A HONEYMOON PROMISE
We left Oxford very suddenly. Six weeks in the Bodleian Library, in
spite of canoeing every afternoon, sufficed to go through a collection
of contemporary pamphlets about the Guises. And then we were getting
hungry. Since he never changes the menu, roast beef and roast lamb
alternating night after night, and accompanied by naked potatoes and
cabbage, must content the Englishman. But all who have not a British
birthright either lose their appetites or go wild after a time. We
thought that we could not stand another day of seeing that awful
two-compartment vegetable dish. It never contained a surprise. You could
swear with safety to your soul that when the lid was lifted a definite
combination of white and green would meet your eye.
So, when in the early days of July nineteen hundred and eight the London
newspapers published telegrams from Constantinople that foreshadowed
startling changes in Turkey, we were ready to flit. We had planned to
spend our honeymoon winter in Asia Minor, anyway, and thought we might
as well get out there as soon as possible. The spirit of adventure is
strong in the blood of the twenties and decisions are made without
reflection. It is great to be young enough to have a sudden change of
plans matter to none, least of all to oneself. On Monday afternoon we
were canoeing on the Cherwell, with no other thought than the very
pleasant one of doing the same thing on the morrow. The next afternoon
we were in a train speeding from Calais to Paris, trying to recuperate
from the Channel passage.
Herbert and I both knew Paris. But we did not know Paris together, and
that made all the difference in the world. When we reached the Gare du
Nord, we were as filled with the joy of the unknown as if we had been
entering Timbuktoo. On the train we discussed hotels. A slim pocketbook
was the only bank in the world to draw upon for a long journey. On the
other side was the less commonsense but more convincing argument, that
this was once in our lives, and that if it ever was excusable to do
things up right, now was the time. The pocketbook was so slim, however,
that until we stepped out into the dazzling lights, we were not
altogether sure that it would not be a modest little hotel. We
compounded with prudence by hailing a _fiacre_ instead of one of the new
auto-taxis, and directed the _cocher_ to take us where we wanted to go.
[Illustration: Looking up the Avenue de l'Opéra]
It was the thought of being in the heart of things, right at the Place
de l'Opéra, that prompted us to choose the Grand Hotel. The price of
rooms was preposterous. We took the cheapest they had on the top floor.
The economical choice is sometimes the lucky one. Next time you are in
the Place de l'Opéra, look up to the attic of the Grand Hotel, and you
will see little balconies between the windows. Each window represents a
room. So does each balcony. We drew a balcony. It was just wide enough
for two honeymoon chairs; and it was summer time.
When I was waiting in the vestibule of a New York church for the first
strains of the wedding march, my brother pressed a five-dollar gold
piece inside my white glove. "For a bang-up dinner when you get to
London," he whispered. In London we had been entertained by friends.
This was the time to spend it. The initiated would open his eyes wide at
the thought of the "bang-up" dinner for two for twenty-five francs in
Paris today--or anywhere else in the world. But remember I am writing
about nineteen hundred and eight. Six years before the war, twenty-five
francs would do the trick, and do it well, on the Grands Boulevards. We
had fried chicken with peas, salad and _fruits rafraîchis_ at Pousset's,
and there was some change after a liberal (ante-bellum!) tip.
After dinner we strolled along the Boulevards des Italiens. We came to a
big white place, with a wealth of electric lamps, that spelled
PATHE--PALACE. A barker walked up and down in front, wearing a
gold-braided cap and a green _redingote_. We paused as at the circus.
It was a cinema. Herbert wanted to go in, but I wasn't sure. I had never
seen moving pictures and had heard that they hurt one's eyes. To be a
good sport I yielded. It was a revelation to me, and I felt as I did a
year or two later when I first saw an aeroplane. My censor and literary
critic, who has not the imagination of an Irishman, wants to eliminate
this paragraph. But I have refused. It is true that I had never been to
the cinema before I married him, and I am not sure that it was not his
first time, too. The wonders of one decade are the commonplace of the
next, and in retrospect we should not forget this. "Nineteen-eight" was
to be the wonder year. Is there not an old Princeton song, still in the
book, which was sung with expectation by our fathers? It went something
like this:
I'll sing of the days that will come,
Of the changes that many won't see,
Of the times years and years hence.
I can tell you where some of you'll be:
If you don't know I'll give you the tip.
So catch on and don't be too late:
If you do, you'll get left and you'll all lose your grip
In the year nineteen hundred and eight.
And then the chorus, as they used to sing it--that older generation--on
the steps of Nassau Hall:
In nineteen hundred and eight, in nineteen hundred and eight
You can go to the moon in a two day balloon;
In nineteen hundred and eight, in nineteen hundred and eight
To the north pole you can skate,
And you'll find Annie Laurie cutting grass on the Bowery,
In nineteen hundred and eight.
After the movies we went back to the Hotel, and sat out on our balcony
with the brilliant vistas of the Avenue de l'Opéra and the Boulevard des
Italiens before us. We could hear the music of the opera orchestra,
faintly to be sure, but it was there. The spell of six and sixteen came
back. Nearly another decade had passed, but Paris was home to me, and I
had a twinge of regret that we were going farther afield. Had it not
been for the news of Niazi Bey and Enver taking to the mountains in a
revolt against the Sultan, I might have suggested giving up Turkey.
I was glad that we would have to stay long enough to get our passports.
The passport, now the indispensable _vade mecum_ of travelers
everywhere, was needed only for Rumania and Turkey and Russia ten years
ago. To make up for the extravagance of the Grand Hotel we found our way
to the American Embassy and the Turkish Embassy afoot. Every corner of
the Champs-Elysées had brought back memories to me and I was able to
point out to Herbert the _guignol_ to which Marie had often taken my
little sister and me nearly twenty years before. We stopped to listen.
Some of the jokes were just the same. Judy had lost the stove-lid, and
Punch told her to sit on the hole herself. And a useful and
indispensable nursery household article (whose name I shall not mention)
was suddenly clapped by Punch over the policeman's head in the same old
way. The children laughed and clapped their hands in glee. Herbert, on
his side, showed me the walk he used to take every morning from his room
on the Rue d'Amsterdam by the Rue de la Boëtie and the Avenue d'Antin[A]
to the Exposition of 1900, when he was writing feature stories for the
Sunday edition of the _New York World_.
[A] The Avenue d'Antin has become since the victory in the recent war
Avenue Victor Emmanuel III., in honor of Italy's intervention.
With passports obtained and visaed, tickets bought and baggage
registered, we were having our last meal in Paris before taking the
train for Rome. It was a late breakfast on the _terrasse_ of the Café de
la Paix. The waiter was not surprised when we ordered eggs with our
coffee: but we were when we found they cost a franc apiece. As we sat
there, at the most interesting vantage point in Paris for seeing the
passing crowd, my childhood instinct came back with force. I cried, "O!
I do want to come here to live when we return from Turkey!"
Herbert had a fellowship from Princeton for foreign study. It had been
postponed a year so that he could teach for a winter at an American
college in Asia Minor. Then and there we made a decision that was
prophetic. All the other men were going to Germany. The German
universities were a powerful attraction for American university men. The
German Ph.D. was almost a sine qua non in our educational system. You
could not get a Ph.D. in England or in France. Herbert gallantly
sacrificed his on the spot. It was not a revolt against Kultur. Nor was
it clairvoyance.
"On one's honeymoon," Herbert said, "the wife's wish should be law. The
man who starts endeavoring to get the woman he has married to realize
that the things to do are the things he thinks should be done gets into
trouble, and stays in trouble."
The last thing we were looking for on that perfect July morning was
trouble.
"All right," said he, "we'll come back and study in Paris, and if you
want to live here afterwards, I guess we can find some way to do it."
1909-1910