Promptly at noon, Friday, Hamilton was ringing the bell at the nurses’
home. Meadows, enveloped in a blue cloak, opened the door for him.
“Right on time,” she laughed, extending her hand. “Do you wish to come
in? All right, then, we’ll go ahead.”
Hamilton wondered what Meadows thought of his conduct at the
reception--his sudden leaving--his angry denunciation of the colored
race--as they walked together to the curb.
Through the stark trees a bright December sun was shining. Hundreds
of students of the Sorbonne, a few blocks away, were on the streets,
coming from their morning classes, talking, shouting, laughing,
singing. Hamilton was about to signal a cab.
“Oh, let’s walk,” said Meadows impulsively. “It’s such a beautiful day.
“But first”--she halted, and shook her finger at him, “before we go
on--wherever we’re going--you haven’t told me--you must promise not to
run away from me in case we should happen to run across Williams or
some other colored patient and I answer his greeting.”
“I suppose I do owe you an apology for my outburst at the reception,”
Hamilton replied. “But seriously, I don’t know if I shouldn’t run away.
That happens to be one thing I feel strongly about. I suppose you’ve
never lived in the South.”
Meadows shook her head.
“Well, then, you can have no conception of what the negro problem means
to the Southerner. Of course I shouldn’t have lost my temper. A person
never should do that. And the French, who before the war probably saw a
negro once a year--and then a genius, one of those freaks that is apt
to come out of any race--don’t understand.”
“Well, maybe I don’t understand, either. And another thing I don’t
understand--where you’re taking me.”
“Oh, I thought we’d have lunch at some restaurant and then take in a
vaudeville.”
“Let’s just ramble through the Luxembourg Gardens,” suggested Meadows.
“It’s only a few blocks away and it will give us the afternoon to
ourselves.”
“All right, the Luxembourg Gardens it will be then,” agreed Hamilton.
“Perhaps you could suggest the restaurant. As a matter of fact, I’ve
been seeing Paris mostly by night, and specializing in only indecent
cafés.”
Meadows did know just the café, only a few blocks down Rue de St.
Jacques and around the corner, a relatively obscure place for most
Americans, but the haunt of tourists “who really know,” and the less
impecunious students. It was a rather unimposing place, from the
outside. One entered it after stumbling down a flight of decrepit
stairs and opening an ancient door. But inside everything was inviting.
It was called the Black Cat and everything was done in black and
orange, with black cats forming the principal motif of ornament. Black
cats ran around the wall in a stencilled pattern and basked in front
of the cozy fireplace in the form of cast-iron statuettes. Hamilton
noticed that a log was blazing briskly. Black cats grimaced from under
the shades of the table lamps and from the salt and pepper shakers.
And, as Hamilton sat down, he noticed that even the backs of the chairs
were ferocious chats noirs.
The proprietor himself, or so it seemed--no other person in the world
could possibly have taken such an interest in the patrons--greeted them
with a smile and conducted them personally to a table. He was a short,
dark, stout man, with carefully curled jet-black mustache, who smiled
and bowed perpetually, like an automaton.
One of a half-dozen waiters who had been hurrying about, placed menus,
decorated with hungry black cats, in front of them with a flourish
and--oh, so humbly!--suggested dishes for the Americans’ consideration.
“Oh, you must try one of their omelettes. They’re famous for them,”
said Meadows. “Monsieur Barbiton--that’s that grinning Billiken--can do
more things with eggs than any other three chefs in Paris, which means
the world.”
While waiting for their omelettes, Hamilton and Meadows looked about
the room. It was larger than one would think upon first entering,
much larger than one would imagine from the outside--but cozy. There
was a comfortable clatter of dishes and a buzz of voices. The diners
were mostly Frenchmen and Frenchwomen, shrugging their shoulders and
gesticulating over their food. Here and there appeared the sombre
uniform of an American or English officer.
“How much warmer every one seems here,” remarked Meadows, groping
about in her mind for the right adjective. “Here they come to discuss
things--art, poetry, philosophy, politics. In a Broadway restaurant
people come to eat and get over the _business_ as quickly as possible.”
Hamilton laughed.
“Oh, I suppose we’re too efficient. Afraid to waste time. In the South,
though, we take things a bit easier.”
“But are we Americans really so efficient?” queried Meadows. “We hurry
about a great deal, but do we get anywhere?”
“Well, we are tremendously advanced in technical matters--in machine
production. We can make things faster and cheaper than any other
country in the world. The average American workingman probably produces
twice as much as the best workingman in Europe.”
Hamilton paused. The waiter was approaching with a tray of hors
d’œuvres--olives, radishes, appetizing little fish that Hamilton failed
to recognize. He selected a radish and emphasized points with it
between bites. He was entering into the atmosphere of the place.
“But in order to get this production, the business man has to work like
the deuce. He’s at his desk early in the morning and late at night.
He runs into a restaurant at noon, grabs a ham sandwich, a piece of
pie and a cup of coffee, eats it in a cramped position from the arm
of a chair, and rushes back again. He’s not a captain, but a slave of
industry.”
Hamilton went on lugubriously, with mock dramatic force. “There’s your
plutocrat. Your silk-hatted, obese gentleman of the cartoons. As a
matter of fact he is usually thin and suffering from dyspepsia. This
is the object of the attack of the representatives of the pee-pul--the
demagogues. This is your hated capitalist. I prefer the man who has
sense enough to see that there is nothing essentially noble in work and
who devotes his time to the pleasures of life.”
Over the omelettes, which after the first bite, Hamilton decided were
worth all their reputation, the discussion was resumed.
“Isn’t that a rather narrow view to take?” asked Meadows. “Devoting
one’s life to mere pleasure.”
“It’s the very highest. What are the higher things in life but means
to increasing our pleasure? What is all our culture--manners, art,
literature, music? Even religion is the sole pleasure of the millions
who are too incompetent or unfortunate to enjoy the material pleasures
of life, the pleasures of the flesh. There is no rational occupation
for man, aside from what is absolutely necessary for his subsistence,
except the pursuit of pleasure.”
“But haven’t you any place for duty in your philosophy?” put in
Meadows. “Your views are interesting, but obviously only applicable to
a small class. Obviously every one couldn’t go about hunting pleasure.”
“Certainly, it’s a class philosophy,” replied Hamilton. “I don’t
pretend to prescribe a philosophy that fits every one. It’s simply my
own private brand. It would be just as ridiculous for me to have a
philosophy that is more universally applicable, as it would be for me
to drink beer instead of Château Yquem, because it suits more palates.”
“And you don’t care about the beer drinker?”
“On the whole, he’s just as well off as your average American
capitalist. He eats more, sleeps as long, and satisfies practically
the same desires. Both read the same newspapers and attend the same
movies. And the beer drinker doesn’t have to worry about his wife
eloping with the chauffeur.”
“So you admit the morality of the beer drinkers, only I don’t like that
term.”
“That,” interrupted Hamilton, his eyes gleaming, “is because your
appetite also has been developed beyond the beer stage.”
“Anyway you admit that his morality is higher.”
“Not at all. His wife very obviously cannot elope with a chauffeur,
because there’s no chauffeur to elope with. In fact, she may already be
married to him.”
They both laid down their forks and laughed.
“You’ve aroused a tremendous appetite in me for Château Yquem,” said
Meadows mischievously. And Hamilton ordered a bottle, after the waiter
had assured him that the oldest bottle in Paris lay in the wine cellar
of the Black Cat.
“After a swallow I may learn to appreciate your point of view better,”
she said.
“There’s no pleasanter way of learning that I know of.”
Hamilton watched Meadows lift the glass to her lips, her dark eyes
sparkling as brightly as the yellow wine. He had never noticed how
charmingly her lips were curved before. A ridiculous idea came into his
mind and he promptly dismissed it. Certainly he was not falling in love
with her. This was merely companionship--intellectual companionship.
And, of course, there was Margaret, to whom he was engaged and whom he
really loved. Meadows made a little face, whether it was expressive of
dislike or of coquetry Hamilton was not certain.
“Boo!” said Meadows, setting it down. “I’m afraid I’ll have to remain a
plain American bourgeoise.”
“You couldn’t do that,” Hamilton made a mock bow, supposed to be
imitative of the restaurant proprietor. “You couldn’t, even if you did
remain a bourgeoise.”
“You’re perfectly horrible today, Colonel!” Meadows laughed. Over his
wine and pastry he watched the changing expressions in her face. Were
her eyes actually larger than Margaret’s? There _was_ a resemblance
between them. Meadows seemed more cosmopolitan, yet hardly less
girlish. He watched the high lights in her hair, where the sun fell on
it through the window. Then her lips again. They were very much like
Margaret’s. He wondered whether she would go out with other officers
after he was gone. Probably, he decided. And would he ever see her
again? He imagined Margaret meeting Meadows and perhaps thanking her.
He was conscious of her voice going on and it soothed him in a strange
way. Vaguely it made him feel as though he were with Margaret. This, he
reasoned with himself, was no treachery. Meadows was simply a medium
for the expression of a certain mood. She represented Margaret.
“I bet you haven’t heard a word I said.”
Hamilton came out of his trance.
“Why, yes I have.” He groped blindly. “You were asking me if--if--”
“See, you haven’t been listening to me. You’ve sat that way for ten
minutes, staring at something.”
Hamilton didn’t wish to say it, fought against saying it, and said it,
although still in his tone of light banter.
“I was staring into your eyes. You know how one loses oneself while
gazing into a crystal.”
Now that he had said it, it sounded flat, stilted. But even so,
flattery of some kind was his only possible defense. Meadows made a
little bow.
“While you were crystal-gazing you mumbled something about your idea of
aristocracy and business efficiency.”
“Oh, did I? It’s simply that an aristocracy, freed from the necessity
of work, that is, free to seek pleasure, is necessary if we are to have
any culture--any civilization higher than a factory civilization.”
“Then you’d have to have a class that works and another class that
lives on the fruits of their labor.”
“Exactly.”
“Now I understand your attitude toward the Negro. You’d have them
slaves.”
“Slaves, servants or laborers--in their definite place--it doesn’t
matter. And a cultured, leisure class instead of the efficient business
man. But that isn’t what we’re here for--to discuss sociology. I want
to know more about you. This may be our last time together.”
He leaned across the table, conscious that his hands were moving toward
hers across the cloth. But he stopped them.
“You know I’m going to rejoin my regiment Monday. Another month in
barracks and then I’ll be sailing back.”
They rose, Hamilton helped her into her cloak, paid his pour boire to
the waiter and picked up his check.
“They’re not so inefficient,” he said, glancing at the figures.
“Who? The French?”
“Yes, they put a half dozen hors d’œuvres on the table that aren’t on
the menu and charge you for the whole plate if you take just a single
radish or olive or whatever it is. Well, c’est la guerre. Poor devils,
they need it.”
X
They were walking down the magnificent Rue Soufflet, Hamilton immersed
in thought, Meadows keeping up the burden of conversation. At the
corner of Rue de St. Jacques, Meadows pointed out the bronze tablet
of the old Porte St. Jacques and for a moment they paused to decipher
it. Between the Parthenon, which glittered from an eminence to the
east and Boulevard St. Michel ahead, crowds of students were walking
leisurely arm in arm, arguing, gesticulating, singing. Men with beards
and boyish faces, voluptuous velvet hats; thin, threadbare coats. There
were pale young men, with negligent clothing and an air of being mildly
intoxicated. Over the buildings to the north rose the towers of the
Sorbonne.
The students formed a background--a restless current, sparkling, gay,
animated, against which moved other figures; girls in gay clothes,
coats to their knees, bobbed hair, stopping to flirt; men of affairs
hurrying to the boulevard; officers, including a score of foreigners
doing the Latin Quartier. Crippled soldiers. On the road the stream of
taxis and motor cars.
Meadows’ blue cloak made a daub of color in the picture and Hamilton’s
quick eyes noted it. He was thinking how well she fitted into his
brief world here. He was wondering how she would fit into life in New
York--or Corinth. And again he compared her with that other figure. He
wished it were Spring.
A man and woman went by, their arms around each other, unmindful of the
world--a man with long hair and a silky beard, meanly dressed, without
gloves; a frail blonde with high run-down heels and torn gloves. But
their eyes shone. Hamilton envied them.
They crossed the Boulevard St. Michel and entered the Luxembourg
Gardens. There were other couples walking about, examining the statuary
and sitting on the benches. Some were making love openly; others more
subtly. Near a bronze statue of a fawn sat a one-legged soldier and his
wife. They were holding hands and looking before them vacantly. A boy
of four in a soldier’s suit stood watching them gravely. There were
other soldiers, many of them crippled.
Hamilton was acutely conscious of the shortness of the day. A few more
hours and it would be over. Then, farewell to Paris and Meadows. He was
falling into a sentimental mood. He wondered whether he should tell
her of his engagement to Margaret. Probably she had guessed it. At any
rate, he decided, there was no occasion for his mentioning it now.
Near the Fontaine de Medicis they found a bench thoughtfully hidden
from the walk by shrubbery. They sat down and suddenly looked into each
other’s eyes. The sun was falling in a stream across her hair and a
coquettish puff of wind was toying with a loosened strand. They were
so close now that the end touched his cheek. He leaned over, his heart
pounding, while his hand found hers. But she lowered her head, turned
it to one side and looked away.
He remained holding her hand and presently she looked up. They went on
talking, rapidly, lightly, neither understanding what they were saying,
conscious of only one thing, and determined not to acknowledge its
presence. To acknowledge it would mean to stifle it.
How had this happened? He had simply meant to say good-bye to
Dorothy--that is, to Meadows. He owed her much for her kindness in
the hospital. That was all. And here he was holding her hand. It was
too late to withdraw his hand. He must wait until she took hers away.
But probably she was unconscious that they were holding hands. Women
sometimes were like that. Or, perhaps, it had no special meaning to
her. Other persons were doing it and thinking nothing of it, couples
probably even less intimate than they.
“And I suppose you’ll be seeing that girl in Corinth,” Meadows was
saying.
“Yes, of course.” Hamilton didn’t know how the talk had drifted to her.
“Does she know you’ve been wounded?”
Hamilton did not wish to talk about Margaret, but he answered, “Yes and
no. That is, I wrote her that I had been slightly scratched by a piece
of shell. She doesn’t know how serious it’s been. I was afraid it might
give her a shock. She’s such a child. It’s really nothing to worry
about, although Dr. Levin said I must take things easy, for a time at
least.”
“Poor, brave boy,” said Meadows, shaking her head slowly.
“I suppose it’s my contribution to settling the great war. But you’ve
given more, infinitely more, for a woman.”
“Oh, only about two years that I might have spent in dancing, attending
teas and receptions, playing the society girl--and I haven’t missed all
the receptions, either. It’s all been very fascinating--and hard. I got
into the work before we declared war--that is before we declared that a
state of war existed.”
“How did you happen to join the Red Cross? You’re not a professional
nurse, are you? It must have taken a lot of pluck.”
“I’m almost a graduate, six months from being one. You have to be,
you know. But I’m not a professional nurse in the sense that I expect
to earn a living at it. You see, I’ve always had a hobby for social
service. But when I was studying sociology in college I found that the
trouble with the professional sociologists is that they lack technical
training. They can make fine reports, but when it comes to showing a
mother of six children how to care for a sick child, they fall down.
One has to know more, in a practical way, than the manual of home
nursing offers.
“I want to be able to go into a home and show a woman how to bathe
the babies, how to prepare the bottles, how to make the beds and wash
diapers quicker. It’s hardly an aristocratic conception, you see. There
are a hundred things like that I’ve learned by nursing.”
“But when did you have time for all this?” Hamilton looked puzzled.
“Two and a half years in training, two years over here, and a college
course. You look like a college junior.”
Meadows blushed. “I’m older than you think, perhaps. But I used to
be something of a child prodigy. I was fifteen when I graduated from
high school and I did college in three years. So, you see, I’m not
hopelessly old yet.”
“And when you get back?”
“Oh, there’s so much to do. Father and mother were shocked when I took
up nursing and again when I left for France. But I think they’ve become
reconciled. You see they expected me to fit smoothly into their little
social scheme.”
Meadows sketched her career with illuminating, humorous sidelights.
Her first revolt had come when she insisted on entering the University
of Wisconsin instead of an Eastern girls’ college and had elected to
major in sociology, with economics as her minor. Shock two came when
she turned down the bid of the Kappas--at that particular time the
most desirable sorority--and denounced fraternities and sororities for
their snobbishness before her “lit” society. Then she had joined the
students’ Socialist society, taken part in organizing a daily newspaper
that would be free from faculty control, and joined the staff of a
monthly magazine, started in opposition to the Literary Magazine, for
the purpose of supporting free verse, modernist literature and art and,
principally, of poking fun at the conservatism of the professors.
“Of course, I’ve gotten over most of my enthusiasms,” she laughed. “It
was simply a stage in my growth. But I’m still pretty radical, I guess,
for my people--and for you. I’m not even a Socialist now, although at
one time I was on the verge of anarchism and used to hear Emma Goldman
every time she came to Madison. But, at least, I am a liberal.”
She suddenly broke off.
“But, of course, this doesn’t interest you. You’re probably wondering
whether I’ve spoiled my complexion by going in for all these things
instead of taking vocal lessons and--I was going to say French--but
I’ve learned French at that. I’ll bet you’re wondering right now more
how I managed to get through school so young without wearing glasses
and looking like a freak.”
Hamilton started. It was exactly what he had been thinking.
He had been watching her lips and eyes as much as attending to her
words. It was a dangerous game, he knew, but he was being carried
along by a tide stronger than he could stem. Suddenly a bell tinkled,
announcing the closing of the gates. It was growing dusk. Hamilton bent
down and kissed her. She lifted her arms and raised her lips to his,
and for as long as one can hold one’s breath they remained thus.
Arm in arm, they retraced their steps through the gardens of the
Luxembourg. Other couples were walking similarly, singing, laughing.
Through the gathering gray, lights were twinkling on the boulevard.
They walked in silence. There were tears on her lashes.