I
"... so I'll answer your questions in the order you ask them. No, I
don't want ever to fly again. My last pay-hop was two Saturdays ago and
I got my discharge papers yesterday. God willing, I'll never again ride
anything more dangerous than a velocipede. I'm now a respectable
American citizen, and for the future I'm going to confine my locomotion
to the well-known earth. Get that, Spink Sparrel! The earth! In
fact...."
David Lindsay suddenly looked up from his typewriting. Under his window,
Washington Square simmered in the premature heat of an early June day.
But he did not even glance in that direction. Instead, his eyes sought
the doorway leading from the front room to the back of the apartment.
Apparently he was not seeking inspiration; it was as though he had been
suddenly jerked out of himself. After an absent second, his eye sank to
the page and the brisk clatter of his machine began again.
"... after the woman you recommended, Mrs. Whatever-her-name-is,
shoveled off a few tons of dust. It's great! It's the key house of New
York, isn't it? And when you look right through the Arch straight up
Fifth Avenue, you feel as though you owned the whole town. And what an
air all this chaste antique New England stuff gives it! Who'd ever
thought you'd turn out--you big rough-neck you--to be a collector of
antiques? Not that I haven't fallen myself for the sailor's chest and
the butterfly table and the glass lamps. I actually salaam to that
sampler. And these furnishings seem especially appropriate when I
remember that Jeffrey Lewis lived here once. You don't know how much
that adds to the connotation of this place."
Again--but absently--Lindsay looked up. And again, ignoring Washington
Square, which offered an effect as of a formal garden to the long
pink-red palace on its north side--plumy treetops, geometrical grass
areas, weaving paths; elegant little summer-houses--his gaze went with a
seeking look to the doorway.
"Question No. 2. I haven't any plans of my own at present and I am
quite eligible to the thing you suggest. You say that no one wants to
read anything about the war. I don't blame them. I wish I could fall
asleep for a month and wake up with no recollection of it. I suppose
it's that state of mind which prevents people from writing their
recollections immediately. Of course we'll all do that ultimately, I
suppose--even people who, like myself, aren't professional writers.
Don't imagine that I'm going on with the writing game. I haven't the
divine afflatus. I'm just letting myself drift along with these two
jobs until I get that _guerre_ out of my system; can look around to
find what I really want to do. I'm willing to write my experiences
within a reasonable interval; but not at once. Everything is as vivid
in my mind of course as it's possible to be; but I don't want to have
to think of it. That's why your suggestion in regard to Lutetia Murray
strikes me so favorably. I should really like to do that biography. I'm
in the mood for something gentle and pastoral. And then of course I
have a sense of proprietorship in regard to Lutetia, not alone because
she was my literary find or that it was my thesis on her which got me
my A in English 12. But, in addition, I developed a sort of platonic,
long-distance, with-the-eye-of-the-mind-only crush on her. And yet, I
don't know...."
Again Lindsay's eyes came up from his paper. For the third time he
ignored Washington Square swarming with lumbering green busses and
dusky-haired Italian babies; puppies, perambulators, and pedestrians.
Again his glance went mechanically to the door leading to the back of
the apartment.
"You certainly have left an atmosphere in this joint, Spink. Somehow I
feel always as if you were in the room. How it would be possible for
such a pop-eyed, freckle-faced Piute as you to pack an astral body is
more than I can understand. It's here though--that sense of your
presence. The other day I caught myself saying, 'Oh, Spink!' to the
empty air. But to return to Lutetia, I can't tell you how the prospect
tempts. Once on a _permission_ in the spring of '16, I finds myself in
Lyons. There are to be gentle acrobatic doings in the best Gallic manner
in the Park on Sunday. I gallops out to see the sports. One place, I
comes across several scores of _poilus_--on their _permissions_
similar--squatting on the ground and doing--what do you suppose? Picking
violets. Yep--picking violets. I says to myself then, I says, 'These
frogs sure are queer guys.' But now, Spink, I understand. I don't want
to do anything more strenuous myself than picking violets, unless it's
selling baby blankets, or holding yarn for old ladies. Perhaps by an
enormous effort I might summon the energy to run a tea-room."
Lindsay stopped his typewriting again. This time he stared fixedly at
Washington Square. His eyes followed a pink-smocked, bob-haired maiden
hurrying across the Park; but apparently she did not register. He turned
abruptly with a--"Hello, old top, what do you want?"
The doorway, being empty, made no answer.
Having apparently forgotten his remark the instant it was dropped,
Lindsay went on writing.
"I admit I'm thinking over that proposition. Among my things in storage
here, I have all Lutetia's works, including those unsuccessful and very
rare pomes of hers; even that blooming thesis I wrote. The thesis would,
of course, read rotten now, but it might provide data that would save
research. When do you propose to bring out this new edition, and how do
you account for that recent demand for her? Of course it establishes me
as some swell prophet. I always said she'd bob up again, you know. Then
it looked as though she was as dead as the dodo. It isn't the work alone
that appeals to me; it's doing it in Lutetia's own town, which is
apparently the exact kind of dead little burg I'm looking for--Quinanog,
isn't it? Come to think of it, Spink, my favorite occupation at this
moment would be making daisy-chains or oak-wreaths. I'll think it..."
He jumped spasmodically; jerked his head about; glanced over his
shoulder at the doorway--
"What I'd really like to do, is the biography of Lutetia for about one
month; then--for about three months--my experiences at the war which, I
understand, are to be put away in the manuscript safe of the publishing
firm of Dunbar, Cabot and Elsingham to be published when the demand for
war stuff begins again. That, I reckon, is what I should do if I'm going
to do it at all. Write it while it's fresh--as I'm not a professional.
But I can't at this moment say yes, and I can't say no. I'd like to stay
a little longer in New York. I'd like to renew acquaintance with the old
burg. I can afford to thrash round a bit, you know, if I like. There's
ten thousand dollars that my uncle left me, in the bank waiting me. When
that's spent, of course I'll have to go to work.
"You ask me for my impressions of America--as a returned sky-warrior. Of
course I've only been here a week and I haven't talked with so very many
people yet. But everybody is remarkably omniscient. I can't tell them
anything about the late war. Sometimes they ask me a question, but they
never listen to my answer. No, I listen to them. And they're very
informing, believe me. Most of them think that the cavalry won the war
and that we went over the top to the sound of fife and drum. For
myself..."
Again he jumped; turned his head; stared into the doorway. After an
instant of apparent expectancy, he sighed. He arose and, with an
elaborate saunter, moved over to the mirror hanging above the mantel;
looked at his reflection with the air of one longing to see something
human. The mirror was old; narrow and dim; gold framed. A gay little
picture of a ship, bellying to full sail, filled the space above the
looking-glass. The face, which contemplated him with the same unseeing
carelessness with which he contemplated it, was the face of
twenty-five--handsome; dark. It was long and lean. The continuous flying
of two years had dyed it a deep wine-red; had bronzed and burnished it.
And apparently the experiences that went with that flying had cooled and
hardened it. It was now but a smoothly handsome mask which blanked all
expression of his emotions.
Even as his eye fixed itself on his own reflected eye, his head jerked
sideways again; he stared expectantly at the open doorway. After an
interval in which nothing appeared, he sauntered through that door;
and--with almost an effect of premeditated carelessness--through the two
little rooms, which so uselessly fill the central space of many New York
houses, to the big sunny bedroom at the back.
The windows looked out on a paintable series of backyards: on a
sketchable huddle of old, stained, leaning wooden houses. At the
opposite window, a purple-haired, violet-eyed foreign girl in a faded
yellow blouse was making artificial nasturtiums; flame-colored velvet
petals, like a drift of burning snow, heaped the table in front of her.
A black cat sunned itself on the window ledge. On a distant roof, a boy
with a long pole was herding a flock of pigeons. They made glittering
swirls of motion and quick V-wheelings, that flashed the gray of their
wings like blades and the white of their breasts like glass. Their
sudden turns filled the air with mirrors. Lindsay watched their flight
with the critical air of a rival. Suddenly he turned as though someone
had called him; glanced inquiringly back at the doorway....
When, a few minutes later, he sauntered into the Rochambeau, immaculate
in the old gray suit he had put off when he donned the French uniform
four years before, he was the pink of summer coolness and the
quintessence of military calm. The little, low-ceilinged series of
rooms, just below the level of the street, were crowded; filled with
smoke, talk, and laughter. Lindsay at length found a table, looked about
him, discovered himself to be among strangers. He ordered a cocktail,
swearing at the price to the sympathetic French waiter, who made an
excited response in French and assisted him to order an elaborate
dinner. Lindsay propped his paper against his water-glass; concentrated
on it as one prepared for lonely eating. With the little-necks, however,
came diversion. From behind the waiter's crooked arm appeared the satiny
dark head of a girl. Lindsay leaped to his feet, held out his hand.
"Good Lord, Gratia! Where in the world did you come from!"
The girl put both her pretty hands out. "I _can_ shake hands with you,
David, now that you're in civies. I don't like that green and yellow
ribbon in your buttonhole though. I'm a pacifist, you know, and I've got
to tell you where I stand before we can talk."
"All right," Lindsay accepted cheerfully. "You're a darn pretty
pacifist, Gratia. Of course you don't know what you're talking about.
But as long as you talk about anything, I'll listen."
Gratia had cut her hair short, but she had introduced a style of
hair-dressing new even to Greenwich Village. She combed its sleek
abundance straight back to her neck and left it. There, following its
own devices, it turned up in the most delightful curls. Her large dark
eyes were set in a skin of pale amber and in the midst of a piquant
assortment of features. She had a way, just before speaking, of lifting
her sleek head high on the top of her slim neck. And then she was like a
beautiful young seal emerging from the water.
"Oh, I'm perfectly serious!" the pretty pacifist asserted. "You
know I never have believed in war. Dora says you've come back
loving the French. How you can admire a people who--" After a
while she paused to take breath and then, with the characteristic
lift of her head, "Belgians--the Congo--Algeciras--Morocco-- And as
for England--Ireland--India--Egypt--" The glib, conventional patter
dripped readily from her soft lips.
Lindsay listened, apparently entranced. "Gratia, you're too pretty for
any use!" he asserted indulgently after the next pause in which she dove
under the water and reappeared sleek-haired as ever. "I'm not going to
argue with you. I'm going to tell you one thing that will be a shock to
you, though. The French don't like war either. And the reason is--now
prepare yourself--they know more about the horrors of war in _one_
minute than you will in a thousand years. What are you doing with
yourself, these days, Gratia?"
"Oh, running a shop; making smocks, working on batiks, painting, writing
_vers libre_," Gratia admitted.
"I mean, what do you do with your leisure?" Lindsay demanded, after
prolonged meditation.
Gratia ignored this persiflage. "I'm thinking of taking up
psycho-analysis," she confided. "It interests me enormously. I think I
ought to do rather well with it."
"I offer myself as your first victim. Why, you'll make millions! Every
man in New York will want to be psyched. What's the news, Gratia? I'm
dying for gossip."
Gratia did her best to feed this appetite. Declining dinner, she sipped
the tall cool green drink which Lindsay ordered for her. She poured out
a flood of talk; but all the time her eyes were flitting from table to
table. And often she interrupted her comments on the absent with remarks
about the present.
"Yes, Aussie was killed in Italy, flying. Will Arden was wounded in the
Argonne. George Jennings died of the flu in Paris--see that big blonde
over there, Dave? She's the Village dressmaker now--Dark Dale is in
Russia--can't get out. Putty Doane was taken prisoner by the Germans
at--Oh, see that gang of up-towners--aren't they snippy and patronizing
and silly? But Molly Fearing is our best war sensation. You know what a
tiny frightened mouse of a thing she was. She went into the 'Y.' She was
in the trenches the day of the Armistice--_talked_ with Germans; not
prisoners, you understand--but the retreating Germans. Her letters are
wonderful. She's crazy about it over there. I wouldn't be surprised if
she never came back-- Oh, Dave, don't look now; but as soon as you can,
get that tall red-headed girl in the corner, Marie Maroo. She does the
most marvelous drawings you ever saw. She belongs to that new Vortex
School. And then Joel-- Oh, there's Ernestine Phillips and her father.
You want to meet her father. He's a riot. Octogenarian, too! He's just
come from some remote hamlet in Vermont. Ernestine's showing him a
properly expurgated edition of the Village. Hi, Ernestine! He's a Civil
War veteran. Ernest's crazy to see you, Dave!"
The middle-aged, rather rough-featured woman standing in the doorway
turned at Gratia's call. Her movement revealed the head and shoulders of
a tall, gaunt, very old man, a little rough-featured like his daughter;
white-haired and white-mustached. She hurried at once to Lindsay's
table.
"Oh, Dave!" She took both Lindsay's hands. "I _am_ glad to see you! How
I have worried about you! My father, Dave. Father, this is David
Lindsay, the young aviator I was telling you about, who had such
extraordinary experiences in France. You remember the one I mean,
father. He served for two years with the French Army before we declared
war."
Mr. Phillips extended a long arm which dangled a long hand. "Pleased to
meet you, sir! You're the first flier I've had a chance to talk with. I
expect folks make life a perfect misery to you--but if you don't mind
answering questions--"
"Shoot!" Lindsay permitted serenely. "I'm nearly bursting with
suppressed information. How are you, Ernestine?"
"Pretty frazzled like the rest of us," Ernestine answered. Ernestine had
one fine feature; a pair of large dark serene eyes. Now they flamed with
a troubled fire. "The war did all kinds of things to my psychology, of
course. I suppose I am the most despised woman in the Village at this
moment because I don't seem to be either a militarist or a pacifist. I
don't believe in war, but I don't see how we could have kept out of it;
or how France could have prevented it."
"Ernestine!" Lindsay said warmly. "I just love _you_. Contrary to the
generally accepted opinion of the pacifists, France did not deliberately
bring this war on herself. Nor did she keep it up four years for her
private amusement. She hasn't enjoyed one minute of it. I don't expect
Gratia to believe me, but perhaps you will. These four years of death,
destruction, and devastation haven't entertained France a particle."
"Well, of course--" Ernestine was beginning, "but what's the use?" Her
eyes met Lindsay's in a perplexed, comprehending stare. Lindsay shook
his handsome head gayly. "No use whatever," he said. "I'm rapidly
growing taciturn."
"What I would like to ask you," Mr. Phillips broke in, "does war seem
such a pretty thing to you, young man, after you've seen a little of it?
I remember in '65 most of us came back thinking that Sherman hadn't used
strong enough language."
"Mr. Phillips," Lindsay answered, "if there's ever another war, it will
take fifteen thousand dollars to send me a postcard telling me about
it."
The talk drifted away from the war: turned to prohibition; came back to
it again. Lindsay answered Mr. Phillips's questions with enthusiastic
thoroughness. They pertained mainly to his training at Pau and Avord,
but Lindsay volunteered a detailed comparison of the American military
method with the French. "I'll always be glad though," he concluded,
"that I had that experience with the French Army. And of course when our
troops got over, I was all ready to fly."
"Then the French uniform is so charming," Gratia put in, consciously
sarcastic.
Lindsay slapped her slim wrist indulgently and continued to answer Mr.
Phillips's questions. Ernestine listened, the look of trouble growing in
her serene eyes. Gratia listened, diving under water after her shocked
exclamations and reappearing glistening.
"Oh, there's Matty Packington!" Gratia broke in. "You haven't met Matty
yet, Dave. Hi, Matty! You _must_ know Matty. She's a sketch. She's one
of those people who say the things other people only dare think. You
won't believe her." She rattled one of her staccato explanations;
"society girl--first a slumming tour through the Village--perfectly
crazy about it--studio in McDougal Alley--yeowoman--becoming
uniform--Rolls-Royce--salutes--"
Matty Packington approached the table with a composed flutter. The two
men arose. Gratia met her halfway; performed the introductions. In a
minute the conversation was out of everybody's hands and in Miss
Packington's. As Gratia prophesied, Lindsay found it difficult to
believe her. She started at an extraordinary speed and she maintained it
without break.
"Oh, Mr. Lindsay, aren't you heartbroken now that it is all over? You
must tell me all about your experiences sometime. It must have been too
thrilling for words. But don't you think--_don't_ you think--they
stopped the war too soon? If I were Foch I wouldn't have been satisfied
until I'd occupied all Germany, devastated just as much territory as
those beasts devastated in France, and executed all those monsters who
cut off the Belgian babies' hands. Don't you think so?"
Lindsay contemplated the lady who put this interesting question to him.
She was fair and fairy-like; a little, light-shot golden blonde; all
slim lines and opalescent colors. Her hair fluttered like whirled light
from under her piquantly cocked military cap. The stress of her emotion
added for the instant to the bigness and blueness of her eyes.
"Well, for myself," he remarked finally, "I can do with a little peace
for a while. And then to carry out your wishes, Miss Packington, Foch
would have had to sacrifice a quarter of a million more Allied soldiers.
But I sometimes think the men at the front were a bit thoughtless of the
entertainment of the civilians. Somehow we _did_ get it into our heads
that we ought to close this war up as soon as possible. Another time
perhaps we'd know better."
Miss Packington received this characteristically; that is to say, she
did not receive it at all. For by the time Lindsay had begun his last
sentence, she had embarked on a monologue directed this time to Gratia.
The talk flew back and forth, grew general; grew concrete; grew
abstract; grew personal. It bubbled up into monologues from Gratia and
Matty. It thinned down to questions from Ernestine and Mr. Phillips.
Drinks came; were followed by other drinks. All about them, tables
emptied and filled, uniforms predominating; and all to the accompaniment
of chatter; gay mirth; drifting smoke-films and refilled glasses.
Latecomers stopped to shake hands with Lindsay, to join the party for a
drink; to smoke a cigarette; floated away to other parties. But the
nucleus of their party remained the same.
David answered with patience all questions, stopped patiently halfway
through his own answer to reply to other questions. At about midnight he
rose abruptly. He had just brought to the end a careful and succinct
statement in which he declared that he had seen no Belgian children with
their hands cut off; no crucified Canadians.
"Folks," he addressed the company genially, "I'm going to admit to you
I'm tired." Inwardly he added, "I won't indicate which ones of you make
me the most tired; but almost all of you give me an awful pain." He
added aloud, "It's the hay for me this instant. Good-night!"
Back once more in his rooms, he did not light up. Instead he sat at the
window and gazed out. Straight ahead, two lines of golden beads curving
up the Avenue seemed to connect the Arch with the distant horizon. The
deep azure of the sky was faintly powdered with stars. But for its
occasional lights, of a purplish silver, the Square would have been a
mere mystery of trees. But those lights seemed to anchor what was half
vision to earth. And they threw interlaced leaf shadows on the ceiling
above Lindsay's head. It was as though he sat in some ghostly bower.
Looking fixedly through the Arch, his face grew somber. Suddenly he
jerked about and stared through the doorway which led into the back
rooms.