper-and-miner doggedness of Jonathan's pawn manipulations.
The contestants have been known as David and Jonathan to Our Square for
ten years, except for the late, melancholy months following the combat
which broke off all relations and left the corner table at Thomsen's
Square vacant. Since then the light-minded--such as Cyrus the
Gaunt--have called them David and Goliath.
David is a little, old, hot-hearted Frenchman whose real name is Henri
Dumain. Hermann Groll, _alias_ Jonathan, _alias_ (alas!) Goliath, is a
ponderous and gentle old German. Their first meeting was at Thomsen's,
back early in the century, when there were only ten tables in the place
and the front window shyly invited the public through the medium of a
guinea-chicken, a fish in season, and two chops with their paper-frilled
shanks engaged like buttoned foils. In those days Henri, a newcomer,
sat back against the side wall and unobtrusively watched a guerrilla
campaign between Hermann and a nondescript casual patron with weak eyes
and a deprecating manner, of whom none of us knew anything except
that he came from somewhere on Avenue B and had an irritating trick of
answering queen's gambit by pawn to king's rook 4. But one evening two
thick-booted strangers interrupted the game and took away the eccentric
pawn-pusher. He had, it appeared, flavored his aged aunt's soup with
arsenic. Life has its thrills in Our Square!
Hermann was disconsolate. “A pity,” he murmured. “I should have
checkmated in four moves.”
“Your pardon, but I think not,” said a courteous but positive voice.
Hermann looked up and saw Henri. “You think not?” he said mildly. “Maybe
so. We will try. Sit down.”
They played it out. Owing to an unforeseen brilliant diversion on the
part of the newcomer's knight, the struggle was prolonged for twenty
moves before victory went to the Teuton. He rose.
“The sacrifice of the rook's pawn,” he observed, “was able. Very able.
Tomorrow evening?”
“With pleasure,” answered his adversary. Thereafter they played nightly,
with almost equal fortunes, and as they played their association ripened
into friendship, and their friendship, through sympathies subtle and
strange in two characters so apparently unlike, into the love that
passeth the love of woman. They became David and Jonathan indeed, and
one of the pleasantest sights that helped me to peaceful dreams was
the frequent glimpse I got of the big German and the little Frenchman
walking home after the battle arm in arm across Our Square.
Each had been a lone spirit, craving companionship. And nearest to the
lonely heart of each was the struggle and achievement of an only son
in the other half of the world; one carving out a business career in
Algiers, the other introducing American ideas in horticulture to the
staid garden scientists of Würtemberg. Presently they took to reading
their boys' letters in common; and they would chuckle, or look serious,
or debate, or prophesy with a single and equal interest whether it were
a matter of Hermann, Jr., or of young Robert in Africa. Comradeship
can go no deeper. The flash of a foreign postage stamp across the
marble-topped table was the signal for Elsa, the polyglot cashier of the
Elite, to set down one more drink than usual, for it invariably meant
a prolonged and confidential confab after the game was over. Tradition
held their chosen table always in reserve. And tradition has all the
force and more than the respect of law in Our Square.
Judge, then, of our amazement at the unprecedented behavior of Inky
Mike on a certain evening a little before the regular hour for the
chess-players to appear. The world without was big with the presage of
tremendous events just then, but this was forgotten for the moment in
the shock of Mike's performance. He sauntered down the length of the
aisle, an expression of self-confidence upon his smeary countenance,
and coolly dropped into Jonathan's chair, nodding to Elsa, the pretty
polyglot. Now Inky Mike plumes himself upon a “connection with the
press” (through the rollers, it is understood in Our Square, though he
is loftily vague about it) and the passion of his life is to pick news
“off the wires” and announce it in advance of print, in some startling
manner. This might be one of his coups. Elsa regarded him with puzzled
suspicion. Then she descended upon him, polite but with firm purpose of
eviction.
“_Bitte_,” she said, with the queenly gesture of one accustomed to
command.
Mike lifted one eyebrow, and that with an effort. Otherwise he stirred
not.
“_S'il vous plait!_” said the little cashier determinedly.
“Mine's a beer,” returned the smeary one.
“If you please!” she stamped her foot in the universal and unmistakable
language.
“Oh, I got you the foist time,” drawled Mike. “You should worry. They
won't be here.”
“No--o--o--oah?” queried Elsa in a soaring whoop of amazement.
“Not this evenin', nor any other evenin'! You can plant a 'To Let' sign
on their table. They won't care.”
“_Warum? Pourquoi pas?_ W'y not?”
The repository of terrible secrets delivered himself of his theme in
complacent triumph. “War's just declared between France and Germany.
That's w'y not.”
Thus the tremendous news came to Thomsen's. On the heels of it came the
Teutonic Jonathan. Inky Mike rose astounded and hastily moved, for he is
sufficiently one of us to respect the Square's traditions.
“Excuse _me_,” he apologized. “Is Mister--is your side pardner coming?”
The answer to the question was given in the person of the Gallic David.
Inky Mike gaped at them.
“Will they mix it, d'ye think?” he inquired in an awed and hopeful tone
of Cyrus the Gaunt, who was eating ice cream at an adjoining table
with the Bonnie Lassie. Those were the days when the Bonnie Lassie was
sculping Cyrus the Gaunt and Cyrus was acting as chauffeur to ten tons
of steam roller on a bet, and each was discovering the other to be the
most wonderful person in the world--in which they weren't so far wrong
as a cynical mind might suppose.
Cyrus did not think; at least not for the inkful one's benefit. He
acted. It was done unobtrusively, his shifting to the table next the
chess rivals. They did not notice it. They did not notice anything but
each other. David was breathing hard, as he took his seat, and a queer
light flickered in his eyes.
“You take black to-night,” said Jonathan slowly.
His friend pushed the chessboard aside. “You have heard?” he said, and
pulling a newspaper from his pocket slapped it on the table.
Now the doubly damned devil of mischance influenced him to reach into
the wrong pocket, so he drew forth not the “Extry--Extry” which he had
just bought of Cripple Chris on the corner, but an earlier copy of the
“Courrier des Etats-Unis.” Jonathan stiffened in his chair.
“I do not read that language,” he said deliberately.
“You have then perhaps lost your mind since yesterday,” said the fiery
little Frenchman.
“I have the mind I have always had. It is a German mind,” was the grim
response.
“Then it is the mind of a savage!” cried the other.
The big man got to his feet. The little one was up as quickly. Cyrus
the Gaunt laid a hand, every finger of which had the grip of a lobster's
claw, on the shoulder of each.
“Sit down,” he said quietly. “Let's arbitrate.”
“But,” began the Frenchman, “I--he--”
“There's a lady waiting to speak to you,” interrupted Cyrus.
The Bonnie Lassie stood, smiling but anxious-eyed, behind his shoulder.
David sprang to get her a chair. Then they invited me into consultation,
and we sat in solemn conclave while Inky Mike hovered, with diminishing
hopes, on the outskirts. At the close there was ratified what I believe
to have been the first agreement of total neutrality in the present
world conflict. By its provisions every topic having to do with the war
or any of the parties to it was rigorously tabooed. Both the German and
the French language, even for purposes of exclamation and emphasis, were
to be eschewed. Literature, art, and music were, however, to remain open
topics, irrespective of nationality. And chess, that studious mimicry of
what is most terrible in the world, was to proceed as usual. That
evening David and Jonathan walked homeward across Our Square arm in arm.
By what unremitting exercise of self-control and loyalty those two kept
the pact through the tinder-and-powder events of succeeding months only
they themselves know. It was pitiful and at the same time beautiful
to see the subterfuges whereby they preserved their affection from the
blight of the all-devouring war, even in its remote associations. There
came a day when mails arrived by a Holland steamer. That evening
David waited expectant. But his friend gave out no news. The natural
impatience of the Frenchman broke bounds.
“And the young Hermann?” he demanded. “How goes it with our special
assistant to Mother Nature?”
“It goes--it goes well,” answered Jonathan.
“He persuades the others to his ideas, always?”
“Hermann is no longer in the gardens. He--he has left.”
“Left!” cried David. “Given up--” He stopped short, looking into the
face of his friend, a face whose eyes shifted uneasily away from his.
Then comprehension came to him, and he did a fine and beautiful thing.
“To the brave,” said he, lifting his glass, “who face death for the
country that they love.”
Was there, perhaps, a small savor of salt to the beer which Jonathan set
down after his draught? If so, he need not have been ashamed. It seemed
to me, when I saw them going home that night, that their arms were
hooked a little closer than common.
Not long after it was David's turn to get a letter. He sat fingering it
when Jonathan entered.
“From our young Robert?” asked the German.
David nodded.
“Am I to see it?”
“He says--he says some things about--about the war,” faltered the
Frenchman. “Youth is perhaps harsh. And he is a high spirit--my boy.”
Something in the tone told the German. “He has enlisted?”
The other father nodded.
“I am glad,” said the German simply. “And may God bring him safely
through!”
How that could have happened which did thereafter come to pass between
two souls so fine, so brave, so forbearing, is one of the mysteries of
the madness of the human heart. It was on the evening when Elsa, the
polyglot, had just completed her _chef-d'ouvre_ of embroidery which
still hangs upon the wall. It is a legend subscribed in a double scroll,
which is held in the beak of a dove of peace about half the size of
the scroll, the whole being tastefully surrounded by a frieze of olive
branches done in blue, Elsa's green yarn having given out prematurely.
The legend reads:--
BE NEUTRAL
SPEAK ENGLISH
THINK AMERICAN
Out of compliment she had hung it over the chess-players' table. The
game developed a swift and interesting attack, that evening, down an
open center, David having castled on the queen's side, and brought both
rooks into early action. All was going well for him, when a band outside
halted and began to play “Die Wacht am Rhein.” That they played it
atrociously out of tune is unimportant to the issue. Rendered by a
celestial choir that particular song would probably have inspired David
with frenzy. The first symptom was that he moved his queen upon a.
diagonal with his king, open to an opposing bishop. Just what the course
of events subsequently was I cannot say, as my table was in the far end.
But I heard Elsa's lamentable voice, startled quite out of the practice
of the language neutrality which she preached, and this is what I heard:
--“Oh, _Messieurs!_ Oh! _Meine Herren!! Gents!!!_”
Crash! The chessboard was swept to the floor, and the contestants rolled
after it, tight clinched. They tipped over two neighboring tables, and
a plate of salad, a soft-shell crab, and a fried chicken, violating
_their_ neutrality, descended to take a conspicuous part in the fight.
Over and over rolled the combatants, now one on top, now the other,
clawing, kicking, pummeling, and filling the air with bilingual fury.
It was all very comic, for the onlookers who didn't understand, and
the “Tribune” reporter made a good story of it next day. But he did not
know--how could he?--the underlying tragedy; the tragedy of hate, where
love had been and loneliness in the place of comradeship. With ordinary
luck it might have been kept out of the newspapers and the police court,
but, unfortunately, Terry the Cop, a wise young Daniel of Our Square,
was followed in by a strange policeman. “And so,” Terry explained to me,
regretfully,
“I had to make the pinch. Wouldn't it make you sick?” he added.
“Two good old guys like them! War sure _is_ hell!” Of the subsequent
proceedings, Inky Mike brought us a fuller report than the newspapers.
The Little Red Doctor, being appealed to to procure bail, had done so,
and had further taken two stitches in, the big man's head and set a
disjointed thumb for the little man. In the police court, thanks to
Terry, who “put him wise,” the judge had bidden the two belligerents
shake hands and go free. They shook hands, at arm's length, and went
free, separately.
“No more David an' Jonathan stuff,” gloated Inky Mike. “David and
Goliath is more in their line. This finishes their game.”
“Ah, Smart Aleck!” said Elsa resentfully. “You know nothing. _'S macht
nichts aus! Ça ne signifie rien!_ Fudge is what I try to say. They come
back this evening, good as new.”
Come back they did not, however. In vain did Elsa keep her eyes on the
clock and her hopes high. When nine o'clock struck and the table beneath
her desk was still vacant she burst into tears, gave a Magyar from
Second Avenue eight dollars and sixty cents change out of a five-dollar
bill (the Magyar hasn't been seen since), and rushed forth from the
place with her apron over her head, finding refuge on a bench of Our
Square, where she sat openly wailing until Terry the Cop led her home.
“Will they never come back to their little table, do you think?”
miserably inquired. Polyglot Elsa of the Little Red Doctor several
evenings later, gazing with blurred eyes down upon the stolidly opposing
armies of chessmen in their brave array.
The Little Red Doctor shook a dubious head. “That's a bad mess,” he
said.
“But they have nothing else but themselves!” cried the girl. “So sad it
is. Perhaps,” she added with timid hopefulness, “you could make a peace
again between them.”
“I've tried. The only peacemaker strong enough to bring them together,
I'm afraid, is my old friend Death.”
Jonathan almost wholly disappeared from Our Square after the rupture.
Not so David. He was much in evidence. Usually he whistled as he walked
with a lightsome and swaggering step to show that he hadn't a care in
the world. But when you got near him you saw the hollows under his eyes.
Pride carried him even into Thomsen's, and almost to the vacant table
in the corner. Not quite. For thereon stood the little wood soldiers,
sturdy and stanch, and above them leaned Elsa, smiling welcome to
him--and hope. David, the irreconcilable, stopped short, dropped into
the nearest chair, turned his back upon that haunted corner, and ordered
his favorite refreshment in a voice so cheerful that it almost chirped.
Halfway through his _carafon_, having caught Elsa's gaze, melancholy,
accusing, and imploring, he swore, choked over his _vin ordinaire_,
and retreated in bad order to the shelter of the outer darkness without
paying his check.
How long he wandered about Our Square I cannot say. He was there when I
crossed to Thomsen's at nine o'clock. He was there when I peered out at
ten. He was still there when I returned home at eleven-fifteen.
So was Jonathan. The reason why we of the Square had not seen him of
late was that he had chosen for his promenade an hour when he would be
unlikely to encounter any of us. This time he met David. They passed
each other within a foot. Jonathan was profoundly absorbed in the
condition of a tree trunk which he had passed without interest some
thousands of times. David studied the constellation Orion with a
concentrated attention quite creditable in one so new to a passion for
astronomy. I sat down on a bench and gave vent to my feelings. Said
Terry the Cop to me, approaching solicitously:--
“Are ye laughing, dominie, or choking to death?”
“I am laughing, Terry,” I said.
“And why are ye laughing, dominie?”
“I am laughing, Terry,” I informed him, “because it is better to laugh
than to do a certain other thing.” And I declined, with proper dignity,
his well-meant but ill-informed offer to escort me home.
There came a black day for our fiery old French David when the
Dutch liner arrived bearing assorted mails. That afternoon he paced,
stony-eyed and silent, a square swept vacant by savage rain blasts,
with a half-ounce of letter over his heart and a thousand tons of grief
pressing down above it. Presently another bedraggled wayfarer entered
the Square, wandered aimlessly, and sprawled his ponderous bulk upon
the corner bench, where the umbrella tree affords a partial shelter. The
Teuton Jonathan was also braving the storm.
Back and forth, back and forth, through the fierce, gray slant of the
rain, marched the Frenchman, drawing at each turn a little nearer to
the corner bench. The German did not move nor look up. He seemed lost
in reverie. A square of white cardboard lay on his knee. His eyes stared
out over it, brooding. At length the marcher in the rain came to the
rightabout directly in front of the bench and stopped, rubbing his
forehead like a man struggling out of a dream. David had recognized
Jonathan.
He took an impetuous step forward. A gust of wind plucked the square of
cardboard from the unheeding German's knee. It fell, displaying to the
newcomer the double eagle of imperial Germany. David's face, which
had softened, became a mask of fury. Another step forward and he saw
something else above the _insigne_, a bar of black. He stooped and
picked up the card. Jonathan neither saw nor moved.
Beneath the symbol on the card stood a line of German script. David
lifted his eyes from it and looked about him. In the doorway of the
Elite Restaurant, just across the asphalt, he saw Polyglot Elsa.
“_Behüte!_” cried Elsa when she saw his face. “_Sainte Vierge!_ What has
happened?”
“Mademoiselle, translate for me,” cried the little old Frenchman: “'_Auf
dem Felde der Ehre gefallen_'.”
“'Dead on the field of honor.' What--” But he was already halfway back,
fighting his way through the gusts. With grave misgivings Elsa saw him
advance upon his former friend and bitter foe. She wished Terry would
come. Terry was a mighty discourager of trouble and violence.
David advanced to the sheltered bench without speaking. Quietly he
seated himself beside Jonathan. Jonathan might have been dead for all
that he heeded. His mind was in another world. David touched him on the
shoulder.
“_Hein?_” said the big German vaguely. “'_S ist du?_” using involuntarily
the tender pronoun of affection. Comprehension and remembrance came
back to him instantly, and he shrank away with an inarticulate snarl of
hatred.
David drew from his pocket the letter that had crushed the heart beneath
it. He spread it on his knee.
“I have seen, Hermann,” he said brokenly. “Look you.”
Hermann looked. He looked from the gallant tricolor to the words below,
and one phrase stood forth and went to his heart. “_Mort dans la gloire
pour la patrie: Robert Humain_.”
Jonathan's fingers crept to David's knee and clung there. David's hand
went to Jonathan's shoulder. The two old heads sagged lower and lower
and closer and closer.
And Terry the Cop, who had crossed the street in five leaps with the
liveliest anticipation of trouble in the first degree, took one look,
turned hastily away, and huskily commanded a storm-beaten sparrow in the
path to move on.