Both Hamilton and McCall obtained sick leaves and spent them in
savoring Paris and Parisian life. There were days of strolling down the
boulevards, McCall limping at Hamilton’s side, and “drinking in” the
life of which they had been deprived for so many months. “Drinking in”
was McCall’s own phrase, and it described better than anything else the
eagerness with which each new sight, each fresh impression, was seized.
There were wonderful afternoons in the art galleries, with Hamilton
absorbing his fill of the old masters and McCall revelling in the
modernists. There were tramps through the public gardens, and visits
to the places of historical interest--the Bastile, the palaces at
Versailles, the public buildings. There were nights at the music-halls
and cabarets, where pleasure-seeking men and women, casting convention
to the winds, sought to crowd into a few hours of drinking and dancing,
all that they had missed since the beginning of the war. Hamilton and
McCall were in a mad world, a world of jazz-crazed mockers at morality,
of civilized men and women suddenly reverting to barbaric pleasures.
The American craze was at its height and in deference to it, negro
musicians, dressed in brilliant red and yellow, blared and sobbed weird
melodies to wild African rhythms. Prostitutes, with thin veils to hide
their nakedness, quivered and undulated to the minor strains. Men and
women danced in pantomimic obscenities and suggested perversions.
“Let’s get out of this,” exclaimed Hamilton, “I’m no tin angel, but,
thank God, they don’t do this in America.”
“The funny thing about these frogs is that they think they’re being
American,” said McCall. “That’s all put on for our benefit. Didn’t you
notice how sweet everybody has been to us here?”
Whenever Levin accompanied the two, he would point to the jazz music
and dancing as an example of the moral reaction that follows every war.
“It’s a sort of relapse, following a major operation,” he explained.
“We’ve cut out the Kaiser and perhaps Kaiserism, although you can’t
tell, the roots sometimes spread all over the body, like a cancer. No,
all the Kaiserism is not in Germany. It’s here. It’s in England. It’s
in America, just trying to get a start. But whether the disease has
been definitely checked or not, we are going to pass through a relapse.
This is the social phase of it.”
There was a visit to a theatre, where a series of short plays were
being acted. There was a hideous horror play, followed by the
conventional adultery farce and then a silhouette novelty--nude women
dancing behind a sheet so that their figures were projected by bright
lights upon it.
Hamilton was disgusted. Dr. Levin simply classified it as another
symptom of relapse--he avoided the term “decadence”; but McCall was
amused.
“It reminds me of school children twiddling their fingers at their
teacher,” he laughed. “They’re so evidently produced to shock. A blush
or shiver in every line! Do you remember when you learned your first
naughty word, how you looked up the synonyms in the dictionary and then
sprang them on your pals? With some it was more of an obsession than
with others, of course. They would chalk up all the whoppers they could
think on the sidewalks and sides of buildings. Well, that’s what the
French playwrights are doing, and some of the poets and artists. Freud
might explain it by showing that their normal impulses were checked in
some way.
“I remember a Chicago newspaperman who got an overdose of Havelock
Ellis and Freud and the decadents, I suppose. The result was a book
with all the conventionally naughty things trotted in, like the chalk
marks of an impudent schoolboy who hasn’t got enough outdoor exercise.
And when the book was suppressed, he enjoyed all the sensations of the
bad boy sitting on the stool with a dunce cap on his head, wriggling
his fingers at authority.”
The ateliers, into which McCall’s newspaper friends got the three
friends entrée, were more to their liking. Although here, too, Bill
often found finger-wriggling at authority for its own sake. Here, at
least, the delusion was honest. But in the drawing rooms they saw Paris
in deeper perspective.
Here were men of all countries and representing all causes. Men in
conventional black and white, sometimes relieved by a ribbon across
an immaculate shirt front or a jeweled decoration; men in uniforms
and in picturesque native costumes. There were red men, yellow men,
black men and white men--men of all shades between. An Arab sheik, in
turban and flowing robe, come to sue for the autonomy of a stretch of
desert, conversed with the representative from Albania, in Paris on a
similar mission. There were brilliant young Irish leaders and dreamers
of the national independence of Bohemia. Fighters for Palestine, Polish
nationalists, Hindu revolters, Persian revolutionists. One could not
move without bumping into the holder of some claim of national autonomy.
“The trouble with them is that they’re all right, and, therefore,
all wrong,” said Dr. Levin. “One of them could be right, or two, but
here you run into twenty claims that contradict each other. Every
land believes its natural boundaries to be the widest boundaries it
can get--the boundaries when Peter the Magnificent or Oswald the
Resplendent (some national hero that nobody else has ever heard about)
reigned. And, of course, the domains of Peter overlap those of Oswald,
who ruled a hundred years later. Each country is _right_, that is as
right as any other country. But in this case, too many rights make
everything all wrong.”
McCall sympathized with every national aspiration, and when delegates
learned that in civilian life he was a writer on one of the great
American newspapers they poured their woes and hopes into his ear.
Hamilton, as an orthodox Democrat and admirer of President Wilson,
listened eagerly.
There were Russian emigrés galore, whose downfall caused McCall
to chuckle, although it was harder to delight in the fate of the
mysterious Russian noblewoman--tall, slim, straight-shouldered, with
brown hair, high cheek bones and great onyx-colored eyes--who hovered
about.
There were other beautiful women--tall, fair English-women; animated,
little Parisienne brunettes; a few majestic Americans. It was
interesting to guess their nationality.
“There’s something about this I’m getting to like,” said Hamilton.
“This cosmopolitan atmosphere. I’ve always been with Americans, of a
certain class. Here one meets people from all parts of the world. And
it’s not just a matter of having money, like in Chicago or New York.
Some of the most interesting chaps here have been the painters and
writers, fellows just struggling to get a hold on things.
“During the war, when I was quartered in little villages, I got an
idea that the French were robbers, who tried to stick the Americans
for every cent they could. I got a contempt for them because they
didn’t have shower baths and modern plumbing, and apple pie in the
restaurants. I see now, sanitary plumbing and all that is only one
phase of civilization.”
But though Hamilton was beginning to admire the intellectual democracy
of Paris, there was one aspect of it he could not understand. He could
accept the presence of Chinamen and Japs and Hindus in the drawing
room--but the blacks! Sometimes a Senegalese war hero or even an
American negro would become the center of admiring men and women.
Hamilton tried to explain the American viewpoint to his French
associates, but they generally shook their heads.
“White supremacy must be maintained at all costs,” Hamilton was arguing
with a young French colonel one day.
“Well, what of it?”
“Don’t you see, if we allow them social equality, our white race will
disappear.”
“Not if it is naturally superior, how can it?”
“No, I don’t mean it will actually disappear,” went on Hamilton, “but
it will become something different. It will become--mulatto. If we
allowed the negroes equality, we would become a nation of mulattoes.”
“Mon Dieu!” the Frenchman raised his arms in mock horror. “You tell me
your American women would all choose black mates, if you allowed them
to? Ha, Ha!”
Before Hamilton could think of a reply, McCall was descending upon him
with a vision in black taffeta.
He jumped quickly to his feet. For a moment he had the illusion that he
was back in a ballroom in Corinth. Then he remembered who she was. The
gown clung softly to her so that it delicately suggested the wearer’s
figure. It was distinctly old-fashioned--like a gown Jenny Lind might
have worn, and there was a vestee of some fluffy blue material and
sprigs of blue forget-me-nots embroidered here and there.
“Meadows! Miss Meadows!”
Meadows extended her hand and smiled.
“We’ve been looking for you, Colonel,” she said.
Hamilton presented Colonel Charbonneau and the latter glanced in
surprise at the single bar on Hamilton’s shoulder. Meadows read his
astonishment.
“‘Colonel’ is just an honorary title we’ve given him,” she explained.
“Because he’s so dignified and old-fashioned.”
Col. Charbonneau threw back his head and laughed.
“Are all colonels supposed to be so dignified?”
“Oh, I was speaking only of our southern American colonels,” replied
Meadows. “They’re a special variety.”
“But your young officer was very gallant in defending the American
women,” his eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Oh, yes,” flashed back Meadows, “they’re always defending womankind,
or the white race or Anglo-Saxon institutions or something. And I sort
of like it at that.” She darted the flushed Hamilton a look out of her
dancing brown eyes. “Women still live in an age of chivalry--at least
some of us do.”
They chatted for a few minutes and then Col. Charbonneau excused
himself, and walked away. McCall followed a few minutes later.
“Do you know I expect to rejoin my regiment in a week?” said Hamilton.
“We’re going back together, McCall and I. You see both of us got our
commissions at the same training camp and we’ve gone through the war
together.”
“I suppose the war has bred pretty strong friendships, hasn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s something like the college fraternity spirit, only stronger.
There’s McCall, for instance. I owe my life to him. We’ll always be
friends. And lately I’ve taken a liking to Dr. Levin. I suppose I owe
my life to him too. He’s rather hard to understand at first.”
“Hard to understand? He’s simply deeper, more thorough than the average
person.”
“I suppose that’s it,” agreed Hamilton. “He criticises things, has
so many theories. But when you get to know him he’s all right.
You know I’ve never had much to do with Jews before. Not for any
particular reason, but because I didn’t come in contact with ’em.
But my experience with Levin simply shows that there _are_ some good
Jews. I’ve noticed that he’s more like the other men one meets here.
I suppose ‘cosmopolitan’ is the word. I suppose you’ve made lots of
friends, too.”
“With a woman,” mused Meadows, “it’s different. There’s a certain
‘camaraderie’ among the nurses, but it’s not the same thing as a man’s
friendship. Women have no such thing as friendship, in fact. Oh, I
suppose I should say seldom. Take man’s club life. Women may organize
for a special purpose--to study, to sew, to give plays, to play auction
bridge, to knit sweaters--but not for simple friendship. Women in the
same set are always antagonistic to each other. They try to outdo each
other in the matter of beauty, of dress, of personal charm. They are
always competitors for the potential male.”
“But you _have_ friends?”
Meadows laughed. “It’s like this. When the patients--my boys--are
convalescent they become sentimental and romantic. Sometimes this
friendship, or whatever it is, lasts after they’ve recovered. They come
back and invite me out, or bring me candy or flowers.”
“And then what?”
“And then--then they’re men and I’m a woman. They’re disappointed and I
don’t see them again.”
Hamilton’s eyes blazed and he clenched his fists. Meadows noticed it.
“Oh, they’re not all like that,” she said. “Only most of them. I have a
few real friends, at least I think I have.”
“And am I--?”
“Oh, of course, you’re all right, Colonel. I could see that from the
beginning. I said there were _some_ friends.”
“Well, in a week, I’ll be leaving--”
“Oh, we’ll meet again,” Meadows anticipated. “Probably oftener than you
think.”
Meadows always avoided sentimental entanglements.
“But I must see you again before I go.”
“Must?”
From across the room came the sound of some one singing Suwanee
River--a tenor voice, soft and sweet as a spring night in Georgia.
“Yes, must. I’ve hardly talked to you for five minutes straight. We
happen to have been blown together here like atoms of dust. Tomorrow we
may be at the opposite ends of the earth.”
“So you’d like to know more about this atom of dust, before I’m blown
away. Well, Colonel Dustman, you may call for me Friday. I’ll have the
afternoon off. That’s only two days from now. If you can wait.”
Their hostess, the Countess Montfort, whose eyes had been traveling
from one face to another, like a mother hen summoning her chicks--was
approaching, her plump, pretty face all solicitous smiles.
“Ah, I know you are both in such charming company,” she pouted,
“but would you not like to listen to the singing from one of your
countrymen? Monsieur Veeliams has such a splendid voice.”
“Friday then,” Hamilton agreed. As Hamilton and Meadows arose, the
countess passed on to another group.
“That’s another one of my boys over there--singing--Williams,” said
Meadows.
“Williams? I don’t know any Williams--except the nigger whose bed was
next to mine.”
“Well, that’s the one.”
“How’d he get in here?”
“The same way you did--walked. No, he didn’t either, he came here in
the countess’ own car. He’s still too bandaged up to do much walking.
But he got his invitation the same way you did.”
“I thought mine had come through McCall.”
“Indirectly, perhaps. I happen to know the countess. She wanted to meet
some interesting Americans. So I gave her your names.”
Williams’ face was hidden from Hamilton, but Hamilton could see that
in the circle of his auditors were members of the flower of Parisian
society--distinguished diplomats, scholars, writers, women of striking
beauty and brilliant attainments. And epigram and pointed repartee were
falling from the African lips as adroitly as from the product of the
ripest European and Oriental civilizations. The nigger was at home with
them.
Hamilton’s face became contorted with rage, his fists clenched.
“You don’t know what you are doing.” He tried to keep his voice from
rising. “These people don’t know. They mean well. But if you’d lived in
the South as a child and seen what I’ve seen--”
He became suddenly speechless.
“I--I think I’ll not wait,” he finally said. “I’m going back to the
hotel.”
His dark eyes blazing, Hamilton turned and strode out of the room.
Meadows watched him in amazement. She had admired Hamilton’s air of
calm strength, his sincerity, his deference to womankind. But she had
never suspected him capable of such an outburst of passion.
There was a lull in the other conversations which suddenly carried
Williams’ voice through the room. He had been describing the attitude
of colored soldiers on the eve of battle. He told how the members of an
infantry regiment to which he had been attached sat on the fire-step, a
few hours before going over the top, harmonizing old plantation tunes.
“Of course, I should have three other men to make it sound better--to
form a quartette. But you can get the idea. Picture it--a cold, raw
night, with the water falling, drizzling; mud and rotting bodies;
terrific explosions, like a hundred boiler shops going at once;
death and cold and hell all over. Now imagine this as sung by the
quartette--“Massa’s in de Col’, Col’ Groun’.”
In a plaintive, vibrant tenor, Williams sang again:
“_Massa’s in de col’, col’ groun’,
An’ we’s all gwine be with him in de mawnin’._”