VIII
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 historicalinterest—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 tothe 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 silhouettenovelty—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 ofrelapse—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 whitemen—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 canget—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 isright, 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 downfallcaused McCall to chuckle, although it was harder to delight in the fate of the mysterious Russiannoblewoman—tall, slim, straight-shouldered, with brown hair, high cheek bones and great onyx-coloredeyes—who hovered about.
There were other beautifulwomen—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 drawingroom—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 willbecome—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 dancingbrown eyes. “Women still live in an age ofchivalry—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 therearesome 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 specialpurpose—to study, to sew, to give plays, to play auction bridge, to knitsweaters—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 youhavefriends?”
Meadows laughed. “It’s like this. When thepatients—myboys—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?”
“Andthen—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 weresomefriends.”
“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 SuwaneeRiver—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 herchicks—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 overthere—singing—Williams,” said Meadows.
“Williams? I don’t know anyWilliams—except the nigger whose bed was next to mine.”
“Well, that’s the one.”
“How’d he get in here?”
“The same way youdid—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 Parisiansociety—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. Shehad 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 soundbetter—to form a quartette. But you can get the idea. Pictureit—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’.”
“Massa’s in de col’, col’ groun’,An’ we’s all gwine be with him in de mawnin’.”
“Massa’s in de col’, col’ groun’,
An’ we’s all gwine be with him in de mawnin’.”