PARIS
"Now," said Jimmie as our train was pulling into Paris, "we are all
decided, are we not, that we shall stay in Paris only two days?"
His eyes met ours with apprehension and a determination that ended in a
certain amount of questioning in their glance.
"Certainly!" we all hastened to assure him. "Not over two days."
"Just long enough," said Jimmie, beamingly, "to have one lunch at the
Café Marguery for _sole à la Normande_--"
"And one afternoon at the Louvre to see the Venus and the Victory--" I
pleaded.
"And the Father Tiber--" added Jimmie, waxing enthusiastic.
"Yes, and one dinner at the Pavilion d'Armenonville to hear the
Tziganes--" said Bee.
"And one afternoon on the Seine to go to St. Cloud to see the brides
dance at the Pavilion Bleu, and a supper afterward in the open to have a
_poulet_ and a _pêche flambée_."
Jimmie by this time was wriggling in ecstasy.
"And just time to order two or three gowns apiece and have one look at
hats," added Mrs. Jimmie, complacently.
"'Two or three gowns apiece and one look at hats,'" cried Jimmie. "And
how long will that take? We agreed on two days, and you never said a
word about clothes. That means a whole week!"
"Not at all, Jimmie," said Bee. "It's too late to do anything to-night.
To-morrow morning we'll go and look. In the afternoon we'll think it
over while we're doing the Louvre. It is always cool and quiet there,
and looking at statuary always helps me to make up my mind about
clothes. The next morning we'll go and order. In the afternoon we'll buy
our hats, and with one day more for the first fittings, I believe we
might manage and have the things sent after us to Baden-Baden."
"Not at all," put in Mrs. Jimmie. "They will never be satisfactory
unless we put our minds on the subject and give them plenty of time. We
must stay at least two days more. Give us four days, Jimmie."
I had to laugh at Jimmie's rueful face. He was about to remonstrate, but
Bee switched him off diplomatically by saying, in her most deferential
manner:
"What hotel have you decided on, Jimmie? It's such a comfort to be
getting to a Paris hotel. What one do you think would be best?"
Bee's tone was so flattering that Jimmie forgot clothes and said:
"Well, you know at the Binda you can get corn on the cob and American
griddle cakes--"
"Oh, but the rooms are so small and dark, and we could go there for
luncheon to get those things," said his wife.
"Do let's go to the Hotel Vouillemont," I begged. "We won't see any
Americans there, and it is so lovely and old and French, and so heavenly
quiet."
"But then there is the new Élysée Palace," said Bee. "We haven't seen
that."
"And they say it's finer than the Waldorf," said Mrs. Jimmie.
Jimmie and I looked at each other in comical despair.
"Let 'em have their own way, Jimmie," I whispered in his ear, "while
we're in their country. They know that we are going to make 'em dodge
Switzerland and go up in the Austrian Tyrol and perhaps even get them to
Russia, so we'll be obliged to give them their head part of the way.
Let's be handsome about it."
We went to the Élysée Palace, and we spent two weeks in Paris. Part of
this time we were fashionable with Mrs. Jimmie and Bee, and part of the
time they were Latin Quartery with us. We made them go to the Concert
Rouge and to the Restaurant Foyot, and occasionally even to sit on the
sidewalk at one of the little tables at Scossa's, where you have
_déjeuner au choix_ for one franc fifty, including wine, and which they
couldn't help enjoying in spite of pretending to despise it and us,
while occasionally we went with them to call on the grand and
distinguished personages to whom they had letters. But it remained for
the last days of our stay for us to have our experiences. The first came
about in this wise.
I had brought a letter to Max Nordau from America, but I heard after I
got to Paris that he was so fierce a woman hater, that I determined not
to present it. I read it over every once in awhile, but failed to screw
my courage to the sticking point, until one day I mentioned that I had
this letter, and Jimmie to my surprise threw up both hands, exclaiming:
"A letter to Max Nordau! Why, it is like owning a gold mine! Present it
by all means, and then tell us what he is like."
Afraid to present it in person, I sent it by mail, saying that I had
heard that he hated women and that I was scared to death of him, but if
he had a day in the near future on which he felt less fierce than usual,
I would come to see him, and I asked permission to bring a friend. By
"friend" I meant Jimmie.
The most charming note came in answer that a polished man of the world
could write--not in the least like the bear I had imagined him to be,
but courteous and even merry. In it he said he should feel honoured if
I would visit his poor abode, and he seemed to have read my books and
knew all about me, so with very mixed feelings Jimmie and I called at
the hour he named.
He lives in one of the regulation apartment houses of Paris, of the
meaner sort--by no means as fine as those in the American quarter. The
most horrible odour of German cookery--cauliflower and boiled cabbage
and vinegar and all that--floated out when the door opened. The room--a
sort of living-room--into which we were ushered was a mixture of all
sorts of furniture, black haircloth, dingy and old, with here and there
a good picture or one fine chair, which I imagined had been presented to
him.
Jimmie was much excited at the idea of meeting him. Max Nordau is one of
his idols,--Nordau's horrible power of invective fully meeting Jimmie's
ideas of the way crimes of the bestial sort should be treated. Jimmie is
often a surprise to me in his beliefs and ideals, but when Doctor Nordau
entered the room I forgot Jimmie and everything else in the world except
this one man.
I can see him now as he stood before me--a thick-set man with a
magnificent torso, but with legs which ought to have been longer. For
that body he ought to have been six feet tall. When he is seated he
appears to be a very large man. You would know that he was a physician
from the way he shakes hands--even from the touch of his hand, which
seems to be in itself a soothing of pain.
He was exquisitely clean. Indeed he seemed, after one look into his
face, to be one of the cleanest men I ever had seen. And to look into
the face of a man in Paris and to be able to say that, _means_
something.
His eyes were gray blue--very clear in colour. Their whites were really
white--not bloodshot nor yellow. His skin was the clear, beautiful
colour which you sometimes see in a young and handsome Jew. There was
the same clear red and white. This distinguishing quality of clearness
was noticeable too in his lips, for his short white moustache shows them
to be full, very red, and with the line where the red joins the white
extremely clear cut. His teeth were large, full, even, and white, like
those of a primitive man, who tore his rare meat with those same white
teeth, and who never heard of a dentist. His hair was short, white, and
bristling. He seemed to have some Jewish blood in him, but he seemed
more than all to be perfectly well, perfectly normal, filled to the brim
with abounding life. It was like a draught from the Elixir of Life to be
in his presence. What a man!
All at once the whole of "Degeneration" was made clear to me. How could
any man as sane, as normal, as superbly health-loving and
health-bestowing keep from writing such a book! I never met any one who
so impressed me with his knowledge. Not pedantry, but with the
deep-lying fundamental truth that humanity ought to know. His sympathies
are so broad, his intuitions so keen, his understanding so subtle.
He asked us at once into his study--a small room, lined with books bound
in calf. Both the chair and his couch had burst out beneath, showing
broken springs and general dilapidation. He speaks many languages, and
his English is very pure and beautiful.
Like all great men, his manner was extremely simple. He did not pose.
He was interested in me, in my work, in my ambitions, hopes, and aims.
He seemed to have no overpoweringly high idea of himself, nor of what he
had achieved. He was thoroughly at home in French, German, English,
Scandinavian, and Russian literature. He read them in the originals, and
his knowledge of the classics seemed to be equally complete. The
well-worn books upon his shelves testified to this.
I asked him if he intended to come to America in the near future. To
which he replied:
"Unhappily I cannot tell. I should like to go. I consider America the
country of the world at present. Whether we admit it or not, all nations
are watching you. The rest of the world cannot live without you. Russia
is the only country in the world which could go to war without your
assistance. You must feed Europe. Your men are the financiers of the
world and your women rule and educate and are the saviours of the men.
Therefore to my mind the greatest factor in the world's civilisation
to-day is the great body of the American women. You little know your
power. _You_ seem to have got the ear of the American woman, and the
only advice I have to give you is to be more bold. Don't be afraid of
being too pedantic. You are too subtle. You bury your truths sometimes
too deeply. The busy are too busy to dig for it, and the stupid do not
know it is there."
"I think 'Degeneration' is the most wonderful book ever written," Jimmie
broke in at this point as if unable to keep silent any longer. Then he
looked deeply embarrassed at Doctor Nordau's hearty laughter.
"Thank you a thousand times," he said; "such a decided opinion I seldom
hear. Your great country was the first to appreciate and read it. I have
many friends there whom I never saw but who love me and whom I love.
They often write to me."
"And beg autographs and photographs of you," I said.
"Oh, yes, but it is very easy to do what they ask. But one curious thing
strikes me about America. See, here on my book shelves I have books
written explaining the government of all countries in all
languages--all countries, that is to say, except America. Why has no one
ever written such an one about the United States?"
Jimmie pricked up his ears as this phase of the conversation came home
to him. He forgot his awe and said:
"What's the matter with Bryce?"
Doctor Nordau looked puzzled. He is a practising physician.
"'What's the matter with Bryce?'" he repeated.
Jimmie blushed.
"Haven't you read 'Bryce's Commonwealth?'" I broke in, to give Jimmie
time to get on his legs again.
"Is there a book on American government by an American that I never
heard of?" asked Nordau of Jimmie.
"Well, Bryce is an Englishman, but he knows more about America than any
American I know," answered Jimmie. "I'll send you the book if you would
like to read it."
Doctor Nordau thanked him and said he would be delighted to have it.
While Jimmie was making a note of this, Doctor Nordau looked quizzically
at me and said:
"Do American publishers rob all foreign authors as I have been robbed,
or am I mistaken in thinking that large numbers of 'Degeneration' have
been sold in America?"
Alas, wherever I go in Europe, I am obliged to hear this denunciation of
our publishers! I cannot get beyond the sound of it. To hear foreign
authors denounce American publishers by every term of opprobrium which
could commonly be applied to Barabbas! I was puzzled to know whether
they really are the most unscrupulous robbers in creation or if they
only have the name of being.
"You are not mistaken in thinking that large numbers of 'Degeneration'
have been sold," I said, "and if your book was properly copyrighted and
protected and you did not sign away all your rights to your American
publishers for a song, as too many foreign authors do in their scorn of
American appreciation of good literature, you should not be obliged to
complain, for I distinctly remember that 'Degeneration' often led in the
lists of best selling books which our booksellers report at the end of
each week."
"Then I will leave you to judge for yourself," said Doctor Nordau. "The
entire amount I have received from my American publishers for
'Degeneration' is fifty pounds! That is every sou!"
"Fifty pounds!" cried Jimmie, in consternation. "Why that is only two
hundred and fifty dollars of our money!"
"I leave it to you to judge for yourselves," said Doctor Nordau again.
We said nothing, for as Jimmie said after we left, there was really
nothing to say.
But evidently our consternation touched him, for he broke out into a big
German laugh, saying:
"Don't take it so deeply to heart! You are too sensitive. Do you take
the criticisms of your books so deeply to heart as you take a criticism
of your countrymen? Don't do it! Remember, there are few critics worth
reading."
"I never read them while they are fresh," I admitted. "I keep them until
their heat has had time to cool. Then if they are favourable I say,
'This is just so much extra pleasure that, as it is all over. I had no
right to expect.' And if they are unfavourable I think, 'What
difference does it make? It was published weeks ago and everybody has
forgotten it by this time!'"
"You have the right spirit," he said. "Where would I be if I had taken
to heart the criticisms of the degenerates on 'Degeneration?' I sit back
and laugh at them for holding a hand mirror up to their faces and
unconsciously crying out 'I see a fool!' To understand great
truths,--and great truths are seldom popular,--one must bring a willing
mind. Yet how often it is that the very sick one wishes most to help are
the ones who refuse, either from conceit or stupidity, to believe and be
healed. Remember this: no one can get out of a book more than he brings
to it. Readers of books seldom realise that by their written or spoken
criticisms they are displaying themselves in all their weaknesses, all
their vanities, all their strength for their hearers to make use of as
they will."
"I shouldn't think anything ever would disturb you," said Jimmie,
regarding Doctor Nordau's gigantic strength admiringly.
Doctor Nordau laughed.
"It is the little things of this life, my friend, which often disturb a
mental balance which is always poised to receive great shocks. The
gnat-bites and mosquito buzzings are sometimes harder to bear than an
operation with a surgeon's knife."
I looked triumphantly at Jimmie as Doctor Nordau said that, for Jimmie
never has got over it that I once dragged the whole party off a train
and made them wait until the next one, because the wheels of our railway
carriage squeaked. But Jimmie's mind is open to persuasion, especially
from one whose opinions he admires as he admires Max Nordau's, for he
looked at me with more tolerance, as he said:
"It is the nervous organisation, I suppose. She can bear neuralgia for
days at a time which would drive me crazy in an hour, but I've seen her
burst into tears because a door slammed."
"Exactly so!" said Doctor Nordau. "I understand perfectly."
"Now, I never hear such noises," pursued Jimmie. "But I suppose there
must be _some_ difference between you both, who can write books, and me,
who can't even write a letter without dictating it!"
Soon after this we came away, Jimmie beaming with delight over one idol
who had not tumbled from his pedestal at a near view.
We were still in the midst of the Paris season. It was very gay and Bee
and Mrs. Jimmie had made some amiable friends among the very smartest of
the Parisian smart set. When we went to tea or dinner with these people
Jimmie and I had to be dragged along like dogs who are muzzled for the
first time. Every once in awhile _en route_ we would plant our fore feet
and try to rub our muzzles off, but the hands which held our chains were
gentle but firm, and we always ended by going.
On one Sunday we were invited to have _déjeuner_ with the Countess S.,
and as it was her last day to receive she had invited us to remain and
meet her friends. At the breakfast there were perhaps sixteen of us and
the conversation fell upon palmistry. We had just seen Cheiro in London,
and as he had amiably explained a good many of our lines to us, I was
speaking of this when the old Duchesse de Z. thrust her little wrinkled
paw loaded down with jewels across the plate of her neighbour and said:
"Mademoiselle, can you see anything in the lines of my hand?"
I make no pretence of understanding palmistry, but I saw in her hand a
queer little mark that Cheiro had explained to us from a chart. I took
her hand in mine and all the conversation ceased to hear the pearls of
wisdom which were about to drop from my lips. The duchesse was very much
interested in the occult and known to be given to table tipping and the
invocation of spirits.
"I see something here," I began, hesitatingly, "which looks to me as if
you had once been threatened with a great danger, but had been
miraculously preserved," I said.
The old woman drew her hand away.
"Humph," she muttered with her mouth full of homard. "I wondered if you
would see that. It was assassination I escaped. It was enough to leave a
mark, eh, mademoiselle?"
"I should think so," I murmured.
The young Count de X. on my right said, in a tone which the duchesse
might have heard:
"When she was a young girl, only nineteen, her husband tied her with
ropes to her bed and set fire to the bed curtains. Her screams brought
the servants and they rescued her."
My fork fell with a clatter.
"What an awful man!" I gasped.
"He was my uncle, mademoiselle!" said the young man, imperturbably,
arranging the gardenia in his buttonhole, "but as you say, he was a bad
lot."
"I beg your pardon!" I exclaimed.
"It is nothing," he answered. "It is no secret. Everybody knows it."
Later in the afternoon I took occasion to apologise to the duchesse for
having referred to the subject.
"Why should you be distressed, mademoiselle," said the old woman,
peering up into my face from beneath her majenta bonnet with her little
watery brown eyes, "such things will go into books and be history a few
years hence. We make history, such families as ours," she added,
proudly.
I turned away rather bewildered and for an hour or two watched Bee and
Mrs. Jimmie being presented to those who called to pay their respects to
our hostess. They were of all descriptions and fascinating to a degree.
Finally the duchesse came up to me bringing a lady whom she introduced
as the Countess Y.
"She is a compatriot of yours, mademoiselle."
It so happened that Bee and Mrs. Jimmie were standing near me and
overheard.
"Ah, you are an American," I said.
"Well," said the countess, moving her shoulders a little uneasily, "I am
an American, but my husband does not like to have me admit it."
It was a small thing. She had a right to deny her nationality if she
liked, but in some way it shocked the three of us alike and we moved
forward as if pulled by one string.
"I think we must be going," said Bee, haughtily.
Jimmie's jaw was so set as we left the house of the countess, and Bee
and Mrs. Jimmie looked so disturbed that I suggested that we drive down
to the Louvre and take one last look at our treasures. Mine are the
Venus de Milo and the Victory, and Jimmie's is the colossal statue of
the river Tiber. Jimmie loves that old giant, Father Tiber, lying there
with the horn of plenty and dear little Romulus and Remus with their
foster mother under his right hand. Jimmie says the _toes_ of the giant
fascinate him.
It looked like rain, so we hastily checked our parasols and Jimmie's
stick and cut down the left corridor to the stairs, and so on down to
the chamber where we left Jimmie and the Tiber to stare each other out
of countenance. The rest of us continued our way to the room where the
Venus stands enthroned in her silent majesty. We sat down to rest and
worship, and then coming up the steps again and mounting another flight,
we stood looking across the arcade at the brilliant electric poise of
the Victory, and in taking our last look at her, we did not notice that
it had gradually grown very dark.
When we came out, rested, uplifted, and calmed as the effect of that
glorious Venus always is upon our fretted spirits, we discovered that
the most terrific rainstorm was in progress it ever was our luck to
behold. The water came down in cataracts and blinding sheets of rain.
Every one except us had been warned by the darkness and had got
themselves home. The streets were empty except for the cabs and
carriages which skurried by with fares. Our frantic signals and Jimmie's
dashes into the street were of no avail.
We would have walked except that Bee and I had colds, and big, beautiful
Mrs. Jimmie was subject to croup, which as every one knows is terrible
in its attacks upon grown people.
Poor Jimmie ran in every direction in his wild efforts for a carriage,
but none was to be had. We waited two hours, then Mrs. Jimmie saw a
black covered wagon approaching and she gathered up her skirts and
hailed it. The driver obligingly pulled up at the curb.
"You must drive us to our hotel." she said, firmly. "We have waited two
hours."
"Impossible, madame!" said the man.
"But you _must_," we all said in chorus.
"You shall have much money," said Jimmie in his worst French.
"All the same it is impossible, monsieur," said the man.
He regretted exceedingly his inability to oblige the ladies, but--and he
prepared to drive off.
"Get in, girls," said Mrs. Jimmie, firmly, pushing us in at the back of
the wagon. The man expostulated, not in anger but appealingly. Mrs.
Jimmie would not listen. She said there ought to be more cabs in Paris,
and that she regretted it as much as he did, but she climbed in as she
talked, and gave the address of the hotel.
"You shall have three times your fare," she said, calmly, "drive on!"
"But what madame demands is impossible," pleaded the poor man. "I am on
my way for another body. Madame sits in the morgue wagon!"
But there he was mistaken, for madame sat nowhere. Before he had done
speaking madame was flying through the air, alighting on poor Jimmie's
foot, while Bee and I clawed at our dripping skirts in a mad effort to
follow suit.
The morgue wagon pursued its way down the Rue de Rivoli, while we risked
colds, croup, and everything else in an endeavour to find a "_grand
bain_," splashing through puddles but marching steadily on, Jimmie in a
somewhat strained silence limping uncomplainingly at our side.